Casual Conversation

In the last few years, I've started to get the hang of casual conversations. They haven't come naturally to me in the past. I don't know whether to blame it on my response to being abused and bullied and made into a social outcast as a child (and thus, being behind in the conversational front), or on something neurological that got masked as part of my epilepsy and the side effects of medication.

What I know is, I was always considered "shy," but never felt shy. It was just easier to answer, "yes" and "no," and to listen.... and I Enjoyed listening anyway. I never recognized that people wanted me to explain my "yes" or "no" with details until I heard someone in college, talking about people who never say more than "yes" and "no," and realized I do that too.

What I know is, Conversations always felt like playing double-dutch. How on earth do you know when to jump in- without cutting someone off... and before it's too late, since the direction of a conversation can change like the tide.

What I also know is, I always struggled to articulate myself. The words weren't there. I remember joking in college, to my mom, that I could never remember the word, "articulate," to allow me to tell someone that I was having trouble finding the words. I finally committed that word to memory because I needed it often. When I had trouble finding the words to express myself, I could finally say, "I'm having trouble articulating myself," and that helped. With that sentence, I could let them know that I had thoughts on the subject at hand- I just couldn't get them out. It allowed me not to feel so stupid in a college setting.

Somehow, I don't struggle very much with this now. I improved first, in writing- and over time, it has spread into my conversations. Still, when I get really into the flow of a conversation, I feel excited. When someone shares an idea or a story, whether theological or scientific or just plain casual, and I draw on that to share my own idea or story, explaining the connection or application... and when I can do this in the moment, I feel like I've overcome. It's not a casual thing that I take for granted. It's a blessing.

Two Years Later

It's been over two years. First, I was so busy finishing school. Then I went through some turmoil. Then, I was afraid. I was afraid to look at what I wrote here, because I realized it came true, in a way. It was supposed to come true; I blame no-one. I didn't remember exactly what I wrote though- how I phrased it or whether it was the last thing I wrote, and I couldn't bring myself to check- until today.

Well, it wasn't my last post; it was second-to-last: The Mountain. I had said that I sensed that I might need to lose my friends, in order to draw closer to God, my master, because somehow, though I wanted to put him first, I could see that my valuation of God and friends was mixed. I said I hoped I wouldn't have to lose them completely. That terrified me. I love them. I never wanted to lose them.

I never fully lost my friends, and from their perspective, I don't know what they saw. From mine, first, I felt suddenly cut-off. Little things that happened made me feel unwanted. I clung to the hope that it was temporary, and all a misunderstanding, or me being hypersensitive. I became depressed. I felt dead inside. That's hardly a metaphor; it was so real. I like to feel- to feel intensely. Losing feeling is terrifying to me. I felt alone... and dead. I didn't want to die; I wanted to be brought back to life. I had no idea what to do except scream to my friends for help so that it wouldn't get worse. Somehow, my scream got misinterpreted; some friends definitely were offended- I think they thought I was blaming them, but honest, I wasn't.... and honest, I'm not now, because I believe it was a misunderstanding that was meant to happen. I never believed God left me; I never lost hope for the future. But I was trapped in a sea of thick, dark muck, and didn't know how to get out. Eventually, it struck me that the darkness started about the time I started a certain medication. So I stopped the medication, and within three days, felt so much better. The situation was the same, the damage already done, but my perspective and my coping skills were different. I started a personal prayer journal, and that brought me where I need to be, putting God first.

Well, when you offend your friends, it's sometimes hard to get back to normal. I had apologized sincerely, but there was still apprehension. I didn't want to downplay it, & blame it on the medication or misunderstandings, because that's not owning up to it. I really am sorry I hurt them, under any circumstance. For me, it's been a long, awkward road. I don't always know where I stand. I don't know if they all trust me. But I know they do still care about me. And it recently crossed my mind that, you know, I have time. My friends are good people. That's why I like them. We'll figure this out.

I say all this because I feel I should follow-up on what I wrote before, and because I feel secure now. God's still working on me, but I feel good about where I'm at because I'm where God wants me.

Drama and Friends

I am taking a break from my thesis right now, and thought I would write, because there is always a lot on my mind. I'm guessing that a lot of my readers (those who also are Facebook friends and therefore also see my posts) don't understand why sometimes I make such a big deal over friendship - I mean, everyone should appreciate their friends, but I'm guessing someone thinks I dramatize it.... well, I don't dramatize anything intentionally; it's just how I see the world.

I am an emotional person, and I used to be ashamed of that, but that shame is quickly fading. I am emotional, which means, yes, sometimes I cry - more-so around friends, whom I trust.... but it also means I feel, and I feel strongly, and I love that. To me, the world as God designed it, and the potential he created in it, are vastly good- overwhelmingly, even, and that is a good feeling... and friendship, well, that is probably the most beautiful gift.... and more-so when you've gone so long with out it.

I did have friends in spurts, growing up- for the most part, they were the "hang-out-when-you-run-into-each-other" type friends- as opposed to the "come-over-to-my-house-later" type friends. To me, true friendship is the latter... or when you, like me, often don't have a place to invite friends (my home is full of people already), then some sort of equivalent occurs: lets meet up, lets chat on the phone; at least lets message each other- when it feels like that's not enough (Maybe I'm not the best of friends to my own friends)....but to be real friends, there needs to be some expressed desire and effort to interact.... that, I mostly never had, growing up (with a few short-term exceptions); I moved around too much, and my medication slowed me down too much, and I never learned how to build those kind of friendships.

So now, having friends- friends who sometimes say, "Hey, you wanna come to....," or who take me up on my invitations, because they actively want to spend time with me- it means the world to me, and I end up making a big ol' dramatic deal about it when I write, and no, I'm not going to apologize.

The Mountain

I don't know what my friends think of me, really. Maybe they think I'm odd. Maybe they think I'm weak. Maybe.... but they are still here.

There is a mountain up ahead. A formidable looking mountain that towers above, as I push through the scrub of the foothills. I am hoping I don't have to climb that mountain. It seems isolated and lonely, dark and dead.... A fire must have swept through; the trees are black and bare. I can see that much from here, but not much else.

What I know, though, is I must get to my master who awaits me on the other side. Whether that means going around or over, I do not know yet. To get there, I must learn to hear his voice, which echos like the wind through the mountains. I must also be loyal; he must become my only destination, as any distractions might prevent my success.

So I walk, listening for his voice, looking for any signs of which route to take, heading in the general direction of where I intend to go- but also, taking the flattest path I can find, hoping it will stay this way, and that I can travel around this one. Of course, even this is a challenge, but it's not "The Mountain."

It is my understanding that at the height of this mountain, there are no friendships. If I must climb to the top, I leave them behind and climb solo- the way it used to be, listening intently for the voice of my master as his voice echos each step to take. I fear it may be the only way to get me to the other side where he awaits. Where I am affirmed by him, as a true apprentice.

Among the foothills, I have my friends' encouragement. My friends do want to see me get there. My friends often have the knowledge to advise me. "My friends"- a phrase that still feels new to me. The concern, however, is two-fold. First, my master wants me to learn to hear his voice personally. If I listen too intently to my friends, I may not hear him when he whispers to me. Additionally, though I think I'm stronger than this, I fear that I may hesitate too long, wishing to keep pace with my friends and take the route they take, which may differ from the one I've been given. I must put my master first; I must be willing to leave if he calls me to do so. I must be able to move on if he calls them away from me, or they turn away on their own. My fear, then, is that my master may decide that the best route for me is the lonely, barren route; the route which will prove my loyalty most solidly, but at such a high cost.

I know that if this is ever the route I must take, it will be worth it. It will strengthen me immensely as his apprentice. Yet I hope there is another way. I hope that I can learn how to put my master first in mind as well as action, to seek only his approval, and still keep my friendships- to take the low trail. My master is understanding and merciful. I know that if I can learn it this way, he will guide me through these hills. Yet my master is loving and he desires for me to grow; to be everything I have potential to be, and to have a perfect relationship with him. Therefore, if I can't attain this otherwise, he will guide me through the challenges. Either way, I am willing. He will get me there.

Represent!

So I'm about to step out of my comfort level, and talk about something that does not define me because if it defines me, maybe it will contradict other definitions....

Maybe I've mentioned this before, or maybe not. When I was in first grade, my friends and I had a discussion about gender. Several of us were informed by one all-knowing friend on our street, that "There are two kinds of girls. Tomboys and girlie-girls. Tomboys like Legos... girlie girls like barbie dolls and make-up and..."

Barbies frustrated me because I couldn't get them to walk and carry dishes at the same time. I either had to make them hold the dish and hop, or move the dish to the doll table and manipulate their legs. Seriously! Mom always said she preferred regular dolls over the ones with special abilities... such as potty-training. She said it allowed us to use our imagination. But with Barbies, I NEEDED them to at least cup the plates between their hands so that I could "walk them"... besides, Ken was kinda ugly with his plastic hair, so I wanted Barbie to have a different boyfriend.

I did like legos, particularly building the houses and designing the rooms (something I've since learned, is what girls do tend to enjoy about Legos- while boys like making it an action game- but I didn't know that then). So that settled it, I was a tomboy.

My self-definition meant I never wanted to be a prissy girl who cried over a broken-nail, feared worms and getting dirty, etc. It meant that ideally, I wouldn't cry in general, but that, I couldn't help; it just happened- way too embarrassingly often.

But anyway, tomboys also shouldn't be all that concerned with looks. No make-up, no flirty clothing, and basically, you just grab whatever's clean in your closet, throw it on, and walk out the door.... I did have some preferences. I liked solid, bright colored t-shirts for a long time- trying to represent cheerfulness among the blacks and grays around me, until the random older men cat-calling as I walked by (as I'm sure they did every girl) began to wear on me. Then I started wearing black and walking "tough," to protect myself... and I always liked clothing with animals on them. But other than this, I wasn't concerned with looks. I might consider the question, "Do I like this shirt?", but never the question, "Does this look good on ME?"

Beyond that, I've always been anti-materialism- for as long as I've known what materialism is. So I don't talk about "stuff," because stuff has no meaning. Meaning comes from experience, and belief-structures, and, more recently, relationships.

But anyway, as I said, I'm stepping out of my comfort level: Today I want to talk about clothes.... BUT I HAVE AN EXCUSE! Probably starting in high school, I started thinking of clothing as a form of representation- about the time when black started symbolizing "tough." I continued wearing animal shirts as the exception because animals were a big part of who I was. I planned on becoming a wildlife manager in Africa, working with elephants or rhinos on a reserve, so animals represented me. Into college, when I started playing intramural soccer, biking, surfing, backpacking, and such, I also wanted to wear clothing that represented outdoorsy-ness. But not having money, you wear what you already have and what you can find in the thrift store.

But then I received my B.A., and obtained a job, and was promoted, and had a bit of money coming in, and could actually buy clothes I liked. Well, I was also a young supervisor-manager, and I needed my staff to know I was serious about my job and not some young kid, being a 27 yr. old who looked 21 or 22....so mostly what I bought was business suits. But that is when I had room to develop my style, and what I've found is that I have more than one style. It depends on my mood.

Okay, so I finally got to the rather shallow purpose of this post- clear down at the bottom; Ideally, there would be some way to simultaneously dress outdoorsy/artsy/adventurous, but I haven't figured that out yet, so in lieu of that, I tend to like things that have a bohemian flair- maybe a long skirt- paneled with different coordinating fabrics, with a peasant blouse... or a safari look- nothing too costume-ish though... or casual-feminine-tomboy- flaired jeans with a form-fitting solid gray, green, blue, or purple shirt... and of course (if you know me), various hats and scarves to complete any outfit... alas, I am back to broke, and back to wearing whatever I already have that still fits and isn't too worn- or what I find at Goodwill... and I realize that I have become a bit materialistic, concerning myself with whether what I wear represents me appropriately.

Forward

So much to say, and no language to convey it, in this hour of feeling beyond words, but I'll try....

I've explained that my dad abused me. I have kept in touch, though, because he might hurt himself otherwise. And because he might not be now, who he was then. And because maybe I am the tool for him to change.... because he wants a relationship; Because he relies on me. And because I've been afraid to make the wrong decision. Because I want to do what's right.

But I got an e-mail from him a few weeks ago. A sick and twisted e-mail that while I'm not ashamed, I won't explain here. He sent it for no explainable reason; it really didn't fit his pattern of denial. And for once, I am certain; absolutely positively certain that communication with him is harmful to me and not helpful to him, so I ended communication. And I know that the e-mail is a blessing. I've been freed from a sense of obligation... and while guilt harasses me for now, I know it's the right decision, so I continue to move forward....

My master, my God, has provided me with what I need to move forward. Life sure can be hard, but I am not overwhelmed. I am sad, with this on my heart... but I am also happy- for the good things- for my nieces and nephew and family and friends, and for my dreams for the future, and....

Anyway, my nieces and nephew really are a blessing. Today, after Missy's birthday party at Chuck E Cheese, I biked up and down the street with the girls- I raced with Lauren, and Katie learned that she really can ride her bike without falling. Then, I taught Critter, who's 3, how to hold and throw a mini-football- not that he will remember the next time he picks it up... I can't imagine not having them in my life. They'll be moving away in a couple months, but they'll still be in my life. Their being, brings me joy and I am truly blessed.

I am moving forward. I am working on my thesis, and working per diem with kids with disabilities, and volunteering at my church, and spending time with friends....

I think a part of me was shut off for awhile. A part of me couldn't feel the bigger picture; the world around me... and for me, that meant I was kinda lost because I don't know how to be me without being passionately compassionate. I never stopped caring about others, but I started seeing myself more. I and my needs became bigger, leaving less room in my mind for others than I am comfortable with... but I've been growing again, and growing closer in my relationship with God, and I am grateful.

Aliens Among Us

My nieces and nephew are a blessing to me. I will love them forever. Currently, there are four, ages 3 (the boy) to 11. A couple weeks ago, I had the opportunity to spend time with them. We went to McDonald's, and I set them free in the play-place. Ah, freedom- except that my six-year-old niece, Missy, wanted to make friends with the boys... and they wanted to play, "Run away from the girl."... and except that one boy kept threatening to throw his new toy car at my eight-year-old niece, Katie...time for teaching.

But the best part was the drive home. When I was little, my dad told me I had to hold my breath and duck under all the bridges, to keep the cars on top from running over me.... I think I knew it was a game.... until my imagination took over. Well, he inspired me. I enjoy car-time with the kids. The world around us becomes a stage. We can be in outer-space, or deep in the ocean, and everything around us becomes aliens and secret communication centers, or fish and sharks and ships. So that day, we were in outer space. We had good aliens, bad aliens on motorcycles, alien-giraffes that resemble street lights, and communication towers that pick up human voices (shh, quiet!)

Yes, car-time is most definitely a good time. Next time, it's either fairy-land or monster-land. We'll see.

Imagination

My master has many skills. Among them is imagination. He is an artist like none could begin to believe. He creates with no prototype. Can anyone else compare?

I may design a vase, and sculpt it with care, but the idea comes from what exists. I may take wire, and shape it to create a pendant- circular, square, heart-shaped... can I invent a new shape; one that has never been seen? My imagination is limited.

I look at a tree at Big Bear, and see the shape of the bark. It truly looks like a puzzle. I peel it apart, amazed. Who invented the puzzle? What gave them the idea? From where, was the inspiration?

My master, he imagines things, and speaks them into being. As he assigns them names, they gain meaning and shape. Can anyone else compare?

Camp-ward!

Okay, so I realize that ideally, if I want to draw readers to my blog, I need to write regularly. And I want to draw readers- but my thesis is more important, so I'll work on that. Short stories is better than no story.

So, as I've said, I want to go into the camp industry. I want to serve kids in need. One day, I'd like to start a camp for kids who have been abused or are dealing with issues of violence- a camp that focuses on outdoor adventures and community service, incorporates environmental education, and has a Christ-centered leadership framework without requiring youth participation in religious activities. So I had an interview last week for a job at a camp that sounds amazing. It's far far away from here- more than half-way across the country. It has an extensive outdoor adventure-travel program.... it does not have any religious affiliation. It encourages volunteerism.... but serves youth who's parents have money.... but the incoming director is interested in developing a nonprofit entity to bring in funds for scholarships so other kids can attend... and he's interested in possibly having me work on getting that going!!!!! Wow! Oh, wow! Can I please? I really want to!!!!!!!!
Okay. Calm down..... but WOW!
So I have a second interview coming up, in which I get to explain how I would work it. Wish me well- pray me well. It's not exactly the camp I would start, but I would be a direct part of getting kids in need, into a camp that could change their world, and God could use me. Okay, so I want the job that is best for me. No: "Let her get the job" prayers. Just: "let her do well in her interview, and let them come to the best decision." Thank you :-)

Wormhole

Pulled through space, towards a new reality. That explains a lot, actually. It explains the confusion. It explains why thoughts and ideas and potential realities are swirling around me- as I try to understand who I am, who God is, and who I am in Christ. My master has my arm, and we are traveling. He knows the way. I am not afraid.
And now that I know what's going on, I can look around; I can see the different ideas and understandings that are swirling around me.

I am trusting. I'm a skeptic. I'm compassionate. I'm self-focused. I am feminine. I'm a tom-boy. I am trustworthy. I'm a flake. I work hard. I waste time.

* Once saved, God won't let you go (this is my "probable") vs: You can turn away from God. * God calls and provides a way for everyone - even those who never hear the gospel in this life ("probable") vs: God calls only those who hear the gospel in this life. * God makes some "bad" things happen (ie: death), and sometimes gives us consequences because he knows that our lives are a speck in eternity, and so the cost is worth the gain ("probable") vs: God only allows bad things to happen because to not allow it would be to deny free-will, and all consequences are natural'..... * and other stuff that's between God and I.

All I know is: God loves me- me individually. He never would have spoken to me otherwise. He never would have revealed himself to me otherwise. But he is still so mysterious, and the more I know, the more I crave... and how can I claim him when I don't know his character? But I know he is good. And he has my hand. And he is pulling me through this hole in space, and bringing me to the other side.
.... by the way, I wasn't wasting time- this time. Journaling is one way I focus on God in my "God-time."

If I Die Tragically

Sometimes I worry about death- but not so much about dying, as about the people who have to deal with it. I won't finish my thoughts here tonight; maybe I'll add to it at a later point. But there are some things I'd like to say now.
1) If I die tragically, people will wonder about my last moments, so I want to say it went one of two ways: I either fought for my life til the end, or God gave me a sense of peace and helped me to let go. There was no sense of hopelessness. And hopelessness is the only thing to fear.
2) As much as I love life, and as many dreams as I have for the future, No one ever sits in Heaven saying, "Man! I wish I could go back."
3) If you didn't get to say goodbye, ask God to pass it along; but know that my last moments on earth aren't what eternity is based on- so if the last goodbye was abrupt and un-meaningful, or even hurtful, it's not like I'll spend eternity thinking you didn't care about me.... and I hope you know that I care about you too.
4) I didn't die too young to experience what God wanted me to experience. And, in fact, my life has already (while I still hope to live to be At Least 121), been very meaningful. The meaning is in relationships (and of course, in getting to know our creator who wants the ultimate relationship with us), not in worldly success. My goal is to be an encouragement every day, whatever I'm doing. Some days I succeed, other days I don't. But my now isn't building up to some goal which, if I don't attain, makes my life a failure. If my life blessed others, then my life was meaningful. And if it didn't bless them (hypothetically speaking- cause if nothing else, I at least got one run-away away from a probable pedifile/pimp and back to her family) well, my relationship with God still made my life meaningful.
5) I know I'll be in Heaven because I love God. He loves me. I want to be with him; I can't imagine being away from him. I crave him. No I'm not perfect, but he understands and accepts that. He knows I seek him. I don't have to be perfect; I just have to believe upon him- to rely on him, trust him, want him, put my hope in him- and not perfectly. I don't look to the day I get to have this and that in Heaven, or even to the day I get to see this person and that person. I look to the day that I get to be with God more truly than we can be here on earth. Those who don't make it to Heaven are those who reject him- don't care to be with him- they may want to live in a cool place like Heaven, but they don't care that it's his creation, his home- that they are guests. It means nothing to them. If he said, "Let's have dinner," they would blow him off to spend time with each other. They will probably be rude and inconsiderate to his other guests- the children who accepted his offer to "adopt" them- as well. No one in their right mind invites someone over to live as a guest if that person only wants to be there for the cool electronics, etc. Neither does God. But God does invite those who want to be with him, so I know I am invited; that's where you'll find me.

Passionate and Rebellious

I took a personality test to discern my fascination triggers, and the results were passion and rebellion, meaning, these are the things about me that are most likely to fascinate or engage others. I do think that trust might have surpassed rebellion if I hadn't been biased with the choices that seemed about even. Where I had needed a middle-ground answer, having to choose between slightly more than neutral, and slightly less than neutral, I know I veered away from anything that would imply I was too shy- because I'm not; I'm just often a quiet listener since I don't need the spotlight, and this gets mistaken for "shy."

But anyway, I'll go with this here. Passion and Rebellion.

A couple years ago, I did a different personality test, and one of the questions was, "How passionate are you?" It left me at a loss. I mean, there's more than one meaning for "passionate," right? I mean, I am passionate for sure about social issues:

I want to live in a world where no child is abused (huge issue), and a world where all people have the opportunity to meet their needs such as food, clothing, medical care, etc (we can make them work/volunteer for it, that's fine, but then we need to make sure they can work for it). I want to live in a society that is less individualistic and materialistic, and more social- I mean, why don't I know the majority of my neighbors?... Well, at least I do have a core group of friends that I know and try to encourage.... I am passionate about these things.

I am passionate about the juvenile justice system- it should be more rehabilitation-based than punishment-based.... for that matter, criminal justice as a whole needs to improve on the rehabilitation so that we don't keep sending people back. I am also passionate about wanting people to know who my God is, so they can choose wisely, rather than based on stereotypes of Christianity and inaccurate understandings of what the Bible actually says.

And I am passionate about helping people with developmental disabilities. People with Autism, Down's Syndrome, Cerebral Palsy, etc. have potential. Real potential. And if our society cared more, we would improve our programs to help. Many of them dream of having jobs- and they just need help to find the right one, or to get to and from work, or to be trained more thoroughly. Many dream of having their own homes- maybe with their own staff to help them- meaning they don't want to live in group homes under a schedule set by the staff in charge of them, which is based on what will work for everyone (ie: Scott wants to go to the Christmas party, but Patty is too tired because of the meds she takes at dinner, and there aren't enough staff to split the group so sorry, again, Scott, maybe next year).... yes, I'm passionate.

But what about the other sense of the word? Was I passionate, as in, relationally? Well, how was I to know? I don't have the experience.... But since then I've been more alert to the word. Now, I'm coming to believe that passionate people are passionate all-the-way around.


In the last couple years, I've built some good friendships- with the kind of friends that hang out outside of the context of where you originally met (ie: school, work, church); the kind of friends that remember to ask how a certain situation is going; the kind of friends that accept you even though it is quite clear that you are imperfect- and maybe even a little unstable :-)

Well, I'm starting to see that it is a matter of passion, that makes me stick to my friends. I am fiercely loyal, and if it doesn't show, then I am overcompensating to prevent being pushed away. It is a matter of passion, that draws me to relationships.... friendships, as I said, but I see how that is connected to more serious relationships. I am also romantic at heart. I've known that for ages; and I see now that this too, is connected to passion.

And then there is another side of passion- it is sensual in nature (both, as connected to the "more serious relationships," which was part of my how-am-I-supposed-to-know question, and otherwise). And that, too, is me. I love seeing colors and textures and sound and touch. I am in love with the gorgeous, mystical redwoods. I can take a gazillion photos of wispy clouds, colliding waves, jagged-towering cliffs, and peaceful, colorful prairies with a brook running through. I love standing in the shower with the water pouring over me, and massages, and my warm- fuzzy blanket. I love sitting by a fire at night- the smell of it, and watching the flames dance... for that matter, I love the days where people are cooking on their grills, and the smell permeates the air. I love waking to the sound of birds singing. I love music- drums and horns and violins and.....
Yes, I am Passionate.


So then there is rebellion. My first reaction was to laugh in it's face. Rebellion! Yeah right! Oh.

Okay, so maybe it's true.... actually, yeah! I think it IS true! I'm not the type of rebellious that breaks laws or norms.... unless the law or norm is wrong. Then I'll fight. It kinda goes well with passion.

I am very justice-oriented. If someone treats you or I wrong, I will go all the way to the top to argue it, fight it, demand yours or my rights, tell everyone about it so that the perpetrator doesn't get away with it- whether it's a business, or the law, or another person that wrongs us. Yes, I'll demand until justice gets its way. I don't care about your power- you can be highly respected, or the one with the money, but if what you are doing is hurting someone, I'll put up a fight.

More than that though, I don't care about social norms. Many people probably make the mistake of assuming that I desperately want others to accept me. Truthfully, I would like that very much, but when it comes to cost... I cannot hide who I am. I cannot stand the stifling result of a wearing a mask. What I need is for others to see me for who I am.... or actually, who I strive to be. If I can have this, then if someone doesn't like me, well, it's disappointing but it's their problem. So if you don't like me because I think certain big businesses need to be more socially responsible [yes, they do nice things here and hold them up for us to see so that we can say, "Wow (insert business), you have such high standards!"... but then they use sweatshops and find loopholes in laws to save money]... well, if you don't like me because of what I preach or how I live, then so-be-it. I don't care if all the world disagrees with me (well, actually I do, but only because what you disagree on might exacerbate the problem I'm concerned about, or might be harmful to you), I'm going to live by the standards I believe in.
So yes, I am Rebellious.

Strangers (picture blog)

Okay, so I know that my picture blog needs to get it's own space because it isn't quest-related.... but I'll get around to that. In the meantime, it's here: 

Oh Brother (picture blog)

Define Healing

A few days ago, I added a new post. For me, it was an act of healing. It was a matter of: Okay. I'm not ashamed. I'm not going to hide. I am going to let it go. For me, if I don't talk about things (or if I turn down time with friends), I am crawling into myself, I am retreating..... although, because I'm not the best at articulating myself in person, sometimes writing, for me, is like talking. When I write, it allows me to process information, to acknowledge it, and to move forward. And when I wrote that post, and then published it for others to see, it was like blowing a wisher into the wind. I let it go... well, letting go is a process, but I got closer, and I felt so good and free and at peace.

A couple days later, someone expressed concern for me. She said that she sees that I am having a hard time coping. I tried to explain my viewpoint, but she only sees it through her own lens. She knows how she feels. She knows how she acts and interacts. She assumes I'm the same; she assumes that by writing it, I am clinging on.
But for me, when I don't write, the thoughts spin in my head repetitively. Writing does help me let go. But I can't convince her of this.

So she's trying to convince me that I need to get rid of everything written, that relates to my dad- his journals, documents, everything- just destroy it. And I am fine with getting rid of most of it. But a few pages of it actually acknowledges what he did- and coming from a past in which people didn't believe me, I like knowing that proof exists, so I don't want to destroy that part of it. It may be that when I put it in a box, I forget about it for 10 years, then see it again and think, "Nope, I don't need it anymore." But today, I want it- not to look at regularly, but to just have. And I do believe that letting-go can't be pushed. It comes with time; with growing- and I am growing, and am not concerned if it takes a little while. So why do I have to be pushed?

So then, I was telling a good friend about this. I actually had a point I was trying to get at- but never got there because she started telling me how she agrees with the first person. And in her argument, she completely downplayed the past- said, "well, he never actually succeeded in doing those things to you." I know that! I know it could have been 10 million times worse. But he still did hurt me.... and her comment hurt a lot, because she's my friend..... Then she wanted me to set a date for "letting go"/getting rid of certain things- well, if I knew I needed to let go of those things, I'd do it today. But these items seem like the side-act to moving on; they aren't the issue.... And some would say I should also take all the photos of my dad out of the albums. To me, it is a fact that he's a part of my past. I can't take him out of my past, so taking him out of the albums just leaves a void- which is just as obvious, and more evasive.

For me, the question is, what's going on within me, when I acknowledge the past? Can I say, yes, my dad abused me, but I am free now? I think that's the truer form of moving on in life. Yes, I think back to the past. I think of family vacations, of girl scout activities, of camp, of the time I flew off my bike, of the time dad tried this or that, and so-on. I remember them, and depending on the situation, I may mention them.... and if people around me are making it a current issue, I may mention the past more, because it relates to the present- but that doesn't mean I'm stuck in a rut. I also talk about the future- of career, and marriage, and possibly children- and tomorrow and next month- much more than I talk about him.... unless someone else starts the conversation (and yes, when he makes some new jerky comment, or if people bring him up- or anything meaningful, good or bad- my thoughts tend to be partly on it for hours.... so when Mom says she received another jerky letter, and tells me about it, I think about his being a jerk through the next day, and may mention something about him to my closest friends. But usually, it's a comment-in-passing when I do).

Thing is, I'm not claiming to be "healed." I am "healing." I am growing and feeling good and alive and new.... and I don't want the people I care about to be blind to that. But these two people are telling me they're certain that I'm holding on- and somehow, that makes me feel trapped. So now I'm trapped, disagreeing, and not allowed to dwell on fun things because every day, someone is bringing up their concerns for me.... and now I feel like I can't talk it out with friends without the risk of being accused of not letting go, but I can't let go, without talking it out enough to know what I'm letting go of.

Some days are so extremely frustrating.

Grandma

As I wait on my boss, I guess I have time to write something.

 Several weeks ago, I left California on a roadtrip to Illinois, to visit Grandma (I'll talk about the drive later). She has always had this thing about making sure I knew she wouldn't be around forever.

I remember when I was 7, or there-about. I was telling her how much I loved her. I wanted to live with her. She told me I'd miss my mom and dad. I insisted I wouldn't. It wasn't that I didn't want to be with them; I just adored Grandma- and probably the 1-1 attention I received. And I knew Grandma adored me- even though she couldn't say my name right. She even had a doll named after me- also mispronounced.

And at night, we would share the big bed, and I would talk forever. "Grandma." "Yes honey?" "What are we doing tomorrow?" "Oh, I don't know. We'll see in the morning." "Grandma." "Yes?" "Can we go feed the ducks tomorrow?" "If we have enough heels. We'll see." "Grandma." "Hmmm?" "You know what my teacher said?" "Hmmm.".... "Grandma?.... "Grandma?" "hhggah ssshhh (Zzzz)".... ya know, she doesn't snore like that now that I'm grown up, and not keeping her awake.

All to say, I really loved Grandma. So I probably said I wanted to live close to her "when I grow up." (I lived in Illinois at the time, but was a couple hours away). She told me that she wouldn't be around to see me get married, and maybe not even to see me graduate high school. I reiterated how much I loved her, and she told me that she was old, and that she wouldn't have the energy when I was in high school, to do the things I wanted to do- that when I was in high school, I'd choose to stay home and spend the weekend with my girlfriends rather than to have to go with the family to visit her. I was adamantly certain that this would not be the case.

Well, she's still around. I'm not married yet, but that's circumstance; not time. She did come to my high school graduation- although she couldn't fly to my college graduation. And every year now, when I've visited, she has said goodbye, dreading that it was probably the last time. I've tried to convince her that she's not necessarily correct, and she has argued that she doesn't want to live to the point of being a burden.

So most years, I go out there for a week or two, but her fear of dying without spending enough time with me was getting to me, so I decided to go out there for 5 weeks.... that was hard- she has energy for 1 or 2 errands per day, tv, and a multitude of card games. I have energy for hiking and exploring. But while I was there, something amazing happened:

I was in the middle of cooking, when she said, "So when you're 44, I'll be 100, huh?" For a couple seconds, I was horrified. I don't want to think about being 44 yet. It's not old, but I have so many plans between now and then. So why was she thinking that far ahead. Then it struck me. She's planning for 100! Wow! Grandma's planning for 100!

Now, I fully understand that she could die anytime- in an accident, of an illness- possibly just from old age, although I don't think she's there yet. And of course, she's still aware of this fact. But she isn't expecting it. She's planning for it, but she's also planning for a longer life. This really makes me smile.... but no more 5-week visits; maybe 2 short visits: spring and fall.

Humbling Quest

I guess it's time to acknowledge it. I'm a slacker. That hasn't always been true, but I can't seem to get into a groove. Facebook is my current vice... I'm wondering if I'm going to have to give it up completely. But I love that it has kept me in touch with so many people. I don't like phones- unless we are very good friends, I'm not likely to keep in touch that way.
So every day, I try again. I need to get a, b, c... done. I need to at least spend x hrs doing this stuff. And day after day, I end with, "It's okay. I'll try again tomorrow." Why? I keep wondering what is wrong with me; why I can't seem to stay on-track. It's frustrating. And humbling.
I try to reason with myself.
* If I get this done, I can really relax- not just stress while I'm wasting time.
* Once my internship and thesis are done, I can look for a real job (something in the camp industry).
* I want my life to be meaningful. This stuff isn't meaningful.
But "just a few more minutes" is like a marshmallow placed perfectly on the edge of a bonfire. It expands... vastly.
 So I have my list of things to finish today. I got some of them done- at least the most important ones. I met with my supervisor, and he's happy with what I gave him. But I know I can help better if I finish sooner. My product is the key to they're expansion. I still have a few more things to do tonight.... And then tomorrow's a new day.

What I Don't Say Because I Don't Want to Make You Uncomfortable

If knowing someone's story makes you uncomfortable, please don't read this; I don't want you to be uncomfortable. But my life is good, I've learned from my past, it wasn't my fault, and I am okay, so I have no shame in telling it. I will say, to reduce any fears, I was not raped- and obviously not killed, so that takes the worst out of the picture. Also, if you, the reader, are my friend, please let me know if you do read this- via blogger, facebook, in-person, or whatever. It is my personal story, and I would like to know who knows. That's all I ask.

I was looking at old journals and blogs today, and remembering the past. There are many many good and fun memories. Some were very hard- but I had a positive perspective at the time, and that made the memory good, overall.... others were riddled with fear and sadness.

One of the things on my long-term to-do list, is to write a book about my life- my struggles with childhood epilepsy, bullying, and abuse- and how God has helped me through.

I would not take away the epilepsy if I could- though I'm so glad it went away. Every seizure terrified me; every time, I was certain that I was like Lorenzo, and it would never stop, and I might die- and it hurt, and it was exhausting, because I was alert though I couldn't talk, and I never knew when it was going to start. But it gave me my perspective on accepting all people. Compassion and empathy are my strength, and I don't think I'd be able to say that otherwise.

The abuse, on the other-hand, I would take away in a heart-beat. It's not like dad terrorized us daily as I was growing up. To a large extent, he worked nights, I was at school during the day, Mom was home in the afternoon and evenings, and dad couldn't do much harm. He could ridicule us. He did. He could humiliate us by breaking public rules- such as bringing a dog into the store, or by coming out of his room without clothes on- when our friends were over (and say he didn't know)... but at the time, we didn't know he got something out of it. My siblings and I considered him, "dumb." That was it.

Thank goodness for two things. One, I learned in school early-on, that if ANYONE, even family, tries to touch you in a way that makes you uncomfortable, you tell them to stop, and you tell someone you trust. Two, my dad was afraid of being caught.

His method was to try coersion, justification, etc. As I became a teen, he tried to convince me he needed to make sure I was growing healthily since he was "a doctor" (he worked in a hospital). I finally conceded part-way by letting him look, but when he started to overstep those boundaries, I screamed bloody-murder (gosh, the whole neighborhood probably knew), Mom came running, he downplayed it and made excuses, and she gave him the warning of a life-time. Mom regrets not doing more, but I know first-hand, that when you love someone, it is nearly impossible to assume their intentions were bad- his behavior, yes, but his reasoning, no. I don't blame her.

He continued at times, to try and rationalize and coerce, but he never pushed those limits again. Still, he made me uncomfortable, and I didn't really feel safe.

Being on medication for epilepsy, I would walk into things, I'd get hit by balls in PE because my timing was off, I talked slowly and had a bit of a slur. Some kids thought I was mentally disabled. Kids threw rocks at me, or more-often, avoided me. The popular girls gave me advice so I could be "popular like us." They told me what to wear, & told me to steal Mom's make-up. That was the deal-breaker. There were a couple girls that seemed to want to talk to me in junior high- I didn't see them every day, but I felt accepted by them. There was also the group that I hung-out with most days- standing off to the side. I felt inferior because they were in the smart classes, and would talk about models of the 4th dimension, and so-on. I almost never found a way into the conversations. We never hung out outside of school; it was just a lunch-time deal. A couple of them, I'd say, really did consider me to be a friend. The others, I think just allowed me to be there.

The older of my brothers must have been asked what was wrong with me, and I doubt he really knew how to explain. He began telling his friends to stay away from me, and that I had AIDS. When I'd get home, he would convince my little brother to help him hit me- my sister would help taunt, but I don't think she actually did any hitting. But the boys would come up out of no-where and sock me in the stomach, knocking the breath out of me- that was the worst. Or they'd just start punching me in the back, head, neck, or whatever they could get to. I was the oldest, but my response-time and coordination, due to the medication, were horrible. If I hit back, it seemed somehow, I'd always be caught and punished. I knew the rule was to tell- not retaliate, but telling Mom seemed to be met by, "Well, what did you do? It takes two to fight." Well, normally, that's true, but not in the case of bullying.

I avoided them as best as I could. It was the hallway, which was around the corner and out of Mom's sight, where the hitting would occur. The rest of the apartment was normally safe. They had no excuse for being in my room, and if caught torturing me there, the excuse that I started it would go out the window. So I'd walk those few steps quickly.

When only dad was home with us, I had to be more careful. Dad had lost his temper once on one of my brothers, and Mom had lectured him. So dad got his revenge on Mom by playing helpless. My brothers would hit me, I'd ask him to make them stop, and he'd claim he couldn't. One time, I continued to beg, and he said to the older one, "Please stop." My brother laughed, knowing he wasn't serious, and my dad said, "See, I can't make him stop." My brothers then took the opportunity to run up and hit me several times until I hid in my room. After that, I always hid in my room. I'd walk in the door, go straight through the apartment to my room, close the door- blocking it with heavy items on the occasion that I still felt threatened, and stay there until Mom got home. Usually, being in my room was enough- they'd forget about me and go do their own thing. I didn't have to tell Mom what I was doing because I had figured out how to keep myself safe.

Dad said he was a "nudist." He wanted all of us to try it. He invited us to this amazing beach. My siblings went. I and my mom refused. He claimed Mom was making us uncomfortable. He found other opportunities to try and turn us against her. My dad and siblings would complain about meals together- after it was already ready to eat. I'd say, "I don't really like stew, but it's okay. I'll eat it." Once, dad pulled me aside and told me I was making the situation worse by choosing her side. He said that if it was all of us saying we didn't want it, she would give in and we could order something. Another time, he took me down the street to meet another girl my age. We talked while he and her mom chatted for close to an hour. I didn't understood why, but I felt like he was betraying Mom, and it made me very uncomfortable.

It wasn't until I was 18, that things really escalated. At that point, I was legal, and my dad had more leeway. He was looking up porn regularly online, and calling my brothers over to come look at it. Then he started calling me over. I'd refuse. He told me he was finding all this amazing information about men who have great relationships with their daughters, and that their daughters say they like it. He somehow convinced me to look at the screen, saying that it was just information, not anything disgusting. He lied, it was very hard-core porn. He started saying that it wouldn't be immoral if we did it. Then he asked me if I would. I vehemently refused, and from that point on, avoided him as much as possible.

My first semester at college, I would make the hour trek home after school, and go in my room to sleep. But often, I'd wake and find dad standing there in my doorway, breathing heavy and swallowing hard. I started keeping the sheets all the way up over my head so he could see nothing. I wasn't sure what he was doing, exactly, because I had no experience in that area (partly due to the medication, I was a very late bloomer), but it made me very uncomfortable.

 In the spring, I found out about a camp job that I wanted- largely, to get away from my dad. I had no other transportation to the interview, so, with plans of jumping out of the car if necessary, I allowed him to drive me, and thankfully, got the job. That job was such a blessing, but it really pointed out what I had been through. Up until then, dad was a dumb jerk who I protected myself from. Working at camp, I felt completely safe for the first time. I became terrified of going home.

Since I had no other options, I made a plan. I asked Mom to drop me off at my college at 6:30am, and to pick me up at 8 at night, because I had a lot of studying. I was exhausted in the morning, and fell asleep on the couch in the lobby of the main building. I had talked with one of the school counselors about some issues one of my siblings was going through, and he saw me sleeping there, but never said a word.

As things had become worse, DCFS got involved, one sibling was put in foster care as a precautionary measure while they investigated for three months, and dad moved out of the house by court-order, and at some point, got into drugs. He came over to the house as he was permitted, during the day. Eventually, DCFS left the picture, and he moved back in for awhile- until he proved he wasn't going to change, made threats to one of my siblings, and Mom told him to leave.

While he was home,  he had a habit of making the most offensive comments when I was around. When Kobe was accused of rape, he suggested that maybe they could sell me to him. He said that it would make him rich. Looking at dad at that moment, it was obvious that he was really mulling over this idea of his, thinking how great it would be.

For the most part, I have kept my distance as best as I could, other than the week I spent at his apartment, trying to help him detox from methadone, sleeping with a sheet over my head, and my ears alert to every sound. That kept him clean for a couple months.

Eventually, he started making death threats- saying he'd kill all of us. In a journal we found, he described the high-powered gun he planned to use. He told me he should have burned the house down with all of us in it. I started making plans to run. I talked to someone at church, about having everyone pray if I didn't show up, because that would mean I was on the run. We had a restraining order.

Now, he is on medication, and overseas, and the world feels so much safer that way. But I never intend on giving him my address, or telling him where I work, and he will never be alone with my kids if I have that opportunity. Those are the most obvious precautions I will always take.

There's so much more I could say, but I'll say it when I write that book. Through all my struggles, God has been there and helped me through; I've never doubted that. When I felt alone; like no-one knew me for who I was, I considered giving up, but I felt God there with me. I felt big, strong hands on my shoulder-blades, and I knew I wasn't alone. I had faith, and it got me through, and life is good. Never easy. But very good.

It is possible to be afraid for your safety, sad for your traumas, and happy (and on many levels, content) at the same time. This post is not long enough to portray the whole picture. I have many awesome memories too.

Moving Forward

Here in the sitting and waiting stage of this quest, I have been learning... and then learning the same thing more deeply.

I keep a journal that is my prayers to God; sometimes it helps me to write them down; it allows me to formulate my ideas more thoroughly and it helps me to move beyond the repetition of worrying about the same thing over and over. Often, an answer or an encouraging message becomes clear as I write. I don't write every day; I might for several days in a row, and then I slack off for a spell. I've been debating over the last couple days, whether-or-not to share one of my entries in my prayer journal- one that feels like the near-culmination of a fairly big personal struggle. But they are my conversations with God, so is it appropriate to share a prayer to God.... and do I want to share so much anyway? It might not seem like a huge revelation to readers... but it's a matter of making myself vulnerable once again.

In some ways, I think it will help me to share- that this would be the Amen to that entry- and if you, the reader, are friends with me, then I am sharing something that explains me... and if you don't know me, well, it doesn't matter 'cause I'm just another random person. Part of me feels like if I share this, I can move on with stuff I've dwelled on too long- unless, well, the entry explains itself. Part of me feels like it might take away my need to share so much- that what I write will be about the fact that I just feel like sharing. Then also, a friend of mine recently said that what I write has the potential to help others... and if it helps people, well... As I write this, I am contemplating whether I'll post it as a draft, or for others to see. At least, it doesn't hurt to write it.

Anyway,  this is it:

Lord God, sometimes I wonder about what I say on FB and my blog. I share myself so vulnerably, and often, the people who I hope will comment to me (not necessarily publicly), don’t, and I’m left wondering, Did I make a fool of myself? Did they misunderstand? Do they disapprove? Or did they just not see it? Usually, all I really want, is to know who read it; who knows what I said. That is the biggest downside of sharing in written form; I don’t know who knows what about me....

Lord God, I used to say more to you. Then I started saying it to friends. You, I know, do not withdraw from me. At some points, you may make your presence less obvious- perhaps to teach me something. But you, yourself, do not withdraw. When I am earnest with you, seeking you, asking you to be in my life, you do not decide that I’m too needy. You do not decide that I’m too off-base, that I’m too insecure, or that I’m too unstable for you to be in my life.
Perhaps that is why I started sharing with friends. I felt secure in my relationship with you, but I wanted to know that fellow humans would also accept me. I wanted them to understand me, hoping that would enable them to accept me, because it seemed like most people didn’t accept me, and I figured it must be that they just didn’t understand. And I didn’t want to be alone in this world.
I’m not sure whether-or-not it was a mistake to make myself so vulnerable to others. I do have friends who have stuck around, and some have become much closer over time. But I remain insecure. I don’t think my mistake has been so much, sharing myself in such detail, as it has been relying on acceptance by them. You are the only one I should aim to please…. And yet, you are the one who said, “It is not good for man to be alone.” And I was very much alone.
I am so grateful for my friends. I am so glad you put them in my life. After years of praying for a real Christian friend; someone I can talk about religion and God with… whom will be interested… whom I won’t offend or bore…. who will understand where I’m coming from when I say I believe in forgiveness, and not tell me I need to push away those who hurt me… who will understand my using the Word in my decision-making…when I choose to make a career out of serving others, when I choose to aim for something other than the “American Dream,” when I believe in putting aside personal security and uprooting my life to strive for something that seems impractical- just because that is where God is calling me (not that doing so has proven easy on any level); I have found such friends… and more than one.
Thank you so much. I have a group of people who care about me, who accept me, who at least acknowledge that the basis of my decision-making is an acceptable one. Thank you that I have friends who both encourage and challenge me; who are willing to be straight with me, and call me on my faults, but who haven’t run because of them.
Please Lord, help me to continue to find more of my strength in you. My friends are only human, same as me. Even as a group, they can’t do it all- especially if I expect all from them. But they love you Lord, and they love me too. That is enough for me. Let that be enough all-the-way around; let me not feel insecure just because they aren’t always available on every level; that makes me too needy.
I want to be there for others. I want to encourage people. I want to share your love. I want to glorify you. I want to be a light. And I feel like I’m in the way- or at least I threaten to be. I’ve been so self-focused, and that is not what I want. I want to focus on you. I want to glorify you. I want to be close to you. You make me whole. Let me not get in the way of my relationship with you. Let me not base my security on anyone or anything but you. Let me still have close friends… And let me be a better friend. But please be the center…. Maybe that’s been my mistake.
Haven’t thought of this song in soooo long:
“Jesus, be the center. Be my source, be my light, Jesus. 
Jesus, be the center. Be my hope, be my song, Jesus.
Be the fire in my heart. Be the wind, in these sails. Be the reason that I live, Jesus, Jesus
Jesus, be my vision. Be my path, be my guide, Jesus.”

Secret Weapon: Friends (WM pt2)

This week, the monster is Fear of Friends Pulling Away. It's probably the most frequent villian at this point, but it has another thing coming if it believes it will actually win...

But today, he tries a common angle:

I write things on my status on Facebook, and later, I think, What if they thought it was inappropriate? What if she was offended? What if it made him uncomfortable? What if they misunderstood? What if they think I'm lying? What if they think I'm manipulating? What if they think I'm trying to guilt-trip them? What if they think I'm being fake? I could stop posting on Facebook... but I need them to see me for who I am. I cannot hide. I'll lose myself if my reason for not posting, is to hide. And it's not about posting on Facebook; that's just the door the monster is trying today.

So then the monster tries another angle:

I think, "My friends are wonderful... hmm, I say that a lot"- whether to them, or a general public statement. My former "best friend" for the past 16 years always complimented me. I learned from her, how to encourage people. Then she turned out to be the master manipulator- many people have been conned by her, so my fear becomes: "What if my friends think I say it too much... and think that I have an alterior motive in saying it? What if they don't trust me?"... But I fight the monster as I think, "Oh what the heck, my friends are awesome. Shut up monster. They're wonderful because they know I'm imperfect but they don't care. They know we all struggle. They accept me for who I am. And even if they question my sincerity, they'll just watch more carefully. They won't push me away just because they aren't sure. They'll give me a chance, and they'll see that I'm for real. They care about me. And they believe that God can change people. They won't give up on me. They'll talk to me if they have concerns- if they see a problem that needs to be addressed. That is a big part of why I know they're wonderful in the first place."

So I can be me around my friends, 'cause even if my friends see me as strange, they'll still be my friends; I don't have to hide. If I hide, they won't be able to help me. And I do need the help of my friends. They are the secret weapon against this monster.

And even as I'm fighting this monster this week, I'm also seeing the battle being won. It struck me, as I commented a few days ago about crocheting, that I would not have written that a year ago. There's no way, no when, no how that I would have acknowledged it because to me, it symbolized the epitome of a homebody. Not that crocheting was a bad thing, but I needed first, for my friends to see certain things about me that I felt people never saw.

A few of my teachers as I was growing up, labeled me in many ways- they saw me as lazy and weak, someone who used my disability to get out of responsibilities, a faker, a loner, excessively shy, and so-on. I needed my friends to see the outgoing, adventurous, determined side of me- the part of me I know is very real, but felt was invisible to everyone else. But I know my friends see me now; So I can be more fully me now. I can acknowledge all of who I am- even to myself. My favorite activities will probably always be camping, exploring, biking, and outdoor adventures such as backpacking, rock climbing, and such- and of course, making jewelry and scrapbooking. But I also do enjoy gardening, cooking, crocheting, reading, art galleries... and I can say all of that, and it won't contradict. I can be me, and know myself even more than I did before because I can trust that my friends know and accept me for who I am.