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.

*

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.

The Best Thanksgiving Ever

On Thanksgiving two years ago, the love of my life asked me to marry him.

I already knew I was going to say “yes”. It wasn’t a hard word to say at all when he asked. When he knelt down in the cold grass on a starry night in the country after reciting to me a poem that he wrote and giving me the most beautiful ring.
Not a hard word at all to say, only three letters and one syllable, but the best and most perfect word I’ve ever said. “Yes”. To the best and most perfect question I’ve ever been asked. Followed by the best champagne I’ve ever tasted though not the most expensive, and the best first kiss. And the best second, third, fourth, fifth...

Let me tell you what else has been the best in the last two years of my life.

The best patience, from a man who comes home from a long day at work to do the dishes and help with dinner when I am tired from lupus.

The best affirmation from a man who says he loves my body even though I have gained a significant amount of weight since marrying him.

The best celebrations from a man who rejoices with me in my little triumphs, like when someone buys a piece of my jewelry from my little Etsy shop.

The best sadness from a man who hurts when I hurt.

The best forgiveness from the most important man in my life, when I manage somehow to hurt him in spite of him being the best thing that I’ve ever had.

The best laughs when we share clever jokes, or the most immature jokes anyone has ever heard.

The best meals I’ve ever had, cooked together with love, fun, and plenty of cayenne pepper.

The best tolerance of my flaws; my shyness and my wildness, my indulgence and my hesitancy. My contradictions; my inconsistencies.

The best broccoli I’ve ever had, sautéed somehow with olive oil and curry powder to the most perfect balance of crunchy and tender (he makes the broccoli).

The best wine, $4-$8 from Trader Joe’s, sipped during good TV shows and finished with good conversation with one of the most intelligent men I’ve ever had the pleasure of knowing.

The best “fights”: low voices, slow sentences, “I” statements and respect for my feelings.

The best cat, rescued by one of the most compassionate men I’ve had the pleasure of knowing.

The best dreams for the future, shared by him.

The best view every day, provided unintentionally by this handsome, handsome man.

The best support and encouragement, offered by him.

The best service, provided for me when I am feeling sick and tired.

The best information, provided by his precision and the way he researches everything.

The best trust, knowing that he always wants what’s best for me.

The best foot rubs.

The best kisses, every time.

The best cuddles.

The best efforts.

The best of everything he has to offer.

The best I ever dared to hope to have.

The best motivation to be a better person, provided just by watching him.

The best love.

The best Thanksgiving ever, November 28, 2013.

Yet somehow, I am sure the best is yet to come.

.
.
.

Revival

I’ve been needing the autumn; needing a break from the sun stabbing hot and bright into my eyes. I thought that’s what I needed, anyway. I felt that the heat had numbed me and that it was the sweat trickling down my back that subtly irritated my mood. But now I think maybe it’s just me. A few months ago I wrote that I thought I would be a saner person when summer arrived. I was wrong; I stayed the same as I was last winter, if not nestled even further down into the vaguely sour haze I had been hoping to escape. I got my hopes up for fall, too, but nothing’s happening so far. For some reason, every time the season changes I think that I will change too. As if a new view out my window would change my perspective; as if the change of weather would awaken some sense of life and motivation hibernating deep down inside me.

I’ve heard from a couple people now that I’m not who I used to be. I don’t know if they’re really right or not, though I know some things have changed. I’m more tired than I was, and not as easy on the eyes. I guess I don’t create as much as I used to, and I guess I’m a little more raw these days; sensitive. Like the fleshy, vulnerable body of a snail that recoils suddenly into itself at one little poke. And then only very slowly creeps back out of its shell.

I’m not sure what I’m doing wrong; what exactly is making it more difficult for me to do the things that I feel define me. I’m not sure what I need in order to get back to where I was. Who I was.

Maybe I need to shrink. Maybe I need to accept “where I am”. Maybe I need to get out of my head. Maybe I need more space, or natural light. Maybe I need to do more. Maybe I need to do less. Maybe I need balance, or supplements or essential oils or more fiber in my diet or less red meat. Everybody tells me something different.

Maybe what I need is a big white tent in the sun, folding chairs dodging cow patties set up on the flattened grass in front of the plywood stage and wobbling podium. Styrofoam plates slippery with the bottled barbecue sauce dripping out the backs white bread buns and smeared on the chubby cheeks of children dressed in their wrinkled Sunday best; potato salad sweating like the red-faced preacher with the New King James Bible in his hand. Maybe I need to put on a calico dress and an ill-fitting bra and join the fat ladies belting out Amazing Grace. Should I sway and clap (just ahead of the beat), or raise my hands toward the meeting of the tent poles? I should close my eyes, of course, and throw out an occasional contribution to the waves of scattered “Amens” that briefly swell after every utterance of Jesus’ name, Amen. Maybe then the faith will come trickling back in like water, with the hymns and pleas to the sinners to repent; with the lukewarm grape juice and broken water crackers and the offering plate overflowing with flapping paper bills weighted down in the middle by the only kind of change that can be produced in an instant; counted out to be worth something quantitative. The only kind of change I can muster. Maybe I need the charismatic congregation; the unquestioning belief that that fleeting feeling in my chest is the Holy Spirit who lives in my heart, wandering my arteries and making my ventricles a resting place. Maybe after the preacher asks everyone to fold up their chairs and stack them at the front, I need him to clasp my hand in both of his and say to me “God bless you” as the a cappella choir sings the most exuberant worship song in its repertoire and everyone mingles while they exit the tent, filled with new resolve and hope as if it will last; filled with passion and eager to spread the Good News.

Maybe I need to join them; maybe I need to get swept up.

Maybe I need a revival.

That’s really all I can think of, at this point.

But I’m still open to suggestions.

Gravity is a Bitch

When I was a young child, I thought that all consciousnesses started out the same. All just waiting together somewhere like so many tiny glowing balls, primitive and barely-flickering, and when a creature was born—a human, a lion, an ant, anything—God would pick up one of the consciousnesses and put it into the brain of the thing that was born. Then I thought that the brain of the thing shaped the consciousness into whatever awareness was appropriate for the creature. So we’d all end up different, because of our different brains; one human is smarter than another, and humans are smarter than dolphins, which are smarter than dogs, and so on; but we all started out the same and it was by chance that I ended up being myself. My consciousness, my experience of life, could have been that of someone in a third world country, or of the president, or my cat, or a dinosaur from millions of years ago. God just happened to pluck it up when one particular baby was born and that baby became me. And I always wondered what it would have been like, to be someone or something different. To have that completely different experience of thought and life.

These days I mostly wonder what it was like to be my old self. No weights, no shame, no limitations, no reason to be angry, no wanting to be small. Smaller than a germ, than an atom, a quark; smaller than the smallest thing and wanting to burrow down through the carpet and the foundation of the apartment building and down, down, down through the earth to its core. And maybe there, in the scorching burning hot lava center—the point of origin—the weight would stop. The weight, the pull; the pull that makes me feel so heavy, like I am magnetized not only to the ground but through it and I am only so lucky that the earth is strong enough to hold me. Otherwise I would be swallowed up; sucked down swiftly, silently into the darkness and with a whoosh of air, gone. I feel it pulling at my bones, but the earth hasn’t broken yet.

Some might call it gravity but its pull on me seems stronger, or maybe I am just less capable of resistance.

Some might call it gravity but does gravity work on the neurons in your brain, the chemicals that shoot back and forth; the sparks? Does it work sometimes more than others? Do its effects increase with age?

Some might call it gravity but I seem to hit the ground a bit harder than others of a similar mass and density. My footprints are deep, it is hard to step out of them; hard to move forward.

Some might call it gravity; well then gravity’s a bitch.

Or is there a metaphysical kind, and it’s that one which pulls my words right back down my throat and into my gut before I spit them out? Keeps the inspiration buried somewhere I can’t get to it? Does it draw smoky lids down over the eyes of my soul so I can no longer see what I need to thrive? So that I bumble about in a haze, grasping at vague shapes that spark something deep in my memory but never quite fit. Maybe that metaphysical gravity is what makes the memories drop; fall out from between the wrinkles in my brain and drift down to the bottom of my skull landing facedown, where I’ll never see them again.

I’m hoping for some sort of micro-evolution; some way for my body and brain to adapt. Like maybe I will flatten out, distribute my weight over a greater expanse so the pull isn’t so strong all in one place. Or maybe my muscles will get stronger, or maybe my bones will go hollow. Maybe I’ll grow gills and take to the water; after all, it’s the next best thing to flying. Or maybe not. Maybe I’m doomed to a slow, sputtering extinction of the will, ill-equipped for the competition of this world. Why not me, Darwin? Why can I not adapt?

Maybe I just don’t fight hard enough.

But gravity is strong.

.

Honest Thoughts on Becoming a Curvy Girl

A year ago, I was thin. I weighed just enough to be considered healthy, but little enough to (sort of) measure up to today's cultural standards of beauty (meaning I was just a few pounds above "underweight"). Now I am curvy. Voluptuous. Chubby. Plump. This is something I have never been before, but it is something I am now. Thank you, medication side-effects; thank you, lupus; thank you, seizure that left me house-bound for six months. It is not something I'm happy about, but in spite of my emotional rebellion, my larger body has been teaching me.

I am a slow learner, and resentful, but nonetheless I am learning.

I am learning to enjoy experiences regardless of what I look like. I think that I used to believe, subconsciously, that I had to be beautiful (by our society’s standards) in order to deserve to enjoy life. Maybe I still believe that a little. But I’m learning to recognize it, and to recognize (at least on a cognitive level) that that belief is inaccurate. I'm learning that it is ridiculous to let my size stop me from enjoying anything.

I am learning to find beauty where before I thought there was none. In spite of myself, sometimes these wider hips make me feel like I could take on the world, blowing smoke from my nostrils; these thighs thick and solid pillars holding up a body that the wind will never blow over; that waves break against. Curves like a classic painting, and who’s to say they are any less beautiful than the wispy women on television? Just in a different way.

I’m learning to be less afraid of taking up space, as a person and as a woman. By necessity I am learning not to apologize for the room I occupy; being constantly apologetic is exhausting. And on principle I am learning to be proud of being a woman that, however accidentally, does not conform to our culture’s narrow-minded standards of beauty.

I’m learning that even self-love is an effort you make, not a feeling you feel.

I’m learning that I am not the only one I hurt with my self-loathing.

I am learning that my body is more than an object for the visual pleasure of those around me. That is not my body’s main purpose. In fact, that’s pretty low on the scale of importance regarding the functions it performs.

I’m learning that no matter my size I can still look pretty ok, when I wear clothes that fit me well.

I'm learning that both the secular culture and the church culture alike will make snap judgments about your level of promiscuity or "modesty" based on the size of your boobs and the prominence of your cleavage, regardless of whether or not you can help these things. And I'm learning not to be ashamed of my natural anatomy and the way it presents itself as I gain weight, no matter who gives me either judging or leering looks for it.

I’m learning that the only one human being on this planet that can truly make me feel beautiful is me.

But I am learning that, in order to feel beautiful, I must also feel rebellious and fierce. I must feel like fighting. It takes balls to step out into culture where, for a woman, thin = beautiful and beautiful = valuable. Especially when you do not measure up to the first element of the equation. It takes balls to step out into that and then dare to not pick at yourself and actively—constantly—hate every one of your flaws. And sometimes I’m too tired to nut up like that.

But, like a muscle that needs to be worked over and over, consistently and for a long period of time, slowly I’m learning self-acceptance.

None of these lessons are fully-learned. Most of them are just now breaking through the fog in my brain as I get used to being in this body. It’s a big change (no pun intended), and not one I saw coming. And to be honest, I hope it doesn’t stay this way.

But honestly, I also hope that soon I get to the point where I’d be ok if it did.