Our Seventh Solstice

Seven years ago tomorrow, my partner and I went out on our first date. At least, at the time, I was hoping it was a date but I was too shy to ask for sure until months later (he assures me it was indeed intended to be a date).
Six years ago today, we got married (no confusion there; we were both fully aware of what was going on that time).

Our journey together has been deeply wonderful, and also different than we expected. I've written some about it here, here and here .

Today I thought I'd compile some of the art and poetry that he and our relationship has inspired over the years.
Happy 6th/7th anniversary David; my love, my patron, and my muse.

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CANDY CONVERSATIONS
September 30, 2013
Silence with you
Is like a smooth vanilla milkshake,
And your words
Are chunks of chocolate.
Every component is sweet
In it’s own way,
With it’s own texture and compliments
To the moments that come
Before and after.






NEBBIOLO RESERVE
May 20, 2014
I realized that,
Were I to write an ode to you,
It would sound more like a taste
Of fine red wine.
Sweet and bitter chocolate notes,
A hint of strawberry,
Tobacco smoke;
No saccharine sweetness,
But instead the depths of honey flavor,
A whiff of forest loam.
You are full and rich and challenging,
Appreciated most
By discerning palates.
I am privileged daily to experience
Every bit of your nuance;
Hold you up to the light
To admire the gradient and glow
Of your color
As, bit by bit,
I savor all you have to offer.




HAPPY HOUR
August 15 2015
I like it when you make me drinks;
Your concentration and precision,
The earnestness of your brow when you eye the jigger,
Your appreciation for the elegance of ice spheres.
Whether it’s a classic Martini, a Negroni,
Or the White Russians you make
Just because I like them,
Your competence with adult beverages
Quite frankly turns me on,
And I like to taste the edge of the alcohol
While I watch you move around the kitchen,
Thinking of how glad I am
That it’s me you’re making cocktails for.
All this brings me to my point, which is to say:
Somewhere between sips of my Gin and Tonic
As I watched you put the lime away
I realized that, these days,
I love you more than ever.




THAT ONE TIME WE WERE IN THE WOODS
Oct. 5th 2016
You eclipsed the sun as I looked up,
A pattern of lace in the leaves behind you;
A halo of light slicing through
Between the ends of your hair.
Your eyes were brighter
Than the shadows on your face,
Like two silver-blue pools
Lit from underneath.
Were they reflecting ripples on my skin,
Like liquid waves of light
Shining up through water,
Quivering with every shift of your gaze?
I felt them moving over me,
Washing me in purity
Clearer than the sunshine
You blotted out before me.
I wish that I could scuba dive
In the oceans of your eyes,
And find that source of light.
I’d let it burn me, blind me;
For I know that you have shown me
All I ever need to see.



STARSTUFF
Oct. 2019
You map my chaos
In a way
That leads me to
A greater purpose;
You Give it a story
That helps me see
My own beauty.
Among so many
Other things,
I love you for that.




ETERNITY
Feb. 2020
I don’t know what I believe anymore
About the afterlife.
I have my theories,
And my doubts;
My fantastical hopes for
A glittering cosmos
Of endless color and life,
Of light and love
Health and joy,
Maybe the ability
To talk to animals.
But more than anything,
I hope we reunite;
I hope we don’t fly past each other
In eternity.

Took me 4 years to Write a Marriage Post

I haven’t written much about love since getting married. Not because of a lack of its presence in my life; more because there is so much, and it is so utterly sufficient. The feelings of angst and pining are gone, and the fit is right. Not too tight or too loose; room for us each to learn and change and grow (as all humans need to do) without sustained pressure on painful points, but at the same time intertwined enough to feel secure. Safe. Anchored. Sometimes there’s discomfort in an adjustment here or there, but then that is what we do—continue adjusting until we reach mutual comfort. Which is what every healthy relationship does. What else is there to say, and how interesting to outside parties could it possibly be? As Tolstoy famously said, “All happy families are alike; each unhappy family is unhappy in its own way.”

That’s not to say life in general is perfect, or that marriage hasn’t been a learning process. My husband and I have said several times to one another that we love each other more and are happier together now even than when we first got married, which is evidence of the growth we have done both individually and as a couple.

How did that happen? I think when people read marriage-type posts from married people, especially people they know identify as “Christian”, there are certain themes they expect to be present. And, because some of my most significant areas of growth and joy in marriage don’t have a ton to do with those themes, I considered not writing a marriage-type post at all. It wouldn’t necessarily encourage other couples to “live sacrificially” (though self-sacrifice definitely has its place) or constantly “die to themselves”. It wouldn’t talk about how it’s so worth it to me to give up certain passions or parts of my personality for the sake of “peace in the home”. It wouldn’t read like a gym membership testimonial, convincing readers through a tight smile that the daily exhaustion and burning pain is really awesome if you think about it cause it’s really just so good for you in the long run, you know?

Being happier together and more in love four years after our wedding day than even than we were in the weeks and months following it was not something we expected. Mostly, we had heard that marriage is hard. That it’s work. “It’s not supposed to make you happy; it’s supposed to make you holy.” That the honeymoon doesn’t last; that it only goes downhill from the moment you say “I Do”. No one told us that it could get better. Like, way better. That it’s only “hard” in the sense that anything in life that’s rewarding, worth doing well, and takes some practice is “hard”. That between the times of work, it’s FUN. That it can be sanctifying AND bring happiness.

No one told us it could be this good. I understand the desire to prepare new couples for marriage by telling them, “Marriage can be difficult; don’t give up at the first bumps in the road.” But the near-constant emphasis on the “difficult” point created an incredible amount of anxiety. I wish there had been more voices saying, “This is good. This is edifying. This is fulfilling and rewarding and fun and comforting. Every close relationship has its conflicts but you can work those out. You can. You’ll be fine. This is not a trap. It’s not a trick question. Go forth and be happy together.”
Realizing that a long-term commitment can be (and STAY) wonderful changed my approach to that “work” they talk about in marriage (that work that is present in any art or skill one hopes to become proficient in). At first, I did that work out of fear. Trying to stave off that seemingly inevitable time when we would (apparently) get bored with one another, resent each other, feel as if simply the act of being kind and faithful to one another was so difficult it was deserving of sainthood. Maybe if I did everything right, maybe if we worked really hard right from the beginning, we could hold that off as long as possible.

Now that I’ve experienced the phenomenon of our relationship getting even better four years into marriage, I approach that work differently. Now it’s not frantic. Now it’s not about avoiding being stuck in misery. Now it feels more like tending to a long-term art project or a bonsai tree: continuing to sculpt, perfect, and customize this beautiful thing we have together as time goes on and life happens.
The work itself has changed a bit too.

As a woman in the Evangelical church, essentially I was taught that I needed to conform myself to a husband’s every preference. If he prefers long hair over short, obviously I should keep my hair long. If certain outfits aren’t his preference, of course I shouldn’t wear them. And a tattoo or a piercing he wasn’t absolutely in love with? That would be utter, callous betrayal of any claim I’d ever made to care about his feelings.

I was taught to be easy, agreeable, passive; opinionated only when my opinion aligned with his.
Any individuality I had would be subject to sacrifice, if my husband found it distasteful. This was my moral duty as a wife, and if I failed, who could blame a husband for “looking elsewhere”, or no longer caring to spend quality time with me, or any number of things?

Now, anyone who has known me for any length of time knows that I have an extremely difficult time suppressing my…individuality. Earlier in life—early in marriage—I attributed this to a lack of self-control on my part. My efforts to repress so much of what made me “me”—trying to fit myself as much as I could into that “good Christian wife” mold—caused me so much anxiety.

But I was blessed to marry a man who has no desire to control me or suppress my individuality, and over time and talking that finally sunk in. Little by little, I came more into myself, and as he continued to accept what I showed him, my anxiety lessened. I became more assertive. And our bond grew stronger.
I’m married to someone who sees the value in letting their spouse be fully who they are instead of trying to force them into a certain mold or tame their growth, and that’s allowed me to continually embrace the call to my authentic self with freedom and joy.

I no longer see my inability to conform—or the anxiety I felt when I tried—as a personality flaw, like I’d always assumed it was. Now I see that I was made to be this person, and that fully embracing who I am is not only ok; it is a celebration of who God made me to be. My journey of self-acceptance has had many facets and detours, many allies and saboteurs. But being married to someone who loves me because of—not in spite of—who I am, even as I change and grow as a person, has been utterly key and incredibly healing.

But in order for him to know, understand, and love who I am, I needed to explain myself at times. Growing in assertiveness—not simply ceding my every preference to his because that’s what a good wife does—was necessary for me.

Of course, my acceptance of him is equally vital. He’s a compassionate, empathetic, intelligent, hard-working man who is so wonderful in dealing with the challenges of having a chronically ill spouse, so he makes it pretty easy.

We don’t agree on everything all the time, and it’s been important for us to realize that that’s ok. At times we’ve had different opinions, different beliefs, different preferences. But we’ve learned to respect one another’s emotional, spiritual, mental, and physical autonomy.

Allowing one another to be individuals—not only allowing it but enthusiastically supporting it—has been invaluable for the happiness of our marriage; for our ability to thrive and enjoy life with one another.

There’s a lot more I could say about generally healthy marriage advice. But the realization of the importance of individuality and autonomy (having those things, and having them be fully supported by one’s spouse) was such a surprise to me after what I was taught that that’s what I thought was worth writing about. The other stuff you can find elsewhere. The Gottman Institute, founded by Drs. Julie and John Gottman, is an amazing resource for many different kinds of relationships (but especially those of the long-term romantic variety). Also never be afraid to meet with a therapist a time or two. They’re experts in human thought and emotion; it just makes sense to consult an expert if things start to feel tangled up.

So yeah. I guess if you want to feel like you’re married to your best friend, treat your spouse like your best friend. A whole, fun, quirky, flawed, amazing, beautifully imperfect human being who you make dumb jokes with and tell your thoughts to and try your best not to hurt and have no compulsion to control or manipulate. You’re not responsible for them nor they for you, but you both ask for help when you need it and you gladly provide it to one another. Don’t be stingy with empathy and fondness, and don’t forget that you matter, too. Anticipate joy together. It’s totally accessible.

This is not a trap.
It’s not a trick question.
You can do this.
Go forth and be happy together.
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Spirit Crumbs

I ran away from home once. I was eleven years old, maybe twelve. I had everything I needed; my Labrador puppy and a fishing pole. A paper bag of dog food; Best Choice pepperonis for bait (the catfish—the big ones—they can smell it in the water).
I wanted stories to tell, and I thought that those were only to be found away from home. So I left. My optimistic sense of adventure only lasted while my internal compass remained magnetized. Not toward true North; I knew where that was, but toward Home. How the two might be related escaped me; I assumed I’d always know that Home was That Way.
Home, where my dad was mowing the lawn and my mom was planting flowers and my brother was practicing his classical guitar exercises. Where the dogs were, and the cats; I couldn't bring them all with me, could I? After all, there were nine of them.

My room too, was at home, with its jungle wallpaper and glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling. Mosquito net over my bed, tiger posters, photographs. All sorts of things I didn't think about missing when I took off into the woods. Because I was eleven—maybe twelve—years old with pigtail braids, cargo pants with pockets full of trinkets; a pocket knife, a puppy and a fishing pole. And I'd caught seven catfish that summer. Big ones, too. I'd be ok.

My internal compass only lasted a couple of hours. The woods can be confusing, and all the grain silos in the distance look the same. I realized I didn't know where Home was, and suddenly I was desperate to get back. I knew north and south, but was Home north or south of me? I began to panic. My puppy was tired; I carried him, my fishing pole dragging behind me, hooked to the belt loop of my Old Navy cargo pants. Terrified I had actually achieved my goal of leaving Home behind, I barreled through the brush in the direction I was pretty sure I'd come from. Head down, braids torn, tears gumming my eyelashes, I shielded my puppy with my arms as I burst through the edge of the tree line. Blinking in the sun, I could just make out the silhouette of my dad waving to me from the riding mower in our back yard. I lifted a hand, waved back. I guess I found my way; I guess I never got that far. I thought I’d gone so far.

I wish I could tell my younger self to be patient. There will be so many stories. You are living them right now, even though you don't realize it. You don't need to leave—even though you will, eventually—to find them. Life will happen. You don't need to rush it. It happens too fast as it is most times. 

Still though, there's something to be said for making your own stories on purpose, I think.

Memories like this are important to me when the exhaustion—the complacency—of adulthood and its struggles (some universal, some unique to me) set in. I sought adventure once. I was not deterred by discomfort or inconvenience, if the result was an experience. A memory. Something more than the average; the day-to-day. It's been a tired few years, and there are other, more responsible things I should probably be focusing on, but I'm not ready to give that part of myself up. I'm not ready to stop risking; suffering consequences for the gain of a life that feels fully lived. I don't know yet what form that can take from here, but I know that it has to be something. Home is important; Home is essential. I need it, like I didn’t think I ever would (and I’m not sure how to feel about that; I wanted to be able to be nomadic and maybe once I would have been but I’m so tired so often now). But without some adventurous pursuit, I stagnate. I lose myself. I get bored. I stop doing anything interesting or productive and I buy too many different shades of lipstick.

I need adventure in the great wide somewhere.
 
But I know there are stories to be told from Home, too. Stories I lived when I didn't know I was living them. Hopefully in ten years I’ll be able to look back and say the same of now. I need to make more of them happen around here. Little things, but story-things still, when I can. It’s hard to do though when I’m dealing with a certain level of exhaustion almost constantly.

If you were to uproot all the trees in the woods of my childhood home, you would unearth many time capsules; little pieces of who I was then. Seeds of who I still am. Spirit-crumbs. Well-sealed, as best as I knew how between the ages of twelve and fourteen. Some were intended to be time capsules specifically—pages torn from diaries, song lyrics, photographs, baubles and perfume samples; things I felt represented the essence of myself at a particular period of time all sealed up in a mason jar with rubber cement and duct tape. Some things I buried as casualties of the war between my strong will and my people-pleasing tendencies. What was I to do when I was enraptured by the story of a Manga series I knew I would be taken away once it was discovered that a panel or two included nudity? By the time I stumbled upon the first slip of a cartoon nipple in book number four, I was deeply invested in these characters and their fate. I finished the volume, sneaked it out to the woods wrapped tightly in plastic and tape, and I buried it on the far side of the creek. I did this with each volume remaining in the series the moment I finished them, all bought with my hard-earned allowance. With each book I buried in the woods I fell further in love with the story, and further into the resignation that I was who I was and I loved what I loved—no matter how I fought it. No matter how badly I wanted to be “good”.

After years of doubt, guilt, and self-loathing, followed by years of desperate searching, praying, broken hallelujahs and begging for acceptance that was right there where I left it—where I’d been convinced by fundamentalism to lay it down as if I didn’t deserve it—I finally realized that I didn’t have to choose between being “good” and being who God made me to be. There was the redemption I needed and the redemption I only thought I did—eventually, mercifully, I found both.
Fourteen books are buried on the banks of Pony Creek. Fourteen books and two burned CDs; a mason jar full of letters, a t-shirt, a broken laptop computer.

I’ve hidden things elsewhere too; written prayers tucked beneath the pulpit of Weatherby Chapel, little paintings beneath highway bridges, a ring I don’t remember where, messages in bottles, notes in library books. Leaving a trail of myself; more spirit-crumbs. Why this type of preservation is important to some deep-seated part of me, I don’t know.

I used to think it was just because I felt the need to document; because I had fear of forgetting. A fear of all this—all I’ve been and all I am—being lost one day to a history so much bigger than me. All these moments just passing and disappearing into the inaccessible past with nothing material to give testimony to their occurrence. Maybe it is that, some. I write too, things I don’t leave behind. I have a bookshelf with over 50 completed journals in my bedroom, all filled with the bore of one unremarkable woman’s growing-up. Maybe I’m afraid of the forgetting, but I also have an overwhelming urge to drizzle my soul out, that it might be fully realized and understood—at least by me.

I think there’s more too, though. I think I need to live a story. I think I need to live things to write later, to remember, to tell.

I’ve lost track of that lately, and without it I feel aimless. Meaningless. I’ve gotten trapped in the everyday, the practical, worrying only about how to streamline necessities. Without something to live towards that reminds me--to my very bones--who I am and what I am; some adventure to revive my wild, primordial soul...that goal in itself feels empty.

I remember when I ran barefoot on the beach in La Jolla at night. I was only there for a week, and at first I tried my tennis shoes but they sunk so deep in the sand. I timed it every night, forty-five minutes of jogging on that color-sapped strip of beach out behind the hotel so I wouldn’t get fat on vacation. I ran the stretch of darkness between one dock lamp and the next; how they seemed to grow ever further away from me as I ran toward them. Somehow I reached them each time, back and forth again, afraid to step beyond the far halos of light as if some Cthulhus waited beyond, one on the other side of each circle. I ran back and forth between the two, their imaginary tentacles bouncing me back and forth like a ping-pong ball; so hollow and light compared to the roaring, invisibly dark ocean on one side of me and vibrant expanse of California on the other.

Had women made up the old myths, Poseidon surely would have been female. What else is the ocean more like than a womb, with thriving life inside? A womb that incubated the beginnings of all life billions of years ago before the first venturing of an organism out onto dry land. The ocean is Mother Nature's womb and if it has a ruler, it's a queen.

Small and white, insignificant, I’d return to the hotel room and rinse the sand from my feet but I haven’t forgotten the feeling.

The feeling of being such a little thing, with its little agenda, scuttling on the sand by the void of darkness hovering above the roiling black sea. Small as I knew myself to be, I felt I was on the edge of adventure—of a story—and that was enough for me.

In a few months I’ll see the sea again, and I know it will feel as if I’m coming home, like it does every time. I was not meant to be landlocked; I was not meant to feel quite so safe—unchallenged, unperturbed, uninspired.

I need to do things worth writing about; worth remembering. To live a life that teaches me something, hands-on.

There’s an abandoned house nearby that I’ve been meaning to explore with my camera in-hand. I’ve been waiting for someone to come along with me but maybe I’ll just go alone. That may be adventure enough for now, though nearly every day I think of Burning Man.
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Memoirs of a Disorder

I am sixteen, and they tell me I’m obsessed. All I want is to be dust-small, paper thin. I’m not and yet my edges still seem to cut people. My mother cries sometimes.

I am sixteen I envy the mushrooms in the yard; they thrive on the leftovers of life. I try to eat the leftovers in the fridge, but bite by bite I spit them out into the toilet. I do not thrive.

I am sixteen and I feel the cold gnawing at the bottom of my stomach and I hate it and I love it; I love it because I hate it, and it’s me who gets to decide. I’m sixteen and the power of self-denial is intoxicating. I deny the gnawing for so long that I stop feeling it. I have conquered.

I am sixteen and I run. I run six miles every day. I get shin splints. I run. I get a stress fracture. I run. I wheeze and cough and cry. I run. I love that with each step I am burning myself down and down, each day occupying slightly less space than the day before. I am in control. I run.

I am sixteen and I am so tired.

“Do something nice for the part of your body you hate the most.” My counselor says. “Make it feel pretty.” So I get my navel pierced and wait to like my stomach better. I suppose it helps a little.

I am sixteen and I have gone 60 days without anything sweet. On day 61 I eat the hard, creamy chocolate guilt. I feel sick. I eat more. On day 62 I hate myself, and all I eat is some lettuce with red wine vinegar, and then only because my mother is watching.

I am sixteen and my brother makes me half of a sandwich when he sees I did not eat lunch. Usually content not to confront me, even he is moved to action by the way my bones poke up under my skin. “Please eat it.” He begs. “You need to eat.” It is so sweet of him that I eat a few bites, but when he leaves I give the rest to the dogs. They follow me around a lot now; I am always giving them food. They leave no evidence. Nothing in the trash for my dad to find when he empties it; nothing to clog the toilet. I am sixteen and I have learned these things; I have become clever in the ways of secret self-destruction.

I am sixteen at a potluck at church, holding a bowl of soup in my shaky hands. “Look, she’s eating something!” I hear the whisper a few seats down the table. I ignore the comment. I weigh ninety pounds and still I pretend that no one can tell I have a problem.

I’m seventeen and I stop running. I’m too tired. I gain weight. Isn’t that recovery? It feels like failure. But I am so tired. It happens. I cannot stop it any longer. I close my mind’s eyes shut tight; grit my teeth and let myself grow.

I am seventeen and I begin liking little stories; stories about how people woke up and made it through the day. What they thought about, besides what they craved and what they denied themselves; besides unattainable goals and forbidden things. I like stories where things are ok. Not all the time, maybe, and not exceedingly happy, but mostly ok.

I am eighteen and I am ok. Not all the time, and not exceedingly happy, but mostly ok. I throw away the jeans I’ve grown out of. I know that I will never fit into them again, so why let them take up the space? My counselor calls it acceptance. It feels more like surrender. I gain more weight than I would like, but I am ok.

I am nineteen and it is a rock in the back of my brain—a constant, subtle weight—it is white noise in the background of my whole life. But I am able to ignore it now, and that is more freedom than I’ve had in a few years. I live.

I am nineteen and I feel I am coming up out of the ground, breaking the surface after years of tunneling. The light is bright and disorienting. I am confused by the freedom, the wide open spaces; the choices that are mine—that have always been mine but I thought they weren’t. Taking them back makes me nervous. What do I do with them now? My reference points are dismantled after years of crashing back and forth between gluttony and starvation; I must re-learn them. I must re-learn how to eat. It is clumsy. Usually it takes conscious thought, but sometimes it takes no thought at all. Sometimes it is smooth sailing; sometimes it is an equation to solve.

I am nineteen and the equations grow easier, in time. Not because they have become any more simple, but because I’ve improved my psychological algebra. I miss when one plus one was two and I never had to solve for X, but at least I’ve learned how. Maybe algebra is what it takes to thrive.

I am twenty and I solve for X and I move on and I live.

I am twenty-one and it is a thorn buried deep in the sole of my shoe. Most of the time I can barely feel it; only sometimes when I step just right.

I am twenty-one, and I step carefully.

I am twenty-two, twenty-three, twenty-four. I live. I solve for X.

I'm twenty-five, twenty-six. Medications make me pack on pounds and I try to breathe; I use the tools I've learned. I focus on nurturing my body; I look up body-positive blogs on the internet. Sometimes disgusted, sometimes content, never thrilled, but I live. I dig into my unique self. I solve for X.

Twenty-seven, almost twenty-eight and I'm always trying to lose weight. I barely remember a time when I wasn't, whether or not I "needed to". Technically overweight now (my teenaged self would simply die), diets and calculations are surely more justified. Fat women must always be self-punishing by way of depravation; nothing disordered about that.
But I follow my body-positive blogs, and I believe my husband when he tells me he thinks I'm beautiful. I take fashion risks I never would have three years ago, and it's fun. I have tattoos I designed myself; I wear the sparkly things I used to be embarrassed to love so much.

I solve for X. I will always solve for X, I think. But I live.

I live.

Me Too

These are the highlights, not every instance of sexual entitlement by others that I have ever experienced. I’m not going to talk about every one, or go into the most graphic details. I’m not going to take you through a psychoanalysis of myself or the perpetrators; of survivors or abusers/harassers. If you want to know more about why these things happen—why people (primarily men) sexually harass and abuse; why women react (or don’t) in certain ways—google is your friend. (I will insert briefly that women raised in very conservative/fundamentalist Christian environments are often exceptionally vulnerable to certain kinds of assault because they are often not taught about assertiveness, consent, and bodily autonomy, but they are taught about submission and the fault of women in men’s lusts and inappropriate behavior; this leaves one ill-equipped to deal with certain situations).

I’m not sharing this for attention or pity. Many more and much worse things have happened to so many other women; engaging in some kind of attention/pity campaign would be pointless (and shame on anyone who thinks that that is why any woman is participating in the “me too” wave). I am sharing because I keep reading that people are surprised that these things happen to women they know. Women they care about. I’m sharing because I’ve been reading some people saying that they don’t believe the high numbers of “me too” experiences. They can’t comprehend that these problems are so widespread. Well, believe it.

I’m sharing because shame keeps so many survivors quiet, when we have nothing to hide. But this culture that tolerates sexual harassment and sexual assault, that victim-blames and hesitates to believe the testimonies and experiences of women, that criticizes women who share their stories more than the men who made those stories truth—that culture tells us we should be ashamed and that we should hide, and that’s not ok. That culture tells us not to complain. To keep quiet; not to make accusations against these Nice Men. But the reality is, these problems are systemic. They are deeply rooted in how men and women are socialized. “Nice Guys” harass women; make them feel unsafe, dirty, used. “Nice Guys” assault women; often traumatizing them and changing their lives forever. “Nice People” blame survivors, or tell them that what they experienced wasn’t harassment or assault at all. This culture silences us. And that’s not ok. Our words (and our silence) should be our choice and ours alone.

I don’t share this without anxiety. Will people believe me? Will they blame me? Will they see me differently? Will they think I’m overreacting? Will they judge me for “airing dirty laundry”? Will they judge my wonderful husband for marrying a woman who wasn’t strong/smart/pure enough to prevent these things?

But I do share this with hope. That by adding my small voice to the many who have already spoken, I can help push forward the awareness of these issues and the impact they have on so, so many women/femmes and girls. And that maybe with enough voices, over time we can create a change.

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I am seven years old, wearing my first two-piece swimsuit at the pool. A thin strip of my stomach is all the “extra” that is showing, but my parents had barely consented to letting me wear it because two-pieces were “immodest” (and even at seven, I knew that meant it tempted boys; made them behave badly). But it had sparkly ruffles, and I begged. After all, it was just Grandpa’s pool, with my cousins and some of their friends. When we arrived, a few boys my age chase me; yelling “get her! Strip her naked!” as I run from them I feel embarrassed and dirty; “immodest” and afraid.
“Kids, don’t run around the pool!” Is all an adult yells at us from the deck close by.
I don’t wear a two-piece again until I’m twenty-one years old.

*

I’m fourteen, on a trail ride alone with a boy I work at the stable with who is also fourteen.
“Have you had sex?” He asks me.
“No.” I blush.
“What if you had sex with me?” He leers.
“No thanks.” I nudge my horse further away from his.
“What if I held you down and made you do it?” He guides his horse toward mine.
“I’d punch you in the face!” I say, trying to act tough as I glance around the open country around us. We’re about a mile from our stable, and the only buildings in sight are a couple of dilapidated hay barns on other properties.
“Nah,” He says flippantly, kicking his horse into a trot and riding a circle around me. “I could beat you up.”
“Yeah right.” I say. My face burning, I turn my horse in the direction of the stable and long-trot briskly all the way back—not something one is really supposed to let a horse do—occasionally glancing behind at my coworker who is following at a more leisurely pace.
I never go trail riding with him again, but I don’t tell anyone. I feel dirty and embarrassed. Besides, it’s probably my fault anyway. Your two-piece makes the boys chase, threaten, and humiliate you. They’ll only be told not to run around the pool.

*

I’m sixteen, getting an x-ray of my hip. I’m draped in a thin hospital gown and lying mostly on my side, bottom leg straight, top leg bent, hips tilted toward the table.
“Ok, now hold still.” The tech—who looks to be in his early forties—says as he finishes positioning the equipment above me. Before he turns to head toward the control station in the corner, he drums my upturned butt cheek four times in quick succession with both hands. He does this so boldly, casually, flippantly—like he wasn’t even thinking about it—that as I drive home from the hospital I question my perception of the event.

*

I’m seventeen, and I have a long-distance boyfriend—my first boyfriend. I haven’t been taught much about healthy dating, about boundaries, about standing up for myself. I’ve been taught that women are nurturers; that women take care of their men, that tearing ribs from our bodies and giving them to men was what we were designed for by God.
So when he begs me for phone sex and I say no over and over, and he keeps begging until I hang up on him…I feel incredibly guilty. He’s lonely, there in the Marine barracks in California, no friends or family. I’m all he has. He needs me. He suffers from depression and struggles with self-harm; I can help him. He needs me.
He calls back an hour later and I answer; he describes to me in detail how he cut himself, how close he was to suicide after my rejection. I say I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m so sorry; I’m just not comfortable…he says ok and I think it is until we are talking a few nights later. I am describing my project for my art class and I pause; I hear his heavy breathing, muffled moans.
“Are you…?” I ask.
“Don’t stop; keep talking.” He pants.
Feeling sick, I hang up the phone. He calls back a couple of hours later; I answer. He describes to me in detail the blood, all the blood from his new cuts. How he barely resisted the veins in his wrists because he knew that if he died, he’d never hear my voice again. He’s sorry, he says. He’s just so lonely, and the Marines is hard, and he misses me so much and he loves me.
“Do you love me?” He asks.
“I…I don’t know.” I mumble.
“Please tell me you love me.” He begs in that voice he uses. “Please. I can’t keep going out here if you don’t love me.”
“I don’t know yet; maybe.” I say, torn, sick, guilty, angry.
“Ok.” He takes a deep breath. “Soon though.” Not a plea that time.
Not soon enough. More graphic descriptions, more almost-suicides, more muffled moaning over the phone. I don’t hang up anymore; I worry what will happen if I do. I pretend I don’t notice. I feel trapped. He knows where he can get pills, he says. Guns, of course; he’s a marine after all. Do I love him yet? I tell him I think so, and I hate myself for it. In two months he is coming home to visit.
I cut myself; tell no one. I struggle silently with intense anxiety.
One day I bring myself to say I think we should just be friends. I can’t do long-distance; it’s not you, it’s me. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.
Guilt and relief alternate in waves.

*

I’m seventeen. A boy—a young man—waits for me every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday afternoon outside of the women’s locker room at the gym at the community college. I never see him before my workout, but he is always there after my shower. He is tall and the hallway is long, with not many doors. He is the only one there every time, sitting right outside the locker room. He says hello to me, asks me how my workout was, my shower. He stands too close. One day I call a friend; she meets me in the locker room after my workout for the rest of the semester. The young man still waits for me, but with my friend there, he doesn’t stand so close.

*

I’m eighteen, visiting a friend at her college. As I walk to her dorm building, a male student—a senior, he tells me—asks me if I’m from around here. Each time I pivot away from him, he pivots toward me. I tell him I’m visiting a friend.
“Staying in her dorm?” he asks, stepping closer.
“Yeah, for a couple nights.” I reply. My back is up against a tree now.
“So do you two like, shower together?” He leans toward me with a grin. I brace my foot against a large tree root and push off to the side, then continue on briskly toward the dorms.

*

I’m twenty-one. We’ve been together for several months. He’s nice, sweet; everyone thinks so. I think so. We do things I’m uncomfortable with sometimes—I say I don’t want to; I say stop and I even resist at first but he moves our hands over and over and begs and I give in (I’ve learned the consequences of rejection), so of course I am responsible. Men will only go as far as you let them, I’ve been told. So I must have let him.
“Any time a boy touches you, it’s like a permanent red handprint on your body that never goes away.” I remember the youth pastor saying. “You’re soiling what should be pure for your future husband.” Still a virgin but already soiled; guess I don’t have any right to insist on the full extent of my purity now. There’s no going backward.
He’s so nice though, my boyfriend. He writes me little notes, he supports my interests, he’s understanding of my health problems. He has such a heart for God, the New Testament professor says. Such Christ-like love for people.
Besides, he’s had a hard past; he doesn’t know any better. He just needs help. He has potential. I need to do better. Men will only go as far as you let them.
On the sofa at my parents’ house where we are staying the night—in separate bedrooms—we decide to watch Scrubs reruns and cuddle until I get sleepy. I have insomnia and take an Ambien every night; I pop my pill and we start an episode. I wake blearily to his hand in my panties. I mumble and pull it out; it returns insistently.
The next morning I remember and I am confused, angry, hurt, guilty, ashamed. I tell him not to do it again. Not when I’m sleeping. He does. I don’t know what this means. Except that I don’t feel good about it. But men will only go as far as you let them. So I must be letting him.
He is so sweet and considerate about all other things that I question my perception of events. Events that continue.
Over a year later I break up with him. It’s not you, it’s me.

*

I’m twenty-six. A friend waits until my husband has gone upstairs to bed; we are alone in the living room finishing our conversation. The friend kisses me suddenly and I freeze. I fumble; I say it’s late. I reach for dishes to start cleaning up. They catch me on the turn and kiss me again. Not everything is clear; I have flashbacks to previous instances of unwanted touch. A wine glass breaks, the “friend” leaves; I go upstairs crying.
I have panic attacks for weeks after; my therapist says it’s a PTSD response.

*

I’m twenty-seven, picking up some wine at a liquor store one night with a friend. She’s at the front; I’m toward the back realizing that a man in the nearly-empty store has been in every aisle I’ve browsed so far, but he hasn’t picked anything out yet. I look at him pointedly, making sure he knows that I see what he looks like.
“How do you get your hair that color?” He asks, approaching me.
“Bleach.” I say, glancing around for an escape route; the man is standing between the exit (and my friend) and me. “Then dye.” I notice there is a dark hallway behind me with an “employees only” door, then the emergency exit. One I could get pulled into; the other I could potentially escape from.
“So pretty. Think you could do mine like that?” He leans in. I change my grip on the neck of the large bottle of Chardonnay I’m holding in case I need to take a swing.
Am I in danger, or does this man think he is just harmlessly flirting? I don’t know. There is no way for me to know until I leave safely, or something happens. I catch the eye of a man behind the counter; pretend I have a question. The other man disappears; I ask the employee to walk my friend and I to our car.
“Yeah, that guy does this sometimes.” The employee rolls his eyes. “Probably high again.”
I check the dark back seats before we drive away, double-checking that the doors are locked.
Hyper-awareness. Always on the defensive. Something that women have hammered into them from a young age. Our protection is on us. Boys will be boys. Men will only go as far as you let them. Men will go every bit as far as you technically, physically let them. Men will go as far as they can until you kick and scream. This is what the narratives teach us, this is what experiences teach us.

This culture needs to change. Its tolerance for harassment and assault needs to change. What we teach boys and girls, men and women needs to change.
Start with listening to women and femmes who tell their stories. Believe them. Believe the harm that is done. Then help change the narratives.

Afterfire

In February of 2016 there was a fire, though nothing of ours burned. Some of our neighbors’ things did; their things and their homes, a dog. I cried, though our cat was safe in the car and our python survived, too. We were smoked out, my husband and I, and had to throw lots of things away. Find a new place to live.

The fire was over a year ago but still, while looking for things, we ask each other, “Did we replace that after the fire?” And neither of us know, but we’re too exhausted to look.

Because it’s been a long year, and some ruined things that you thought were so essential--sometimes you lose them and when you lose so many all at once it’s hard to remember how many you gathered back up. And then you know you’re missing something but you’re not sure what but…something…so maybe you didn’t need it that badly after all?

There a lot of things that seem essential that you find you can live without, if you have to. You make do.

I have a lot but at one point I thought I had almost everything and as I move the laundry from the washer to the dryer I remember us that night under the neon lights at the Louisburg Sonic. I still remember what you wrote on my arm with a black ball-point pen (or was it blue?) while we laughed.

We thought we were legendary, didn’t we? Old souls; older then than we are now in some ways, I think. But the small towns weren’t enough to hold the two of us, and we were too much for each other as we expanded outwards, our centers pushed further and further apart until the distance was too much. Sonic is just a place to get mozzarella sticks now, while passing through.

I don’t pass through so often these days. It’s a long drive and I’m often too tired.

I’m too tired for lots of things, and I don’t think I turned out like anyone hoped I would, myself included. I like my tattoos, though, and the cowlick that makes my hair stand up a little in the back when it’s cut a certain way. I’m glad injustice makes me angry; at least I can say that about myself, even if I can’t do much about it. At least I can say I am upset by the urgency of need and my utter mediocrity. I only have the excuse that I’m cut off at the ankles. That’s a metaphor but honestly sometimes I think it’d be a decent trade. Swap the chronic diseases for some prosthetics. I don’t say it lightly; I’ve had over a decade to consider which disabilities I’d rather deal with. You know, hypothetically, should I strike a bargain at a crossroads somewhere.

There’s so much I have but I’m allowed to pray for this still, right? When I remember? These days I forget because now it feels like asking God to turn the sky green. As the years went by normalcy separated from me and I picked at it anxiously; it fluttered to the floor bit by bit until it was dead and gone and underneath I was raw. Every little poke and prod hurt me. There are calluses now but it’s been so long I don’t remember what it’s like to feel truly well.

It’s been a long year (and two months), but these last few days I’ve been feeling better. Every spring I feel like I’m coming up out of the ground again but maybe this time it’s for keeps; maybe I will stay above it and bloom for a season. Maybe the sunlight won’t be too harsh this time. I know I have to step gingerly. Do it right; do it right this time. Be careful, don’t live more than a certain amount of life each day or all my progress will be undone and who knows how long it will be before I get to feel my horse’s gait beneath me again, or laugh one shimmering night without paying in days.

It’s so precise and unpredictable, and I can’t do it by myself. Thankfully I don’t have to. But what do you do, when you’ve seen no model for this? Love in the time of illness, when illness is all the time? You say you knew what you were signing up for, but hell if I knew it would be quite like this; that quite so much would be in your hands for so long. For almost three years now I’ve told you some variation of “It won’t always be this way.” I hope I still believe that. I think I do. Surely if I do it right this time.

During the last meteor shower you lay beside me in the pickup bed, out in Louisburg. We passed the Sonic where I sat with my friend once but we didn’t get any mozzarella sticks; somehow you and I are different. Our expanses don’t push each other away. We can grow around each other; with one another. Change and know and doubt and celebrate and despair and somehow still fit. I guess that’s how there’s always room, but it’s cozy, too. The air outside the blankets we were under was chilly and I tucked my toes under our greyhound near the tailgate; he eyed me, uncertain of this arrangement but refusing to be left on the grass. I could tell you were asleep from your even breathing, and I would have woken you except the meteors weren’t coming so often anymore and I knew you had to work in the morning. The spray of stars was beautiful though, out there where there’s no light pollution. In the crisp air with the lid off the sky and my bones resting—no weight on them and my mind clear for once—there was a feeling of limitlessness. I almost cried because it was so beautiful, but also—I knew—so rare and fleeting.
All the same I hope for more this spring, as I make some changes; a weight lifted, a cleansing burn. The kind of fire that cleans up, not the kind you have to clean up after. Maybe this will be the year.

On Ink

Over the last few years, I’ve acquired several tattoos. Being from a fairly conservative background, this has been met with resistance from many people in my life. I thought I would compose a post including the most common reactions I’ve gotten, and why I think people need to stop reacting that way to their friends and family considering ink.
I will preface this with the disclaimer that obviously when one gets a tattoo, there are things they need to consider, such as how it will affect their employment opportunities depending on the field they work in, etc. I’m not saying that getting a tattoo is a decision to be taken lightly; it isn’t.
But you know what? If you’re talking to an adult who is considering a tattoo, I betcha they already know this.

So without further ado, My Response to Anti-Ink Reactions:

"The Bible says not to get tattoos."

No it doesn't. You can pretend it does if you take one verse in Leviticus completely out of context, but if you are critically examining scripture it's easy to see that this argument holds no water.

"We are to be in the world, not of the world."

Ok, then why are you wearing a t-shirt and not robes? Are those pre-faded jeans? Nike shoes? Or even a tie in the workplace? You're conforming to "the world" too, if that's how you apply that phrase. Sorry, your logic doesn't hold up.


“Have you really thought this through? It’s going to be there forever, you know.”

This one’s just insulting to my intelligence.


“You’re going to regret it later.”

First of all, how do you know that? What makes you think that you know better than me what I will regret down the line? We make all manner of decisions in life that affect us permanently. Whether we go to college, our major in college, whether we marry, who we marry, if we have children, when we have children, whether or not to take a job opportunity or move out of state. All of those decisions are, obviously, much bigger than the decision to get some ink, and those are decisions only an individual can make for themselves. So surely, if someone is a legal adult and you trust them to make these types of decisions, you can trust that they know themselves well enough to get a tattoo.
Secondly: ok, so what if I do regret it later? That’s my problem and I will deal with it if it happens. That logic can be applied to literally any large or small risk someone takes. In itself, that is not a reason not to do something. I have decided it is worth the risk to me, and that is my decision to make, not yours.


“What will you tell your kids?”

I will tell them what the tattoos mean to me, and that when they are grown ups, they can get tattoos too if they want. I will draw on them with Magic Marker if they want me to. I will tell them that it’s a commitment and a big decision that only they can make, and they have to think a lot about it. I will tell them that all kinds of people have tattoos, and we don’t judge people’s character based on how their bodies look. Even if that’s the message some Christians seem to be pushing.


“It’ll look bad when you get old and wrinkly.”

Not only is this one rooted in our society’s ageism (that is particularly misogynistic when it comes to looks), it’s simply not true. If one takes care of their tattoos (sunblock, lotion when needed, occasional touchups over the years), they can look great even on aged skin. Trust me, as the person subjecting my skin to permanent marks via millions of needle pokes, I’ve done more research on this than you.


“You’re inviting people to judge you.”

Well, really, no I’m not. I’m not inviting that; they are thrusting it upon me. Their judgment is on their own initiative. In almost every other area of life, isn’t the advice “stop caring so much what people might think”? Why is that suddenly reversed when it comes to the most shallow reason to judge someone (their appearance)? Now, I do understand that I am voluntarily entering into a demographic that is judged more harshly. That is true. But people who are going to judge me because of my tattoos are not people I want in my life regularly anyway. If I need to avoid potential judgment for a job interview or similar event, I will cover my tattoos to protect my interests. But other than that, I really don’t care what people think who are small-minded enough to believe that me having tattoos makes me deficient or inferior in any way.
And if the real reason you are saying this to someone is because you are worried about your association with them and how them having tattoos might reflect on you or embarrass you…I would encourage you to re-examine what you really think it means to love someone (platonically, romantically, or otherwise).


“What a waste of money.”

What is a “waste” of money is relative. It’s a priority to me, thus it is not a waste of my money. You know what would be a waste of my money? An X-Box, an $80 flat-iron, snow skis, regular manicures, hunting equipment, stilettos. Of course those aren’t inherently bad purchases, but I have no use for or interest in any of them. But I love tattoos. Tattoos might be a waste of your money, but they’re not a waste of mine.

“Why?”

Here we come to the less logical; the more intangible.

Though first it’s worth saying that I don’t have to explain myself to anyone in order for my choices here to be valid.

But I’ll try to explain some without getting too personal, because everyone who doesn’t like tattoos seems to feel that they are entitled to my reasoning.

One reason is self-expression. Everyone does this in some way or other. It’s important for everyone, but some people have to fight harder for it because their methods are less straight-laced. People have asked me, “But why do you have to express yourself THAT way?” Well, because it’s something I connect with and find beautiful. It speaks to me, and I’m expressing MYself, so I get to choose how I do it. That’s kind of how self-expression works.

The more personal layer to this has to do with living with chronic illness. Often I am too fatigued to express myself much at all. There is an adventurous vibrancy in me that I have lost the ability to live out by action; at least I have the consolation of being able to express some of that, no energy required, every day on my skin. My tattoos help remind me of who I am when I’m too tired to remember; they give others a small glimpse when I’m nothing but a lump in a chair. I don’t have to think, I don’t have to put anything special on, I don’t have to speak. Self-expression is a luxury I would not often have if it weren’t for my tattoos.

Another reason is, I love documenting. My life, my feelings, events, time. I’ve kept journals since the age of eleven; I’ve filled up over 57 of them to date. I have a plethora of photo albums and scrapbooks; when my phone or computer run out of storage, it’s because they are full of pictures. I love keeping a permanent, ever-present record of this story I am living; my body as a canvas and a journal. A visual representation of how my story has shaped me.

Another reason: bodily autonomy. I grew up in an Evangelical church culture that didn’t give me much say in the choices I made about my body. My body belonged to God, or to my future husband, but never to me. If I did dare to wear something that was frowned upon (like pants instead of a skirt), or pierce my ears, or dye my hair or cut it short, I was shamed and shunned.
Then came college, and boundary-pushing boys who I didn’t really know how to stand up to because I was never taught about consent or how to make decisions about what happens to my body; I was only ever told that I couldn’t make decisions about my body, because I had no authority over it.
There is a chronic illness aspect to this one too. Becoming ill in the first place was a traumatic experience in itself, and now I don’t have much control over my health, how I will feel from one day to the next or one year to the next. Some medications have made me gain significant amounts of weight. I don’t have much control over my body, how it feels and how it looks and what I do with it, in comparison to what it was like to be able-bodied, and that’s an unpleasant feeling that doesn’t go away.
For all of these reasons, it has been very healing to be able to take control of my body back. To do what I want with it, without feeling guilty or being subject to someone else. To make it have something I want it to have. On my terms. To make it look how I want it to look. Permanently.
The freedom to do that is empowering and life-giving to me. Not only at the time of getting the tattoo, but every single time I look at every single one of my tattoos.

I could go on and on. Everyone has their reasons for wanting a tattoo, or five or eight or ten. Sometimes it’s deeply personal, and sometimes it's as simple as, "I just love that!". Both are valid.

Ultimately, I love art. I love having it on my body. I love uniqueness and the diversity of people and their stories and their tastes. If there's one thing that modern psychology is continuously finding, it's that rigidity is unhealthy.
Ink on.