Deep Thoughts Inspired by the Lunar Eclipse

I got up this morning to watch one of the most awe-inspiring sights I have waited my whole life to see. Watching the moon slide into the shadow of the Earth as it sets, while the sun struggles to break into view in the east, has, I guess, done nothing more but make me appreciate just that much more how small we are in relation to the cosmos, the endless beauty of God's creation.

Man is finite. Our planet is finite in years. Our solar system is finite in its. In this, we share a common thread, and characteristics within the universe's laws themselves. The universe will not let us go unnoticed though, and will use our dusty remains to create new suns and planets, stars and galaxies. In some small way, it is the epitome of immortality.

This is the crux of my inner peace; this is why I don't fear death, for how can I? When I know I have been crafted out of stardust and love, and given the breath of life out of that stardust, nay, even that love. I have been given the gift of the written word; I have been given love, and far more than I deserve; I have been given the ability to appreciate the wonders of creation; I have been given the eyes to see (though blurry) just how wonderfully breathtaking all this is.

This is also why I wonder at human nature throughout history. Are we really so grossly naive as to believe that immortality should be best experienced within our bodies, our oh-so-fragile bodies, when our souls and our experience of life is what matters most? Who we love and how deeply we love them, how deeply we etch ourselves on each others' experience, how kind we are to others... How understanding we are of the fact that we're only here for such a short time, and to treat others as well as we can, and try to understand them and their struggles? This is our charge and our gift, though it seems more a burden sometimes. It isn't an easy task, but it's one I take to heart.

I saw a meteor shoot across the moon as it was eclipsed, and I wondered who it was a sign for; whether it was a sign for anyone. I'm so lucky to be alive, so lucky to have the people in my life that I do, and I think I'm even lucky to appreciate just how insignificant I am in the larger scheme of it all. The universe is more vast than I can truly appreciate, but I can truly appreciate that I don't have to know all about it to know that much.

Stop... Drop... and RUN!

The power of love is what drives me to be a better person. It makes my heart beat, it makes my life feel complete, and it makes me stronger in my conviction to leap the hurdles I do every single day. I don't use the word "love" lightly (who really does, come to think of it?), especially in the sense where I say "I love you."

This morning, I woke up to a friend's message that she had something absolutely terrifying happen, and she wanted to thank me for being a huge influence in her life "before it was too late." I'm just now rereading what she said about that, but I was more concerned about what had started her thinking about the "before it's too late" part.

My immediate gut reaction was to sprout wings and to fly to her side as fast as I could; never mind that she was being well taken care of by her wife. If she needed me to be there, I would get there as fast as humanly possible. I was so scared I was going to lose her.

After the adrenaline rush abated, I started thinking about how to write down what drove me to that kind of extreme reaction, because I don't second-guess myself in situations like that. I don't question whether it is something that I can control, because of course I can't. But what I can do and can be is someone who is there no matter what.

I'm in love with my best friends. That sounds really cheesy, but it's true. Too bad we don't have Valentine's cards that express that kind of love. I challenge you to think about how much you love your best friends.

Wouldn't you do the impossible if they asked you to try? Wouldn't you drop everything and run to them as soon as they said they needed you? Aren't you with them through thick and thin? That's what I'm talking about — because you don't do that for everyone. You do it for family, you do it for your significant other. Why not say that your love for your best friends is just as deep and just as abiding?

To my best friends, I want to say: I love you. I care more than words can ever say about you and your well-being. You hang the moon and the stars and the sun in the heavens. You save my life by being in it, by being there for me when I need it most, by truly meaning it when you ask how I'm doing (because I'm too weak to ask you to listen) and being there when I'm breaking down. You're there to support me in the way only best friends can — which is not the same as family support, though it is similar — and you believe in me as only best friends do. I am so very lucky to have you. I love you.

How to Accomplish Great Things in Life

OK, first off... the headline is a misrepresentation of what I'm actually going to write about. See, success is differently defined by each individual depending on what their particular goals are in life. Some of us have particularly defined goals, some of us are still wandering through life trying to figure out what those goals should be, and some of us don't even realize that we have goals.

I'm one of those people who is horrible at setting and keeping goals, because my goals depend so much on what I think I should have accomplished rather than what I have accomplished. It makes me confused about the path my life is taking (note the present tense) because so much of what I think defines me is the decisions I've made in my past instead of the ones I will make in my future. I'm confronting that idea head-on, because I think I'm trying to convince myself that's not the case.

One common complaint I hear from my single friends, and get asked about by absolute strangers (living in the South, y'all) is that as relatively young persons, we are expected to settle down and have children. That's a milestone that all "youngsters," but especially women, seem to be expected to have accomplished by the time they are... what, 30? It's a social pressure that is frankly demeaning for all sorts of reasons.

Some women and men are superbly picky about whom they choose to marry, and thus be the other half of their children's lives; this is me, if I even decide to become a mother. Some women and men have fertility issues that they can't address for a myriad of reasons I won't list on here. Some women and men just don't want to have children, and that is their choice. The Oatmeal puts that best into perspective, because this is also me. I'll babysit, but the thought of being responsible for the upbringing of another human being and helping them to understand the world around them is terrifying. That may change depending on lots of factors, but I very definitely don't have a biological clock ticking away at me.

That doesn't mean that we're any less accomplished. We're supposed to pick our battles carefully, but this is a battle against social norms that are reinforced by nearly every holy book or path to enlightenment I have ever studied, and further reinforced by those people who expect it from us, even strangers. Even more confounding is when society expects us to be accomplished at other things if we're not parents, much less if we are.

I thought I wanted to be a big-shot when I was a kid, even when I was very small. I expected to take over my mother's marketing/public relations/community relations firm when I came of age and continue to build it up. Long before we ever moved across the state and she dissolved the company, I realized I didn't really have that goal in mind. It was a pipe dream built on expectations that I couldn't yet understand. I enjoyed sitting in the receptionist's chair and handling the front desk, proofreading and editing what she and her staff produced, and assisting in getting marketing materials and mass mailings out the door, but being solely responsible for others' work and making sure it all got done when I wasn't even sure that's what I wanted to do for the rest of my life was just too much. That doesn't mean I'm not entrepreneurial in spirit — just that taking over mom's business is goal that's not important to me anymore. Having my own business that will lift or fall based on my own failings, and I don't have the pressure of ruining my mother's good name in the process? Yep, that's about my speed. Independence should have been my middle name.

Have I been successful in the working world? Umm... that is a double-edged sword. I believe that I have been perceived as a threat by a lot of my employers. I'm perceptive to a degree, but I think I'm really sensitive to clues to a larger picture, even if I'm not in on the plan. I challenge the status quo because I live to one of my father's mottos, "If you always do what you've always done, you'll always get what you always got." I care deeply about my coworkers and will find a way to encourage and inspire them, which managers think are a threat to their leadership skills. See my above statement about "independence" — that's a scary term to certain managerial types, but if channeled in the right way should be absolutely liberating to have in an employee.

So, my accomplishments are nil according to those two criteria, but I want to share what I do think are my biggest accomplishments, so far, as I define success.

• I survived a string of abusive relationships and came out stronger on the other side, and with better definitions for what I want from a life-mate.
• I graduated with a bachelor's degree from a really awesome school where I learned a lot about human interaction more than I learned about anything else.
• I held to my moral and ethical code, both the professional and my personal definition, despite some employers' insistence that I compromise my integrity.
• I have never stopped wondering about the larger universe around me and learning about it, and strive every day to look at it through the eyes of a child — it keeps your perspective small and your sense of wonder large.
• I have never stopped laughing and smiling and HOPING. Even in my deepest depths, when my heart was hardened and walled up, when my belief in myself flagged and waned and almost gave up, when I felt I couldn't go on — hope is such a powerful driver in my life. I practice hope every day.
• I've learned how my weaknesses are my strengths, because they make me who I am. They are the things that I will continue to work on throughout the rest of my life, for they are what keep me humble.
• I've accepted that I will never stop misunderstanding myself and questioning myself, and really examining the concept of "reality." I'm a multi-faceted individual, as we all are, and I love really understanding that about myself.

Define success by your rules and your rules alone. When you're on your deathbed, will you be saying "I did great things at my job; I hope I'm remembered for all the work I did!" or will you be saying "I lived a great life full of twists and turns, and I know people will remember me for that!" 

Robin Williams' Death Is A Reminder — My Reaction

I didn't want to confront this demon now, but now that Robin Williams has passed away, I guess I must try to express my reaction to how he died. I didn't want to ride the coattails of those who have somehow mustered up the emotional fortitude to write about his death, but... well, I am doing so now, aren't I?

I know the pain of depression very well, and the wish to just end it all because it hurts too much to go on. I feel like a drain on my family and friends, so I isolate myself from those who are, and hole myself up, which just feeds the depression even more because I feel like I've done something to wrong them.

In the past year, I have thought many times about ending it all. I drew up a pro and con list of reasons why I should go ahead and do it, and there were plenty of reasons in the pro column and not enough in the con column. That's not typical of most depressives, but I was trying to be logical about it. I wrote a note to each loved one, telling them how much I loved them and explaining myself as best I could. I guess I was stalling what I thought was the inevitable conclusion to my existence.

It is called a selfish act by many who don't understand why anyone would choose to end their life, and even though I am no longer so deep in that dark abyss I couldn't see any light, I still don't understand why someone would make such a hurtful accusation.

One could make the argument that it is making a choice about the way you go, and that's selfish — many people who have terminal illnesses do the same. I've watched many family members make those choices even when recovery was hopeless. I tried to talk my father out of his last surgery, but he was convinced that it would make him whole again.

One could make the argument that so many people attempt it for the attention, so of course that's selfish to do — I hate to burst your bubble here buddy, but the lack of attention to what they were trying to say has led those individuals to make that attempt, and it was unsuccessful for one reason or another. At least someone is listening to them now, and hopefully is getting them the help they desperately need.

One could invalidate the decision simply because obviously there's someone who cares about you even if you don't, so it's selfish to remove yourself from their life because you care about them so much — let me make one thing clear right now. You don't really believe that anyone cares about you. I can't emphasize that statement enough; you don't believe in your heart that anyone truly cares about you.

The young man I went to senior prom with died three years ago. He reached out to me through Facebook even though we were never close friends, and we talked about how important he was to his friends, his family, even the wife who left him. He pushed her away, he pushed his family away, he pushed everyone away, and yet he reached out to me. And he still did something to end his life; I never learned how, and I don't think I want to know. I know how I thought about doing it.

My friends and family made their love and care known nearly every day when I was in the deepest darkness. That did NOT mitigate the thoughts I was having. I honestly believed that they were doing it because they were wanting to use my darkness against me. I honestly believed that they were trying to control me or manipulate me in some way. It felt suffocating rather than liberating, and that was the depression whispering in my ear that they were just trying to stop what I was going to do anyway; that they were unfairly judging my innermost thoughts and invalidating my hurt and pain.

That sounds illogical, doesn't it? That's because there is no logic behind depression. If you just so happen to also have anxiety disorders, those paranoid thoughts feed the suicidal thoughts. The following thought scared the ever-loving crap out of me when it emerged. "If someone's going to rape me and kill me, or just kill me anyway, I might as well just cut out the middle man and get straight to it. Look at him... he wants to do awful things to me. Just look at that look in his eyes. He'll find you and hurt you worse if you don't kill yourself so he can't get to you." I wound up completely removing myself from even grocery shopping just because I felt like I was an easy target for someone so inclined.

Seriously?

Anxiety loves to feed the suicidal thoughts and magnify everything so that you're examining it all in excruciating detail, twisting it into all sorts of strange perceptions, and pours it all into the swirling maelstrom, making it larger and larger until you're swept up in this black twisting form that eats at you when you're awake and when you're asleep, when you're with friends and when you're alone. And you feel all alone in this torrent even when you're with those who love you. You feel utterly and helplessly alone.

So this is where I am now. From the depths of the rubble the maelstrom left behind, from my personal Hell, I'm climbing back out. The thing is, it's a comfortable and familiar pain in there and climbing back out is painful in a different way, and in some ways hurts far more. You have to pick those rocks that rubble is made out of up, examine them, and invalidate them somehow. You have to force yourself to look at what led you to the conclusions you made, and convince yourself that they are not what you thought they were. It's easier with therapy, because you have someone holding you somewhat steady while you do it, but it is still such a struggle. I still spin out of control from time to time, and it's no one's fault, not even mine. That's the nature of the beast. I have to remind myself that I am in control of this, and it isn't in control of me. That may not be the truth for everyone, maybe even not for me, but I still cling to it.

My message through all of this is please don't give up on your friends or family members that push you away no matter how hard you try to get through to them. They need you to remind them, even if they don't believe it, that they are important to you. Visit them as frequently as you can, hug them close, and listen to them even if it brings you down. Let them know that you're there, and don't let go, don't give up hope on reaching them somehow. Don't feed the storm; the worst thing anyone ever said to me when I was considering taking my own life was "You're going to Hell if you do it." It didn't matter to me, because I was already in Hell. I just hadn't made it official yet. And I hope to never make it back there.

What Makes You Tick? I Hope.

Last night, Mom and I watched a movie called "Noah." I had wanted to see this movie for some time. I study religions as a hobby, both ancient and modern, and I had heard a lot of controversy around this movie from Christians and Muslims alike (funny how that works...). I study religions because I am fascinated by what makes us human beings tick. Religion seemed like a good place to start, and I was right.

By the way, if you haven't seen the film: SPOILERS. There. Go watch it, then come back to read this.

This movie disturbed me greatly. 

Not because the story wasn't Biblically accurate; the story of a world flood has been documented in a lot of ancient philosophical or religious records, so the writers had to kind of blend all of them together and see what it looked like. I saw a lot of them used in this movie.

Not because the Sons of Cain were basically living as if the world were already a post-apocalyptic wasteland; I imagine that the expulsion from the Garden of Eden and trying to make a life in a virgin world would have its challenges. Especially if the culture surrounding you were built on the belief that you were cursed beyond all hope.

Not that Noah was solely focused and dedicated to what he thought he was being told to do by God, even if it meant sacrificing his own grandchildren; wasn't Abraham told to sacrifice his own son, Jacob, to test his devotion to God? Though I will admit, that's always struck me as not quite the God of the New Testament. I'll not go into much of a theological discussion about that here.

No — what disturbed me was the overarching message, over the environmental message, over the holy message, and the jumble of accounts of the flood. The message that there is always going to be evil in the world, and human beings will always take advantage of one another, and other creatures great and small, however and whenever they can.

Time and again I have read this theme in my favorite stories and watched it in my favorite programs and films. Time and again has this been proven true in historical records of the human race — most of the time, simply because the belief systems were different enough to make a difference to each party.

I know there is evil and danger in this world. My anxiety is rooted and confirmed in the knowledge that I have more to fear from my fellow man than I do from any beast, because some human beings will take any strides necessary to get what they want, use others as tools to get that want, and then discard them as trash when they're done. We call it greed and pride and lust; we call it by many names, and we call others infidel while we call ourselves righteous when we practice it.

But I can't believe that callousness and greediness blinds us to the plight of others and makes us think that we must take advantage of whatever comes our way that facilitates our own selfish goals. I can't believe that anyone could subjugate another living being, knowing that they were using that being for their own aims. I can't believe that people hurt other people in horrific ways just because they feel that they are in the right and therefore the others are not-quite-human because they disagree.

I've been thrown around like a rag doll. I've had the barrel of a gun shoved between my eyebrows while being interrogated about which I knew nothing. I've been pinned down and forced to do detestable things against my will. I've experienced that evil, that subjugation, that greed, that callous behavior.

I have also removed myself from that which oppressed me, with the help of my family and my friends, and repeated the process once or twice, because I might just have had a complex about it. I might still have bleeding emotional wounds from those experiences that have taken their own toll on me. I was strong enough to call for help and to physically remove myself from those who wronged me and hurt me and make me feel shame to this day, and I forgive them. 

I'm not naive to the ways of the world. Eh, I might be idealistic and I don't care that I am. But I can't believe that in the depths of my soul, because I'm also a human being, I'm depraved and tortured enough to use others, to hurt others, to... I just can't. I can't believe that there are more people out there who will take advantage of others, just because they can, than there are gentle and kind souls who will do to others what they would have done to them.

That's what kept me up last night. Those thoughts for all those who are more unfortunate than I break my heart every single day and the only thing I can do to stop myself is to shut out the world, and those thoughts, they still break me. They still stab me in the chest with something sharper than steel. My experiences with horrible treatment has honed the blade. All those feelings, and I still smile, and laugh, and do my very best to make others' days better, strangers and friends alike.

I watch children's movies, like "Chitty Chitty Bang Bang" and "Hugo," and I read fairy tales and historical fiction and science fiction, and I watch programs like "Doctor Who" and "Sherlock," and I do all of that because those stories, strange as it seems, they give me hope. They make me smile and laugh and believe that the world truly is a magical place where good deeds are rewarded. So I lift my broken and bleeding heart up and say this: I still believe that the world is good, and full of good people, and so what that I might reserve trust, but I will never reserve love. I will never reserve hope that we can all be better than we are right now, and even better in the tomorrows to come. 

I leave you with one final thought in a post full of heavy thoughts. I try to practice what I call "The Platinum Rule," which goes something like this: Treat others better than you would have them treat you in return. I fail and I falter in practice, but that just kicks me into trying harder the next time. Isn't that hopeful?

Unexpected Reactions

The thing with being proactive about your depression and anxiety disorders is that you don't realize that you're doing things that treat your triggers after a while. This is one thing I've noticed about mine.

My aunt started a conversation with me the other day about her particular form of anxiety. She told me that she tended to be anxious about threats to herself — which is part of what my reactions are like, but they are also about threats to others. This includes people I don't even know, or should really care about, when it comes right down to it.

I realized that I have stopped reading or watching the news. I knew that watching bad news made me hurt, sometimes physically, but most of the time it just broke my heart. In the back of my mind, before I started being proactive about my treatments, I knew that I needed to stop but it's very hard to do so when you're a former newshound!

During my summer internship with a local newspaper, I was encouraged to learn from other reporters by reading their work. My mother encouraged me to read and watch the news from a very early age. I consumed news like it was air at times. And with every plane crash, every politician not keeping their promises, every town and city that crashed with the economy (here's looking at you Detroit), every tsunami, earthquake, and tornado, my heart broke a little bit more.

Some people call it empathy or compassion. Some people call it a blessing to be so concerned with others. Some people call it a soft touch or a soft heart. Whatever you call it, I was born with the weight of the world on my shoulders, and it doesn't feel like it should be a good thing. It's almost selfish to do this to myself, and that's where I feel some confusion. Is it selfish? Is it compassionate? Or is it projecting my internal feelings on the world?

In 2005, Hurricane Katrina hit New Orleans. My first reaction was to load the trunk of my car with bottled water and point my car in that direction. I wanted to give more than I had just to help out. I just didn't realize how idiotic that sounded at the time. The governor, FEMA, and the Army Corps of Engineers had shut down inbound and outbound traffic. There was no way I was going to get past that without being a part of the Red Cross or another emergency response group.

One of the best pieces of dating advice (not that I'm dating right now, but I'm considering it...) I have ever received is that you should be up on the latest events, because when conversation comes to a lull, it's a great way to restart the conversation. Well, that's out the window for now. However, I do know that if there is chemistry, then there won't be an awkward silence; at least not on the first date.

Passively accepting that I've started "ignoring" the world is one thing. Actively, what I've done is culled my "Friends" list on Facebook, but I didn't announce it. Anyone who did not contribute positive things to my life's path were either de-friended or un-followed, and I removed the apps that did the same. I realized that I was caring too much, loving too much, hurting too much.

That may not have been the smartest thing to do, but it was a way to save my sanity. I can't be responsible for the world anymore. I can't feel responsible for others and take care of myself. I CAN turn all that energy towards moving forward, toward healing, and toward myself. I think that's the most compassionate thing I can do right now — pay attention to myself for once, instead of others.

Roots Become Trees

Winding through the Blue Ridge Mountains, over Asheville and into Knoxville, my mother desperately tried to pretend like she wasn't scared to bleeding death that I was going to lose my grip on the car and careen us down the face of a mountain and into a valley below. I just grinned like the madcap fool that I am and kept on "mountain surfing"... knowing that we were heading into an area of the country I really didn't know how to love, and neither has she for all of my life.

My mother grew up on a very small farm in Kentucky near the Ohio River. If you look over the bend, looking to the north is Indiana, looking to the east is Ohio. It felt like I was looking at heaven the first time I looked outside our room in the lodge, because there's that river I always wanted in my back yard, there's the mountains all around me, there's all those wildflowers growing...

The last time I was here I was nine, and my grandmother had died at the age of 63 from complications from breast cancer treatment. Her death was my first experience with the passing of a loved one, and it was the hardest lesson to learn. Not the hardest that I've learnt since, but I was nine and very alone in my life. Grandma Liz was my best friend, my confidant, the person who encouraged me most to question my very existence and yet kept me tethered to the world beneath my feet. I still question everything just a tad bit more than I should, come to think of it.

Liz had seven brothers and a sister, so nine siblings all told. Every one of those siblings had at least two children, so my mother and her brothers had a lot of cousins. Back when the cousins were all young, they decided to start an annual family reunion. Some years, hardly anyone came; some years, everyone came. The last time I was at a reunion, I was four years old and very very scared. I hid behind Liz.

I didn't know what to expect, honestly. Mom told stories a lot about the farm, the cousins, her grandparents on both sides; as I got older those stories got a little more jaded, a little more real, a little more tainted by real-world troubles. I knew that this side of the family was composed of some of the gentlest people you ever would meet, but beyond that, I was clueless. I knew names but not faces; I knew stories about people I had no memory of meeting (well, you try remembering 100 people by name who you had never met before when you're a shy nine-year-old and grieving!).

It was one of those surreal times of my life when everyone came up to me and gave me a hug, and I didn't mind it one bit. The brothers who were left told me how much I look like Liz, and that made me feel special. There wasn't one fight, not one gut-check, but everyone was laughing and having fun sharing stories and talking about how much they missed one another. I guess you would call it the anti-streotypical family reunion.

Sometimes, you just get this feeling in your gut about the people you dearly love who have passed on. I felt like Grandma wanted me to come see her in the graveyard, like someone was tugging at my heartstrings just a little too hard. I dreamt about her, and about lying on top of her grave, and it hurt so bad I'd cry in my sleep and wake myself up. After the reunion, Mom drove me over to see her.

Fallen over and weathered granite next to brightly polished stones filled this little cemetery that could have been the inspiration for many a story. I felt her before I saw hers and her husband's stone, no different from many other tombstones in many other cemeteries around the country. I knew her stone immediately, even though I could only see the back of it.

I broke down into tears immediately. The pain was back, the pain of losing her, the pain of guilt that there had to have been something I could have done... but there was nothing, and never would be anything. The pain and sorrow of death, even though you know that it's just another stage of life.

There's something to be said for getting back to your roots. To hearing the stories of those who have gone farther in life than you have. To crying over the grave of those you love the most and just letting your heart pour it out into the universe surrounding you. Because then, maybe, just maybe, you start feeling something start to knit itself together so you can start growing again.

What Are Blessings Anyway?

I've always had a fascination with world religions, and history, from a very early age; how could I not be fascinated with how religion figures into human history, and how people operate within those constructs, when I observed so much of human behavior? Long before I saw the Indiana Jones films, I had a fantasy of becoming an archaeologist or an anthropologist.

I thought I understood what I was getting into at the ripe old age of nine years old when my pastor and now good friend, Randy, baptized me in the name of the Father, Son, and the Holy Ghost. After all, through my own studies of the Bible and other religious teachings, almost every thing he said in the pulpit and in our private discussions resonated in my core. I will never forget asking him when I was seven "How do we know we're right in our beliefs, when so many other religions teach the same thing the Bible says?" and his response of, "We don't know we're right. We believe, but other religions believe too. We'll know when we meet our Creator, by whatever name we call him."

We moved away from the city where Randy spread that message to one two and a half hours away, and started going to a church he recommended based on his experiences in seminary with the pastor there. I was ready to continue the same line of discussions I had loved in Randy's church, because we were staying in the same denomination. I had no idea how my faith would be shaken to its core.

The messages from the pulpit were not conversations with the congregation, they were structured in a rigid five paragraph format. The youth group, and pastor, wasn't all that interested in discussing the Scriptures in context of their lives and interests where I had been used to lively discussions with Eric, the youth pastor I had grown up with, and debates that went on far into the night sometimes. The missions activities seemed nominal and mainly funneled through monetary donations, instead of time and sweat and blood and tears, and those were what I most loved about my missions work.

I think the one activity I participated in that most shook me up was the girl's Bible study group, which I'll admit wasn't all that active with Eric because we were so involved in co-ed Bible study, and our youth group was quite small. This girl's Bible study group had one rise through the ranks through the completion of certain activities, much like scouting troops.

During my last retreat with this girl's group, we were all given a "blessings" survey that purported to identify where our strengths and talents lay within the Church's needs, such as music, missions, teaching, etc. The most anyone had been identified in before me was three — I was "blessed" with five of the eight different areas where I could give back to God. This gave me pause and reflection more than pride, because I didn't see these as "blessings" as defined by the teachings I knew through independent research and reading the Bible for myself. For those who are unfamiliar with the Beatitudes, where Jesus outright tells his followers who is blessed, I'm providing them here.

Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven. 

Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted. 

Blessed are the meek, for they will inherit the earth. 

Blessed are those who hunger and thirst after righteousness, for they will be filled. 

Blessed are the merciful, for they will be shown mercy. 

Blessed are the pure in heart, for they will see God. 

Blessed are the peacemakers, for they will be called the sons of God. 

Blessed are those who are persecuted because of righteousness, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven. 

Blessed are you when people insult you, persecute you and falsely say all kinds of evil against you because of me.

Do I have a musical gift? Yes, but that's not a blessing here defined. Do I feel a strong need to graciously stand up for those who cannot stand for themselves? Yes, I do, and yes, I do. Do I give of myself more than I probably should? It breaks my heart every day. Do I try to stand for what I believe is right, morally and ethically? Check my employment history; I'm not ever going to apologize for doing so.

Do I feel drawn to appreciate other cultures and not interpret them according to the standards of my particular society? Oh yes. Do I recognize that the concept of God means different things to different people? You betcha. Do I believe in a higher power that has created the universe, by whatever name we choose to give it? I can't look at the leaves on the trees or the stars in the sky without being filled with that knowledge.

That survey only defined one of those as a blessing; my musical gift. Yes, I was born with an innate talent that I developed through hard work, but that's not a blessing. A blessing is recognizing where you are weakest and giving in to that weakness. Giving it up to be judged, not wanting for punishment, but acknowledgment that you are stronger for saying you are weak. Blessings are not how much you make or those external demonstrations of your earthly power; they are those internal forces that make you examine yourself and the humanity you exhibit in your weakest state.

Note: Thank you to my friend Rebecca for making me examine the word carefully as I apply it to my life. Thank you to my friends Randy (edit: added a link to his website after publishing) and Eric for not disparaging my questioning attitude, rather, encouraging it as it strengthened my internal compass. And thank you to this blogger for his own words on the importance of being careful with the word "blessings."

Keeping Promises to Myself

One of the things that irks me beyond measure is when someone makes a promise to me that they don't keep.  Barring extenuating circumstances, it has always been a pet peeve of mine, so I try my best to keep my promises to others. The hardest person for me to keep promises to, however, is myself.

Here's a story about why promises are such a big deal to me:

I once dated a man who promised to take me to his best friend's wedding in Charleston, SC. I got really excited because it was a big-deal wedding in a beautiful part of the state and packed a bag, and then Mom asked me what trip I was planning. She got excited too, so we went shopping for an appropriate outfit, matching jewelry, shoes, and even got a clutch that matched the dress perfectly.

The day he was supposed to pick me up for the trip, I stepped out to the driveway with my overnight bag and garment bag, and let him know I was waiting on him via text. For three hours, I sat on my overnight bag in the driveway, calling or texting him every 45 minutes or so. He never picked me up. He told me later that he'd gone ahead without me...

I should have dumped him right then and there. Two weeks later, after some smaller promises weren't kept, like dates to good restaurants in our hometown, I broke it off. He kept calling and texting for at least a month after, asking why I had dumped him even though I told him exactly why I had dumped him, and finally I just stopped answering the phone. He got the message or got tired of asking, I'm not sure which.

I've decided to make one big promise to myself, and put a string on my finger to remind me of that promise every day. 

This ring I'm wearing is actually three. The two narrow bands I wore on my middle fingers for years without taking them off, and the one in the middle I have appropriated as a promise ring for myself. It's pretty all together, isn't it?

I promise that whatever happens to me now or in the future, I will not fall into past bad habits. I promise to never make excuses for people who pretend to be my friend because I want to be friends with who they are pretending to be. I promise to listen to my gut and what it tells me about people and places, and to act on those feelings. I promise to be faithful to those who have never lost faith in me, though I have in myself. I promise to wait for the man who fits my criteria and I fit his, learn to become friends with him and him with me, and then we can date if we find it has progressed to that point. I promise to spend the time to find what I love about myself and to relish those qualities every day once I do. I promise to try every single day to not blame myself, to not feel ashamed of my past or guilty for the decisions I made, to forgive myself when I falter or fail, and to keep moving forward.

This is the first time I've made such a big promise to myself. I hope I can keep it.

Apologies & Explanations

My apologies to anyone who is regularly reading my musings... I kind of lost steam. I've not had much energy the past few days, and started and stopped (and started, and stopped) writing a post that's very difficult for me to write. It will get published one day, but it won't be today.

I even stopped keeping track of myself in my journal, which is odd, because that's exactly WHY I started writing in one. I guess we can just take it as read that the reason there are no entries from the 26th of June on (though I'm starting back today) is because I just didn't feel like doing much of anything but binge-watching Torchwood with Mom. I haven't even eaten much in the past week because I just lost all hope.

That's a running theme, by the way. You can tell how well I feel by whether I've drunk any coffee, and it spirals out of control from there into "has she eaten yet?" territory. I don't feel good about myself or my life as I know it, i.e., the anxiety is creeping up and biting me, or the depression is making itself known, and I just don't want to eat. I'll sleep for 14 to 16 hours a day, and stare at the ceiling fan for four, and sit on the couch for four. I might nibble on something because I know I have to, but I don't feel like eating at all.

When I'm employed, these are the majority of my sick days. I can't get out of bed, I cry interminably like my heart is breaking into a million pieces, and I feel like I'm lost on a planet that's not my own. The thoughts range from "I'm not worth any of this (meaning my surroundings)" to "I don't belong to this world anymore. Nobody wants to spend time with me, nobody has any patience with me, I just want to waste away into nothing."And I argue with myself about those statements. It's a war with myself.

“The deeper I go into myself the more I realize that I am my own enemy.” 
― Floriano Martins

I don't know the context of that quote, but it is extremely apt, no? The thing is that more than anything, I don't want to go any deeper into myself. I feel like I am a past master of introspection and brooding. It's dark in there, and I just want to see some glimmer of light.

What would that glimmer of light look like? What would it feel like? These are questions I can't adequately answer... and I wish I could.

Susie Homemaker

Not quite, but close.

The last two days I have done nothing but clean, and it's been fun actually! I've been using some of the recipes I've gotten off of Pinterest, learning how to use natural cleaning solutions and the like. Since I don't have any essential oils - yet - I'm just using the castile soap, citrus peels, vinegar, borax, and salt.

One thing that not many people are aware of is just how sensitive my skin can be. I'm allergic to most soaps and other cleaning products because of a little chemical called cocomidapropyl betaine. This thing is a surfactant (read: one of those ingredients in soap that makes it bubble and foam up) extracted from the coconut. It's not as well known as sodium laureth sulfate, which is also a surfactant, and isn't a common allergy, but it is annoying to have to read the back of soap, shampoo, and toothpaste bottles every time I go to the store. Forget reading the back of cleaning supplies — the best you'll find is fragrance and surfactants listed as ingredients.

Because of this allergy, I've been doing a lot of research on natural home cleaning supplies and how to make them or get them. I'd really rather make them myself at this point, because it is just that difficult to make sure that my skin doesn't bubble up like a pot of boiling water otherwise. That can look rather unsightly, and it's hard to treat with my other allergies.

So, I've been cleaning and cleaning and cleaning. The living room, my bedroom, the kitchen are all scrubbed down and spic and span. I'm not sure what has gotten ahold of me, because I certainly haven't been the cleanest or most organized person ever. I know that when I was a kid, I was angry because I couldn't stand things to be out of place, but I couldn't bring myself to organize things either. It was too hard or too stressful to do anything about it, possibly because I believed my mother would come in and tell me I'd done it wrong and make me redo it.

Maybe that wasn't the case, maybe it was, who can know? My father wasn't neat and tidy, though my brother was more the organized sort than I was. I'd get so frustrated at myself that I couldn't get my room the way I wanted it to be, and when I moved out of my parents' house and bought my own, I still didn't take care of it like I needed to — it was a wreck and a half by the time I moved out of it.

Since I've been on these medications though, it's like a new life has been breathed into me and has woken up that urge to just get. it. done. Honestly, it's probably the best thing ever to be a side-effect of these particular medications. I have a need to clean, a need to organize, and a need to refocus on these things. Maybe this breakdown that I've had is just the thing to get my life back on some kind of track.

I know that this post has been rambling, and I apologize deeply for it. I'm discovering a new side of Megan, and it is glorious and terrifying at the same time. I hope this isn't the last time I discover a new side to me, because I kind of like where this is going.

Girls in White Dresses and Blue Satin Sashes

Sometimes, my mother is absolutely sweet as cane syrup to me. She has known for a looooong time that I have craved a dress or three (or a closet full) that makes me look like I stepped out of the 50s. I've always had a fascination with the fashion of the era, but the blatant sexism of the era kind of burnt my britches. To be absolutely honest, I've always had a fascination with the hippie side of the 60s too.

Why have I been slightly obsessed over the fashion of the 50s? Well for one thing, I think that the styles were flattering to a lot of body types and shapes. That really appeals to my sense of fairness, believe it or not. If you can make a woman feel good about what she's wearing no matter what she thinks her body looks like, I like it.

And then there's the fact that I have a dreadful time fitting into anything store bought. The bodice fits just right up top and is too loose in the waist, or the skirt fits just right in the waist and doesn't fit anywhere else... you get the idea. I've only found one or two dresses from the store that fit very well right off the rack.

Three days ago, Mom found this amazing pattern that will look good with or without a crinoline (I'm a little obsessed over crinolines and full skirts, because I think flouncy things look awesome). It minimizes the things that I want minimized, and emphasizes the things I want emphasized, and it's a simpler pattern so she won't get all bent out of shape when she sets to the sewing bit.

Yesterday, we picked out fabric. We decided to go with a two-tone look. The skirt will be made with a sage and beige polka dot, and the bodice will be made with an off-white and brown and sage polka dot, both cotton. The belt will be made out of an off-white stiff ruffle made out of polyester, because have you TRIED to iron a cotton ruffle back into shape?!

My great-grandmother was a seamstress and my mom spent a lot of time at her house, so she learned how to make quite a lot of her own clothes — before I was born — so she feels somewhat confident that we can make this work. My paternal grandmother also made quite a few of my clothes when I was a wee bit of nothing, though she stopped once I hit puberty, so maybe it'll be genetic and I'll innately just know what to do? I'll (gasp!) be learning how to use a sewing machine, so I'll be able to try to make my own. However, knowing me, I'll stitch a fingernail to the hem.

If I can, I'll update this post with pictures of the raw fabric and you can tell me what you think! Have I mentioned how excited I AM for this to happen?!

Flashbacks and Panic Attacks

For the love of little green aliens from the planet X, I wish I could not panic. I wish I could just file away all of those things that send me into outer space and not remember them. I wish I could not have panic attacks, feel like everyone is out to get me and put me in a padded room and lock the door and then beat me to a pulp and no one could hear me scream, gasping for air and trying desperately not to freak out my mother and keep it hidden because damn-it-all I'm scared for no good reason. I wish this all would go away and let me live a productive life.

There was a time about a decade ago that still haunts my waking, and sleeping, life. I'm not ready to write it all down for the world to read quite yet. I should, and my counselor has encouraged me to, but I'm not ready. It's too hard to write it down, because it still sounds like I'm saying "Boo hoo. Poor me, feel bad for me because I made a series of bad decisions" when I try to write it down. My parents always said, "Pity parties are parties of one," and I guess I should just suck it up, but maybe that's why I'm suffering from anxiety disorders now. Who knows?

I will tell the world this much: it culminated in a 9mm being placed directly between my eyebrows. That's what my latest panic attack was *checks watch* as of 30 minutes ago. I spent an hour in my darkened bedroom with the door shut, freaking out because I thought the holder of that gun had found this house and was going to break the door down and either take me and my mother hostage, or just shoot me where I lay.

That makes no sense whatsoever. I realize this fact, that while he will probably never forget me, he most likely will never be able to threaten me again. I recognize that this is an irrational thinking pattern. 

That doesn't mean that, in the grip of another panic attack, that I don't think it will happen all over again. Part of panic and anxiety disorders is irrational thought patterns focused on impending doom and death. If I had a menagerie of potentially deadly animals in the bedroom with me right now, I wouldn't be as scared as I am when I am having a full-on panic attack. It takes EVERY OUNCE of willpower I have to not scream in holy terror at my waking nightmares.

The most irrational thing about these suckers is that they can come on at any time, in any place, while I'm with anyone. Last Christmas, I went to Florida for the family get-together. I love seeing my family, I love watching my cousins' children play, I love seeing those children grow up and learn and just be children for as long as we will let them. I love seeing my cousins as they watch their children and the glow that they have as they do. 

At the time, I was sleeping on the couch in the living room. My cousin was bringing her daughter over to play while her mama helped Santa. I was still asleep when that sweet child walked up to the end of the couch and said, "Hi Megan!!" I panicked. Straight up panicked. I tried to act like I would normally, making myself a cup of coffee and going out to the veranda so that my cousin could talk to my aunt while her daughter played with her aunt. Then I sneaked around to the staircase and locked myself in the guest bedroom, cried buckets of tears, and rocked myself while I talked myself down. 

Why did a three year old scare me so badly? I really don't have an answer for you, or for me. I wish I did. The best answer I had at the time was that it takes me a long time to ease into waking up, and to wake up suddenly and completely didn't give my brain a chance to analyze my surroundings. "Well, why didn't you get up earlier?" is a perfectly reasonable question, but anyone who knows me knows I'm a night owl. Long after everyone had gone to bed, I was still up. I did wake everyone in the house up when I set off the alarm (I was getting a glass of water), and maybe subconsciously I was still on alert from that.

All I know is that I hate this disorder and what it does to me. I hate that it makes me scared of a three year old child who is one of the sweetest little redheads (I think this about all my cousins' children) to walk the face of this earth. I hate that it keeps me in dark rooms trying not to scream my bloody head off because a monster from my past is out to get me. I hate everything about this, and the fact that it can break through the two drugs I'm taking for my disorder and still feel like everyone's out to hurt me. Don't Panic indeed.

My Father Died... Twice

Since it's Father's Day here in the U.S., I thought I'd write a post about how I lost my father. Gimme a minute, I've got to grab some tissues, because I'm already crying. This is going to be hard in many ways and is going to bruise some hearts, including my own.

I wish I could tell you that my father was the most loving and caring man who always had time for his children... but the reality is that he was a selfish man, quick to lash out at his children, and who spent quite a bit of time in his own head. He adored our mother even though he didn't show it in the best way (dude gave her two cans of bug spray for Christmas one year). He was a member of Mensa International, and he was absolutely without a doubt the smartest man I have ever known.

He taught me the value of research. Well, I guess he was just impatient during my "Why?" phase... but he once sat me down and said, "If you have a question, look it up. If you don't know a word, look it up. If you still don't understand, figure out which part you don't understand and THEN come to me and ask." This was in the pre-Google days so for the most part he just pointed at our set of Encyclopedia Brittanica when I asked any question after that. I wish my mother had a picture of me at three years old, a volume of the Encyclopedia on one knee, her ginormous copy of Roget's Unabridged Dictionary on the other. A lot of times my parents would ask me what I had learned, and I'd spew it off, and then I'd do my own interpretation. I wrote a ten-page research paper on Down Syndrome in the first grade.

He taught me how to use power tools. I still don't trust myself with anything sharp that uses electricity or gas to run (he accidentally cut two tips of his fingers off with a circular saw, and that kind of made me leery), but I'll hold the end of a piece of two-by-four or plywood or sheetrock while someone else does. I know how to hang sheetrock and spread mud so that it looks seamless. I know how to redo a floor in tile, bamboo, and hardwood — my knees ache just thinking about it — and I have no problem figuring out the instructions to rehang a lighting fixture of any kind. Just remember to flip the fuse or breaker, hey?

He spent hours on the computer at work and at home, designing machines that had never been dreamed of before. He didn't just design the machines though, because what made him valuable to his employers was the fact that if a part or fastener didn't exist to build his design, he'd design that to the correct specs so that the part or fastener did exist. He poured everything he had into his inventions, which probably explains why he had very little left for his children. He wasn't the father of the year, that's for sure.

Let's put it another way — I know what it was like for Albert Einstein's children growing up, and I admire the hell out of Nicola Tesla for point-blank saying that he had no time for women, just his inventions.

That doesn't mean that I didn't adore my father. I remember being insanely proud of the fact that my father sounded like a jailer when he walked the hallways of my schools. When I would go to the school nurse and she'd call my parents (who worked out of the same building, just different businesses), like as not my mother sent my father to pick me up because she had a meeting to run. He wore steel-toed boots on the end of his insanely long legs, and wore a slew of keys, only he knew which went to what, that hit his thigh just so and made every child in the classrooms on my hallway tremble with fear. His voice was deeper than a river, and it made every teacher take a second glance, every single time he came to pick me up. He was a six-foot-four-inch long and shaggy man who always looked like he had come in from the rain, and wore the crags and valleys of his face with aplomb. In short, he looked like a Tim Burton character.

My daddy drove a truck that I always called the deep-throated monster that rumbled in just a certain way that no other engine can come close to, and it should have — it had a Ferrari 350 diesel engine in it. My father subconsciously and constantly hummed deep in his chest at that same frequency, even when he was asleep, and I thought of it as his secondary heartbeat. Remember that hum. I will always miss that hum.

Ten years ago, the man who had never had a headache in his life started getting violent migraines. My father, who refused to take the pain medication the doctors gave him for his fingers as they reattached them, was downing aspirin and ibuprofen and acetaminophen like it was water. He was in such pain that he was nauseated. My mother remembers a night where he was running to the bathroom and hit his head on the door jamb so badly he knocked himself out. When he came to, he got sick in the toilet.

After a week of this nonsense, he decided to go to what we all called a "doc in a box" kind of emergency clinic. If you don't have a primary care doctor (and we didn't), you go to these doctors if you have the flu or a nasty cold, or bronchitis if you're unlucky. The reason we didn't and don't have a primary care doctor is because we're remarkably healthy the lot of us.

The doc in the box decided to do X-rays to make sure, gave Daddy a prescription for some migraine medication, and told him to come back next week to review the X-ray. Sure enough, Daddy went back and the doc in the box did something I will never ever in a million years ever forget him for (forgiveness, sure) and curse his ancestors for spawning such an idiot and pray he did not pass on his idiocy to his children if he ever had any. He said, "Well, there's this mass in your head. I want to send you back for some more scans so we can figure out what it is."

I want to emphasize this: This was a general practice doctor who did not have any oncology or brain-treatment training whatsoever. He treated colds and flu and mono and bronchitis cases, with the occasional stubborn splinter that has gotten infected. This man had no business sending him for additional scans of his head, he should have immediately gotten a consult and sent my father scurrying to the nearest EFFING oncologist or brain-treater as soon as he laid eyes on the monster that was growing in my Daddy's brain-case.

That Sunday, my father stopped church for a grand mal seizure. That Tuesday his brain was missing a quarter of its mass. That Saturday, my father was walking around at the local Highland Games like nothing was wrong. The following Tuesday, he started chemotherapy and radiation treatment, and I started losing my Daddy.

I was so scared and so mad, because here I was, barely an adult, and I was losing my Daddy. I railed at the world, I cursed Fate, I pounded on my chest like it was the only way to restart my heart. My daddy was Superman, He-Man, and the Hulk all rolled into one. I hated my life every single day because I would have gladly traded places with him because I was a nobody next to this man who still had so much left to give to this world.

I remember the day I knew I had lost my daddy forever. I came home from my classes, and my father was sitting in his office, reading his credit card number out loud over the phone to someone. I snatched that phone out of his hand so fast he spun in his chair. We yelled and screamed at each other for at least an hour, him saying that he just wanted to help a charity out, me telling him how many times he had told me to NEVER give my personal information or my credit card number out over the phone. My mother came home and I ran into my bedroom, determined to study because I was getting nowhere with that person who was wearing my father's skin. Instead, I cried like I did when my grandmother passed away, and I knew then that I was mourning my Daddy.

For seven and three quarters years after that, I called the monster who wore my father's clothes and skin and hats and coats "Papa." He racked up so much credit card debt to charities and to online catalogs and to cheap-as-hell stores, it might as well have been a second mortgage. He drove erratically and haphazardly, and I was scared to be on the road when I knew he was on the road. He whined and complained about being cold while wearing long johns underneath jeans and three wool flannel shirts while wearing a woolen coat sitting outside in the 100˚ heat of summer. He complained to me, his daughter, about how his balls hurt and nothing was going to fix them.

Hate is such a strong word, and I dislike using that word, but... I hated that Papa as much as I had loved my Daddy. I detested every move he made, every sound that escaped his lips, every painful step he took. I was not patient, I was not kind, and I was not in awe of what medical technology had wrought. "Look at him!" I screamed at everyone who would listen. "That is NOT my Daddy! That is an impostor, a changeling, a shadow of the deepest depths of Hades that has missed Charon's boat because he didn't have the coins! That is NOT my Daddy!"

I was furious for many reasons, not the least of which that not only did I have daily contact with that fiend, but I was missing my brother and was envious of him that he didn't have to see this happen. My brother was enlisted in the Army as a cavalry scout, stationed in Fort Carson, Colorado when he wasn't overseas. My brother had friends and compatriots who were closer to him than I would ever know. He witnessed tragedy after tragedy after injustice after injustice, but he wasn't here to witness the death of our father. I was jealous of my brother for having to witness the pain of war because he wasn't here to witness the struggle of my father's slow decline. My brother enlisted two weeks after my father was diagnosed with glioblastoma multiforme, and I went back to school at the local satellite school to help care for the man who was not my Daddy.

Depression is a funny thing. It comes out in different ways. I dated a slew of guys to escape the torture I was witnessing, the wrong sort of guys. The ones who took and took and took from me every shred of dignity I thought I had, not to mention my money. The ones who used to their advantage the hurt I was feeling. The ones who had no idea that I had no love left because I had used it all up in the loss of my Daddy. I had a Daddy-shaped hole in my heart that ached for the loss of the man I thought I knew.

In 2011, that shell of a man who wore my father's face started dying. It was slow, it was painful, it was inevitable. In July, just after my birthday, he had another tumor growing in his brain, and his bladder cancer started acting up again. His body was shutting down. No doctor had ever seen a patient with his brand of cancer live for as long as he had, so they suggested that he have a laser ablation of the tumor.

We met as a family, and I fought him on his decision to go through with it. I wanted him to be as mobile as possible for as long as possible, and there was no guarantee that he would be after that surgery. Papa and I had talked before, and I knew that he was fighting so damn hard because he wanted to be his old self again, the brilliant man who designed machines in his sleep; there was no way he would ever be that man again.

He went through with the surgery anyway. He started actively dying.

At the end of October, he went to the hospital and they started hospice care, because there was nothing else to be done. Two weeks after that, I helped set him up in the parlor of my mother's house to die. The day before Thanksgiving, I kissed his forehead, whispered "Thank you for being my Daddy," and then I helped the funeral home directors wheel him away. I don't remember anything after that for a long, long time.

I have a vial of his ashes that I will, hopefully, one day get made into a piece of jewelry, a charm to wear around my neck. There will be a spot for my mother's ashes to be made into a jewel to put in that charm. I will treasure that piece more than any other piece of jewelry anyone has ever treasured, and I will tell anyone who asks that I carry my parents with me.

My father died twice, once as Daddy, once as Papa. I love my Daddy, and I always will. I will always have a Daddy-shaped hole in my heart that nothing will ever fill.

Moving Back In with Mom

This has been one of the hardest transitions I've ever had to make; moving back in to my mother's house. It's been necessary, however, because of my generalized anxiety disorder and the drugs I'm on to control it, not to mention the fact that I don't have a steady job right now.

My brother and his now-fiancee have moved to a different state, and that freed up the bedroom I used to have in my mother's house when my father was still alive and I was still in college. The carpet is much nastier than it was when I was living in it, and I had to deep-clean what I could before I could move in, but on the whole, I like that bedroom a whole bunch more than the guest bedroom.

One of the benefits I've discovered about being on my prescriptions is that it is much easier for me to organize and categorize my stuff. I've always wanted to be organized, but here's the thing: I used to get overwhelmed by everything I had to do to accomplish those tasks, so I would try to ignore it. It's kind of like "Alice in Wonderland Syndrome," where patients begin to see different parts of themselves or their surroundings as much larger than they are in reality.
The tasks seemed so monumental and so HUGE that I could not focus on any one task, any one room, any one chore — it got so bad last year that I couldn't even wash the dishes because the thought of washing them and putting them away seemed as hard to overcome as climbing Mount Everest. When I was a child of about four or five on up, I'd get 'stuck' on tasks such as organizing my jewelry box, or cleaning the windows and nothing else, or sorting through my books. My mother would yell at me when she caught me not doing the rest of the things on my daily list of chores, and I'd cry and lock the door to my bedroom and scream about how she didn't understand. I didn't intentionally get stuck; it was something I couldn't control and definitely didn't understand the why of it.

I was diagnosed with OCD when I was a teenager... and I still have the traits listed in that link. I make lists in my head, write them down, look at them, and internally scream at myself. I set monumental goals for myself, which I am just now learning how to set the smaller goals to reach the big ones. I feel an inordinate need to be perfect, which makes me hate that word with a passion, because nothing ever is, is it?

When I started moving into the bedroom, I made a deal with my mom that she would give me the time that I needed to organize everything the way I like it. Honestly, I don't think neither she nor I really believed that it would happen. Historically, I have not been good at completing the tasks that I set for myself because I get so overwhelmed and frustrated, and she gets frustrated because she's got a personality that requires things get done NOW, and doesn't enjoy the little steps made towards the big goal.

Perhaps I should describe what happens when I get overwhelmed and/or anxious. I don't think I've described it in my previous posts. So, here's what happens: I scratch the backs of my hands, or my thighs, or anywhere that I can reach; I start hitting myself in the back and the top of my head; I start crying for no apparent reason; and I start repeating myself, usually along the lines of "OK, OK, OK, OK" and getting louder with each repetition. I get so angry at myself for that behavior, but I can't stop it at all.

Another thing that I've started doing that I've never done before is that I've noticed that I'm washing my hands more frequently than absolutely necessary. I'm not scrubbing until I bleed (I've done that before, in my teenage years), but it is starting to worry me that other symptoms are surfacing because the anxiety is starting to respond to treatment. I don't think I should worry, but I will mention it to my counselor when I see her week after next.

Huh, I should probably briefly explain that when I was a teenager, when I felt anxious, I would grab a pumice stone, several different textures of scrubby things like loofahs and scrubby gloves and sponges, several exfoliants, and would alternate between a shower and bath, scrubbing every square inch of my body until I was raw in some places. I tried not to take more than an hour, but I'm sure I did.

All in all, I'm pleased with my progress so far in getting my "new" bedroom the way I have always wanted it to be — organized, color-coordinated, set up beautifully, and kind of looking like a hotel room, but personalized. I've got everything in my closet organized by color, and my bureau drawers are too. My desk is organized neatly and everything is in its place. The only thing left to do is to hang a tension rod and curtain across the door of the closet so that the clothes aren't in plain sight and to categorize and alphabetize my books. Oh, and finish moving out of the guest bedroom.

Counselor's Exercise #1: The Cover Letter

So my counselor asked me to do something that's very hard for me to do. She asked me to write a cover letter, but to focus on what's important to me rather than a potential employer. What about my skills am I most proud of? She gave me this assignment two weeks ago, and it took me a while to process this assignment and to figure it out. It's dreadfully hard for me to write a cover letter... but here goes.

To my future employers,

What's important for you to know is not my skill set, nor my degree, nor how well I did in school. You can read that for yourself in my resume. You know you're looking for someone with my degree and who can do the tasks that you set for that person to do. What's important for you to know is who I am.

I'm the child of a brilliant mechanical engineer (Ph.D). You could very well say that every child thinks that their parents walk on water, but read on. My father invented, designed, and built things that had never been done before, and the best example of that was the first ever commercial microwave dryer. In the textiles industry, it's important to set the dye so that the end consumer doesn't have every piece of clothing they ever owned bleed all over every other piece. He figured out that microwaves set that dye better and it lasts longer than had previously been done. His invention is now being used all over the world in textile mills and plants.

I'm also the child of an equally brilliant public relations expert, now professor (MA). Her firm created masterpieces for internationally known companies, like Denny's restaurants, Tindall Concrete, and Milliken & Company (incidentally, my father's invention was commissioned by the same). She saved Denny's reputation during an unfortunate nationally embarrassing incident that could have killed each the restaurant chain and each franchise as a result. She now teaches what she knows, which is a formidable set of skills that most communications professors would envy. She's an invaluable asset to the university satellite at which she teaches.

What a set of parents! What kind of child could they have produced?

Well, because of them people from many corners of the world have come to stay with us: Australia, England, Ukraine, and South Africa. They worked hard to afford me a trip to Europe where I toured the Czech Republic, Poland, Germany, and France while playing violin in high school orchestra. I sang in choirs and performed in plays. I taught myself how to read music long before I ever picked up the violin, though, using my mother's piano as a wordless teacher.

I learned how to research those things that I am passionate about and not. My passions are archaeology, anthropology, art, astrophysics, genetics, genealogy, history, herbology, psychology, and religions from all ages of time. I love condensing that knowledge into research papers and will devote hours to watching documentaries and reading textbooks on those subjects. I will always be curious about how the universe works and where our place, as humans, is within it.

I have a sense of humor that ranges from the dry and droll to the witty and sharp, to even crass. I'm a classy lady who knows how to tile floors, hang sheetrock, and use a belt sander. I have a big heart that hurts for all the injustices in the world, and wishes there were something more I could do to alleviate the suffering those injustices cause; I believe in fairness in all things, even though sometimes it may hurt. I try to be friendly to all, because if it weren't for some extraordinary circumstances, I might not be who I am today, and I recognize that particular stroke of luck.

I suffer from generalized anxiety disorder, which can affect how I react to others. A glance, a word, a sound may send me into a fit I can't see my way out of, and that can be scary. I have flashbacks from trauma I have suffered in my past, and sometimes that alone will be enough. I am physically healthy as a woman in her 30s who has no children can be, and yet there are some days when I can't get out of bed because that anxiety is too much to bear. I am on medication for my disorder, and in counseling, and I am striving to overcome my disorder, because I have finally lost patience with dealing with it on my own.

In short, I am trying to be the best person I know how to be in this short time I have on this Earth. I'm easy to get along with, and you'll never have a dull conversation with me. I'm rarely in a bad mood, and I like to believe that I am dedicated to being a good employee for a good employer. I have a high code of ethics for myself, and my morals aren't bad either.

If I am the kind of person you think you want to employ, please contact me for an interview. I don't think you'll be disappointed.

Sincerely,
Me

My Brother & Me

I think this image captures the spirit of
my relationship with my brother PERFECTLY.

I'm writing this post because my brother and I share a lot of friends and acquaintances, and they do ask why we don't get along. It's all about perception, really. If you ask us, we'd tell you that we get along perfectly fine!

My brother and I have never been what you would call close. Well, that's slightly inaccurate — we have an unusual relationship that no one seems to understand except for us. I'll try my best to explain the way we act towards one another, and lift some of the veil on our actually quite loving, in its way, relationship.

I was the quiet child — he was the monkey. I have never broken a bone — his head was cracked three times by the time he was three (he was a rambunctious baby). He asked everyone "Why?" — I read everything I could to keep from asking that question.

This is hard to put into words, but I'll try my best. My brother and I share things in a most intimate way in plain sight. We seem to talk in our own special language that no one else seems to understand; lots of oblique references to shared experiences, gestures, eye contact — they all mean something to us that others would not follow in a normal conversation.

Our mother keeps trying to "fix" our relationship, without really understanding that it's not broken. She and her brother call each other regularly and talk about what's going on in their lives. We... don't really need to. I can say more to my brother in five words than some people say to theirs in three months with regular phone calls. We aren't telepathic; more like, we just know a lot about each other by how each other feels in a situation and by eye contact. We don't have to put into words what we already know.

When we do talk to each other it is often interrupted by eye contact that speaks volumes. We talk a lot in "snark," or supreme sarcasm, that has a fine edge on it. You could easily interpret all of that sarcasm as trying to cut each other to ribbons (our mother cringes to hear us talk to one another), but we are actually having a most meaningful conversation with that snark. When you know each others' demons by name, why bother trying to pretend that they don't exist? It's the most intimate knowledge of another human being.

We share the knowledge, without us really having to say it to one another, that if one really needed the other, we'd be there before anyone else would. He's bored by the mundanities of life, and really just wants nothing more than have those kept to oneself. A lot irritates him, but not much excites him, so why try to get him to be excited about anything?

I'll always be the moon to my brother's sun. I'll always detest meat on my pizza while he can't get enough pepperoni. I'll always be shorter than he was at nine years old.

I'll always be his older sister, and we're both OK with that.

The Emotion of Pride

Don't be proud of others' accomplishments; be proud of your own.

One day in the not so distant past, I started thinking about a phrase that we have all used at one point or another. We use it as a congratulatory statement, to acknowledge a person's accomplishment of a personal goal, and don't give a thought to what it actually means. You know the statement: "I'm proud of you!"

In the past year or so, I've completely stopped using this statement. Not because I don't feel the emotions that come with the concept of pride, but because I have come to the conclusion that pride is a deeply personal emotion for your own accomplishments, and no one else's. Let me give you a concrete example of what I mean.

I have several friends who decided a year ago to start eating healthier and going to the gym regularly. They are all showing massive progress towards their goals, and some have even reached their goal weights and are talking about taking it further; some have just decided to maintain what they have done now; some are still working very hard towards their goal.

I am so happy my friends who have reached their goal weight have done so. They have posted progress reports and pictures on Facebook, and when I see them in person they truly look amazing (the camera does no one any justice). I'll admit to a twinge of longing too, because I also want to get few extra pounds off.

These are remarkable achievements for anyone who is on the weight-loss journey. But by saying "I'm proud of you!" I feel like I'm taking ownership of some of that accomplishment away from the person who really owns it. I didn't help that person with anything but maybe some cheerleading along the way. Should I really be proud of being a cheerleader, saying words that come so easily when I see the product of that hard work, when someone else put all the work into their diet and exercise to lose their extra pounds?

When I look back over my own life, there are few goals that I'm truly proud of myself for achieving. It seems that more than a few of my accomplishments were set to make others happy. There are also a lot of times when pride stood in the way, or made me do things that ultimately I'm not proud of, and caused me heartache and pain.

A friend of mine once called me humble when we talked about my thoughts on pride. I don't think it's humility. I think it's acknowledging that pride is not an inherently good emotion; be proud of yourself, but be happy for your friends and family. Their accomplishments are not yours to claim. Congratulate them instead, and express your honest admiration for them, but don't take even the smallest bit of their own pride away.

Stage Fright

Music expresses that which cannot be said and on which it is impossible to be silent.
— Victor Hugo

My mother had this electronic keyboard that was set up next to her real piano, and for some strange reason, I was drawn to these instruments like a moth to flames, ever since I was a baby. I had putzed around a little bit on the piano, but playing seemed beyond my grasp. My mother played her piano with what seemed to me such grace and beauty, the way children think everything their parents do is perfect, but I still knew when she played the wrong notes, because it sounded "different" in my head.

Keep in mind that I was four, but I remember this bit really very clearly: I had made the connection between the pages that had this strange language on it and what it was she was playing, and could follow along, because the higher notes were higher on the bars on the page and the lower ones were lower on the bars on the page. One day, I noticed that the keyboard had the same language, spelled out in the "letters" of this language, above certain keys. There was also a translation, a Rosetta Stone as it were, above the letters of this language, C, D, E, F, G, A, B.

I had learned how to read in English by this time, thanks to my preschool teachers, so I knew the process of learning how to read. All I had to do was take that knowledge and apply it to this strange language. So I pressed those keys on that electronic keyboard, and listened to each of the notes. Since the keys were laid out in the same pattern above and below where these notes were written, I made the connection that they were the same note names. They also sounded similar, and when I pressed the same keys in the same place they made this wonderful "same" sound in my head.

OK, so this is my roundabout way of telling you that I taught myself how to read music. I remember it taking about a week to make these connections, and then another week to find a piece of music that was simple enough to read and learn, and then I was off to the races.

When we started going to church, I think I was around the age of six, I further learned how these notes worked. I learned how to make these notes into vocal song. I learned little harmonies, and how those notes worked together in those little harmonies. We did music in school, and the teacher there saw how I lit up when we sang in class. I think she knew what it meant to me — it was an escape. I continued singing in choirs throughout college, to the consternation of some, and the relief of others.

When I was nine, I started playing the violin. My little hands just weren't big enough for anything else. They still really aren't. I can't play a Corelli piece to save my life; I just don't have the stretch. It isn't a lack of talent, I'm sure my teachers would tell you that. I'll come back to the violin a little later in this blog.

I write all this to tell you about how anxiety has kept me back from fully enjoying the experience of making music. Anxiety will insinuate itself into the deepest corners of your mind, and try to destroy anything you hold most close to your soul. I love music so much because it is an escape, but it is also a trap for anxiety, my anxiety, to snare me.

To perform, you have to play and sing to an audience, and to advance your musical career, you have to play and perform alone or in a small group. I have had terrible stage-fright my entire life. I have blamed it on a fear of microphones in the past, but that isn't really true.

I can get up on stage and speak from no notes whatsoever on my other interests and passions, but playing or singing alone? I need encouragement beyond anyone's wildest beliefs. Why is it that I am so afraid of this, that I even have difficulty singing in karaoke?

This is what I've come to understand about myself: I am terrified, absolutely and unequivocally petrified, of being judged. I have always had what I think is an intense knowledge of what is going on around me at all times, and judgement by others. I'm hyper-aware of microexpressions in people's faces, and how they are responding to stimuli. My mother says she recognized this in me from a very young age, possibly back before I was even toddling around.

Singing or playing in a group is not an issue for me, but by myself is... I pour everything I have into music. Yes, it depends on the piece, but it is all about the expression of that music, the emotion behind the notes and the words and the dynamics, and it strips my soul bare for everyone with eyes to see it. It has to be perfect whether I'm singing melody or harmony, but it also shows my barest self, my naked self, my beautiful side and my ugly, my pain and my frustration. It shows me as I cannot hide, and leaves me vulnerable to those judging looks and staring eyes.

I confronted a part of that fright this weekend. I was a junior in high school, and I was singing in the choir then, but wasn't playing my violin much, just at home. After a performance, my mother gave me a proud-of-you-hug, and then she cut me to my core with one little statement: "You look like you're in pain when you sing." Then she turned and walked to the car.

This almost made me give up music for good. It stopped me in my tracks, and made me doubt every time I had ever sung, ever played, ever thought I was good at making music. I stopped thinking that I could possibly make a living at music, which many of my music directors thought I should pursue at college. I stopped thinking it was viable that I could help direct the children's choirs at church; I stopped thinking about advancing my talents and maybe sharing them with others. What was the point, when apparently all I conveyed was that I was in pain?

It took me 15 years to confront her about this little statement, and that it still makes me cry. I'm crying now, just writing about it. Her response was, "I thought it would help you. It helped a vocalist I once knew a long time ago, before I said it to you."

No, Mom, it didn't help. It hurt. It sliced into the one thing I knew I was good at, the one thing I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt I could do, could work hard at without failing, could escape into and find solace in and curl up into and release at the same time. It chopped up my heart into little tiny pieces and left them scattered the gym floor like bits of confetti left over from prom night. It shattered me.

I'm not blaming her entirely, because I could have just picked up the pieces and soldiered on. I did, after a fashion. I continued singing in choirs (I even got asked by the choir director in college to be a "ringer" my senior year, where I didn't get class credit for singing in his choir, and to move around from alto to soprano depending on where he needed an extra voice or to keep others on-key), and I participated in some remarkable ensemble pieces, and even minored in violin performance in college... but I didn't major in it. I didn't play or sing outside of school, beyond some drunken attempts to sing karaoke.

I sing in the car now. I've never been one to sing in the shower, but I could. I sing when no one's around to see my face. I want to sing in a choir again... I want to SING again... I know beyond a shadow of a doubt I'm good enough. But this time, I really am in pain.

A Sense of Family? Maybe?

Isn't our family's tartan pretty?
Coral and brown on a field of bright blue.

Ever since I was little, I remember there being an intense sense of family pride. This wasn't some vague notion of what we were as our little family unit — we were members of a glorious Scottish clan (and Irish, if we want to count my mother's maiden name), and whatever we did was to honor that name and the heritage of the Picts. My mother cross-stitched the family crest for my dad, and we always had a spot of the family tartan in the house.

Here's the family crest. For those who are interested,
the Fortiter et Recte simply means "Boldly and Rightly."

I enjoy learning about Scotland and our family's role in Scottish history. It's not explored much in the history books, but those in the know know how integral our family was to Scottish independence. It also doesn't help that there was a fire in the 18th century that kind of destroyed the family record, but as far as anyone really knows we emerged as a clan (or family) with a tartan and chieftan, abruptly, in the 15th century. Maybe I'm descended from elves who decided to become mortal. Our clan is known for producing some "weird ones."

For all of the family pride and honor... I don't think I quite live up to it, especially the "Boldly" claim. I do have a strong ethical compass, which I know was inherited from both my parents, but which we blame on the Scottish genes. I've done some things in the name of family honor which no one knew about until I explained it, many years later.

The reality is that I wish I could go to Scotland and visit the land from which my ancestors came, and from where I feel this inexplicable draw originating. I've spent my entire life feeling like I didn't fit in, and I don't. Not quite. I might have to explore that concept a little further down the road.

I've never felt a sense of home. I know that's silly to read, but it's even sillier when you know that I grew up with my parents' marriage intact, a strong bond with my extended family, and that I love a great many friends all over the world, who are from any number of backgrounds, as if they were family. All that does not contribute to a sense of home for me.

Family isn't just my clan, or the people I happen to share genetic material with; home isn't just my family or the people with whom I live. It's deeper, stronger, and wider than all of that. I truly see my close friends as my family, and I see in them a need to do something more than what I am doing. What that is, as yet, remains to be seen — and perhaps I'll never know what it is.

Fortiter et Recte indeed.