JennieJoyBarrows

peep show

2012-01-27T22:23:00.000-08:00

As I continue to write my story on this site, I am engaged in a daily challenge on another site, which I find the need to plug because it shows the lighter side of life, where not everything is quite so depressing.

take a peep...

jjpeppers.tumblr.com

the uncle

2012-01-04T20:32:00.001-08:00

(continued from post 8/6/11 "the cries for help")

I don't remember much of the rest of that day other than getting extremely upset after every meal. I managed to throw away my salad dressing and a few other extra things, but I was still angry about the amount of food I had to eat. I explained to any BHA who would listen that my stomach literally felt like it was going to explode and there was no way it could physically hold that much food. I just kept saying it wasn't fair as I fought back the tears. 23 years old and I was crying at the dinner table because I had to finish what was on my plate.

Come dinner time the BHAs kept telling me to talk about it with the dietitian tomorrow. I felt like Princess Jasmine (minus the "perfect" body) in the movie Aladdin when the soldiers arrest Aladdin in the street and Jasmine, who's posed as a commoner, unveils her disguise and says "UN-HAND HIM! By order of the princess!" Everyone, including Abu, Aladdin's faithful monkey, is shocked that she's the princess and that she actually has a say in the matter regarding Aladdin's arrest. The soldiers kneel and apologize but the head soldier responds "I would, princess, except my orders come from Jafar, you'll have to take it up with him." The camera flashes to Jasmine and there she stands with her arms crossed and anger in her eyes as she says in a deep and disgruntled voice, "believe me, I will!"

As the BHAs told me to discuss it with the dietitian tomorrow I sat at the end of the table and replayed that scene with myself. I crossed my arms and with anger and disgust in my voice replied "believe me, I will!" I was trying to act like a bad ass, but at the same time trying not to laugh because I realized in my attempt to appear like a bad ass I was actually just re-enacting a scene from Aladdin, of all movies. Oh, if some people only knew what went on in my head... I might have stayed in treatment a bit longer.

Aside from the emotions in regards to my meals and exercise, the only other thing I remember from the second day is meeting with my psychiatrist. I don't even remember meeting with my therapist that day but a journal entry tells me I did and that I actually liked her. More on that to come.

My psychiatrist was a short, somewhat heavy set woman with just the slightest bit of curly hair on her chin. She appeared to be from the Middle East but seeing as geography was the last thing I cared about at that point I wouldn't be able to tell you from what part, but I would guess probably somewhere in the middle. She asked me so many questions though I sometimes felt as if she wasn't actually listening, but instead shaking her head and saying "ummhmm" right on cue. I told her about my anxiety and what I called "sort of depression." As a Christian I wasn't comfortable calling it depression because my understanding was that if you had Jesus then you shouldn't be depressed. But when I thought about the possibility of me not being a Christian anymore I started to feel more comfortable claiming the depression.

Once again, not being a Christian started to feel more freeing than it did lonely or scary. After all, not being a Christian was making me feel more honest than I had ever felt in my whole life. I didn't know it was okay to say "I am a Christian, and I have a problem," I always thought it had to be one or the other. I have since then realized that this is not so. Today my hope does not lay in the problems going away, my hope lays in the fact that I have Someone to carry me through them.

By the end of our session my psychiatrist, Dr. Lynn, had prescribed me to Prozac for depression, Buspar for anxiety, and Trazodone for sleeping. Before entering treatment I had previously been on medication for A.D.D., but since I had a history of abusing it in college she thought we might wait to see how I would do on the other medications before pumping my bloodstream with more... how kind. "Besides," she said, "prescribing Adderall to someone with an eating disorder is quite risky because it suppresses your appetite." Damn. I think she knew that was why I wanted it.

Though I did like the fact that Adderall suppressed my appetite, I also found that it helped me focus incredibly... I'm sure most college students would agree. I missed having that focus in life, even if it was chemically enhanced. Maybe my body needed the medication she prescribed me because it wasn't wired like everyone esles, but at the same time putting all those chemicals in my body without thinking I was abusing them was hard for me to accept. I trusted Dr. Lynn knew what she was doing simply because she was a doctor and I wasn't. I knew I didn't want to be on medication forever, but I also knew that I wanted to feel something other than nothing.

When I was actually experiencing emotion it was either anger or anxiety and I just couldn't do it anymore. The sleeping pill was optional and she told me I could take it as I felt I needed it, so I decided that I didn't need it, though I didn't tell her that. Like with my psychiatrist, when I first entered treatment I didn't say much of anything to anybody unless I had to. I mostly just listened and judged without saying a word. I kept thinking I wasn't as bad off as the other girls which I mis-led myself to believe that meant I didn't have a problem. People knew me as quiet and sad, but with spurts of "tamed anger" like my Princess Jasmine re-enactment at dinner. Only I knew that the anger deep down was so much more fierce than that of a Disney Princess, it seemed foolish to even relate it.

I remember before going to bed that night calling my aunt and uncle. Part of the reason my family decided on Illinois as the place for me to go to treatment was because my aunt and uncle, my dad's brother, lived 45 minutes from the facility. Seeing as there were not many options in South Carolina for treatment facilities, plus the fact that I just wanted to get away, my parents still wanted me to have family close by if I went off some where. If it had been solely up to me to pick a treatment facility I would have picked a spot nestled on the coast of California... give me the beaches and the warm weather any day. The idea of going somewhere as cold as Illinois was not appealing to me at all, but thankfully there was a greater plan than my own at work. Having my aunt and uncle close by helped me get through so much of my time in treatment. Girls often had visitors come to see them and I definitely underestimated how refreshing it was (and still is) to see a familiar face in a foreign land. I barely knew my aunt and uncle before moving to Illinois, mainly because of the physical distance between us, but during my time in treatment they became like a mother and father to me.

And now I introduce a most important character in this story...

Uncle Buddy. He is a man who has my heart unlike any other; not more so than my own father, and obviously in a much different way than a man I have fallen in love with, but Uncle Buddy's tough love brought warmth to my heart during a time when it was bitterly cold. Even if others were trying to say the exact same thing to me that he was, I never actually heard what they were saying until it came out of Uncle Buddy's mouth. He might still not know this, but those first few months of treatment seemed as if he were a translator, giving value to the words that other people tried to speak into my life. He's not quite what you would expect from the hard exterior, but the interior, which he would never admit to, is mostly warm mush. I think you might have to know Uncle Buddy a little bit better to truly understand what I mean. Allow me to try to paint a picture...

Picture Paul Teutul Sr. of Orange County Choppers (and if you don't know who I'm talking about click here), subtract some of the grey hair, take a little less off the mustache, but not much, add a thick southern accent (even after having lived in Chicago for twenty plus years), and combine the cooking abilities of Paula Dean, the decorating techniques of Martha Stewart, and the cigar smoking bad ass presence of X-Men's Wolverine, and there you have my Uncle Buddy. Some of it doesn't make sense, right? How can Martha Stewart and Wolverine be in the same category? I know, and you wouldn't understand it unless you met my Uncle Buddy. A true rebel at heart, with the physique to match, this man is not someone you want to mess with. That said, his capacity to love is overwhelming and his genuine smile makes Disneyland look boring.

Uncle Buddy and my Aunt Amy are the ones who suited me up in the flaming orange Harley Davidson jacket (see previous posts) . I'm not actually sure Uncle Buddy owns an article of clothing that doesn't say Harley Davidson. Not only does Uncle Buddy ride a Harley Davidson, he named his dog Harley David. If I were to play a word association game and the words "Harley Davidson" came up, I would say "Uncle Buddy."

So this macho man won my heart and my trust quite early on. His wife, Amy, loved me as if I were her own daughter, and the two of them welcomed me into their lives, not as a project to be fixed, but as a person to be loved.

My first month in treatment they called me every night before bed. One of my favorite memories of Uncle Buddy during this time involved one of his nightly phone calls.

Every night after snack we had our final group of the day to sort of do a check in before bed. After group we were allowed to have phone time for a short while which was always when Uncle Buddy or Amy would call. I don't remember the details, but I remember we were held in group longer than normal and we ended up losing phone time because of it. Uncle Buddy called and was told I was still in group. When he called again he was told group time went over and phone time was up, meaning he would have to call again tomorrow. As of the girls that night were upset that they didn't get to make or receive their phone calls. A few of them threw fits, and as I got more comfortable with my surroundings I cared less about what the staff thought of me and started to throw fits too. "My therapist told me I need to use my voice," I yelled, "so I am voicing that I need to use the phone! It is not my fault that group time went over, and it is not fair that I can't use it!" My favorite phrase when arguing in treatment was always to start my argument with "MY THERAPIST SAYS..."

I didn't win that argument, nor did anyone else. Extra BHAs were called in to calm girls down and take them to their rooms. After sleeping pills were distributed the night ended calmly, but I knew there was going to be someone who was going to be really upset, and I knew that if anybody could win that argument it would be him...

Uncle Buddy.

It was only going to be a few days later that I was going to see uncle Buddy come to my defense and make the director of the program think twice before ever cutting into phone time again.

(to be continued...)

train rides

2011-11-22T19:13:00.000-08:00

I'm currently in the middle of reading four different books. Technically three because one is a children's book and I've already read it, but I keep re-reading it and will continue to do so until I feel as though its lesson has sunk deep within me. I am not saying I'm in the middle of reading four books to brag about how much I read, I am saying I'm in the middle of reading four books because it reveals quite a bit about the way I do life... easily distracted and wanting more than what is in front of me.

Earlier this year I made a commitment to not start a book until I finished the one I was reading, and I did real good for a while. But, like with most causes or good intentions, I'm great at boarding the train in excitement and not so great at staying on for the long haul. After a while the train ride becomes monotonous and what started out as new and exciting soon becomes normal and boring. The problem is, I all too often mistake the excitement that comes with experiencing something new for joy or happiness. I assume I have found what it is I have been looking for and with a new found feeling of fulfillment I claim it as my own. But what once was new can't stay new forever and when those feelings of excitement start to fade, so does my confidence in thinking I have found what truly makes me happy.

I start to look around the train and after searching all the cars I realize I'm not going to find what fulfills me on board. I begin to look out the window and become enchanted by everything I pass. With a hunger for more, I begin thinking about getting off the train to go somewhere "better" and I start to feel the excitement all over again. Once again, I forget that "new" does not mean that it is "better" and I begin planning my escape. It may be a big city with bright lights, or a dark forest with beautiful trees, either way, the newness of it entices me and I assume my happiness must be found there.

I've been hopping on and off trains for far too long now. I feel like I should be much older than I am to be saying that, but when the search for fulfillment begins at such a young age, as it did for me, you start to wear out long before it's your time.

A dear friend of mine sent me a quote from one of my favorite authors, Henri Nouwen, who also happens to be the author of one of my four reading books at the moment. It struck a chord with me because for a man who accomplished so much, teaching at Notre Dame, Yale and Harvard, working with the homeless and people with mental handicaps, for example (which doesn't even scratch the surface of what I find amazing about him), he still found himself coming up empty and unfulfilled.

At 28, with no claim to fame or even much to my name (I did not mean to rhyme, but I may send that as a lyrical suggestion to eminem), even after giving into the excitement of new train rides leading to new locations, new jobs, new schools and new relationships over and over again, each time coming up empty, I confess, I'm still hoping the right train is out there for me to hop on and I just haven't found it yet.

That's not what I'm supposed to say, right? I'm supposed to say I'm tired of train hopping and I give up searching for happiness and I surrender all. And yes, there is truth to that, I want to be at that point, I honestly and sincerely want to be able to say without hesitation that I am tired of hopping the happy train that leads to disappointment, but I'm not there yet. And so maybe I can't honestly say to the Lord, "okay, I surrender all" because I'm afraid of things I have seen on my train rides, and my perception of God is so skewed that I assume if I surrender all then He is going to make me do the very thing I don't want to do.

I have started to realize that my problem is not with my fear, my problem is with my understanding of who God is. I want to know Him more, the real Him, not the Sunday School Him, but I know that requires even further surrender on my part. So I may not be able to say "I surrender all" yet, but I can say, "I want to be willing to surrender all."

I want to leave with you with the quote from Henri Nouwen my friend shared with me. I hope it speaks to you as it did to me, but perhaps in a way that relates to you.

"Today, I realized that the question of where to live and what to do is really insignificant compared to the question of how to keep the eyes of my heart focused on the Lord. I can be teaching at Yale, working in the bakery at the Genesee Abbey, or walking around with poor children in Peru and feel totally useless, miserable, and depressed in all of those situations. I am sure of it, because it has happened. There is not such a thing as the right place or the right job. I can be happy and unhappy in all situations. I am sure of it, because I have been. I have felt distraught and joyful in situations of abundance as well as poverty, in situations of popularity and anonymity, in situations of success and failure. The difference was never based on the situation itself, but always on my state of mind and heart. When I knew that I was walking with the Lord, I always felt happy and at peace. When I was entangled in my own complaints and emotional needs, I always felt restless and divided. It is a simple truth that comes to me in a time when I have to decide about my future. Coming to Lima for 5, 10, or 20 years is no great decision. Turning fully, unconditionally, and without fear to the Lord IS."

Today, I am thankful that my worth does not lay in the right location, the right job, the right school, or the right relationship. Because of this, I am willing to stop and rest and not try so hard to prove to the world and to myself that I am of value. At least for today, for this moment, I am going to watch the train pass by as I rest in the truth that I am deeply loved already and my need to go looking for it is no longer.

true stories

2011-11-20T18:11:00.000-08:00

It's quite curious to me how quick I am to stand up for and desire truth above much else, yet how slow I am to be willing to voice truth over saving face. The truth is my computer is on it's last breath, yes that's true. But to cite that as the sole reason for why I can't seem to continue to "truthfully" continue my story would be false. Do I owe anyone an explanation? No. Does it even matter for me to be telling my story on a blog? Probably not. But what I have found in the past is that regardless of the fact that others may or may not be listening, me simply voicing the truth is healing for me. And so here I go.

I can't bring myself to tell the rest of my story yet for a few reasons. The first would be the realization that as I go further into my story, other people's stories become involved; other people who may or may not be ready to tell their story or to have their story heard. I don't want to feed into my family history of hiding secrets so that no one thinks I struggle, believe me, I do, but I want to respect my friends and family who are going through their own healing processes. Truth is very important to me, I do not want to hide behind a smile anymore, so while I can be honest with where I am at, I realize not everyone is in the same place, and it may take them a bit longer to sort through their stuff before being able to be honest with where they are at. I wouldn't be very helpful to them if I was trying to rush their healing process just so I could share a great story on a blog. I hope and pray for healing in the lives of my friends and family, both immediate and distant, but I'm not quite sure it is my job right now to bring their struggles into the light.

While that reason seems quite good enough, it surely isn't what has paralyzed me in my writing. In fact, that reason makes me sound much nicer than I actually am. My rebellious side, which is more prominent, says "screw them and screw what everyone else thinks, I'm gonna shine some light all up in this darkness." Then I would take all the glory for being so honest. So yes, respecting other people's stories is a reason, but it's not the reason. To cite it as such would be to not take responsibility for where I am at in life. If I ever hope to become a better person, I have to start by being honest with where I am at.

So where am I at? (yes, grammar scholars, I know I'm not supposed to put "at" there, but guess what? I wanted to, so I did)

I am heart broken and alone. I am tired and emotionally drained. I am angry and bitter (if you couldn't tell by my comment above). I am cynical and skeptical. I don't trust anyone, and that is not an exaggeration. I know I have been the one to hurt others but I am so caught up in how much I have been hurt that I can't feel much else. I am sad and unmotivated and am pretty much ready to go to bed at night and just not wake up in the morning.

Now, before you call my parents or call some hot line for me or email me a bible verse, hear me out.

I am feeling and experiencing all of those things, yes, but I am okay, because it is okay for me to feel and experience all of those things. After a very difficult year, I would not be being honest with myself or with anyone if I wasn't feeling or experiencing those things. In fact, I would be void of emotion, completely numb.

Either that or dead.

If I expect my heart to be healed I have to start by being honest about its condition. It is weak and it is broken and there are days when it physically hurts, but I know that this pain is not forever. I know because it has been broken before and it has been healed before. I know because as surely as there are seasons of the year there are seasons of life. So yes, I have hope that as Sam Cooke said "a change is gonna come," but let's be honest, hope doesn't necessarily minimize the pain, nor do I think that it should. So when I say life is hard right now, I'm not looking for quick fixes or out of context Bible verses. I am just being honest with where I am at so that if God really is who He says He is, I can reveal who I really am and allow Him to fix, change, heal, or whatever it is He does so that He can draw me away from the pain I find myself in right now.

What comes after that? I don't know. Doesn't it seem like I should desire God for more than just making pain go away? Sure, I guess, but honestly, that is as far as I can see at the moment. To try and figure out how and why and what God is going to do once He heals me is to completely miss what He is doing right now. At this present moment, for me to say I desire God and God alone would be a lie. Do we ever just desire God alone while we live in our flesh? I don't know, perhaps there are some, but instead of trying to be like them, as I have before, I'm going to be honest with who I am and see what God does with that.

The trouble I find with sharing struggles or burdens with some Christians is that they so badly want to find a solution (they want to be God, just like I do) and when they can't find a solution they settle on the "fact" that you simply just don't have enough faith and you need to pray more. I don't even know where to begin on how damaging that "advice" can be to a person. To chalk up someones circumstances as a lack of faith is to assume one of two things: 1) that you are God and 2) that you are not God but you know the ins and outs of how God works and know exactly what He is doing in this person's life and based upon your full and miraculous understanding of God you have come to conclude that this person simply needs to pray more.

I don't mean to bash those people for giving such advice, I truly do believe that some people just want to find solutions for those they love because they don't want to see them hurting anymore. I understand that, I do. I guess what I am saying is that if you are ever on the receiving end of someones struggles, be quicker to listen than you are to speak.

Another trouble I find is this idea of story. Let me clarify... I love the idea of story, if I could be a professional storyteller, I would, but I hate that it only seems okay to tell a story when there is a clear beginning, middle and end. People love hearing people's stories when there is a happy ending and they can package it up and sell it in a book. Books about addiction, recovery, pain, loss, grief... everyone shares about their struggles after they have gone through them and are smiling on the other side. Why? Probably because that's when people want to hear them. I love hearing the recovered alcoholic tell his story, I don't like hearing the drunk say he wants help for the fifteenth time while I sit in disbelief and disgust in his choices. I admit, I don't mind hearing people's struggles when they talk about them in past tense. I have a really hard time hearing people talk about what they struggle with presently. I'm guilty of what it is I don't like, an unwillingness to walk through people's mess with them in the here and now. To take it even further, I determine how deep their mess is before I decide to wade through it, or even stick my big toe in for that matter. Maybe this is discernment, because I do think there is something to be said for that, but when all is said and done, mess is mess, and who am I to avoid someone in need because I think their mess is too messy. Too messy for what?

Perhaps I steered from the direction I was originally intending to go with this post. My intention wasn't to rag on other people in a passive aggressive fashion, though I suppose it could be interpreted that way. My intention was to be honest with where I am at. I am in the middle of telling a story of recovery with a "happy ending" while currently having a hard time in life. And so perhaps there are endings to seasons, but not really to our stories. I will keep telling mine, eventually, but know that it never really ends because life keeps happening. My heart will heal and this will be its own recovery story, but it doesn't mean I have recovered from grief and loss and pain all together. As long as I am breathing, I think hard times will come. But they will also go, and come, and go, and come.

Earlier this year I asked God to allow me to know Him more, to see His face and to walk hand in hand with Him. I thought that meant He would allow me to see and experience His wonders, all things glorious and beautiful. I thought of all the good things about God and thought by asking to know Him more I would get to know and see and experience some of those things. As the end of the year comes to a close I now see my own ignorance in my prayer. There is more to God than warm fuzzies and holy hugs, I knew that already, but I did not think of knowing God as knowing darkness, and seeing suffering in action and experiencing pain without a light at the end of the tunnel. I truly believe God answered my prayer, and is still answering it, but He certainly did not answer it in the way I thought He would.

To ask God to walk hand in hand with Him might not mean He walks you through green pastures, even if He's quite familiar with going that way, it may mean He walks you through the valley of the shadow of death, and you see things you never saw before, things you thought God would never associate Himself with. Lesson learned: be more specific when you pray. But I don't regret it. I don't regret that prayer and I am no longer angry at God for answering it. I thought my prayer was going to remove my pain, instead God walked me further into it, revealing to me the depth of it and allowing me to see what it would be like without Him. For me, to experience such pain is to know God more.

It terrifies me still because even after everything that was and is so challenging and difficult, I want to know God even more, but I don't want to hurt anymore. I think, however, that even though I want God to draw me away from my pain, He knows what I can handle, whether that be to take me further into it or to let me be still as I am.

I need to note that I am not saying that the formula to get to know God is to hurt severely. I don't think there is a formula. I think we have to allow God to be original in how He reveals Himself to each of us. I'm just sharing a bit of my story while I'm right in the middle of it.

I am hurting, but I am okay, because God has got me right where I am at.

disclaimer

2011-11-01T16:33:00.001-07:00

until i can either get my ancient computer, barney, fixed or afford a new one, i am at the mercy of library hours and good neighbors for typing out the rest of "the story." if anyone is actually still reading at this point, there is more to come, it just may take a while longer. thanks for your patience and your willingness to have read up to this point.

the cries for help

2011-08-06T15:57:00.000-07:00

(continued from previous post... "the perfect patient")

After throwing my oatmeal toppings away, I walked proudly out of the kitchen and went and sat down in the lobby. I felt like doing a strut as I had regained confidence in my ability to control what I ate, even while in treatment. My life was falling apart around me and had been for the last few years, but as long as I could control what I ate, I felt like everything was going to be okay. Though I thought I was in control, something as "simple" as food had complete control over every part of who I was. Every thought, every move, every bite, every action was guided by how much weight I could lose, how much further I could run, and how many calories I could cut out. It was easy for me to think that I had dealt with the anger from my childhood or the many other heartbreaks and let-downs, of which I will touch on later, but the only reason it was easy for me to think all of that was simply because I was numb... to everything. What I didn't realize was that I didn't actually deal with any of those issues, I just stopped thinking about them because the only thing I could think about was food, food, food. There was no healing in my life, there was just numbing. And that's pretty much how I remember feeling during my early twenties... numb.

The problem with numbing... you can't just numb out the bad and only feel the good, you numb it all. Sure, I wasn't sad when I was thinking about food all the time, but I wasn't happy either. I was emotionless, driven only by what went in or out of my body. During that time period my mother once described me as a hollow shell, as if all the life had been sucked out of me. I functioned those years, but I wasn't living. My mind was sold out and my heart went right along with it. My mother was right. Didn't someone say once that mothers always are!?

So, day two at the facility and I've already abandoned God and figured out how to cheat the system... I was off to a great start with my recovery. If I'm really honest, abandoning God made me feel like a bad ass, but somewhere deep down I knew that I still wanted Him. I didn't want the life I had lived with Him before, but there was something about Him I still wanted. I so badly wanted Him to be someone other than who I thought He was, but it just seemed too difficult to figure out. I didn't want a God of rules, but a God without rules I just couldn't understand. I hated formulas, but I needed them if I was to accomplish anything, and that was how I felt about God. None of my formulas to get to Him seemed to be working, so instead of abandoning the formulas, I decided God didn't care and I abandoned Him.

I sat in the lobby after breakfast sorting through my thoughts about God, telling Him I wasn't going to talk to Him anymore, even though I was still talking to Him in that moment. I felt conflicted not knowing who or what to believe. I think I decided I would still ask God for help because I have journal entries in which I did, but I also decided that this time around was going to be my final round of asking. It was as if I was putting God on trial and saying, "OK, prove it!" To be honest I was scared to even consider it so final, to ask one last time. As long as I wasn't asking for help I could still hope that there was help to be offered, but if I asked and didn't receive then all hope would be lost. What does one do without hope? I had desperately pleaded for God to help me months before going into treatment and when it didn't happen (the way I thought it would), I was much too afraid to ever ask again. It was easier for me to think God was pre-occupied than to think He wasn't there, but when it really came down to the questions, I would say it was much easier to think that God wasn't there than to think He didn't care. I'd rather have no god than a god who didn't care.

Girls began to pile back in from the cafeteria after breakfast, running about the lobby and getting ready to separate into their different groups. I looked down the hall and saw Annie and Carson, who had been tranquilized the night before for causing an uprising. They were being escorted to the nurses station, barely half awake as their eyes struggled to stay open. I asked one of the girls why they got so upset last night and she explained that Carson had a panic attack and started to cut herself with a safety pin and when the BHAs tried to stop her, Annie came to her "defense." "Where'd she get the safety pin?" I asked. "It's easier than you'd think to sneak stuff in here," she said "or just to hide stuff and get away with it." She smiled as if she were hiding something, but she also seemed to be one of the sweetest, most innocent girls there. I smiled because even though it was only my second day, I knew exactly what she meant since I had just thrown my oatmeal toppings away without anyone knowing. "I'm Katie," she said quietly with a smile. She asked what I was in for and I told her an eating disorder. "Me too!" she said somewhat excitedly, which I found to be a little odd, but I suppose the excitement was over the fact that we had something in common, not the fact that we both had eating disorders.

Katie was one of the first adolescents that I really liked. She was just so friendly to everyone, but not in an obnoxious way, like someone who is just trying to be nice to everyone. She was mostly just quiet, not going out of her way to come across as someone special, but you realized she was special when you came to her and felt her warmth and her genuine kindness. As we sat on the couch in the lobby Katie explained that Annie and Carson got into trouble all the time. She didn't say anything bad or derogatory towards them but simply just stated facts. I liked that about Katie because it seemed to me that there were plenty of bad or derogatory things to say about Annie and Carson, but she opted not to. She told me they would be put on a sort of behavior probation where they would be monitored 24/7 by a BHA. I didn't know Annie and Carson that well, but I knew they weren't going to like that. As we were talking I looked at Katie's arms. One of her long sleeves was slightly rolled up and I noticed all the cut marks hiding beneath her clothing. I didn't say anything but I couldn't help but wonder what this sweet girl had done to herself, and why. I just didn't understand why. I had always thought that someone cutting them self was simply for attention, but Katie didn't seem to want attention. I felt distracted while we talked as I wrestled with the thoughts in my head.

Liz, the nurse I was quite fond of who checked me in the day before, came from the nurses station and called out that it was time for medication. As girls were lining up for their meds, the morning BHAs started filing in through the front double doors. A few of them asked how my first night was and I said the same thing to most of them, "interesting." I was a girl of few words during that time leading up to treatment and much of the time during. I felt so unlike myself, but then again I truly didn't know who "myself" was. Does anybody, ever? Even after people "find themselves" doesn't life just catch up with them again and they begin to wonder who they are and how they got here or there. I know this seems to be the case with me... a continual cycle of growing and changing, finding comfort in who I am for a short while, only for something else to come my way and shake things up a bit, or sometimes a lot. It is good, yes, I am glad and thankful not to remain stagnant and complacent, but that doesn't minimize the fact that it, life, can be and often is hard.

As the girls got their meds I was told by one of the BHAs that I would be able to meet with a psychiatrist as well as my new therapist that day. "Your dad wanted you to have a Christian therapist," she said, "and since we don't have one here one will be commuting from another location, so it will be later today." I was honestly embarrassed that she said that out loud and really glad that most of the girls were getting their meds so as not to hear. "Great!" I thought to myself, "I'm the only one here that's having a therapist wrangled in because I need to have one who's a Christian. I'm gonna be seen as the typical Christian who only wants to associate with other Christians. I don't even know if I am a Christian." At the time I was much too worried about what other people thought of me to see this as a blessing, which it ended up being, though not right away.

I was more concerned about my meals than I was about meds or therapy so I asked when I would be able to meet with the dietitian. "Probably not until tomorrow because she doesn't come in on Tuesdays," the BHA smiled as she said it. I was livid, though I didn't show it. "I was told that I would be able to meet with the dietitian 'tomorrow' yesterday, and now I'm being told today that I can meet with her tomorrow, what about my meals?" I asked. I could tell that the BHA was slightly nervous about how to answer seeing as how eating disorder patients are likely to snap when it comes to matters of food, just like a drug addict would if you tried to take away their drug. "Well," she paused, "you'll have to just keep eating what they assign you until you can meet with her." I tried not to cry. She could tell I was upset, "but the dietitian will definitely be here tomorrow." I was just as upset about feeling mis-led as I was about what I would have to eat. If there was one thing that I could not stand it was being told what I wanted to hear instead of the truth, which is kind of ironic because I was always so good at telling people what they wanted to hear instead of the truth. Maybe that's why it made me so mad when it happened to me, because it was something that I didn't like about myself.

Before lunch I was also informed that I was put on exercise restriction, meaning I wasn't allowed to exercise until I gained weight. What I didn't realize was that their idea of exercise meant any movement at all in which calories might be burned (at least that's what it felt like to me). I wasn't even allowed to walk to the cafeteria, which all the girls did because it was just up the hill. Instead, I and two other girls who were on exercise restriction, Katie being one of them, had to wait for a van to come pick us up at the front doors of the lodge and be driven a total of five seconds to the cafeteria. It was, to say the least, in my opinion, ridiculous. I was pissed about not being able to exercise, especially thinking about the amount I had to eat without the option of throwing it up, or taking a laxative, or now being able to burn it off. I wasn't in the van long enough to think too much about it and once we got to the cafeteria I was just so glad to be out of the lodge that I literally stepped out into the cold and wiped the lodge smell off of me.

The cafeteria was big and sort of divided into two dining areas. The girls were divided into two groups... those with eating disorders and those without. The girls without eating disorders all sat where ever they wanted and were able to go through the line and get whatever they wanted to eat, while the girls with eating disorders were confined to one table monitored by two BHAs. One BHA would sit at the table the whole time while the other would follow the girls through the food line. The "benefit" of having an eating disorder in treatment was that you got to go first through the line, but if you had an eating disorder then more than likely you didn't even want to go through the line, and the girls who actually wanted to eat had to wait longer, so it wasn't really a benefit to anyone.

The eating disorder girls all had meal cards which they had to hand to the servers and the servers would then fill their trays with what was on the cards. The meal cards were prepared each few days by the patient and the dietitian and together they would pick out certain food groups to comprise a meal. Since I had yet to meet with the dietitian I didn't have a meal card, and I wasn't allowed to pick for myself so I had to wait at the table for someone to bring me my assigned meal. Thankfully it was a mixed salad with tofu, "yes!" I thought to myself, but it was the biggest salad with the largest amounts of tofu I had ever seen in my life, "daggum it!". Even if it was just mostly lettuce, I wondered how the hell I was going to fit this mountain of leaves and vegetables into my stomach cavity that was three times smaller.

To take a few steps back and glance at another snapshot before entering treatment, I had lived and labeled myself as a vegetarian for the last year and was greatly considering becoming a vegan. (Katie and I had talked earlier that morning about us both being vegetarians, another exciting commonality.) Though I get the cool vibe associated with being a vegan because it requires a lot of discipline, keep in mind that it is also very easy to be a vegan when you have an eating disorder. I was basically eating salad leaves and fruit except for when I would binge and purge. I think for me to be a vegan just would have meant to stop binging. I had a way of disguising my problems by associating them with "normal" life styles or medical diagnoses. In another instance I told my family I was lactose intolerant, when really I was binging on ice cream and sweets and then making myself throw up. I thought it was genius.

It may have been genius if I wanted to continue to live as a functioning addict, but I have the journal entry dated 11/29/06 where I recognized that I had a problem and that I didn't want it anymore. It was on a trip to South Africa where I found myself binging and purging all through out the trip simply because I had broken one eating rule. Once I broke that one rule, as an extremist, I couldn't get back on track. At the time I didn't realize being on track, for me, meant anorexia (because of my severe food restriction and over-exercising), I just thought it meant I was being healthy. Getting off track, binging and purging, was what brought me to a place of admitting I had a problem. Getting help was going to be a long process because my idea of getting healthy was just another addiction, another disease, that I wasn't willing to admit I had. Nonetheless, at least admitting I had a problem of some sort was a baby step in the right direction. Much like Bob Wylie in What About Bob? I don't think I could have handled dealing with all of my problems at once.

My journal entry from that day in South Africa, November 29th, 2006 was as follows:

Today I realize I don't want to live my life in bondage, and even more so, in secret. Today I want to stop pretending like nothing is wrong with me. Something is wrong with me. Making yourself eat until you feel sick just because and then making yourself throw up is a problem. Not only is it a problem, it's disgusting, and I'm disgusted with myself. I don't know how to go about getting the help I want and need. I know the church is there, but it's hard to know who to talk to who won't talk to others, especially since I've been a leader in the church. I feel so ashamed of myself because until this trip I had gotten in great shape and lost all my weight by exercise and nutrition- the "right" way, the long way, the hard way. I really worked hard. And on this trip when I started gaining weight, I started taking the easy way out. Everyone thinks I'm lactose intolerant. I'm not lactose intolerant, I'm bulimic. When you feel you have to hide what you're doing, you should know it's a problem.

Once I admitted I had a problem I did okay... for a few hours. But even after deciding that I didn't want to live in bondage anymore and that I needed to change, I found myself repeating every behavior I had vowed to get rid of. Addiction is a terrible beast, a monster that truly can not be controlled if it doesn't want to be. Even an addict who wants to get help can't just simply stop what he or she is doing by choice. I had made a choice to stop, but I was stuck in a cycle too far in to be able to get out on my own.

After just a few hours I recorded these words:

11pm. This is no way to live. I hate it. I did it again. I don't even want to write it out because I am so ashamed. Tonight I gave in again. My stomach hurts, and I'm sure it's under tremendous stress, which is probably another reason why my skin is so bad. I keep blaming it on other people, but I really think I'm stressing myself out. I know I'm stressing my body out. I need help, and even though I feel so confused right now, the Lord seems to be the only one I can call for help. Of course, I honestly don't know if He's actually helping me, or if I'm really truly calling on him, or just saying that cause I know I should. I have to keep reminding myself that this is just temporary- this trip. Of course my problems will continue to follow me if I don't deal with them. I'm so unhappy. What has happened to me? I'm run down, I'm worn out. I'm tired of trying to keep up- with everyone- with society, with Christians, with my family. I'm running a race I can't win so I don't even feel like trying anymore. I know I need to talk to somebody, I just can't seem to take the step to do it. Knowing and taking action are two different things.

I will never forget that night. I fell on my knees on a hard wooden floor as a party was going on in the living room beneath me and I begged God to take all the pain away. I asked Him to either take it all away or to please not wake me up the next morning. I honestly would have rather died than wake up another day and be stuck inside of my head. I wasn't actively suicidal because I had the smallest bit of hope that if it could all just go away then I wanted to live, but if living meant nothing more than what I felt in that moment then I just wanted God to take me out. I begged God to bring me Home that night and allow me to see Jesus. "I'm going to bed now," I cried, "please just don't wake me up unless this will all go away, OK?" I was as sincere as a little child asking their mother or father to lay with them in bed until they fell asleep. I was terrified to wake up again, alone in my struggle.

As God would have it, I woke up the next morning, but nothing had changed. I assumed He understood that I meant for the pain to go away as soon as I woke up, not at some point down the road after being woken up. My heart felt heavy and incredibly sad as I felt somewhat ignored and neglected by God. I assumed my problems weren't big enough for Him to deal with. After all, with so much else going on in the world, what are my problems to Him?

That day while going around a mountain pass, I felt like my mind had been completely taken over. I sat silently on the back seat of an SUV, surrounded by my parents, my younger sister and her friend who was driving. As he zipped around each corner all I could think about was how much I wanted to die. I was gripping so tightly to the edge of my seat and I just kept thinking, "I want to be fucking shot. Please, just let it be done quickly and have somebody shoot me." All I could think about over and over again was being shot. I was memorized by the thought of it. It was like I was aware that I was going crazy and there was nothing I could do about it. I finally asked if we could stop the car and get out. We pulled over on the side of a ledge and everybody got out to take a breather. No one had any clue what was going through my mind. I looked over the ledge and thought to myself "if I just jump, this could all be over."

I think there was a beautiful view over-looking the mountains of South Africa, but I really don't know... all I remember thinking about was death waiting at the bottom of the mountains. I stared like a person obsessed with an idea that they couldn't get out of their mind. The bottom of a mountain had never looked so beautiful until that moment.

"God, I can't take this..." but before I could finish my mom walked over to me.

It was a few days later on that trip that I would confess to my parents that I had a problem and that I needed help. They promised to get me help as soon as we got back to America and kept a close watch on me the rest of the time. Despite their efforts, I still binged and purged, often in the middle of the night and always before going to take a shower. I thought admitting the problem would just made it go away, I didn't realize it was only the first step in a long list of steps to overcome addiction. Upon returning to America I told my parents I was fine, and that I was just out of control because of the stress of the trip. It would be another 2-3 months of living my life still in bondage, knowing I wanted out but not being sure how to get out, before entering treatment. I lived in a constant state of fear... fear of having a single bite of food because I was certain I wouldn't be able to stop if I started. I feared going home at the end of the work day, I feared just being awake, stuck in my thoughts and tormented by the site of my body.

One night in January of 2007 after having dinner at my sister's house and "giving it back" in her bathroom, I set out to drive home. I was discusted with myself as I drove and the only way I knew how to deal with my feelings of discust was to numb them out. I had already made up my mind to binge and purge as soon as I got home. My mind fought with itself as I went back and forth between whether or not I would. It wasn't even a matter of wanting to or not wanting to, I literally felt like I had no control, like my body craved something, and without my permission it had already decided that it needed to binge and purge. If I were to walk into that house there was no way I would be able to keep myself from doing it. I cried because I didn't want to do it anymore, but I felt like I didn't have a choice. It was like I was two people duking it out in one body. The eating disorder literally had a voice of it's own that over powered any bit of sense I tried to make.

As I drove home I cried and cried and begged God to take the feelings and the urges away. When I felt no relief I just kept driving. I knew I couldn't go home so I just kept driving. I drove to a town an hour and a half away from home and I parked in an empty parking lot. I sat there in my car and I screamed and cried. I let God have it, again. How many times had He heard me come running to Him? How many times had He heard me ask Him to take it all away? How many more times was I going to have to ask for healing? After screaming I sat silently only to hear the sound of my breath and the snot dripping from my nose. I waited for that moment, that triumphant moment when God shows up and light shines in and your whole body gets warm. I waited to feel His arms around me and the whisper of His voice to say "It's okay, my child, I am here." I waited in silence, breathing like a two year old who just wore herself out from a temper tantrum. I whispered one more time... "please, God, please, just show up."

Nothing happened.

So I waited.

Still nothing happened.

In that moment I felt so unworthy of God's love that my heart just completely broke. It broke so much more than it had ever broken before that I literally felt as if I couldn't breath. I did the only thing I knew to do. I opened my car door, stuck my finger down my throat and made myself throw up. Even when there was nothing left to rid my body of, I kept trying because I simply could not sit with the thought that God didn't love me.

That was the hardest I had ever prayed in my life. I couldn't have added any more meaning or any more faith to my prayers. That was quite simply all I had in me, and where I was expecting at least a whisper in response, nothing happened. I couldn't comprehend what that meant. Wasn't God supposed to heal if I asked in Jesus' name? Wasn't I supposed to find Him if I sought Him with all of my heart? Wasn't He the one who said if you had faith the size of a mustard seed that nothing would be impossible unto you? At one point later on in treatment I remember thinking, "my fucking mustard seed has been planted, sprouted and over-grown and now the birds that rest in the branches at the top are shitting on me down below."

Wasn't God at the very least supposed to care?

God's silence was so loud it made my ears hurt. After feeling as though God was never going to heal me I started to realize I needed somebody elses help, anybody elses help. But even after I finally drove home that night after sitting in the parking lot, it would still be another few weeks of binging and purging before telling my parents that once again I really needed help. Never did it cross my mind that God would use a method other than snapping his fingers and making it all magically disappear to heal me. Never did it cross my mind that God was asking me to wait just a little bit longer, that He had something bigger and better in store for my healing and He wasn't going to let me die along the way. Never did it cross my mind that while I was begging God to do something, anything, He was already unfolding a plan that would lead to life abundant as I had never known it before.

No, I did not think or know any of those things at that point prior to treatment, I just knew that I was angry and alone and well on my way to telling God I was done with Him, which I did the first night in the facility. It was just the night before I found myself sitting in the cafeteria that second day with salad mountain sitting in front of me. I didn't know the dietian yet, but I hated her already, for salad mountain was going to be impossible to finish.

At one point in my life I might have looked at what seemed impossible before me and approached it with the mindset of repeating over and over again: "I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me, I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me." I once won a hot dog eating contest that way, just repeating that verse over and over, and beat out six guys... but I was also bulimic, so I had the advantage. But that day in the cafeteria, after all I had been through and the countless times I had asked God for help or for Christ to strengthen me, like my time in South Africa or that night in my car, I looked at what seemed impossible before me, even if it was just lunch, and with a tone of anger and hatred in my voice whispered, "fuck it!"

Eventually I will get to the point where I see God's silence not as neglect and abandonment but as taking precise and intentional care of me. I will come to know Him not has a god who withholds love and grace and mercy just to watch me suffer but who gives me those gifts freely, despite my selfish efforts and my dirty mouth, so that I might learn to rest in Him and find my worth like I had never it known. But even still, that doesn't come until later in the story. For now I am even more so determined to do life on my own so as never to allow myself to be hurt by anyone, including God, again. In retrospect, salad mountain wasn't so big in and of itself, but it was the straw that broke the camel's back in which I found myself saying "I can do all things through my own strength." A very dangerous place to be.

To be continued...

the perfect patient

2011-07-09T16:05:00.000-07:00

(continued from previous post... "the night's end")

Before I introduce you to the rest of my time in treatment after February 5th, 2007, I feel the need, or the desire rather, to back up and share a few snap shots that each play a part, some big and some small, in what led to my arrival at the facility outside of Chicago, IL. Seeing as how I went to bed on February 5th, 2007 wanting nothing to do with God, I will avoid the beaten path around the bush and get straight to the point by starting with just that... God. He is who I wanted nothing to do with that night, and He is who has me sitting here today, telling a story of redemption that is still in motion.

On that note, let us begin...

As with most people I know, I was a child once. As a child I grew up in a beach community on the coast of South Carolina. It was a small town, and as with most small towns in the south, everybody knew every body's business. As if everybody didn't already know every body's business, my father was the pastor of one of the few local churches, the better of the church options, in my biased opinion. It didn't matter whether I wanted people to know my business or not, they did simply because my father was a public figure, and as with most small towns in the south, the community wants their public figures and their families to be on their best behavior, especially if those public figures are Christian. I get it, I'm not saying I don't understand that mind set, but I am saying that putting the pressure of perfection on someone, even a public figure, is quite an un-Christian thing for Christians and un-Christians to do.

People's expectation for my father to be perfect began at a young age for him as well, in another small town in the south, long before a family of his own was ever an idea in his young little mind. My father's father was a music evangelist... you know, the kind everyone loves and praises because of his devotion to God, yet his own children don't even know him as their father. After all, how can they when he's out on the road singing about Jesus to everybody else? This may sound harsh, and in some ways, it is, but the truth is harsh, and the truth is that I'm sick of bearing my family name and being expected to smile just because I have a grandfather who sings about Jesus to everybody else.

Along with that, I am almost positive one of the first things my grandmother taught all of her children to do was to smile. Sounds sweet, right? With phrases like "smile, Jesus loves you," "turn that frown upside down," and "with Christ in my vessel, I can smile at the storm," my grandmother was never not smiling. It seems like a pleasant enough idea, but when a child is told not to cry but instead to smile, regardless of how they feel, it can actually be quite damaging. It wasn't intentional poor parenting on my grandmother or grandfather's part, I truly believe they were doing the best they could with what they had, so I'm not trying to paint them in a bad light, but I am trying to paint them in a real light. A light that exposes the hurt underneath the smiles and underneath all the songs about Jesus. My father didn't know his own father and he was told to smile about it. I wonder if my small town in the south knows about that.

And so my father grew up, and married a woman who thought she was marrying into the perfect family, only to discover the oppression that came with each and every smile. She took on a last name that meant she had to play a certain role, and when she began to question that role I can just hear my grandmother's response in her sweet, southern voice, "now honey, we don't question, we smile."

No questions, just smiling. This, in a nut shell, from a child's perspective, seemed to be the Christian philosophy my grandparents lived by. And this is the sort of Christian philosophy I want nothing to do with.

And so we have my parents, in my small town in the south, leading a church under the notion that they simply had to keep it all together or else. People who had seen my grandfather on t.v. were now watching my father in the flesh, and I'm sure they wanted just as good of a performance. Let me clarify, as I'm not saying my grandfather was merely performing and that's all, the man still dearly loves Jesus and I admire that, but just like the worship team that sings great songs with awesome crescendos on Sundays, when you're in the spotlight sometimes performance more than actual worship is just unintentionally part of the gig.

I can't say that everybody expected such a performance. I think some people were real enough with their own hurts to say they didn't mind that their pastor wasn't Christ himself, but I can say that many people expected my father to be just that. I know this because many people expected that of me.

I remember the day I realized I was different, not because of who I was, but because of who my father was. I was in fifth grade. It was during Sunday school, which is where all the kids were dismissed to after the music so they didn't have to sit through "big church." The kids were divided by age. My older sister was out of Sunday school by then and trying to endure big church, not because she liked it, but because she was trying to be a big girl, and my younger brother and sister were in the age class below me. My Sunday school teachers were a married couple, older, obviously to a child, but I remember thinking they were probably approaching death soon since they were in their late forties or fifties. That day the class was asked to recite the Bible verses they were supposed to have memorized from the prior Sunday. I was called on first, go figure. I had huge bows in my hair, a southern classic, and a dress with semi-poofed sleeves. That day, though so long ago, remains etched in my mind.

I giggled and said I didn't know. The husband asked what I meant when I said I didn't know; the wife just smiled. It all seemed so familiar, like deja-vu. "I didn't memorize the verse," I said. The husband sighed as if disappointed, looked at me and replied, "well, Jennie Barrows, out of all the kids in this class, you should be the first one to have had it memorized... you're the preacher's kid!"

I didn't say it out loud, as I was still trying to figure out the difference between talking back and voicing my opinion, but I remember thinking to myself, "what does my dad have to do with this?" The husband called on the kid next to me, I still remember who, but I won't call him out, and of course he had his verse memorized. When the husband told Bible-boy next to me that he had done a great job, I wanted to ask if it was because his dad was an architect.

From that day on, I realized I was being watched, and how I lived my life was going to be reflective of my father's role as the pastor. I remember being scared and anxious, wondering what would happen if I messed up, what would people think of my father. I held the pressure in my hands and I squeezed it tightly... something I still do when I get anxious. I hated my Sunday school teacher that day, which seemed like the worst sin possible at that age, but I felt like I suddenly had to grow up when I wasn't ready. That seemingly small comment never left me, nor the pressure that came with it. It followed me all the way to treatment on February 5th, 2007.

I don't believe my Sunday school teacher had any idea of the impact his comment would make, nor do I believe he meant it maliciously, in fact he probably forgot all about it after that, and so I no longer hold it against him, but as a fifth grader, I wasn't so convinced of his innocence. Realizing at a young age that people had certain expectations of my life and the life of my family, I began my quest for perfection so as not to let down those around me, and especially those who thought the pastor's kid should know better than all the other kids when it came time to behave.

It's funny (now) because, for me, what may have looked like a happy and pleasant life to people on the outside, I remember being filled with much anger and anxiety. What if I mess up? Why do people care? What will they say about my dad? How will I keep up? All of these questions filled my mind and the harder I tried to be the good pastor's kid, the more angry I became. I kept up with my manners in the community, but it was the community I was mad at. I never felt the pressure for perfection inside my home, it was never my parents who led me to believe I needed to be perfect. They were beautiful in how they displayed grace and most excellent in the area of discipline. After growing to love the flavor of vinegar from having to "taste the bitterness" of my words so often, they resorted to "washing my mouth out" with soap; a creative effort on their part, but an angry heart with a dirty mouth is hard to clean.

When being punished they always clarified that I was being disciplined in love, and it was for my benefit that they wanted me to learn the consequences of my actions. My mother was always quick to separate the action from the identity of the child by saying things like "you're not a bad girl, but what you did was very bad." I knew my parents loved me, but once out of the house and in the public eye, I felt the need to perform, wondering who actually liked me for me and not for who they wanted me to be... a "Barrows".

While I felt loved inside the home, it was inside the home that most of my anger came out. My siblings retell stories, in laughter now, of me chasing them around the kitchen with a butcher knife, throwing a chair down the stairs, a lamp at my sister's head, and really anything else I could get my hands on. We laugh when we tell stories about how I would scream and cry, kick down doors until they literally came off the hinges, break window panes and punch the wall. We laugh because it's over and we all survived, thank God, but I sometimes still can't help but feel sad for that little girl who was so alone in her anger. I wonder if my small town in the south knows about that.

My parents, God bless them, had more than enough to deal with already, so I'm sure my anger didn't help the strain of small town living. I'm sure my anger didn't help the strain of church living. And I'm sure my anger didn't help the strain of family living. But none the less, they embraced what they got and what they got was me. I have been through many phases with my parents, some of which I will touch on later, but what I will say is that they have never given up on me, no matter how dark and ugly my struggle, and I consider it an honor to be a part of their most imperfect, most beautiful lives. I shall stake my claim here and say that I will never give up on them.

So our family continued on in our small little community and I continued to resent those around me. Though my father spoke beautifully about grace and love on Sundays, I never payed enough attention for it to actually sink in. I was always falling asleep on the person's lap next to me, one time actually drooling on another girl's Easter dress, or trying to light my friends hair on fire during candle light services, or most of the time just wondering when dad would wrap it up so we could go eat lunch. During one service I actually stuck my arm up in the air and pointed at my wrist and mouthed "LUNCH." That one didn't go over too well.

All that to say, had I maybe have been paying attention to this idea of Jesus being about grace and love and not about smiling all the damn time, like at family reunions, I might have learned how to love those around me who I resented so much. I might have realized that they were hurt and broken people too, who put unrealistic expectations on me because they had unrealistic expectations on themselves. I might have felt free to be myself because Jesus saw the ugly nature of my heart, even as a child, and loved me anyway. I might have come to all of those conclusions, but then again, I might not have. Either way, that's not for me to figure out now. I don't think God works in the "what ifs" or "would haves," so what's done is done and my story is my story.

But there is hope, because God is still writing it! It doesn't always go the way I want it to go, as some chapters are harder than I would have them be, but God has this gift as a creator, an artist, and a writer to make beauty out of pain and the most blinding light out of deep darkness. As a child, I let the church write my story, perhaps unaware that they were even playing such a key role in my life. I did what they told me to do and lived how they told me to live. I went home, angry and tired, beat a few walls, perhaps a few siblings, and often cried myself to sleep. I think I was too angry to let truth penetrate my heart, and I increasingly grew less and less interested in what God had to offer. Never would I have spoken that aloud, not to a single soul would I have ever revealed the questions I had about this God who smiled so much. Not even to God Himself would I ask those questions. I knew better.

So at a very young age, I had come to know the term perfection and I got to working on it. At the time, I associated perfection solely with Christianity, but it was only a matter of time before this idea of perfection seeped into other areas of life; areas I thought I had compartmentalized and could keep separate from Christianity, so as to take a breather when I needed it. Little did I know, perfectionism doesn't allow much time for breathers and trying to keep up was going to lead to a burn-out from exhaustion.

Leaving this snapshot, but the memory of it still fully present in my mind, I woke up on February 6th, 2007, quite imperfect and perfectly content with the idea of abandoning the God of perfection, who I thought had already abandoned me.

Mona came into the room to get our stats before any of us had gotten out of bed. She unlocked the bathroom so I could relieve myself and change into a hospital gown so that she could weigh me. I remember being quite glad that I could pee first and take off all my clothes before being weighed so that the number on the scale would appear less, even though I wasn't allowed to see it. I didn't realize I actually wanted to play the opposite game with the staff, while keeping my weight down I wanted to make it appear to be more so that they wouldn't make me gain any more weight.

The number on the scale to someone with an eating disorder (perhaps depending on the sort) is both a badge of honor and a mark of shame. You're never actually satisfied no matter what the number is. If you can get it to be less than before, you feel high and mighty and accomplished for a second, but before you finish that thought, you begin to think about how you can make it go down before you step on the scale again. I heard an angry girl once say "scales are for fish!" I didn't know what she meant until I experienced my own obsession with the scale. To this day, I will not step on a scale, unless at the doctor's office, in which case I ask not to know the number. I almost lost my mind to a scale, and so I'm done with scales, scales are for fish!

On the morning of February 6th, 2007, however, at 6:30am, I stepped on the scale and tried to peek under the piece of yellow paper that Mona had covered up the number with. I was worried as I saw her write on her notepad. "Is it more or less?" I quietly whispered, as Lauren and Ashley were still sleeping. "Girl, I can't tell you that," she sort of giggled, " but don't worry boo boo, you're just fine!"

I started to go through my dresser drawers as Mona took the other girls' stats. I laughed watching Mona try to wake up Ashley. Ashley just shot her arm straight up in the air and mumbled "do your shit," which sounds mean but when whispered by a girl just waking up from her sleeping pills, it actually sounded quite nice, and more funny than anything else. Upon Lauren getting up, she turned the lights on and the three of us were stirring about getting ready for the morning. After Mona was done, Lauren put on a Gorillaz CD. "By the way," Lauren asked, "how did you like that CD last night?" I told her I had fallen asleep before really hearing any of it, but that I did like Desmond Tutu's accent and mimicked it as best as I could... "Dea Chald oof Good." We both laughed as we continued getting dressed. I will never forget Lauren that morning, shuffling around, bobbing her head back and forth to "Feel Good Inc" by Gorillaz. When the time came in the song, the three of us, Lauren, Ashley and I, would throw our heads back and in unison sing "AH HA HA HA HA HA!" I was never a fan of Gorillaz before that moment, and I still couldn't tell you what other songs they sing, but that song will always bring back a pleasant memory for me.

Before the CD was halfway through, we had all gotten dressed and locked our toiletries back up. Lauren shut off the CD player, I put on my bright orange Harley Davidson jacket, and we walked out to the lobby where the morning BHA was waiting to take us over to the adolescent lodge. I was nervous about walking back through the double doors of that lodge given what had just happened the night before, but I figured it couldn't get much worse. When we got there most of the girls were waiting by the doors to be escorted to breakfast. I was told I had to eat in the kitchen lodge again as I was still on 24 hour lock down for new admissions. "Come dinner time you should be able to go to the cafeteria," a BHA said to me.

I sat down in the main seating area of the adolescent lodge, which I think we just started to call "the lobby," and again watched all of the other girls around me. Though there were only 3 adult patients, I was the only one admitted for an eating disorder. I looked at the adolescents in the lobby and tried to guess which ones had eating disorders, which ones were cutters, and which ones were crack addicts. Truth be told, I was sort of disappointed I couldn't tell. Whether it be a great detox program or the cold Chicago winters that had everyone bundled up and looking the same, I couldn't tell much difference between myself and them. It might have been the competitive mindset of someone with an eating disorder, or just that sweet southern nature that has one looking at everyone else's problems instead of their own, but either way I was armed and ready to judge all of the other girls around me.

All the girls, minus the ones on bad behavior or those admitted within the last twenty-four hours, were escorted out of the lodge to the cafeteria while the rest of us sat behind and watched. There weren't many of us left, but enough to fill the lodge kitchen. I sat down at the kitchen table next to Corrie who had already begun her morning rocking and whispering. Amanda, a female BHA with bright red hair, came walking in with Styrofoam to-go boxes. She placed them in front of the girls who were on meal plans, myself included. I was given oatmeal, which I was okay with at first, but when I saw what I was supposed to put in my oatmeal I started to panic. Though Corrie looked crazy on the outside, I knew her behavior was exactly how I felt on the inside, I just wasn't expressing it. In little individual packets I saw brown sugar and butter.

My very calm and rational thought process went something like this: "FUCK THAT! I am not putting that in my body. I'll eat the oatmeal, but there is no FUCKING way I am eating butter or brown sugar! These people are crazy. What is wrong with them? It's disgusting what they think is okay. They want me to get fat. They're jealous and they want me to get fat. Everyone that works here is fat and it's disgusting. All of this butter is probably why. I'm not touching it. I don't care what they say or what they do, they can tranq me for all I care, I'm not FUCKING touching it!"

Now, mind you, being someone with an eating disorder, I had done all the research there is to do on food and nutrition and diet and exercise. I understood the difference between mono-unsaturated and trans fats, I understood that muscle weighed more than fat, and I understood that carbs were necessary for "fuel" which was necessary for exercise, my second obsession. The problem was not that my "research" was completely false persay, the problem was that my "research" was twisted, distorted, and exgaurated to a degree that was unhealthy and unrealistic. I used facts to back up my distortions (like what many people do with scripture, but more on that another time).

I literally thought that if I had that tablespoon of butter or small scoop of brown sugar in my bowl of oatmeal in that one sitting that I would gain weight... right there on the spot. I literally thought that certain foods, which by the time I entered treatment were almost all foods, were pure evil. I was about as certain as any severly paranoid person could be that the American food industry was out to get me... me personally. I have somewhat of a chuckle when I think about the severity of my paranoia on the matter, but that's only because I am on this side of recovery. Combine a heavy dose of anger with a good bit of paranoia and add an eating disorder on top of it and it makes for one pretty crazy person. I can say that because I am talking about myself. It seems silly, right? and almost pointless to talk about getting so upset over oatmeal add-ons, but the fact of the matter is, at 23 years old I found myself forced to sit in front of a plate of food and I couldn't do it without completely freaking out. To be afraid to eat when eating is necessary for survival... how does one possibly recover? I doubted one could and I hated the girls who said they did. I deemed them as sell-outs instead of recovered.

While Corrie sat next to me and whispered her thoughts, I sat staring at my oatmeal, churning my thoughts about in my head. Amanda asked Corrie to start with her breakfast and then looked at me and asked me to do the same. "Oh God," I thought "she's associating me with being like Corrie. I am not that crazy." When I think back on how I used to look at Corrie, I can't help but see how stone cold my heart was and how the only person I cared about was myself. As I was staring at my oatmeal, another girl sitting across the table from me blurted out "why are you here?" I looked up and she was staring at me. She had mascara smeared under her eyes and if she hadn't been in treatment I would have thought she was high. I just sat there not really knowing how to answer her, as I was wasn't even 100 percent certain she was taking to me. She kept looking at me, "why are you here?" she asked again.

"For an eating disorder," I said quietly.

"How long have you had it?" she asked, and I was irritated that she even wanted to know. "For about two years," I responded, just glad that it kept me from eating my oatmeal. She looked at me with her painted black eyes, looked at my food, then at hers and said "that's a long time," and then went back to eating. It was an awkward exchange between the two of us, but it wasn't the awkwardness that made me uncomfortable, it was my answer... "about two years." Without even thinking about it, that was the first time I answered that question honestly. I had been in denial for so long that it caught me off guard when I realized exactly how long it had been since I had first started struggling.

In that moment I knew I didn't want to struggle anymore, but I also knew that I wasn't going to put that butter or brown sugar in my body. I had decided I would get the help that I needed, but I also decided that I would do it my way, not realizing how harmful that was going to be for my recovery in the long run. I took a few bites of my oatmeal and waited until no one was paying attention to me, then I picked up my small packet of brown sugar and the gold pad of butter with my napkin and crumbled it up in my hand. I held it there until breakfast was over and then got up and threw it away. This one small act in and of itself was not a big deal, I get that. But this one small act was the first step in the direction of deception as I learned how to cheat the system and only pretend to be the perfect patient.

Further along in the story I find myself in front of a panel of doctors, confessing that I had been throwing my food away while under their care; all of whom were shocked and said out of anybody in the facility, I was the last person they would have ever expected to be breaking the rules. Performed perfection... I had learned it well while growing up and this was just another role I found myself in where I had the opportunity to master that "skill."

But coming to that realization is later in the story... for now I am just an angry and mentally unstable preacher's kid who is sitting in front of a bowl of oatmeal, blaming everyone else, including God, for everything that is wrong with her. I knew that I wanted help, but I wanted it my way, and I won't find out until later that my way just doesn't work.

To be continued...

the night's end

2011-04-25T16:29:00.000-07:00

(continued from previous post "the five minute rule")

Lauren pulled herself back from the door through which she was peeking, "It's Annie and Carson," she said in a worried tone. Ashley rolled her eyes and made a remark about the two of them always raising hell and how sick of it she was. "I swear," she said angrily, "if this whole place is on lock-down tomorrow because of them, I'm gonna be pissed." I just kept looking back and forth between Ashley and Lauren, meanwhile the noise outside of the doors to the group room were getting louder.

The exact timing of all that I heard happening that night is probably a bit off from how it all actually went down, but I will do my best to retrace the steps of what I experienced sitting nervously in that group room on the night of February 5th, 2007.

"DON'T YOU FUCKING TOUCH ME! GET AWAY FROM ME!" one of the girls yelled. We heard loud banging noises every so often, but what it was, I still don't know. "Should we do something?" Ashley asked. "I just hope they're okay," Lauren responded, now even more concerned than before. "They're fine, they're just being stupid," Ashley said "If someone would just let me talk to them, I could calm them down." Lauren and Ashley's short exchanges were followed by more loud banging and then a high pitched scream. It was right at that point that I was about to pee my pants.

"DON'T YOU FUCKING TOUCH ME! GET THAT AWAY FROM ME! CARSON, DON'T LET THEM TOUCH ME WITH THAT!"

Knowing she didn't speak in third person, I realized it was Annie who was yelling for Carson to help her. Annie didn't sound much like a ring-leader in that moment, but Carson was still playing the role of the accomplice immensely well. "Damn it, Annie" Ashley said out loud, but to herself, "just calm down, stop freaking out, it's only gonna get worse."

"GET YOUR FUCKING HANDS OFF OF HER!" Carson yelled, which was followed by another loud bang and a high pitched scream. At the sound of the second high pitched scream, a calmer, but still loud, voice chimed in, obviously a BHA, "I just need you to CALM DOWN!" she said, "if you calm down nothing will happen!"

"FUCK YOU! GET YOUR FUCKING HANDS OFF OF HER!"

Lauren was beside herself, "Oh, if only they would just stop! No one is listening to anyone! Someone is going to get hurt." Meanwhile, I was sitting in the corner in my bright orange Harley Davidson jacket. I looked like a bad ass, but the only thing going through my head was "Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God, OH MY GOD!"

Annie and Carson started screaming each other's names, and by the sound of it, being held down by a number of staff. "GET OFF OF ME, DON'T YOU FUCKING TOUCH ME WITH THAT! I HATE YOU!"

There was so much yelling and so much noise that it was hard for me to take it all in. I felt like I was hiding in the tunnel of a war zone. I was safe in my little corner, but all I could hear was kicking and screaming and the sound of something banging against the wall, or on the floor, I couldn't tell. I was rolling the scene in my mind and picturing Annie and Carson in camouflage, launching F-bomb hand grenades at the staff. The staff tried to dodge each grenade as they just crept toward the two girls. "GET AWAY FROM ME," one would yell and launch an F-bomb. The staff would duck and the F-bomb would skim the back of their leg or arm, but the relentless staff would keep moving toward the girls. Despite all of Annie and Carson's defense mechanisms and attacks, the staff was determined to take them down... not so much in real life, but in my minds view of the war that was happening outside of those doors.

This went on for a bit before one of the girls, I couldn't tell who, started crying. They were screaming for the one to help the other, but they were both apparently not in a position to do so. Ashley now peeked out from under the curtain that covered the door, "I can't see them, I think they're down the hall."

In that next moment I heard screaming, screaming and more screaming, then a gradual fade of their voices, and then a thud, followed by another thud. I waited to hear something else... but I heard nothing. Dead silence. I sat there with my hands to my mouth and looked at Ashley and Lauren. Dead silence. Lauren looked under the curtain one more time and gasped. I couldn't take it anymore and ran to the door to look under the curtain. I saw enough to catch the tail end of four pairs of legs being dragged away. "Oh my God," I blurted out, "did they just get tranquilized!?!" I think it was Lauren, only because the response was so calm and quiet, though I can't quite remember because I was in such shock, but she simply said "basically."

"Oh my God!" I said out loud again, followed by "Oh my God!" My thought process was quite profound in that moment. "Holy shiiiiiii, they just got tranquilized!" I was in shock. My mind and my heart was racing. "I've only seen that done in the movies, I didn't know people actually did it! Oh my God! Dear Jesus..."

Jesus might have been waiting for me to finish that sentence, but I didn't.

"Welcome to treatment!" Ashley said, as if what just happened didn't phase her one bit. My mind kept asking myself questions that I just couldn't answer... "OK, seriously, where am I? What am I doing here? What just happened? Is that normal? Seriously, did that really just happen? What is my problem? WHAT AM I DOING HERE?"

The three of us sat in the group room waiting for someone to come and get us and tell us that the war was over, that the valiant staff had once again triumphed over the crazies, and that everyone could return home safely to the privacy of their monitored rooms.

"Where'd they take em'?" I asked whoever was willing to answer. "To their rooms," Ashley spoke up, "they'll be alright, they'll just wake up with a big ass headache tomorrow."

I don't remember a staff ever coming to get us, I don't remember having snack that night, I don't even remember walking back through the snow to go back to the adult lodge, but all of those things took place because I ended up right back at the adult lodge, with a full stomach. I think I was just so caught up in my mind, replaying the scene I had imagined and matching it up to the reality of the sound bite I had just heard. It was as if my body kept moving how it was told to be moved, but my mind was stuck replay mode, not really aware or even interested in what my body was doing.

We got back to our lodge to prepare for bed and my roommates and I were quiet. Before I walked into our room, I turned to the BHA who walked us over and told her my beloved fan had been taken away earlier that day and I desperately needed it's soothing white noise to lull me to sleep, especially after such a chaotic night. She said she didn't know about it but would ask someone in the morning. My heart felt heavy and even though it was just a fan, I wanted to cry. The day had drained me of any sort of strength or pride that it was really just all gone at that point. I started to tear up, trying not to let my roommates hear me, "I really can't sleep without the noise." The BHA said she understood, I doubted it, and that she couldn't do anything about it until tomorrow. I walked in our room where Ashley and Lauren were getting ready for bed, aware that they overheard me. "Do you need noise to sleep?" Lauren asked. I wanted to act tough, but I couldn't, "well... yea. I've never slept without a a fan before, at least not inside." I felt the need to add "at least not inside" so she wouldn't think I was spoiled and sheltered. It's funny how even in your weakest moments, pride can rear it's ugly head.

"Well, I don't have a fan," Lauren said, "but maybe you could use the CD player, if Ashley doesn't mind the noise." Before I could even turn to look at Ashley for approval she hollered out from her side of the room "don't worry about me, I took my sleeping pill, I won't hear a damn thing!" Apparently somewhere in the shuffle of the war clean up and snack, nightly meds were handed out, but since it was my first day and I had yet to meet with my assigned psychiatrist, I also had yet to be prescribed to what would keep me from ever needing a fan to fall asleep again.

"What about the night staff?" I asked Lauren, "if they hear the CD player, won't they take it away?"

"Probably not as long as you play it softly. Plus, Mona, she's the overnight shift, she's really cool."

Mona was not and still is not the name of the woman who was the overnight shift, but I will call her that out of respect for her privacy. Lauren was right, she was cool, for lack of a better term, and that very night she became my favorite BHA.

Mona came in shortly after to escort whoever needed to go to their locker for their toiletries. She took notice that I was new, a quality that I admire in other people, and introduced herself. She had her hair up in a yellowish gold head wrap and she had the smoothest, most beautiful chocolate colored skin I had ever seen. She was tall and slender, but wore a big over sized fleece. I quietly told her my name, but she said she would just call me "boo boo." I liked that, as I had always wanted to be considered somebody's "boo boo," but seeing as I had only ever dated white guys, it just never really caught on. She made me smile, the most I had done that day, at least authentically, and I thought about how much I enjoyed being around someone who could bring an authentic smile to my face, a quality that I admire in those who have and do.

After I brushed everything I needed to brush for bed and washed everything I needed to wash, Mona took my stats... blood pressure, heart rate, weight, and temperature. She said she (or whoever was working depending on the night) would be taking my stats every night and again every morning. "In case I gain weight while I sleep?" I asked her. She laughed, "girl, you silly, you ain't gonna gain wait while you sleep! Too funny." She didn't know I serious, but I liked that she said I was funny, so I smiled. It had been such a long time since I felt like I was funny. Even I knew I was too sad to be funny.

Sensing that I could trust Mona, probably solely based on the fact that she called me "boo boo," I told her about the removal of my beloved fan and explained that I knew she probably couldn't do anything about it, but asked her to keep it in mind if she happened to see a fan in a locked closet somewhere. She laughed and said she would. I asked her if it would be okay for me to listen to the CD player to go to sleep, and she said since it was already in the room she thought it would be okay. I thanked her as she wrote down my blood pressure and packed up her equipment, "you're welcome, boo boo, but try to keep it quiet." I promised her I would and I smiled, not only because she said okay, but because I liked my new nickname.

While Mona took the other girls' stats, I looked through Lauren's CD collection again. I sorted through back and forth and as Mona was finishing up with Lauren, Lauren looked over at me and said what I was thinking, "none of it is really music to sleep to." It was true... Gorillaz? No. Jet? No. The Killers? No. All good, but not to sleep to. Mona walked over to Ashley's bed and had to shake Ashley a little, as her sleeping pill had already kicked in and she was passed out on top of her covers. I giggled a little as I watched Ashley jerk up... "Ah fuck, I'm awake!" she yelled out in a drowsy voice. Mona laughed too, "I just gotta get your stats, girl, you can stay in bed." Ashley rolled over and flung her right arm out, "yea, yea, do your thing!" Ashley didn't remember any of it the next morning.

I went through the CDs one more time and since they were all still the same, I settled on the last thing I thought I would settle on... a sermon by Desmond Tutu. "That's probably your best choice," Lauren said, "and it actually really is a good teaching." I wasn't interested in being taught before bed, but I was desperate for a calming noise of some sort, even if it was the voice of Desmond Tutu, a man I had heard about just the year before on a trip to South Africa. It was that very trip that triggered my awareness of the severity of my eating disorder, and it was in that very country that I fell to my knees and cried out to God that I couldn't live the way I was living any more. I had wanted to forget everything about that trip because of how miserable I was and how close to death I felt; but that night in the facility, my first night in, I was reminded of the darkness of my time in South Africa, as the retired Archbishop of that very country spoke silently in the background through Lauren's borrowed CD player.

The sermon was titled "God has a Dream," and it was comical to me because I had asked God to heal me, to fix me, and to make all the pain I felt during those dark times to go away; but he didn't, at least that's what I thought, because there I was... in treatment, getting treated for the very thing that God wouldn't heal me from. I didn't want to actually listen to Desmond Tutu's words, especially if they were about God, as I was so angry at Him, but I needed something that resembled a fan, and a sermon about God seemed to be just the thing... a meaningless gust of wind that would put me to sleep. Even now it scares me to write that out and to think of the possibility of that thought ever being real.

The trouble was, despite how drained I was from the day or how angry I was at God, the day's chaos swam about in my mind, keeping it fully alert as my body laid still. So it was after I pressed play on the CD player and had gotten into bed that I heard the first few remarks of Desmond Tutu's "God has a Dream." He spoke as if he had written a letter, and quite possibly, a letter to me...

"Dear Child of God, I write these words because we all experience sadness. We all come at times to despair and we all lose hope that the suffering in our lives and in our world will ever end. I want to share with you my faith and my understanding that the suffering can be transformed and redeemed. There is no such thing as a totally hopeless case. Our God is an expert at dealing with chaos, with brokenness, with all the worst that we can imagine. God created order out of disorder, cosmos out of chaos, and God can do so always, can do so now... in our personal lives, and in our lives as nations globally. The most unlikely person, the most improbable situation, these are all transfigurable. They can be turned into their glorious opposites. Indeed, God is transforming the world now, through us, because God loves us."

The sermon went on, but it was always at least by that point that I had either fallen asleep or tuned it out. I held onto to the boyd bear that my aunt and uncle had given me, the one dressed as an angel, and as it's halo poked me in the face, I thought about those words "because God loves us."

I wish I could say that I heard those words that night and my whole mindset changed... that I suddenly had hope, and was able to grab a hold of the truth that God knew what He was doing and that He really was going to take care of me.

But I didn't.

That night in my bed, in the darkness of our room, I felt safe... a kind of safe I had never really felt before because it wasn't regarding God keeping me safe. It was a kind of safety that was free from the judgements and criticisms of other people, especially Christians. It was a safety from the Baptist Sunday school teachers who expected the preacher's kid to be perfect. It was a safety from the charismatic church leaders who said I didn't have enough faith to be healed. It was a safety from the Catholic friends who said we could do anything we wanted as long as we asked for forgiveness.

As I thought about how safe I felt from all the faith based claims or accusations spoken to me throughout my life, I also thought about that evening's events with the five minute rule. I realized that the girls in the facility had no clue who I was, where I came from, or what I believed, nor did they care... they had their own problems. I felt safe from the pressure to measure up, and safe from the pressure of being a "good Christian," whatever that meant.

I said those words to myself again, "because God loves us," and I laid there for a second. In the quietness of the room, except for the voice of the archbishop in the background, I rolled over in my bed and whispered exactly how I felt about those words...

"I don't care."

My tears tasted bitter that night, but I welcomed the bitterness. It was the first time I felt free to say how I really felt. I thought I would feel afraid if I were to voice that I didn't care about God, or if He loved me or not, but I didn't... I felt relieved.

And so, February 5th finally came to end, looking much different than how it had started. I never thought that when I woke up that morning and prayed with my dad, before reaching the facility, that I would go to bed that night most confident that God hadn't heard me that morning, or ever at all. I knew that February 6th was going to be the start of a new life, not just because I was going to start recovery, but because I was going to start it without God.

The relief was overwhelming, and it put me right to sleep.

To be continued...

the five minute rule

2011-04-15T13:01:00.001-07:00

(continued from previous post... "the diagnosis")

So there I sat, again, same kitchen, same day, almost drunk in my anger and drowning in my anxiety, and before me was yet another meal I had to force down. Truth be told, I don't remember what food was placed before me that night, but I know if I look hard enough I still have my "food logs" stored away in a box somewhere where I keep everything. The food logs were a sort of journal I had to keep to write about every meal I ate and about every emotion involved in eating that meal. Some of my food logs were just nasty, not so much because of the food, but because of what I had to say about how I felt. They were full of anger, the sort of anger that had someone, rather divine or tangible, not intervened it could have easily been birthed into hatred. Some of them were depressing to read, even after having left treatment, so I don't know why I kept them, except for the fact I keep everything I write down (well, truthfully, I actually keep everything, finding it hard to throw anything away... a characteristic that many people have tried to free me from). But other than that I suppose that for as depressing and angry as they were, keeping them has served as a reminder of how far God has brought me. I will try to do some investigating to locate my food logs (a funny name when I think about it), so as to possibly share some of my early thoughts about meals in treatment, but that will come later.

Now, much like at lunch (as written about in "the beginning"), all the other girls were able to eat whatever they wanted, while I was limited to what was in the styrofoam box sitting in front of me. Along with my roommate, Ashley, the same girls from lunch were in the room for dinner; the quiet girl who whispered to herself and rocked back and forth (this went on again at dinner), the loud, epicene girl whose mom hated her because she loved women, the few other girls who would egg on rebellion in any form, and then myself. I was quiet, and sad, and smiled a few times so as not to draw attention to myself for not laughing at the girls who thought they were funny, but mostly I just wanted to cry.

As I was taking in all of the girls being loud around me, my attention once again fell on the girl who was whispering to herself. It was obvious she was trying hard to focus, and though I didn't know what she was trying to focus on, it was clear that it was difficult for her given the noise around us. A female BHA leaned over and hopefully whispered something encouraging because the girl then lifted her head, picked up her spoon and began to eat, smile, and look around as if there wasn't a care in the world. I barely overheard someone saying "she made it through her numbers," but I didn't really know what that meant, nor was I going to ask. Looking back on the situation, I don't think it was obvious, but it might have been, when I realized that I didn't care about what "her numbers" meant because I found myself staring point blank at her hands. As her spoon lifted from her plate to her mouth, I noticed her right hand for the first time and I couldn't take my eyes off of it. She had her left elbow on the table with her left hand tucked in between her plate and herself, and I was able to see enough of her left hand to make out that it looked just like her right.

Her hands... they were covered with cut marks. I mean, not just a few here and there, but patterns from below her wrists up to her fingers of small cuts. I remember feeling shocked and scared at the same time. It looked as if she had been keeping score of something on her hand and each cut was a tally mark of some sort, and she just kept cutting, or tallying, until she ran out of room. "Dear God," I thought, "is she OK?" I wasn't expecting an answer, nor did I get one, but I remember just being so shaken in how I felt that the only thing I could think to say over and over again was "Dear God, O Dear God." I looked at the stark contrast between my hands and hers and it literally gave me the chills. I don't think it was so much out of ignorance as it was me just sincerely wanting to know, but I couldn't help but keep asking myself "what is wrong with her?"

I felt in that moment that I wanted to talk to her or be nice to her in some way, but I didn't know how. I was scared, and worried that I might say the wrong thing and offend her, which would then send her into a state of something other than reality. She was so young, at least in high school as she had on a letter jacket, and seemingly pleasant to be around when you weren't freaked out by her rocking and whispering. Mid-way through her meal, she stopped eating to rock and whisper again. A BHA took notice and addressed her, "Corrie, you need to finish your meal, we'll worry about your homework later, OK? It's OK." I was trying my best to keep up with what was going on, but I felt so confused about my own self and why I was there that it was hard to keep track of the others' "drama." Corrie whispered for a little bit longer, as if she didn't hear the BHA, then continued with her food.

"You see," someone yelled out, "if you just leave her alone she'll finish!" I looked up and it was the loud woman-loving, ring-leading girl from lunch standing by the kitchen counter. "Annie, sit down!" the BHA snapped back in a manner that was sort of serious and sort of joking. "What?" Annie laughed, then pulled up her baggy pants, twiddled her lip ring and stuck a spoon full of peanut butter in her mouth. In that moment Annie made it seem as if she cared about Corrie, but I couldn't help but wonder if it was more out of a desire to be the center of attention then it was out of concern. The BHA rolled her eyes and looked at Corrie and smiled. My attention left Corrie's hands and went right back to Annie, as I'm sure that's right where she wanted it. She was a beautiful girl but seemingly tried hard to make herself look like a boy. She wore baggy clothes and a beanie that hid her short hair underneath. She continued to talk loudly about her love for women, mind you she was 16, and would often refer to some of them as "bitches." I had wondered if it was as degrading for a gay woman to call a woman a bitch as it was for a man to call a woman a bitch, but I didn't ask. Ashley spoke up and said something about it, which made me feel proud, solely because she was my roommate and not afraid to speak her mind, but when questioned, Annie implied she meant "bitch" in a loving way. "Interesting," I thought to myself, "maybe men and women really have been misunderstanding each other all these years."

One other girl at the table, Carson, was Annie's accomplice, so to speak. I think Carson was confused about her own sexuality and found something comforting about Annie's confidence in her own. Though Carson would say she was her own person, she followed Annie around and encouraged her in all that she did. She sided with her against other girls or against staff, though that was going to be something I wouldn't find out until later. The main image I have of Carson in my mind is one of her hunched over her cereal bowl, laughing at everything Annie did. As far as I knew, Carson was just a side kick without much conviction of her own, but at the time I didn't realize how dangerous of a place that is for someone to be.

Between Annie and Corrie, the table would go from loud to silent to loud again. I remember just sitting there, trying so hard to take it all in but also feeling so much like I was in a dream, about to wake up at any second. Between my attention being distracted and my desire to not eat my food anyway, I took just as long as I did at lunch to finish my meal. Everyone was done and out of the kitchen while I was still working on a side dish of some sort. I was frustrated that even Corrie was done before me. Sure, I wanted to be nice to Corrie, but truth be told I also wanted to be less crazy than her, and the fact that I thought the food on my plate was pure evil wasn't going to help me plea my case for sanity.

I remember the BHA trying to ask me questions to possibly lift my spirits enough for me to lift my spoon to my mouth, but I was about as interested in her questions as I was in my dinner. I would answer with one word, if even, and kept my head down while I ate as slow as possible. I remember wanting to cry because my stomach physically hurt and I thought that there was no way eating more could possibly healthy. It had been so long since my body not only had that much food in it, but held it down, and so my stomach, along with my mind, was freaking out. The most talking I did at the dinner table was when everybody was gone and I tried to explain to the BHA the pain I was in. She said she understood, I doubted it, and that it would only be that uncomfortable in the beginning as my body just needed to adjust to the changes.

To make matters worse, I began to feel as if I was going to be physically sick. It wasn't nausea, but it was certainly the feeling that my food wasn't going to stay down. I remember wondering what would happen if it didn't. What would happen if I couldn't help myself and just threw up right there on the table, not even because I wanted to, but because I felt like I couldn't help it? This feeling continued after most meals for a while, and I later learned that just as my body was adjusting to the food I was giving it, it was also adjusting to to "keeping" the food. Though it was self induced, my body was so used to rejecting any large amount of food, especially certain types of food, that it almost seemed natural for it to continue in the state of rejection, even in treatment. It's not like I could tell my gag reflexes that I was in treatment now and things were going to be different.

After dinner I was drained of every emotion I could hope to express, even anger. I was just too tired to be angry, but dear God was I uncomfortable. I do remember just feeling gross, disgusted with myself even. I constantly felt my stomach, wondering if I was gaining weight that very moment. I was hoping that maybe by a sheer miracle there were some some laxatives still lingering about in my body, as I had taken them the whole weekend before entering treatment, but I was fairly certain that was wishful thinking.

After waiting around in the main lobby for a little while, once again just observing the interactions of the girls around me, Ashley and I were told we were going to be taken over to the adult lodge so we could unpack before coming back over to the youth lodge for snack and a nightly group. We were escorted outside and through the snow to the building next to the one we were in. I still couldn't believe all of the snow, especially at night. I remember loving the sound of snow crunching underneath my shoes and leaving foot prints the size of my feet. Before entering the lodge where I would be lodging, I felt for a moment that I was somewhere else, somewhere magical, where it snowed at night and the sound of snow could be heard under your shoe... somewhere much like the mid-west in winter, I suppose. I entered through both sets of locked doors that were disarmed by the BHA who was leading us and reality set back in... "I am not somewhere magical, I am in treatment."

Ashley and I were led to Lauren's room, which quickly became "our room." The rooms were quite large with 4 twin beds, but since there were only 3 of us we used one of the beds as a table to throw our stuff on. There were 4 tall dressers as well, one beside each bed with about 5 drawers a piece. I knew I wasn't allowed to keep enough stuff to fill all the drawers, but I still liked the idea of having all those drawers. I've always liked the idea of hiding things, including myself, which could be a good or a bad thing, depending on what or why I am trying to hide. Ashley and I started unpacking and Lauren came in shortly after us. We talked as we unpacked, but about what I don't specifically remember. I discovered two more drawers underneath my bed and those quickly became my favorite drawers where I hid my underwear and letters from loved ones. If I would have had anything else to hide I would have hidden it in those drawers, but the BHAs had already taken anything worth hiding away.

I placed a Boyd bear on my bed that my aunt and uncle had given me the day before leaving for the facility. It wasn't the most comfortable bear to sleep with, as I think it was made more for a shelf than a bed, but it was the only thing I knew I would have to keep me company at night. It had little wings and a halo, obviously resembling an angel, but instead of enjoying it's angelic features, I actually grew annoyed by them. It's wire wings would poke me in the neck or it's glittery pipe cleaner halo would stab me in the face. I should have put him (or her) on a shelf where he (or she) belonged, but despite my annoyances I couldn't let go of him (or her) at night. As silly as it sounds, having that bear, even at 23 years old, made me feel loved and not so alone.

As I finished unpacking I felt my stomach to check and see if I had gained any weight. There were no mirrors in the rooms, only in the bathrooms, but those remained locked at all times. I felt disgusting, but I tried not to let it show. I looked over Ashley's side of the room, then Lauren's. I tried not to compare, but I did. Ashley seemingly came from money, Lauren didn't. I figured I was somewhere in the middle, but told myself to shut up because it didn't matter anyway. I noticed that Lauren had a small CD player on her dresser which I thought was interesting because they had taken all my CDs away, and if one couldn't have CDs, why have a CD player? I asked her about it and she said it belonged to the facility and that one day she had asked if she could use it during the day, but whoever had given it to her forgot about it and so there it still sat in our room. I asked her if she had any CDs and she said she did because whoever had given her the CD player for the day had also given her her CDs and they forgot to take those back as well. Prior to that moment I never in my life would have thought that I would be so excited about the idea of smuggling CDs, but there I was, thrilled at the thought of having something deemed as "contraband" so close to my possession. She allowed me to thumb through her very small collection of CDs... a few burnt CDs of mixed music, followed by The Killers, Gorillaz, Jet, and a sermon by Desmond Tutu.

As I was examining Lauren's pittance of music, I was told by a BHA that I could put my toiletries and such in my locker where they were to be kept on lock down at all times. I could use my tooth brush and tooth paste and non-alcoholic shampoo, but I had to ask permission for said toiletries to be used, in which case a BHA would follow me to my locker, unlock it, and take note of what I took out. After making use of said toiletries, makeup and dental floss included, I had to inform the BHA that I was done so he or she could lock everything back up until I asked for permission again. So, the BHA walked me down the hall and showed me my locker that looked like a square of no bigger than 10 inches by 10 inches. I loaded my locker up with my hairdryer and hairbrush, and all of my other toiletries, and watched the BHA lock them up as I thought to myself how crazy it was that I couldn't even have my hairbrush out. Ashley, Lauren and I were then told we would be walked back over to the adolescent lodge for snack and our nightly check in group.

Before heading back out into the snow, I put on my layers of sweaters and covered them all with the bright orange Harley Davidson Jacket that my Chicago native uncle had loaned me since I had never owned, nor had I ever planned on owning, a winter jacket. Not having had time to go shopping for a winter jacket between landing in Chicago, watching the Bears loose the Superbowl at my aunt and uncle's house, and checking into treatment, I just had to take what I was given. Being that my uncle may still be one of Harley Davidson's biggest fans, there wasn't much he could have offered me that didn't have "Harley Davidson" plastered across it somewhere. I have since grown fond of Mr. Davidson, but never in a million years would I have planned on sporting such a winter jacket as that one. I guess it's funny because I had also never planned on having an eating disorder, let alone going to treatment for one, yet there I found myself... in a men's large, bright orange Harley Davidson jacket, flames and all, standing behind two sets of locked double doors, waiting to be escorted out. John Lennon so poetically sang once that "life is what happens to you while you're busy making other plans," and that is exactly how I felt when I wore that jacket.

In addition to adjusting to treatment, as a born native to the coast of South Carolina, I was also still adjusting to the Chicago climate change. I had to figure out how to move about in a down jacket, especially one that made such a loud statement in contrast to the serene, white snow. When I walked outside it was as if my presence was screaming "HERE I AM, BITCHES!!" Why my presence had to include the word "bitches," I don't know, but I thought it was something that someone wearing a Harley jacket might be prone to say, which may sound like a stereotype, but I felt okay making that judgement since just earlier Annie had said that "bitches" could be used as a term of endearment.

And so, as if it wasn't enough of a shock for me that I was wearing a flaming orange Harley jacket in the freezing cold of a Narnian look-a-like town outside of Chicago, I could have never been prepared for the shock that was about to take place when we walked back through the doors of the adolescent lodge.

As the night was coming to an end we arrived back at the lodge where my morning started. The BHA who was with us couldn't even unlock the second set of double doors before a BHA from inside came running to the doors, out of breath, telling us not to come in yet. I heard yelling coming from inside and I didn't know what was going on, but I knew something wasn't right. As I stood in the middle of two sets of locked doors, loud yelling on one side and the quiet of the snow on the other, I clinched my fists in an effort to relieve the stress I felt.

"It's a five minute rule!" the BHA from inside snapped at us, as if I understood what that meant. Lauren with her "oh no!" and Ashley with her "oh shit!" seemed to know what "five minute rule" meant and judging by their reactions, it didn't sound good. The BHA who was with us said that the five minute rule meant everyone had to go to their rooms and shut the doors until told to come out. "But why?" I asked. "Because somethings going down!" Ashley blurted out. "Just for the safety of everyone," the BHA quickly chimed in. The BHA from inside said she needed all the staff help she could get, so for our BHA to walk us into the group room off to the side as quickly as possible, close us in there, then follow her. Ashley joked by saying she'd help "lay the smack down," but the BHA from inside cut her a look and said "seriously, go straight to the group room!" Everything was happening so fast and it was all so ambiguous that I started to get anxious.

We got through the second set of double doors and down one of the three hallways I heard someone yelling "FIVE MINUTE RULE! FIVE MINUTE RULE!" Our BHA rushed us to the group room, shut the door and left. The group room was quiet. I looked at Ashley and Lauren... Lauren looked concerned while Ashley just grinned. "Congratulations!" Ashley said to me as she laughed, "no one ever gets introduced to the five minute rule on their first day!" Her warm welcome was interupted by a girl yelling on the other side of the door... "I'LL GO TO MY FUCKING ROOM WHEN I FUCKING WANT TO!" I looked at the glass door that was covered by a curtain, which Lauren was peeking under, then I looked back at Ashley. "Welcome to fucking treatment," she said sarcastically, "you might as well sit down because this is going to take longer than five minutes." I clinched my fists again as the comotion outside of the door got louder and F-bombs where being launced through the whole facility like hand grenades. There was only one thing that came to my mind in that moment...

where the hell am I?

To be continued...

the diagnosis

2011-03-14T16:01:00.001-07:00

(continued from previous post "the contraband")

So my contraband was gathered up and taken away to a "safe place," never to be seen again... at least not until I walked out of those doors as a free and "healthy" woman; meaning it was definitely going to be a while. My biggest loss in the contraband removal was, of course, my beloved fan, but also my Dean Martin Cocktail Hour CD. I forgot to mention that CDs were one of the many items considered "potentially sharp" because if broken they could do a lot of damage. Who knew such good music could be so bad? Good old Dean... contraband! Can you believe it? I mean, maybe in his day his music was considered contraband to a few Southern Baptists, but this was 2007, and this place was definitely not Baptist of any sort. I found his removal from my life to be quite unnecessary, but if it was for the safety of everyone else, I figured I could do without his swooning voice singing "Wham! Bam! Thank You Ma'am."

The only thing left in my suitcase was my clothes, which I was thankful for at least not having those taken away. As my contraband removal session was ending, another girl filed in behind a BHA who was about to begin hers. We were introduced and told we would be roommates, which made the adult count for the facility a whopping total of 3. Almost all of the patients were considered "youth," which meant under 18. The other adult girl and myself were told we'd be sleeping in the lodge next door, as the lodge we were currently in was for youth, but that almost all of our sessions would be held together in the youth lodge. I was glad when I was told we'd be staying in a different lodge, and that there were only 3 of us. Even though I was in a back bedroom away from all the activity, it was still so loud from where I sat. Being so drained already, I certainly did not want to walk back out there and be around a bunch of "youth." Uh oh, the separation had already begun in my mind.

I sat on one of three beds in the big back bedroom, in no rush to to go anywhere, which worked out perfectly because I was told I could wait there until they finished confiscating my roommate's contraband (though not in those words). I watched a BHA go through my roommate's stuff and though she didn't have much, I wondered if she felt how I felt while they pulled all her mentionables and unmentionables out of her bag. She was much more outspoken than I was about what they took away. I spoke up in my mind, but never out loud... well, except for the life of my beloved fan, but other than that, my wise cracks I kept to myself. My new roommate, (who I will call Ashley from now on, though let it be known that was not her name, which I think it a shame not to mention because she had such a beautiful name, but for the sake of her own privacy, which I respect, Ashley will do) Ashley, on the other hand, was quite outspoken with her wise cracks and I remember taking to her right away. Not only was she a fellow Southerner, but she was not your typical Southern woman, meaning I knew she wasn't going to pretend to like me and say things like "bless your heart, darling, and all your sweet little problems" and then walk out of the room and talk about how my life was an abomination and that I was heading straight to the pit. I liked that about her. I'm sure you can understand why.

(Disclaimer and quick side note before the objections start coming: I am not saying that all southern women are like this, for there are many who are near and dear to my heart. But for those who are curious about Southern women in general, watch Something To Talk About with Julia Roberts and Dennis Quaid; if nothing else, it's just a great movie. And since we're on the topic, also see Fried Green Tomatoes and Steel Magnolias, two of my favorites.)

So Ashley was very obviously from the South in the way that she spoke with an accent, which I loved and hadn't heard in another person since my dad left that morning (geez, was it only that morning? it seemed forever ago), but she was very obviously not from the south in the way that she was way more outspoken than most of the Southern women I had encountered. She made it known if she thought something was stupid, and she also made it known when she wasn't going to comply with something because she thought it was stupid, which was the next thing I found out about her...

This wasn't her first day in the facility, as it had been mine, she was actually admitted a good week or so before me. The reason she didn't have much stuff is because shortly after her admittance, she had a "freak out," as she described it, and was sent off to a psych ward where she stayed for three days before being allowed to return. She only had a small bag of clothes that I guess someone dropped off for her while she was there. She voiced that she thought it was dumb for someone to go through her bag (again) because a BHA packed it for her and brought it to her under even more heightened security than what we were under, but in compliance with the rules of the facility, they searched it anyway. After telling me she was in for substance abuse, she told me she was bi-polar and that some of her doctors thought she might have borderline personality disorder. Not really sure of what that was, I couldn't help but wonder if it had something to do with her "freak out." I didn't know what she meant when she said she had a "freak out," nor did I ask in fear that it might spur on another one, but either way, I still really liked her company and I was really glad she was going to be my roommate.

Before dinner we had snack, even though I was still full from lunch. When I left the kitchen I was introduced to the 3rd adult in the facility who was also going to be a roommate of mine. She couldn't have been more opposite of the first girl, but I liked her just as much. She was very quiet and soft spoken, with a bona fide mellow presence that made me feel as if I could fall asleep at any given moment while we were talking; not because I was bored, but because I felt so tranquil when I was around her, even if chaos surrounded me left and right. I knew she would be quite a good friend to have, especially in the months to follow. Though other girls that day would blurt out "so why are you here?" and stare me down as they waited for my answer, Lauren (as I will call her from now on), after having told me about her own struggle with depression and some reasons why she found herself in the facility, gently questioned "so if you don't mind me asking, why are you here?"

Now, the other girls were so abrupt in their asking that even when I answered them I did so out of anger and frustration, without the reality of my answer really hitting me, which is why I haven't mentioned why I was there until now. It was in that moment of talking with Lauren and sitting in the atmosphere of her mellow mood that I felt safe to answer. And so when I answered, I answered truthfully and calmly; and in the calmness of my voice I heard the truth, instead of the anger, and I acknowledged not just to Lauren, but to myself, why I was really there...

"Well, no, I don't mind telling you," though I did hesitate, "I've... I've struggled with depression for a really long time, but... I guess I'm really here because... I have an eating disorder."

Most of the other girls would respond with "how long have you had it?" or "what kind?" or "how bad is it?" Some asked in this way because they had no tact, others because they were sizing me up and comparing my problems to theirs, and still others because they were just simply making conversation and they didn't really know how, so I can't hold that against them.

Lauren sat quietly and breathed in, almost as a therapist would do (I remember because I journaled about it), and then said "yea, that is really hard. I've struggled with that sort of thing before, which may have led to the depression, I don't really know, but I suppose I'm going to find all that out while I'm here." I couldn't believe how calm she was, and though she'd probably still deny it, how wise she was. I felt as if I was sitting at the feet of some great theologian, partly because I was sitting on the floor at this point and she was sitting on the couch, so I was quite literally at her feet, but also because of her responses to questions and the time she would allow herself to think before actually responding.

While sitting in the truth of why I was there, I started to feel uncomfortable. The internal conversations started taking place... "I don't really have an eating disorder, I just have issues with food. I don't really need to be here, do I? I mean, this all seems a little extreme, doesn't it?" That went on in my head for a while as I watched the girls interact around me. Lauren and I talked a little while longer until the girls were rounded up to go to dinner. She left with them and I stayed behind with the mis-behaved and the exercise restricted. Fortunately for me, since Ashley was readmitted back to the facility that day, she was on lock down as well. I don't think she was too happy about it, but I remember being glad that she was going to stay behind with me, even if it wasn't voluntary on her part. I don't remember much about dinner, other than being angry. Angry about the food, angry I had to eat it, angry I had to hold it in, angry I was still full from lunch and snack. I was just angry.

Ashley's wit me laugh some, so that helped me through, but it was borderline impossible to get out of my head. "borderline," I thought to myself, "maybe I have that." You see, I remember conversations like this going on in my head because in a treatment facility, surrounded by girls with varying issues and varying degrees of them, it's hard not to try and start diagnosing yourself. This is something that I did all throughout my stay at the facility. I'd hear just enough of a girl's story to relate it to my own and then I'd convince myself of a greater issue at hand within me. At one point I had diagnosed myself with trichotillomania (a compulsion to pull out one's own hair), dermatillomania (compulsive skin picking), bipolar disorder, borderline personality disorder, depression, and self harm, even if not in the form of cutting. I was probably an insurance company's worst nightmare. I would hear a word, or a behavior that I had done maybe once before, and when I found out it could be an actual disease or an addiction, I would label myself as such. It sounds silly, but more than anything, I simply just wanted a reason to explain why I was the way that I was, even if the explanation was just for myself.

The trouble with that was, even if I had never suffered from those diagnoses before, I started to develop characteristics found in them simply so that I didn't have to focus on my eating disorder. This went on for a little while until I realized that I wasn't actually recovering from my addiction, I was swapping one addiction (or diagnosis) for another... but that is later in the story.

For now, in this part of the story, I'm still an angry and bitter girl, sitting at a dinner table, with a behavioral health assistant telling me I need to finish what's on my plate before I can leave the kitchen. I felt more like a toddler in that moment than when I actually was a toddler, probably because when I was a toddler, I wasn't aware of it.

Yes, I would agree that ignorance can very often be bliss.

To be continued...

the contraband

2011-03-11T12:06:00.000-08:00

(continued from previous post)

I sat there in my anger long enough to let myself think it defined who I was, then I stood up and told Nic I needed to use the restroom. He said he'd go get Liz and I couldn't help but wonder what Liz had to do with it. "I know where it is," I told him, but he said I needed Liz to unlock it. "They keep the bathrooms locked?" I asked myself. Not only did they keep the bathrooms locked, but certain girls, myself included, were placed on bathroom restriction; meaning that if they wanted to use the bathroom within 2 hours after they've had a meal or a snack, a behavioral health assistant had to go with them. Considering the fact that we had three meals a day and three snacks in between, that left me little to no room to find un-monitored bathroom time. My anger elevated to an unethical degree and I suddenly decided I could hold it much longer than I had originally planned. Girl mode set in as I thought about the horror of what would happen if I had to go "number two." Two all of a sudden seemed like such a large number and I panicked at the thought of something so private becoming so public, even if it was only in front of one other person. Number two is not an experience to be shared between two people, and though at that point I only needed to experience number one, I wasn't ready to share that either. So I held it.

I don't remember exactly what happened next, I remember meeting girls and just listening in on conversations. I let time linger and I thought I had waited long enough for a full two hours to pass after my meal, but it was slightly under and I just couldn't hold it anymore. My bladder was about to pop like a pre-teen pimple. I finally informed someone that I needed to use the restroom and sure enough one of the female behavioral health assistants (I will refer to them as BHAs from now on) led me to a bathroom in one of the back bedrooms. When we got back there she looked at me and said "I don't have to go in with you, I can just stand at the door" and there was this glimmer of hope with music and all for a split second, until she followed it up with, "but you'll have to sing or something so that I know you aren't... you know... doing anything else."

"Tactful," I thought to myself, followed by "is she serious?" I went in the bathroom, left the door open and got in position. Nothing happened. It was dead silent. How could anything happen? After all, if any one's bladder has stage fright, it's mine. Much like my sleep habits that require white noise for any sleep to take place, if I am in a public restroom, it is almost impossible for me to "let the river flow" if there is no white noise of some sort to encourage the floodgates to open. Whether it be in the form of the faucet water running or pretending to be out of toilet paper so I can "accidentally" shake the toilet paper holder too hard, there has to be background sound of some sort. But this time it was just me and the silence... and one other girl. It was so awkward. I knew she was standing at the open door, listening, and it freaked me out."What if she thinks I'm trying to go poo and I can't because it's too quiet (God forbid she think I would go number two)? What if she thinks I was lying about needing to go just so I could get into the bathroom and... you know... do something else? What if she... oh god, please just pee, you idiot!" I couldn't understand it! I was literally just busting at the seams a few minutes ago but as soon as I got the chance to do something about it, I couldn't get a single drop out! Before I could continue bullying my bladder to make a move, her voice chimed in, "hey, can you sing the ABCs or something?"

There I was, 23 years old, singing the ABCs to the person who was monitoring me using the bathroom. Talk about getting knocked off of your "I have everything under control" horse. I bashfully began to sing the ABCs, but between my deprecating thoughts, the girl at the door, and apparently the inability to multi-task singing while peeing, at least to a complete stranger, I couldn't go. I didn't even get all the way through the alphabet before I gave up. I was crying inside. I felt helpless, and even more so, stupid. "I swear I really did have to go," I told her, "it's just that now that I'm here, I can't seem to." She said she understood and that "we" could try again later. "we," I thought to myself. "There shouldn't be a 'we' involved, I'm 23 years old, I'm the only person that should be involved in me going to the bathroom." I followed her back out to the lobby with my head hung low as if I has just lost the biggest game of my life. Before I could sit down I was informed that someone was now going to go through my suitcase with me to make sure I had nothing illegal or harmful hidden away somewhere. Wonderful. How about we squeeze just a little more lemon juice into my fully exposed paper cut of pride?

I was exhausted and felt weak in every way... mentally, emotionally, physically and spiritually. All I wanted to do was lay down and sleep, but I kept up my pace and followed closely behind yet another BHA. I ended up going to the same back bedroom where I was previously taken to use the bathroom. "Deja-vu," I tried to joke with myself, but not much was funny at this point. I think I even told myself to shut up. One of the guys checking my bag was Brian, and though my mental state was so far out of whack for me to even have noticed, at least this early on, I can look back and appreciate that he was probably a good looking guy. He took everything electrical out of my bag including my hair dryer, hair straightener, and my beloved fan, whose comforting white noise I had never slept without. He said he had to go "test" them and he'd bring them back, even though when he brought them back I was going to have to put them in a locker that I did not have a key to. Upon his return he said they all cleared, which was obvious because they now had little green and white affirmation stickers on them saying they "passed." To this day my hair dryer and hair straightener have those exact stickers on them. On one of them the writing is rubbed off, but on the other it says clear as day, "TESTED FOR ELECTRICAL SAFETY By: BM On: 2/05/07." So long as I have those hair appliances in my possession, and I plan to keep them until they give out, I will never take those stickers off.

What didn't make it back to the room where I and my wide open suitcase sat was my fan, my beloved fan. Where was it? Brian told me that because of the fan blades, and issues involving girls who would use anything to self harm, I was not, nor was anyone else, allowed to have a fan. I explained to him that I only needed it to sleep at night. "It's purely for noise," I politely exclaimed, "I promise, you can keep it during the day, I just need it to sleep. I have to have it to sleep!" He said he would ask someone and let me know before nightly curfew. Curfew... there's another word I didn't want to hear, though at this point that word didn't surprise me. I was going to ask when curfew was but I found myself distracted by the gloved woman pulling my underwear out of my suitcase. She was pulling everything out of my suitcase, but it was the underwear that stood out to me; probably because it was my UNDERWEAR! Not to mention, Brian was still in the room trying to hold my attention as he was explaining some of the policies of the facility. I don't remember much of what he said, I just remember having the thought "if he looks over there right now he is going to see my unmentionables, oh god!" I don't even like it when male cashiers ring me up at a grocery store for tampons, but at least I more than likely won't see them again. With Brian, I was going to be spending the next two months in the same building as him, the last thing I wanted him to see was my underwear, even if it was just in my suitcase. My underwear was obviously going to make it onto my body at some point, and I didn't like the thought of Brian knowing what it looked like.

It felt like weeks had gone by since my dad left that morning, but sure enough, when I looked over at the little green and white sticker on my safely tested hair dryer, it confirmed that it was still only February 5th, 2007.

The gloved woman and Brian proceeded to sort through all of my belongings. "Any shampoo, conditioner, lotions, soaps, etc. with alcohol as an ingredient... you can't have," they said very matter of factly. "Any razor blades, bobby pins, safety pins, pencils, pens, i.e. anything sharp or potentially sharp... you can't have. Any cell phones or cameras... you can't have." Brian continued reading the long "you can't have" list as the gloved woman pulled almost all of the very objects that were listed as prohibited out of my bag. I knew they were just following protocol and saying what they had to say to every girl upon arrival, but I couldn't help but feel as if they were exclusively addressing me, this detestable new girl who couldn't be trusted. I felt like a liar and a sneak for even having shampoo in my bag to begin with. The fact that I had in my possession numerous items that "normal" people used on an everyday basis, but were deemed "contraband" and taken away to be stored in my "locker," that I didn't have a key to, made me begin to under if I was crazier than I thought and therefore in need of all this heightened security.

I explained the reasoning behind all my "contraband," assuming that no one had ever explained it to them before, and that they would somehow reach enlightenment on the issue and in their state of "OOOOH OK," they would hand it all back. This was not the case. As the gloved woman gathered up my pink, bic razors I envisioned the scratch attack that would take place in my arm pits if I wasn't allowed to shave them within the next few days. I assumed she would understand as I explained the sole reason I had them was for shaving my arm pits, and an occasional leg when I wasn't feeling lazy, and she said she understood, but her look was one of "that's what they all say!" She followed up with her look with, "for the safety of everyone, razors and other sharp or potentially sharp objects are strictly forbidden." I wanted to punch her in the face for saying "potentially sharp" again. "What does that even mean?" I thought, "Like I can't even have an un-sharpened pencil because it has potential to be sharpened?"

Truth be told, all the heightened security about sharp objects was new to me because this was my first time being in an environment where girls openly struggled with, or had previously struggled with, self harm. I basically needed Brian to spell out for me what "self harm" meant. I was picturing girls beating themselves up, so it caught me really off guard when he blatantly said "the girls cut themselves." In that moment, I felt a little bit bad for making jokes about sharp objects, but at the same time I didn't because of my own ignorance on the subject matter. I didn't understand why you would cut yourself if you weren't trying to commit suicide. I didn't understand why "those girls" would want to do that. Their addiction made no sense to me, but then again no addiction does make sense, and so I can only assume that I didn't understand their addiction at the time because I was in such denial about my own. Don't get me wrong, I knew I had a problem, obviously, there I was locked up singing the ABCs to a person with the title "Behavioral Health Assistant," but I also thought my problem was very different, and honestly, not as bad as theirs. At the time, I didn't see the correlation between my issues and their issues because all I saw was the method used to numb (or feel) as opposed to the reason behind wanting to numb (or feel), so I didn't care... about them.

A quick disclaimer before you deem me heartless and refuse to read the rest: I eventually got to the point when I did realize that we were all the same in our struggles, and when these girls, who were once "those girls," became my sisters, and they allowed me to enter into their pain as I allowed them to enter into mine, but that is later in the story. For now, at least for in this part of the story, I'm still an ignorant bitch.

To be continued...

the beginning

2011-03-06T14:02:00.000-08:00

It was February 5th, 2007. The bears had just lost the super bowl the day before and I was waking up in a hotel room in Warrenville, IL at an ungodly hour in the morning. Having grown up on the coast of South Carolina, it was my first time experiencing a winter that was below 50 degrees. On top of which, according to news reports that morning it was "the coldest winter in Chicago history." I arrived in Chicago a few days before and upon exiting the airport I went into shock. I had never felt cold like that before, nor had I ever conceived in my mind that it was physically possible to be that cold. Sure, I had seen people act that cold in the movies, but that was the movies. In the movies people also end up "happily ever after," which I think is one of Hollywood's greatest fabrications, but that's a topic for another blog.

So on this cold February morning in Warrenville, IL, I packed up my bags, waited for my dad outside of our hotel room and the two of us headed for the place that was going to change the course of my life. In some ways this was my hope, and in some ways it was my fear. I so desperately wanted change from the life I had been living, but I was so desperately afraid for the change to actually take place. I wanted to be at a point where I could look back and say "look what I've come through, and look how I've healed from it," but I didn't want to actually go through what it took to get to that point. I wanted the title of a champion, without having to fight for it.

Despite my desires to skip the process, my body moved forward while my mind dragged behind. I got in the car and I remember the drive being really silent. It was about 30-45 minutes from where we were staying and everything was covered under a white blanket of snow. I remember being in awe and hoping that the drive would continue on without ever stopping. It's quite a paradox when I think about it now: while staring out of the car window that day I wanted the journey to never end, with no destination in sight, at least in the external, physical sense; but while looking inside of myself, I just wanted to get to my destination of being healed without ever having to begin a journey. It's funny how two such opposite feelings and desires can co-exist within the same person. I have often considered myself a walking contradiction, but that day certainly sticks out in my mind as one of the most aggressive wrestling matches between my thoughts.

As we neared the town I would be living in for the next two months, I began to feel a bit more anxious. I had no idea what to expect. I remember passing a large Buddhist temple on the way and thought it would be the perfect opportunity to stop and sight see, but dad thought it might not be the best idea if we wanted to make our 7am "admissions" appointment.

Admissions. I hadn't heard that word since I was in high school when I applied for college. What was I doing at 23, a college graduate, seeking admissions again. It might seem acceptable, even admirable, if it was admissions to a great new job, or even a graduate school of some sort, but it wasn't. And so I didn't feel acceptable, or admirable, or even lovable. I felt alone, and lost, and completely worthless, which is probably exactly why I needed to be admitted... to some place, any place that would accept me as I was, without a resume of great accomplishments or picture perfect credentials. In fact, it was in my efforts to strive for perfection that landed me in the place of feeling worthless and not good enough and in the very seat where I was sitting at that moment.

So dad kept driving. His spirit was as calm and peaceful as the quiet, white snow on the ground, and it was his peaceful presence that helped calm my anxiousness. I remember the exit. I remember driving over train tracks and into a section of town that looked like abandoned warehouses and it made me nervous. "Where are we?" I thought to myself. "I should have gone to California."

We turned into a gated area, maybe there were signs for the place, maybe they're weren't, I don't really remember, but what I do remember is the long driveway up a slight incline, surrounded by trees that were covered in snow. I was fascinated because to me they were more than just trees covered in snow; to me they were childhood stories coming to life! And whether that be because I had never really seen trees covered in snow or because my imagination was less grown up than it should be at 23, I was enchanted by my surroundings. I grew up hearing stories of the Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe and all the chronicles of Narnia, and in that moment I remember feeling like we were driving into Narnia (that is, if Narnia could be driven into). I remember seeing a lamp post and actually picturing Mr. Tumnus standing beside it, shivering in the cold. I smiled to myself, not because it's funny to see a faun shivering in the cold, that would be quite rude, but I smiled because for a split second I had the thought "we found it!" and I wasn't worried.

The second passed and we pulled into a parking spot outside of a big building. Nothing brings you back to reality more than a parking lot full of expensive cars. "Parking lots, big, fancy cars... Oh right, we're in America," I thought to myself. I closed the car door and I followed my dad up the wet, wooden stairs. We had to wait outside to be buzzed in the front door. The inside of the building was kinda of dark, with a little bit of natural light coming in through some skylights... at least that's how I think I remember it. There was a big staircase in the middle of the room and some benches and large fake plants. "Narnia would never have fake plants," I jokingly thought, so as to keep myself from the reality of where I was. The rest of my time in that building is still a haze. I remember paperwork and talking, but not much else.

My dad and I got in the car and followed someone to the other side of "campus," which wasn't really far enough to justify driving to. We should have walked but I guess between the suitcases and the snow, it was probably a good idea to loop around a few feet away from where we were. We approached two sets of double glass doors, both locked and alarmed, only to be unlocked and disarmed by the person we were following. My heart was pounding. I followed in behind my dad, and standing there in a row were what seemed like 20 adults (but it was really only like 7), two of which had on white lab coats. It was eerily quiet and a bit intimidating. Introductions began all around... doctors, nurses, behavioral health assistants. I didn't remember any names that day, but a few of the faces I grew fond of over time.

I met with each of the people standing there and talked about the same thing with each one of them. I was really quite tired of repeating myself and thought that perhaps they should do a better job of communicating between themselves instead of asking me to repeat myself seven times. The last meeting my dad sat in the room with me, where he did more talking than I, thank God. They told me my dad was going to leave and I was going to have to stay. I wanted to respond with "I'm 23, I know how this works," but I very quietly said OK. I think I appeared to be more scared than I actually was, but after my dad left and as the day went on, I realized I was more scared than I actually appeared to be.

My dad kissed me goodbye and I sat silently in the room, waiting for a nurse to come and get me, as I was told. The silence was so loud. "Where am I?" I kept thinking to myself, "how did I get here? Why am I here? How did this happen?" My questions were followed by affirmations, "I'm glad I'm here... I think. I mean, I'm glad I'm not alone. I'm so glad I'm not alone in this anymore." The nurse came in and she introduced herself as "Liz." No "Mrs.," no formal last name, not even "nurse Liz," just "Liz," and I remember I liked that. Liz had a sweet face and a warm smile. She had short, curly, salt and pepper colored hair, with probably more salt than pepper (a sign of wisdom, no doubt), and her eyes hid behind a pair of small framed glasses. She had a very halcyon presence and I instantly felt calm when I was around her. She told me it was time for the "awkward part" of the day, as she had to examine my body, but said not to worry because it would be over quick. I liked that she just called it like it was... "awkward." Maybe it wasn't awkward for her since she has examined numerous people's bodies over the last however many years, but assuming that I didn't have numerous people examine my body on a regular basis, ever, it was kind of her to express that she understood how I felt.

I followed her to another room where I handed her my clothes and of course felt awkward and exposed. I knew I was hidden in a place where no one could see me, and I trusted Liz, but I still couldn't help but feel ashamed. I hated what I saw, so I stared at the white-washed brick wall. I looked up and down all over the room as Liz just looked me all over. She wrote down every scar and bruise that made itself known to her. The questions entered my mind again, "Where am I? What am I doing here? Why am I here? How did this happen?" I remember clinching my fists and almost feeling unable to un-clinch them until I got my clothes back. Liz was kind enough to make small talk while I stood there without them, but even the sweetness of her voice wasn't enough to make me comfortable in that moment.

I thought I would be fine as soon as it all was over, but once I got comfortably back into my clothes Liz told me it was time for lunch. "I think I'd rather stand here naked," I thought to myself. When I walked out of the "examination room", as I came to call it because you knew what was going to happen anytime someone went in there, the once quiet lobby that I had first walked into was now loud and filled with girls of all ages. I was so overwhelmed by everything going on around me. I didn't want anybody to talk to me, but at the same time, I didn't want to be alone.

Usually at meal time all the girls were escorted to the cafeteria to eat, except for the ones who misbehaved, they had to stay behind and eat in the lodge (where I was at this point). The other exception for girls who couldn't go to the cafeteria were the girls who were on exercise restriction and the girls who were new arrivals. New arrivals were on lock down for 24 hours, meaning they couldn't leave the lodge at all. Technically, we were always on lock down since we were locked in, but after 24 hours from the time you arrived, you were allowed to be escorted to other parts of the campus, making you feel at least slightly above a prisoner.

And so, Liz walked me to the kitchen in the lodge where a few girls were already sitting. I sat quietly and looked at the other girls. I sort of smiled in way that said "please don't talk to me even though I'm desperately lonely and need a friend." Before introductions began a guy walked in with a styrofoam to-go box and placed it in front of me. I hesitantly opened it and almost cringed when I saw it... lasagna, peas, and a baguette roll. "I'll eat the peas," I said to myself, "but nothing else!" On the outside I just smiled and began eating my peas. The guy who brought my food in sat down at the table next to me and introduced himself. He said his name was Nic without a 'k,' which I really liked because I always tried to explain to people that my name was Jennie with an 'i-e' not a 'y.' I hate when people spell my name with a 'y,' and I was sure Nic understood how I felt since, like most other people, I probably would have spelt his name with a 'k' too had he not have told me.

As I was "eating" I was very aware of two other girls in particular sitting at the table. One who was sitting at the end of the table, rocking back and forth with her head down and whispering something to herself (at first I thought she saying grace before her meal, but when she didn't stop I had a feeling that was not what she was doing), and another who was just staring at me. I had that feeling again of "where am I?" followed by "are these people crazy? Am I crazy?" The one girl who was staring at me finally asked me my name and I quietly told her. The girl at the end who was rocking herself lifted her head and said "that's a pretty name," then lowered her head back down and went back to rocking and whispering. The other girls introduced themselves too, I think about 5 all together, but it was those two girls that I specifically remember. The girl who was staring at me then started getting loud and boisterous and all the other girls followed along. "Misbehavior, " I thought to myself, "plus they seem way too comfortable to have just arrived." I could tell the once staring, now loud girl had a heavy influence on all the others, at least the ones in the kitchen, so I was going to make it a point not to associate with her so as not to conform. At the time I didn't realize I could be a friend to her without conforming to her lifestyle, but I don't hold it against myself because at the time I could barely think clearly enough to survive.

"My mom hates me because I love women," the girl yelled, and everybody started laughing. "I'm serious, my mom hates me. And I love women!" I felt sad, and uncomfortable. This was my first time living somewhere outside of southern culture where even if women did love women, no one dared to say it. Mixed in with being sad and uncomfortable was a small dose of admiration for her honesty. Nic told everyone to quiet down, then very nicely addressed the girl who was rocking and whispering at the end of the table and told her it was time for her to stop what she was doing and start eating. The other girls then began to encourage her and she slowly started to lift her head and smiled as she began to eat. Upon seeing this, my heart softened a little bit towards the other girls because I realized that even though they seemed intimidating, they really cared about this girl and maybe at some point they could even care about me. The funny thing is that I was older than most of the girls in the kitchen, but I was coming from a place of such bondage for so long that I felt like a child in their company.

I finished my peas and began to close the box and then Nic told me that I had to finish everything. In fact, what I soon found out was that the reason he was in the kitchen was not only to monitor the girls' behavior, but to make sure certain girls, myself included, ate everything on their plates. My heart sank and I literally went into shock. I almost felt like I couldn't breath. "I watched the other girls eat and they didn't finish everything," I thought to myself, "how come I have to? This isn't fair!" I was literally freaking out on the inside, preparing a rebellion in my mind, yet on the outside I was cool and collected. No one ever would have thought I had a care in the world. It's scary how good I was, and even sometimes still am, at that... pretending. I quietly asked Nic why I had to finish what was on my "plate" and why the others didn't (they were all done and out of the kitchen by now). He said it was because I was on a meal plan and they weren't, and until I met with a dietitian, who didn't come in until the next morning, I just had to eat what I was given. I was screaming on the inside and I began to tear up; the tears were the only thing I couldn't keep in or hide very well.

Nic asked me if I was OK and asked what it was that I didn't want to eat. I thought his asking meant he was going compromise with me, but it didn't. He was literally just asking, which is when I first started to realize that guys don't actually use hidden messages... what they are saying is actually what they are saying. "Really?" I asked myself, "it took me coming to this place to figure that out?"

I did as I was told and ate everything I was supposed to, but it took me almost 2 hours. Nic told me since it was my first day he understood it taking so long, but then said that by tomorrow I would have to finish my meals in an hour, and if I wanted to go to the cafeteria at all, in under an hour. He said it very gently so as not to hurt my feelings, but I was still upset. I cringed again, "how can they expect me to do all this? This is too much, too fast, this is ridiculous!" I was pissed. I hated every bit of how I felt. I was so uncomfortable that I couldn't stand it. My stomach was so full it physically hurt and I thought for sure these people had no idea what they were doing. I thought about the ingredients in the food that were now in my body and it drove me insane. I hated not knowing what each ingredient was and I hated not knowing how many calories I just ate, though I had a pretty good guess, and I hated that it was all just sitting there in my stomach; but more than all of that, I hated not having control. I hated it so much that it consumed me. That is was what I think really drove me crazy, and that is why I ended up exactly where I was in that moment.

To be continued...

called out

2011-02-16T19:54:00.000-08:00

Well, I get to stay up late tonight, and to celebrate the occasion, I shall catch up on my writing. The trouble is (and I feel like I always say this), so much has been going on the last few weeks that I really don't know where to even start. I could write about this revelation or that, but with so many of them whirling about in some sort of revelation tornado, I don't know how to just grab a hold of one and write about it. Not that it's my job to write about it, but I like too.

Well there's the obvious, not because it's outward, although I do certainly hope it's reflected outward, but its obvious because it is part of life... God is changing me. In a big way. In a way so big I'm not quite sure how to write about it. I don't want to come across arrogant or prideful, yet in my attempt to be humble I don't want to minimize the vastness of what God is doing in my life. I shall settle on attempting to be neither and just write without care of how someone may interpret it. I say that not to convince you of why I am writing, but to convince myself.

I am in the middle of memorizing Psalm 27. I don't have it all down yet, but I'd like to share with you what I do know. The honor code will have to take place here as you will just have to trust me that I am typing this from memory, so here goes...

The LORD is my light and my salvation,
whom shall I fear?
The LORD is the stronghold of my life,
of whom shall I be afraid?
When evil men advance against me to devour my flesh,
when my enemies and my foes attack me,
they will stumble and fall.
Though an army besiege me
my heart will not fear;
though war break out against me
even then will I be confident.
One thing I ask of the LORD,
this is what I seek:
that I may dwell in the house of the LORD
all the days of my life,
to gaze upon the beauty of the LORD,
and to seek him in his temple.
For in the day of trouble,
he will keep me safe in his dwelling.
He will hide me in the shelter of his tabernacle,
and set me high upon a rock.
Then my head will be exalted
above the enemies who surround me.
At his tabernacle will I sacrifice with shouts of joy.
I will sing and make music to the LORD.
Hear my voice when I call, O LORD.
Be merciful to me and answer me.
My heart says of you "seek his face."
Your face, LORD, I will seek.
Do not hide your face from me,
do not turn your servant away in anger.
You have been my helper.

(Scouts honor: I didn't look it up to check before posting, so check it for me)

That's as far as I've gotten, and not that I plan on it, but even if I were to stop there and not memorize another thing, I would have more than enough to chew on and find hope in. This psalm contains the prayer of my heart, the one thing I seek: that I may dwell in the house of the LORD all the days of my life... to gaze upon the beauty of the LORD and to seek him in his temple. Nothing else matters. Not to me, anyway. And that is what I am learning. That is how the LORD is changing me. Sure, I have known my whole life that nothing else matters, and maybe I have gone through seasons where my heart actually has been aligned to that truth, but now more than ever, that truth has never felt so real to me.

Part of it is accepting the truth that apart from God, there is no good in me. Any quality you see in me that you may be drawn to or that you like about me is not because of who I am, but because of who God is, and it is actually Him you are drawn to. And I know there are people who will say "but it is you," and sure it is me, but at the same time, it isn't. It's quite mysterious, isn't it?

At this point in my life, I have no tangible thing to cling to so that when I have hard days I can say "at least I have this." I thought having somewhere to live would make everything better about being in Portland, and don't get me wrong, I love my home, and I am beyond blessed to live where I do, but it is not the panacea I thought it would be. Having a home is a gift, and a blessing, but what I was hoping it would do was never the intention of the Giver... it doesn't give direction for the future, or make me feel worthy of being loved, or add purpose and meaning to my life. And although it is such a safe haven and a sweet place for me, it doesn't mend a broken heart.

As the house begins to fill up with furniture, and everything gets organized and put away, there is less for me to do and more time for me to think. At what point in my life do I stop looking for people, places, and things to fill these voids and mend these wounds? At what point in my life do I stop expecting my Savior to show up in the form of a boyfriend, a family member, a pastor, a therapist, a job, a talent, a pill, a paycheck, or a place to live? God can be in and can use of all of those things... but all of those things are not God, and when I continue to act like they are and pursue them as if they are, I will continually find myself consumed with disappointment, void of value, and filled with doubt that God was ever there to begin with.

Who am I to doubt the goodness of God when I was never even trusting in it?

Saying "never trusting in it" seems extreme, and maybe it is, but it feels that intense when you come to the realization that you haven't been trusting in it, or in Him for a while. When I living was in Chicago I felt God "calling me out," but I didn't really know what that meant. I thought it meant locationally, and so part of my pursuit of Portland was making tangible what God was saying. I wanted to be obedient to God "calling me out," but I wasn't really in tune enough with Him to hear Him finish His sentence. In retrospect, I honestly don't think He was calling me out of where I was locationally. Staring out of my kitchen window the other morning, the truth hit me so hard it almost knocked the breath right out of me... He was calling me out of where I was spiritually.... a place of stagnation and self pity, where I had voluntarily dethroned Him in my heart.

Among many other things, it is so hard for me to accept how my selfishness has hurt others in this process, and while my mind still scrambles for ways to restore and fix what I may have "messed up," I know the point is not for me to go back and play out the "what ifs," although the desire is there. I am here now and I can only look forward. Someone reminded me today that the truth of the matter is, He knew I decided to move here, and He didn't stop me, so I can only assume that He has got something in mind for me. Maybe the change locationally is what needed to happen in order to become aware of my need for spiritual change, and maybe not, I don't know. What I do know is that, regardless of how much transformation has taken place in my life since I have moved here (and it feels like a lot), it is not the location that is changing me, it is God. And I was foolish to ever think that a location, or another degree, or the opportunity to make an independent decision for myself was ever going to fill a God-shaped void, and give me ultimate satisfaction and purpose in life.

God, forgive me. Hear my voice when I call, O Lord. Be merciful to me and answer me. Forgive my ignorance. Forgive my constant need to find validation in others instead of in You. Forgive me for manipulating and trying to control my situation and even the situations of others around me. Forgive me for more than just what I have the nerve to type out here. Do not turn Your face from me. Do not turn Your servant away in anger. You have been my helper. All along it has been You and I've been blind to it. Forgive my vision. Be my vision. My heart says of You "seek His face," and no longer do I want to ignore the cry of my heart. Your word burns in my heart like a fire. It's like a fire built up in my bones! I am worn out trying to hold it in! Indeed, I cannot!* Therefore, Your face, I will seek! In You is where I want to be hidden. In you is where I want to be found. I don't have much left to bring You, but what I do have I will bring to Your tabernacle and sacrifice with shouts of joy. I will sing and dance and make music to You, Lord, for You have set me high upon a rock... a foundation greater than any home could ever offer. And so, with nothing tangible to cling to, I cling to You, because You are my light and my salvation! You are the stronghold of my life! Of whom or of what shall I be afraid?

If this prayer alone has anything to do with why I am in Portland, then every hard bit of this seemingly long journey has been, and continues to be, completely worth it.

*Jeremiah 20:9

truth from another...

2011-02-07T16:14:00.000-08:00

writing pants

2011-01-30T19:19:00.000-08:00

Today someone read me a post from another fellow Portlander's blog. This Portland blogger seemed quite happy as a human, with lots of cute things to say and fun things to do in the Portland area. I loved it, in the sense that I wanted to be her, but at the same time, I didn't want to hear anymore, because I couldn't relate. At least not right now.

It was as my friend was reading about this Portlander's love of farm animals that it hit me... "I've become one of those depressing bloggers whom people might only read so as to feel better about their own lives." And that's only if they keep reading. Many stop at the first sign of depression.

My thoughts scrambled as I started to think about happy and fun things to write about so that I too could have hundreds of people comment on the things I have to say. Seriously? Hundreds of comments? About farm animals? And I get it... the point of blogging of is not to get the most comments, just like the point of facebook is not to get the most friends, but let's face it, when someone actually acknowledges they read what I write by commenting on it, or someone actually acknowledges they want to be friends with me, even if by facebook, it does put a little extra hitch in my giddy up.

Prior to hearing about the wild adventures of farm girl, I had gone on a walk around my neighborhood. I walked down to the local nursery and took in the beauty of all the trees and plants around me. If there's one thing I love about Portland, it is the epic trees in this town. I love trees. I love to draw them, paint them, climb them, swing from their branches and sit under their shade. I love how some change drastically throughout the seasons and some remain constant in their appearance. I love that some are weak and some are strong. I love that they are firmly rooted where they are planted. I love that they don't resist growth. I love that they provide shade and shelter. I love that they serve as homes, not just for animals, but for kids of all ages looking for the perfect fort. I just love trees. And Portland has some beautiful trees.

I realize this is where I should post pictures of some of the trees. I know farm girl would... she had tons of pictures of all the animals she described. I wish I could keep up with her, but alas, I cannot. And I am OK with that. For now.

The time will come when I will venture out with a camera and document this beautiful town. I've started slowly, but nothing is ready to share yet. For now, I will wait for my lunch to finish cooking (itself), sip on my coffee, and sit in front of my computer with my writing pants on. Yes, I have writing pants. I actually dubbed them my writing pants today. They are too comfortable (and too cute, if I might add) not to wear them while I sit and write. This is the method of accountability I have chosen. I love wearing these pants, so now whenever I put them on, I must write, even if only a few sentences to get the thoughts out of my head.

And so, I realize I don't keep an award winning blog with lots of profound things to say or fun things to do or make, but I feel happy when I write. So... if for no one else other than myself, I will keep writing... even if it depresses the hell out of whoever reads it.

Happy reading, Y'all!

a dash of salt

2011-01-26T17:24:00.000-08:00

I baked a cake today.

A seemingly insignificant detail in the grand scheme of life on planet on earth, but for me and my small spec of time here, it was quite a lovely way to spend some of my afternoon. I was baking it with the intention of sharing it with a community of people tonight, and although I was proud of finishing what I started, it didn't quite turn out the way it was supposed to look, at least according to the picture in the cook book.

It was flat and thin and looked a whole lot more like a giant pancake than it did an actual cake you would frost and serve at a birthday party; but in thinking about it, even a pancake is a type of cake, and I was excited to at least get the finished product in the family of what I was aiming for.

There are many things aside from cakes that end up looking different than what we think they are supposed to look like, or even what we want them to look like. You can follow the directions to a tee without missing a step, a beat, or even a dash of salt, and still end up with something that looks nothing like the way the picture promised it, whether that be a picture from a book or a picture you have painted in your mind.

As I've said many times before, so I apologize for saying it again, I moved to Portland, OR last fall. I knew what it would hold, I knew what it would look like, I knew how it would go. I had the directions and all I had to do was follow them and this wonderful life that I imagined up would become a reality upon moving here, or at least that's what I thought. I did have peace that I truly believe came from the Lord about coming here, but I may have sabotaged the peace by placing expectation upon what my time here would look like. The doors leading me here were wide open, so I walked through them, trusting that if this wasn't something the Lord wanted me to do, He'd shut them. As the doors flew open I walked faster and faster, forgetting what I was walking away from and expecting my arrival to be triumphant.

Low and behold, I walked through the last door and I arrived! And then everything fell apart. Moving here, for me, was going to be a step towards figuring out what I was going to do with my life. Instead, it quickly started to feel like 5 steps backwards, which I've encountered before, but this time I was alone and outside of my comfort zone.

Having had some time pass and being somewhat more adjusted, I am in a place where I am starting to be OK with the fact that moving to Portland looks absolutely nothing like what I thought it would. I'm actually coming to a place of being thankful that it doesn't look the way I planned. I thought my purpose in coming here was to go to the Art Institute and that was it. I still don't know what it is, if it's one specific thing at all, but I know that God has something bigger for me than just an art degree from an accredited and incredibly expensive art school. I thought I would find more purpose in my life (something I seemed to be lacking at that point) if I pursued what I was passion about, so I pursued art, or at least a form of art that would allow me to make a living.

Long story short, I'm not in school anymore. Was it another thing I started that I didn't finish? Maybe. Was it something that I tried and didn't like and can now rule out as a profession? Possibly. But I think there's more to it than that. I was so confused when I decided not to go back to school. The questions seemed never ending... "Am I supposed to stay in Portland? Isn't school the reason I came here? Do I go back to Chicago? Lord, what am I doing? I keep trying all of these different things, hoping it will be what you want me to do and hoping it will be what I want to do, and hoping it will fulfill me, why do I not feel fulfilled? Do I just keep trying? Am I not looking hard enough? Am I missing it? I don't want to start another thing and not finish it, what do you want me to do?"

It's funny when the Lord shows up. Over Christmas break I was staying with my aunt and uncle in Chicago. At some point, on some normal day while I wrestling with questions about the direction in which my life is going, as I normally do, mother nature called... or perhaps it was the Lord, but it was certainly mother nature that I heard... and felt... and responded to. I went to the bathroom without any expectation other than a normal visit to the bathroom. I was still asking the Lord questions while I did my business. In the brief moment before I got up to flush, I felt and heard something that wasn't mother nature. I stayed right where I was and revelation hit me like a spiritual two-by-four across the back of the head. It wasn't an audible voice, but I heard the Lord say something... something like this...

"You can try all of the things you want to, but if you are looking for them to fulfill you, you will never find what you are looking for. Not even doing something you are passionate about, such as art, will give you the fulfillment you are looking for. Only I can fulfill you the way you want to be fulfilled, so if that is why you are trying these things, your search will never end."

It was common sense and mind blowing at the same time. It's something that I knew to be true, but it wasn't until that moment that my heart received it and felt it to be true.

Our conversation continued for a while, but eventually I flushed the toilet, along with my desires to find purpose in a job, a school, or an identity of any sort, and flung the door wide open, leaped into the hall and blurted out "that was the best bathroom visit EVER!"

I don't know if my aunt or uncle heard me, and if they did I don't know what they might have thought I meant... after all, I was in there for quite a while, just listening to the Lord. But it didn't matter what they thought or not, I left the bathroom feeling lighter for more reasons than just those mother nature had to do with.

I still have moments and days of confusion, but I am increasingly aware of God's hand at work in my life. I am in pursuit of the Lord, not for what He can do for me or show me, but just simply and solely so that I might know Him. In knowing Him I am finding my value again and my purpose in life. I am finding that I may not be a trend setting graphic designer, or the next greatest Women's Bible study teacher, or even the humblest of missionaries in the bush of Africa, all things I have once pursued; I am finding that I am simply loved... simply and solely for who I am, not for what I can do.

This is no excuse for laziness... to just exist and be content with being loved by God. I'm still doing my part by taking steps towards things and seeing where He'll lead, but I'm doing so knowing that the things I pursue aren't going to make me a more satisfied person or define me for better or worse. Yes, I am learning to be content in whatever circumstance simply because I am loved by God, but it is that love that fuels me to pursue Him harder, knowing, and sometimes just simply trusting, that He will have His way with me and the rest will fall into place, not because of my own doing, but because of His.

And so... these were thoughts that came to mind today, all from simply following the directions of a cake recipe and getting different results from what was promised. Nothing is picture perfect. Not even from a cook book. I'm all for baking, but when it comes to recipes and formulas for how to do life, I give up.

change is inevitable, unless from a vending machine

2011-01-24T16:05:00.000-08:00

Where to start... so many things come to mind.

I've had a log in my eye for quite some time now. You'd think it be more painful for one who wears contacts, such as myself, but no, it's just as comfortable for contact wearers as it is for those without four eyes or four lenses of any sort.

Let me paint the picture for those of you who may not know where I am coming from....

Matthew 7:3-5

"... and why worry about a speck in your friend's (brother's) eye when you have a log in your own? How can you think of saying, 'Let me help you get rid of that speck in your eye,' when you can't see past the log in your own eye? Hypocrite! First get rid of the log from your own eye; then perhaps you will see well enough to deal with the speck in your friend's eye."

This is just an excerpt from one of Jesus' many incredible teachings during his sermon on the mount. I don't normally like to pick apart small segments of scripture from the greater picture. I feel as if so many verses are twisted to sound like anything we want them to when they are taken out of context. With that said, I simply can't ignore the fact that there is a log in my eye, and so much so that I'm having a hard time reading past that verse.

The solution seems simple... yank it out. The trouble is, my hands have been so full holding onto what I want that not only have I not been able to yank it out, I haven't wanted to. I just learned to live with it. In fact, I forgot it was there. That's a pretty dangerous place to be... spiritually blind with both hands full of selfish desires.

I've come to a place of letting go of what I want, but believe me, it wasn't and it continues to not be easy. It is a daily, sometimes even hourly, choice to surrender my will to the will of my Father. As I continue in my journey, the need to let go gets less and less... not because I get better at letting it go, but because the more I get to know who my Savior is, the more I realize that as much as my heart desires what my fists have been clenching to, I slowly become OK without it.

This is just the beginning for me... the letting go. I've only just recently noticed and started to feel the log in my eye. As if letting go isn't uncomfortable enough, trying to get a log the size of Texas out of your eye isn't much better. The log has not only prevented me from seeing, but from hearing and from understanding. It makes me sad to think of how I've been so quick to point out the change that needs to take place in other's people's lives, all the while waiting for their change to change me. I've missed the point completely, which doesn't just affect me but those I do life with, or even those I just come across. With this new found discovery my heart is sad, but hopeful. Instead of beating myself up about it, I'm going to opt for change.

I read today that "being stuck is waiting for someone else to change in order for you to be OK." If there is one word that best describes how I've felt lately (other than "confused"), it would be "stuck." It all makes sense why I've felt this way. As a living, breathing creature of God, change is not only inevitable, I think it is part of God's plan for us... to not just stay the way we are. The trouble with me is, I've been depending on other people changing to make me OK. I've tried and tried to point out their specks and ways they needed to change, but it doesn't do me much good to try and pull the specks out of their eyes when my hands are full and I can't see past the log in my own.

Today I not only let go of what my hands and heart have been clinging to, but I let go of trying to fix and change others for my own benefit and growth. I let go of my selfishness. I let go of trying to do it all and be it all.

It's time to stop living and walking so blindly and deal with this mother-load of a log in my eye.

Does anybody know a good carpenter?

(I get the cheesiness from my mom!)

still running

2011-01-20T18:01:00.000-08:00

It didn't seem real, but it was. It was very real.

Moving here had stripped me from every comfort I had wrapped myself in over the last four years. Upon my arrival I felt myself standing naked before strangers, begging for clothing of any sort to wrap myself in, but none within reach. The harder I tried to cover myself, the more uncomfortable I felt. Though I found pieces of cloth here and there to cover my shame, they weren't pieces of cloth that I recognized and they didn't comfort me the way familiarity does.

Worn out and tired from the journey, stripped of everything I knew and loved, and covered in someone else's clothing, the discomfort became too much and I quickly started to feel myself collapse.

I fell and I fell hard. I broke every bone on the way down. The bones that had guarded my heart shattered and every bit of my heart shattered along with them. I lay on the ground appearing lifeless to those around me. I was aware I was still breathing, but I couldn't yell for help. I couldn't even speak. Not even a whisper. I could sense people all around me, people I knew who came to help me, but no one could do anything. No one knew what to do. If they moved my broken body, I might die. If they left me there on my own, I might die. I felt someone lean in to put their ear to my mouth. I heard them ask "how can I help?" as they listened closely, even desperate, for me to answer. In my mind I was screaming and yelling, begging them to pick me up and take me in their arms, but nothing came out of my mouth. I lay there, lifeless, on the ground, surrounded by so many people, but so alone.

How could they not know what I needed? How could they just stand there? Why won't they help me? Why can't they fix this? Panic set in and my breaths got shorter and shorter. The worry began to make my head hurt, so much so I thought it would explode. Anger set in and I began to hate the people around me. I hated them for standing there. I hated them for not being able to fix me. I hated them for not holding me. The hate consumed every pain I had previously felt and my body went numb. Hatred stopped the feeling of pain, so I held onto it for a while. I held onto it until I realized that hatred stopped the feeling of everything. I didn't want to let it go because I didn't want to feel the pain again, but there was a faint memory of something good that I longed for. Something good that I knew hatred couldn't give life too. That word... "Life"... that's what I needed, but it seemed so far away, the memory of it so faint.

I let go of the hatred and the pain came back tenfold. Those same people around me, that same voice asking "how can I help?" and yet they could do nothing. It hurt even worse because I knew they couldn't help me, but I loved them anyway. Loving them... it made it hurt more. It hurt more because I knew I had to let them go too. The hatred wasn't going to numb the pain, and they were going to heal it. I had to let go of the hope I had put in them to fix me. But I loved them, how could I possibly let them go? I clenched tighter and tighter to the ones that I loved, and the tighter I clenched the more it hurt.

I heard something. It sounded like a whisper... "let it go."

I violently shook my head no.

"let it go."

Tears began to stream down my face.

"let it go."

For the first time since I collapsed, I was able to let out how I felt inside and what sounded like shrieking began to come out of my mouth. On and on I cried aloud, but even above my cries, I heard the whisper...

"let it go."

My broken body, though unable to move, was still able to hold on for dear life what it didn't want to lose.

"JJ. Let it go."

My crying began to slow. My breathing followed. I looked at my arm stretched out on the ground and I could see my hand still clenched tight.

With tears streaming down my face, I slowly began to loosen my grip. Before I knew it, my hand was open...

and I finally felt at peace.

I breathed the last breath I had in me and I let it all go. I let everything go.

I gave up.

Everything was dark, but it was still. It was quiet. It was calm.

I felt breath that wasn't my own begin to fill my lungs. I felt a presence all around me, but it wasn't any of the people who had been there before. My bones were no longer broken. My heart was completely whole, without the slightest crack or bit of evidence it had ever been harmed. I felt someone or something lift me and without any effort of my own I began to stand on my own two feet.

I started to walk, and in which direction I don't know because it was still dark, but I just kept walking. I didn't have a care or concern in the world of what might happen, so I started running. I felt weightless and I began to feel overjoyed as I ran. It had been so long since I'd run towards something, and it felt good. I didn't even know what I was running towards, but I knew it was good, and I knew I was taken care of.

And this is where I find myself... still running. Yes, it is still dark and so much is unknown, but I am running with a peace and a joy knowing that I need not worry about the dark. I need not worry about what I run into. I need not worry about what lays ahead.

I run because a weight has been lifted. I run because my body has been healed. I run because my cup overflows and I no longer need to worry about what spills or stains. And I run because I no longer fear that which once broke me. It is in the brokenness that I have found restoration, and in the restoration I have found life again.

Without much sight of what surrounds me, I run carelessly into the care of He who is healing me.

being reminded...

2010-12-26T21:19:00.000-08:00

I just felt the need to re-post this, as a reminder to myself. It's hard for me to believe this was almost 3 years ago, and yet I still find myself handing back the pen I grabbed from God's hand and asking Him again to write my story.

Monday, February 25, 2008

applicant need not apply

I want so badly to write, but something is just completely blocking me. It's like I can't get the words to come out. They refuse.

I can literally feel a wall inside my chest and the words from my heart are trying so hard to jump over it, but they just can't make it. It's too high... and getting higher. I almost feel like the higher the wall gets, the less I can breath.

It's a slow and painful death not doing what you were created to do.

I don't know if I know exactly what I was created to do yet, but I know it involves a message I was created to share.

But this wall... everything is stuck behind this wall. How do I get over it? How do I tear it down? How do I even begin the process of chipping away at it?

I can't do it. I can't. I'm too tired, and I don't have the energy anymore. I used to want someone to chip at it for me. I thought it meant I was worth something if I was worth getting through the wall to get to. I realize my wall has allowed me to shut people out... most of which respond the same way... they don't respond at all. They give up. They walk away, and I build my wall higher.

But...

My family. I can't say the same for my family. They've never given up. I've given them plenty of reason to, but no matter how high I build that wall, they know I'm back there, and they refuse to leave me alone without ever being known.

They want to know me. Wow. They want to know me.

I'm starting to realize that I can't chip the wall down by myself... but I realize someone else can't do it for me, so what's the answer?

I think it's to meet in the middle. I think God wants to give me the strength to chip away from my side, and the someone elses strength to chip away from their side, and together we tear down that wall... by God's strength.

Lord, I don't want to hide behind my wall anymore... but I can't tear it down by myself... and I don't want someone to do it for me... so I just pray for people in my life who are willing to meet me half way.

..........................................

Hahaha... ok... so I started to write that last night, and even though there is total truth to it, I was mostly just feeling sorry for myself (there at the end) and didn't know how to reach out for help, so I figured if I could manipulate people through my writing, people would reach out to me.

What God has done in me since then is remninded me... He's got it. God's got it. God's got me. He's got me!

Wow. It all makes me smile and laugh and sing at the same time!

Me manipulating people is not trusting God. Me manipulating people is taking the pen from God's hand and writing my own story... with my own motives, my own intentions, and my own ending in sight. But that's just it... when I write my story, I like the beginning, as most of us do when we start to take control, but since it's me writing and not God, the ending is tragic.

I'm tired of having tragic endings due to selfish beginnings. And this is where I hand the pen back and say "God... please.... write my story!"

God is tearing down that wall. So I'm going to stop handing out applications for His position and allow Him to be exactly who He is... God.

dancing again

2010-12-08T18:42:00.000-08:00

I moved into a new place today. It's another temporary place, but this time with an end to "temporary" in sight. Come January 8th, 2011, I will finally have a place to call home in Portland, Oregon. It's been a rough start in this city, rougher than I could have imagined. Maybe it's because I'm still right in the middle of it, living out of suitcases and boxes, so the emotions are still very fresh and intense, but the last 2 and a half months have been some of the hardest I think I have been through in a while.

While moving some of my stuff today, I started sorting through some boxes and pulled out some old journals. I could literally feel all of the emotions I poured out on those pages over the last 3 years of my life. I sat on the hardwood floor of this cute little studio apartment, and just cried and thanked God for how far He has brought me... again.

I tucked my journals away, reminded myself that the pain from those pages were over, put the current pain I am now facing aside, popped in a favorite mixed CD, and just danced. I danced like I haven't danced in a long time. OK, that's not totally true, I danced Saturday night, and maybe that was the catalyst for tonight's dance, but before Saturday, it had been a while since I found myself dancing.

I think that's a good sign... dancing. I think it means, for me, that I am remembering that God has got me. When things get tough I rest in that truth, but when things start to fall into place and I see or feel a glimpse of hope, I dance in it! The good and the bad, God is with me through it all, and I respond to it in different ways, some good, some bad, but none the less, God deals with my responses and He sticks with me... through it all. The last few months I've just been clinging to Him, with no energy left to do much else.

Tonight, we danced.

Thank You, Lord, for Your faithfulness. For seeing me through this hard time. For providing more than enough, even when I wasn't able to see or acknowledge it. Thank You for fighting for me, and with me. Thank You for not giving up on me, even when I yelled at You that night in the car. Thank You for loving me, and not the way people love pizza or the way I love Dean Martin, but purely, recklessly, abundantly and unabashedly loving me. I could never have done or be doing this without You.

Thank You that I get to go home next week and visit with family and friends... something I've been longing for since I moved here.

And thank You that when I come back, I can put away the suitcases, recycle the boxes, do a little dance, and finally be at home...

in Portland, Oregon.

a thrill of hope

2010-11-30T11:36:00.000-08:00

Thanksgiving 2010, how did you get here so fast? And to think, you have already come and gone. Mercy me, not the band, where does the time go?

For Thanksgiving this year I decided to go stay with some new friends of mine in Seattle, WA. I had never been to Seattle before, and seeing as I now live 3 hours away and had nothing to do for Thanksgiving, I thought it would be the perfect opportunity to jump ship in Portland and head even further north for the weekend.

Having been warned about the heavy traffic going into Seattle, even when it's not the day before Thanksgiving, I decided to head out Wednesday afternoon, hoping to at least get there by night fall. I had heard this was a most un-enjoyable drive for most people as not only is it always raining, but the road is always full of big semi-trucks, slopping even more rain onto your windshield from the backs of their ginormous tires, making it impossible for your windshield wipers to wipe fast enough. None the less, I wasn't going to let this keep me from a weekend getaway in the emerald city (I just heard someone call it that once, I should probably google that).

Despite the rumors, it was actually quite an enjoyable drive. It had just snowed the night before, so the sky was clear and the ground was white... the perfect setting for heading into the Holidays. I was quite tired as I had worked that morning at 5:30am and didn't fit in a nap before leaving, so I decided that stopping for coffee was a must. Much to my delight, once I hit Washington, many of the rest stops had signs that said "Free Coffee." Even though I was only 45 minutes into my trip, as soon as I saw the sign I skipped a lane or two, only cutting off one old woman, and tore into the first rest stop exit. It sounds funny to say, because it's a rest stop, but it was the most angelic rest stop I had ever been to. It was hidden under big beautiful pine trees that were covered in snow, kids were skipping to the bathroom as their parents darted straight to the coffee. Everything was white and it was really just breathtaking. Even something about the way the "Restrooms" sign was hung made me envision resting in a cloud instead of hovering over a porcelain pee hole.

Another side note, which will cause for a rewind, my car has been acting up a bit lately and it sometimes decides that it doesn't want to start. This problem is a recent development and the first time it happened a couple of weeks ago, I just thought the battery had died. I called AAA (thank you, mom, for that membership) and when this cute little old man came out to jump it, it didn't jump. It just sat there, as if it had temporarily checked out of it's reality of being an 11 year old Nissan Maxima. The cute little old man rubbed his bald head, pushed his glasses back up, and without saying a word just walked to the back of his truck. He came back with a big wooden stick. I sort of laughed to myself as I wondered what was about to happen.

He asked me to hold the roof of my car up, as I don't have one of those sticks that holds it for you (guys, feel free to interject here and tell me the official name of that stick), and he took his big wooden pole, stuck it down into a crevice and began hitting something. After a few taps, he smiled, looked at me and said "that oughta do it!" I was skeptic, but I was so pulling for this cute little old man, so I walked back around to the drivers seat and gave the engine a crank. Sure enough, it started.

He explained to me, in laments terms, that the starter was locking up and that it should be good to go, but it may need "a few light slams every now and then." I asked him to show me where the starter was and so he took a flashlight, shined it down the crevice, and said "see that metal thing with the dent marks (assuming they were from the "few light slams")? That's the starter. That's what I was hitting." I'm really glad that being a woman, he assumed that I not only knew nothing about cars but was completely unable to put two and two together. Regardless, he was a darling old man and I thanked him ever so much for his help.

My car was fine for about a week and then one day after work, I got in to go home and low and behold it wouldn't start. I went back into work and got a broom. I told one of the guys I work with that my car wouldn't start and I needed help holding the roof up. He probably thought he'd be doing more than that since I was grabbing a broom to fix a car problem, but he followed me out, and did just as I asked. He held the roof, I stuck the broom down the crevice I had discovered the week before and started lightly slamming on the starter. He laughed, then I walked around to the drivers seat and gave the engine a crank. Sure enough, it started. "No way," my co-worker exclaimed and laughed even more. "Yea," I said confidently with my head held high, "I feel like a man!"

Fast forward to last Wednesday and my visit to this angelic rest stop. When I parked, I really did not want to turn my car off only to have to go through the hassle of my car not starting, having to find a roof holder, then lightly slamming on my starter with the closest tree branch I could find. I debated for a bit, and decided that I could trust this angelic scene with leaving my car on and unlocked while I grabbed some coffee and made a brief visit to the restroom. Being a bit nervous about the idea, I decided I would hurry just to be on the safe side.

Going to the restroom while in a hurry just isn't an ideal situation. There's nothing restful about it... especially when you're wearing layers. This might be exposing a bit too much about myself, but I, for whatever reason decided I could get through the whole process a lot faster if I just left my gloves on. After all, then I wouldn't even need to waste time washing my hands. I was OK with the idea until I stepped out of the stall with my gloves on, and maybe it was my own insecurity, but I felt the line of mothers and daughters staring at me as if to watch and make sure I was going to wash my hands. I walked up to the sink, opened my glove flaps, and washed four fingers on each hand (the thumbs don't have flaps). OK, I didn't wash them, I ran them under the water, but it made me feel better about the people watching. Too much information? Probably so, but oh well. Onward! I grabbed a cup of free coffee which, even though it was stale, made it taste great!

I ran out to my car with my free stale coffee and eight of my fingers freshly rinsed, and was ready to hit the road. Before pulling out onto the highway, I found some Christmas music on the radio, which I normally don't condone before Thanksgiving, but being in the spirit of Holiday road trips, I couldn't resist.

I enjoyed all the typical Christmas songs like "I'll be home for Christmas," "Let it snow," and the Jackson 5's rendition of "I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus." I sang out loud, I sang to myself, I sang to pictures I had in my car, I just really got into it. Then a song came on that made it hard for me to decide if I should change the station so as to be nice to the person singing it, or if I should scrap the whole nice thing and just laugh at what I was hearing. I know it may be hard for you to believe, but just as I had my finger on the button to change the station, I pulled it back and decided to keep laughing.

The song was called "Christmas in the Northwest" and it just may be by far the best worst Christmas song I have ever heard. It was complete and utter cheese. I mean I couldn't believe it was even on the radio. I started thinking about the lyrics, and even the lyrics to songs I was just previously enjoying and thought "is this really what we think Christmas is all about?" I say "we," because even though I know what Christmas is really all about, I sometimes forget and get caught up in the commercialism of it. But before I get on that thought, let me go back to the song. The lyrics of the chorus are as follows...

Christmas in the Northwest
Is a gift that we can share
Christmas in the Northwest
Is a child's answered prayer

Take away the presents
And they still will have a dream
For Christmas in the Northwest
Is a gift God wrapped in green

Maybe it's because it's my first holiday season in the Northwest, so I don't appreciate it as much as those indigenous to these parts, but really? A child's answered prayer? God's gift wrapped in green?

Now, I don't want to completely tear apart this song, for a couple of reasons...

1. I felt somewhat like a jerk when I looked it up and found out it was released in 1985 as a means to help benefit Children's hospitals in the area. Yea, I know, I felt it burn.
2. While there are a few parts in the song with more substance, I couldn't get past the cheese of the chorus (lyrically and compositionally). That said, who am I to blast someone else's work? I'm not a profound music critic, I'm just another person with a barrel full of opinions.

I laughed it off as another cheesy Christmas song, but I couldn't stop thinking about that one part "Christmas in the Northwest is God's gift wrapped in green." I literally said out loud something to the effect of "Lord, it's pretty here and all, but I am so glad that's not what life or Christmas is all about. Thank God our gift isn't wrapped in green!"

Now I know, it's just a song, and I don't need to analyze it to death, but sometimes I can't help it, that's what I do. Sure, God gives us gifts, and if you want to wrap that up in a cute little Christmas song, go for it, I'm sure He doesn't mind, but good Lord, don't miss the point along the way!

There is one song that, even though it's termed a Christmas song, may be one of my overall favorite songs. Reason being, every time I hear it or sing it, it doesn't stop there. I feel it. The words literally send chills up my spine. The radio plays it and renditions of it have been done over and over, so much so that you're almost in auto pilot when you sing it or hear it, but if you really stop and take in the words, they will pierce your soul.

O Holy Night! The stars are brightly shining,
It is the night of the dear Saviour's birth.
Long lay the world in sin and error pining.
Till He appeared and the Soul felt its worth.
A thrill of hope the weary world rejoices,
For yonder breaks a new and glorious morn.
Fall on your knees! Oh, hear the angel voices!
O night divine, the night when Christ was born;
O night, O Holy Night , O night divine!
O night, O Holy Night , O night divine!

Led by the light of faith serenely beaming,
With glowing hearts by His cradle we stand.
O'er the world a star is sweetly gleaming,
Now come the wisemen from out of the Orient land.
The King of kings lay thus lowly manger;
In all our trials born to be our friends.
He knows our need, our weakness is no stranger,
Behold your King! Before him lowly bend!
Behold your King! Before him lowly bend!

Truly He taught us to love one another,
His law is love and His gospel is peace.
Chains he shall break, for the slave is our brother.
And in his name all oppression shall cease.
Sweet hymns of joy in grateful chorus raise we,
With all our hearts we praise His holy name.
Christ is the Lord! Then ever, ever praise we,
His power and glory ever more proclaim!
His power and glory ever more proclaim!

There's too much for me to pick apart in one post. I don't even know how to take it all in. Whether it be because I am in a tough season right now, or because the song is just that powerful, or a lot of both, I had forgotten the truth and the hope behind these words until this commercial of a Holiday season started to roll around (right after Halloween). The truth and the hope is always available, not just at Christmas, but when I listened to these words recently and sang them out loud it shocked me to my core and I just found myself in tears.

Only when HE appeared did the soul feel it worth! And can you imagine, a weary world who for so long just layed in their own mess of sin and pain, just pinning away, until finally, FINALLY, a THRILL of HOPE! Can you imagine feeling that? Finally, after such a long and weary wait, that initial feeling of hope? Thrill seems to be the only world appropriate to describe it. What a thrill it must be to finally feel your true worth! Even now, it makes me tear up out of joy. What a Glorious morning! How can you do anything else but fall on your knees? Can you imagine? A weary world, a weary heart finally being able to rejoice! I can not hold it in! Divine night, indeed. And He, He who came and made us feel our worth knows our need. He is no stranger to our weakness. He is neither surprised by it, nor intimidated by it, He conquers it! He completely shatters that which has held us in bondage for so long! Fall on your knees and behold! Behold your King, your Savior, your Redeemer! Who better fit for us to serve? His law is love and His gospel is peace! Not even the hippies got that right! The law by which He governs is love, and the gospel by which He teaches is peace! No condemnation, just love and peace! Fall on your knees and rest in His truth! Chains shall He break, for the slave is our brother! Our brother! Oppressor and oppressed shall be no more, for in His name, all oppression shall cease! O Holy night, indeed! With all of our hearts, with all of who we are, how can we but praise Him?

I surrender who I am, I surrender what I want, I surrender my power and my own glory and I fall on my knees and beg, dear Lord, if you are who you say you are, take all of me and please give me the honor of proclaiming your power and your glory... ever more, ever more!

Oh, Holy Night!

It makes me think twice about saying "holy crap!"

Dear Depression,

2010-11-19T18:25:00.000-08:00

I see you've come back for a visit. To be quite honest, I can't say that I'm glad to see you. While there was a time when I would have welcomed you with open arms, mainly because I still believed you truly cared about me, in recent years I've adjusted to getting along well on my own, and I've realized that I don't need you anymore.

Too many times you have played your games and messed with my head. Too many times did you hold me and love me and make me feel worthy, only to disappear a short while after leaving me to feel abandoned, alone, and very much afraid. You made me believe I needed you in order to be worth something, and I did, I believed you wholeheartedly. So much so that upon each departure I felt completely worthless to point of being nameless without your name along side mine.

Just when I would start to do well without you and have even a small taste of healing from your wounds, you'd show back up at my door, unannounced, and tell me you loved me all along. You'd point out how hard the healing was without you and reasoned that the only reason it could be so hard was because we belonged together... we were meant for each other... we were made for each other.

Time and time again, I fell for your lies and collapsed into your arms, tired and worn out, and very much just wanting to be loved again. I had convinced myself that I'd rather be unhappy with you than unhappy without you, regardless of how unhealthy our relationship was. I had convinced myself that you were my only option and that I could never be anybody without you.

I'm writing to tell you that I don't believe that anymore. I'm writing to tell you that I don't believe you anymore. And I'm writing to tell you that you are no longer welcome into any area of my life.

I don't know how you found me here, but find me you did, and I commend your efforts, but I won't reward them, I won't welcome them, and I won't give into them.

Today, when you saw me walking in the rain with tears streaming down my face, I admit, I wanted you to rescue me. I wanted you to numb the pain. I wanted everything you had to offer, no matter how sick, short term, or temporary it was. I wanted it because I didn't want to feel anymore.

But I don't want to want you anymore. I don't want to be numb anymore. I don't want to taste freedom from the bondage only to give into your sickness time and time again.

And so I kept walking, and I kept crying, and I kept feeling the pain of getting along without you.

I fear the freedom, but I welcome it, as I once did you, so I don't yet know how I am going to do this without you, but I know that I can, and I know that I will.

I was not made for you.

I was made for more than this.

I was made for greater things.

I was made with Love, by Love, and for Love and I chose to live in that truth.

Goodbye, depression. This time I am leaving...

because I choose life, and because I know that I am worth it.

Without Regret,

Jennie Joy Barrows

paper doll

2010-11-15T22:19:00.000-08:00

I'm finding my voice again, which can always be a bit of a challenge. It helps to pull inspiration from others, so I thought I'd share some of where my inspiration comes from... music. I love this song (and this artist), but I've decided that I don't want the lyrics to describe me anymore. Since the song has already been beautifully written and recorded (by someone who has no idea who I am), I guess it's up to me to make the change.

Paper Doll by Rosie Thomas
(click to listen)

Tonight I'm like a paper doll
Dress me in what you wish I had on
And I will not say a thing
I will keep smiling
I'll just keep smiling

Here I am, wordless again
You dress me up different ways
Flat and thin, speechless within
You dress me up different ways
I just can't be sure I'll ever change

And I do not like the clothes I wear
I'd sooner throw them into the air
But I will not say a thing
I will just keep smiling

Here I am, wordless again
You dress me up different ways
Flat and thin, speechless within
You dress me up different ways
I just can't be sure I'll ever change

Why is it now
That you've cut me out
of everything I was used to now
it's not that I
stand here no choice
I will choose not to raise up my voice

Here I am, wordless again
Wordless again.
And I just can't be sure I'll ever change

Tonight I'm like a paper doll
Cut from the page that I once lived on
And I will not say a thing
I'll just keep smiling
I'll just keep smiling
I'll just keep smiling
I'll just keep smiling

snot storms around us

2010-11-11T19:28:00.001-08:00

I really thought I had things figured out. I don't want to spend a lot of time feeling sorry for myself, but I admit, it's getting hard. I try to keep busy, or at least my mind occupied. When I'm not busy I try to sleep so as not to think too much. Maybe it's not the best remedy, but it helps. And that's what I need right now... help.

Not necessarily tangible help, but support, encouragement, and an occasion hug would be greatly appreciated. One thing I've really come to miss since moving away from friends and family is something as simple as a hug. It sounds cheesy, but it's true. I so often find myself saying "I just want a hug."

I want someone to hold me while I cry and tell me it is going to be OK. I want them to brush the hair from my face and pull me tighter. I want to lay my head on their lap and drip snot all over their jeans.

OK, I don't really want to do that, but let's be honest, snot storms are a huge part of good cries! And that's what I need... a good cry.

Before you offer, let me warn you, whoever is going to be there for my good cry is in for a killer snot storm!

Truth be told, I am OK. I know I've been discouraged since moving here and I've made that quite known in previous posts, but tonight I sat down to write about needing a hug, which I automatically assumed was going to turn into a depressing post, but when I heard Jonsi, the former lead singer of my favorite band, singing "Around Us" in the background, I found myself taping my feet and even smiling while typing about snot storms.

With his Icelandic accent I could barely make out the chorus, so I googled the lyrics. The musical composition of the song is just beautiful, but the lyrical content just made it that much better. I will leave it up to your curiosities to search for the rest of the lyrics, but here is the chorus...

We all want to grow with the seeds we will sow
We all want to go with the trees we will grow
We all want to know when we're all meant to go
To a place you and I - Will call home

I'm not quite sure how to sort through it all right here, right now, but this does me good. Especially since moving.

I just wrote all this cheesy stuff about sowing seeds, watching them grow, or not, roots being, well, uprooted, and all the lovely analogies that come along with growth and such, but... I erased it.

I will save that for another day. Right now I am feeling good and I just what to bask in that! If nothing else, I hope this post prompts you to check out the genius of Jonsi. Take a listen... I'll bet you can't help but crack a smile and tap a beat.

Thank you, Lord, for the good moments that make me smile and remind me...

life ain't all that bad!

be calm

2010-11-06T14:58:00.001-07:00

I went to see one of my favorite bands perform about a week ago in Southeast Portland, and it was, to say the least, amazing. Well ok, the venue wasn't that great and the number of teeny boppers greatly out weighed the number of "older, more mature concert goers" such as myself that I thought would be there, but audience surroundings aside, the performance put on by the lead singer was out of this world.

As I think about it, maybe that's what was so great about it, maybe he wasn't really "performing" but just being real with the audience. The emotion you felt as he sang about his heartache just made you want to smile and cry all at the same time. Smile because, as he put it, he's finally happy, but cry because the songs he sang just poured out such heavy emotions that thinking of him going through such a hard time was just too much for you to take in, even if you only knew him as someone on stage.

As he started to sing my favorite song of his, he pointed out that it had been written on the very street we were on. He said he was here in Portland visiting his sister and they were walking down Hawthorne street, which is coincidentally one of my favorite streets in Portland, and it was just a really rough season of life for him. As they walked, they passed a homeless man who just kept singing over and over again to himself "be calm, be calm, be calm." Nate, the lead singer, wrote it down and the words stuck with him, until this song came out of it.

There's one place, as of right now, where I can go and feel at home. When things are hard, or I am sad or lonely, or I just want to read and write, I go to this little coffee shop in Southeast Portland, on Hawthorne street and I sit and feel as if every thing is right with the world. In fact, as I sit here and type this I am in that very coffee shop, feeling very calm and peaceful even though I know when I walk out that door, I will have to face the heartache that I feel I am experiencing during this time of transition.

And so, I think back to the song I heard that was written on this very street, and as I prepare to head out and walk down that street, I hum this tune and remind myself to be calm. I know I feel like I am breaking down, and everything's wrong, and that it gets so hard sometimes, but JJ, just be calm.

--------------------------------------

Be Calm by fun.

As I walk through the streets of my new city
my back feeling much better, I suppose
I've reclaimed the use of my imagination
for better or for worse, I've yet to know
but I always knew you'd be the one to understand me,
I guess that's why it took so long to get things right.
Suddenly I'm lost
On my street
On my block

Oh why, Oh why
Oh why haven't you been there for me?
Can't you see, I'm losing my mind this time?
This time I think it's for real, I can see

All the tree tops turning red
The beggars near bodegas grin at me
I think they want something
I close my eyes, I tell myself to breathe

and be calm.
Be calm.
I know you feel like you are breaking down.
Oh I know that it gets so hard sometimes.
Be calm.

I'm scared that everyone is out to get me.
"These days before you speak to me you pause."
"I always see you looking out your window."
"After all, you lost your band, you left your mom."
Now every single crack, every penny that I pass,
says I should either leave or pick it up
But with every single buck I've made
I'm saddled with bad luck that came

the moment I was baptized
or when I found out one day I'm gonna die
if only I could find my people or my place in life
a when they come a'carolin'
so loud, so bright, the theremin
will lead us to a chorus
where we'll all rejoice and sing a song that goes:

Oh be calm.
Be calm.
I know you feel like you are breaking down.
I know that it gets so hard sometimes,
Be calm.
Take it from me, I've been there a thousand times.
You hate your pulse because it thinks you're still alive
and everything's wrong
It just gets so hard sometimes
Be calm.

I don't remember much that night,
Just walking, thinking fondly of you
Thinking how the worst is yet to come
When from that street corner came a song
And I can't remember the man,
The panhandler or his melody.
The words exchanged had far exceeded any change I'd given thee.

Oh be calm.
Be calm.
I know you feel like you are breaking down.
Oh I know that it gets so hard sometimes,
Be calm.
Take it from me, I've been there a thousand times.
You hate your pulse because it still thinks you're alive
and everything's wrong
It just gets so hard sometimes
Be calm.
Be calm.

peace out, Portland

2010-11-02T22:56:00.000-07:00

I can't sleep.

I have to get up for work at 5am and I've usually been asleep for 2 hours by now, but alas, this evening I find myself lying in bed, wide awake, 2 hours past my usual 9pm bedtime.

I know, I live an exciting life. I was reminded of how exciting it is when I went to update my profile and change my age from 26 to 27. "Am I really changing this again?," I thought to myself. Followed by, "do I really usually go to bed at 9pm?"

I'm sure it's the endless sea of thoughts sloshing about in my head, or the coffee I had way too late in the afternoon (geez, I do sound lame), but either way I'm feeling quite rebellious staying up "so late" to write. While I admit, I can't do this every night thanks to my lovely work schedule, it is a nice change of pace to do something out of the ordinary... something that reminds me of a time in life when I was really happy. Something as simple as staying up late, listening to good music and recording my thoughts... sometimes for myself, and sometimes to share with others.

It's been hard to share how I feel since being in Portland, mainly because I'm not really sure how I feel. If I could only use one word to describe it would be, without a doubt, "confused."
Without a doubt, I am confused! At least I'm not confused about that.

There's so much going on and so much happening so fast that I don't really know how to begin processing it all. Within a week of being here I have started a new job, started school to study graphic design, something I have no background or even an inkling of understanding in, and have stayed two different places without a permanent place to call home yet. On top of which, I have been completely stripped of my support system, by choice (no one forced me to move here), and have rediscovered my good old friend, the three hour nap, which is especially nice on days when it rains. And guess how often it rains in Portland?

Now don't get me wrong, yes, I am overwhelmed and confused, and am having a harder time (emotionally) than I ever thought I would, BUT, that said, for whatever reason, unbeknownst to me, I have peace about being here. It sounds crazy, I know. And I don't get it either. But that's just the kind of God I serve.

Something is going on, and I'm not quite sure what it is, but I have never felt so stretched before in all my life. I've been through a lot, some of which I didn't think I would make it out of, but my time here, though still very new, is so different than anything I have been through before. It's different than just moving to a new town. It's so much more difficult. I've moved before, I know what it's like to start over again somewhere new, meet new people, acclimate to a new community, but this is more than any of that. For not having any clarity about what is going on or why I am here, I am completely aware that something much bigger than myself is going on. Something much bigger than myself is always going on, that I know, but lets just say I easily get caught up in my own self-centeredness that I'm not always aware of things much greater than little ol' me, which is a shame because those things are, well, much greater.

I'm confused about school. I don't know if I like what I'm learning, but I don't know if that's simply because it's not what I thought it would be or if I don't like it because I'm frustrated that I don't understand it. Since I am learning all of these computer programs from scratch I keep thinking I'm doing horribly, but then I get my work back and I'm actually doing much better than average. That's confusing!

Last week I had a project due using illustrator, a computer software that if you don't know what it is please ask somebody to explain it because I get a headache just thinking about it (which isn't good because it's one of the most commonly used graphic design tools). I worked so long and so hard on this project, meeting with a tutor each week just to figure out the program before I could even start the assignment. By the time I was at least "not completely uncomfortable with it" (the exact words I used), the project was due within a few short days. I completed it, which is good, but I was so unhappy with how it turned out. I hated it. I thought it was "ugly" and I didn't feel like it was anything I would ever want to put my name on. None the less, I reluctantly turned it in.

We got our projects back last night. Before the professor handed them out he said he selected a few of the grade A projects to be displayed in the hall. He held up one project specifically and asked whose it was and my heart dropped... it was mine. He said it was excellent and the only issue with hanging it in the hall would be that I needed to trim the edges of my illustration board just a fraction of an inch smaller. I was in complete shock. He handed me a paper with my grade on it and it read "EXCELLENT, 98.5%." I sincerely couldn't believe it. I immediately thought this professor was not qualified to do his job. I almost wanted to protest and point out what I thought was wrong with it but then I heard myself say "shut up, dummy!." At right about this point is where one might think I'm schizophrenic because I quickly retorted, to myself, "please, I got a 98.5, boiiiii, whose the dummy now?"

I started to wonder why I so quickly assumed that I had done poorly and my professor was unqualified to grade my project instead of believing I had actually done a good job and was given an excellent score by an extremely talented professor. Why is it so hard for me to believe the latter? Why is it so hard for me to, excuse my cheesiness, believe in myself? I started to accept the fact that I had actually done a good job (I'm still working on believing that it was excellent), but it only led me to more confusion about being in school. If I don't like what I am doing but am doing it well, is that reason to continue? If I'm going to be in debt for the next 20 years of my life, possibly more given the expense of the Art Institute, is it really worth it?

I don't know. I don't have an answer. I'm supposed to register for next semester's classes this week and I don't know if I'm going to. If I don't go back to school, what am I doing in Portland? Isn't that why I came here? The logical answer would be to go back to Chicago, right? Then why do I not feel at peace about that option? And who knows, maybe I'm looking too far into this "being at peace" thing. The 60's are over and maybe I need to get over it too, but this peace, this peace that I have, it passes all understanding of the reasons I have to leave Portland. This peace that I have is one without clarity and as much as I want the clarity more than the peace, the peace is what I have been given, for now. There is only one type of peace that I know of that passes all understanding and it is a peace not of this world.

It is the peace of the God I serve.

When someone asks, how do I explain myself about how I feel since leaving Chicago? Well, I'm learning that I don't have to explain myself to anyone, at least not in this situation. But, if I choose to explain myself, I'd tell the truth...

I feel sad, and confused, and terribly alone, but very much at peace with right where God has got me.

snickerdoodle

2010-10-15T23:08:00.001-07:00

Have you ever noticed a tip jar at your favorite coffee shop or cafe in your area? I'm sure you have. And I'm sure you've put money in the jar when you have noticed it. The reason I'm sure you have is because the tips in those jars go to people like me, who work for minimum wage to pay for rent and bills with their paycheck and then use the tip money from those jars for necessities throughout the week like food, gas, and occasionally a good beer.

At the coffee shop where I work we get our tip money every Friday. The tip money is collected during the week, thrown into a pool and then distributed to each worker based on hours. Every Friday I know I'm going to end up with at least some cash in my hands, which is part of why I love Fridays. And no different than any other Friday, I got my tip money today. I looked at my little brown pastry bag (which is what the money is put in, I don't know why) of hard earned cash and on it read "JJ $98.00"

SCORE!

It is at this point that I am assuming I put my "smiling money," as I call it (because of all the smiling I had to do to get someone to throw an extra nickel in the jar) back in my pocket. The reason why I am assuming is because this is where my usual Friday turned into an unusual Friday.

The nutshell version of the story goes something like this...

Tips were distributed at work around 10:45am, right before I got off of work (the only benefit of starting work at 5am is getting off at 11am). I drove over to school to meet with my tutor at 12pm. My tutor and I met for 3 hours and I stayed for an extra hour after he left. I went to the equipment cage at school and checked out a camera for the weekend. I was so stoked about finally getting to take pictures of my stay here in Portland that I was basically skipping on the way back to my car. When I got to my car I put my bookbag in my trunk and decided I would walk around the city to take pictures. I decided to just take the essentials with me... my phone, my wallet and of course (some of) my new stash of cash. When I opened the little brown pastry bag that I thought had my tip money in it, I didn't pull out cash, I pulled out a half eaten snickerdoodle cookie.

You see, before I left work, I had a cookie, and I didn't finish the cookie so I stuck it in a little brown pastry bag (which is where cookies belong, not money) and put it in my bag. I had a few more bites before going to school and just maybe quite possibly I decided I wasn't going to finish the cookie, so I reached into my bag to grab the pastry bag and threw it away.

About 5 hours later, I realized I didn't throw the cookie away.

I immediately jumped in my car and drove back over to work to retrace my steps. I looked everywhere hoping maybe it fell on the floor. The guys that were working said they already took the trash to the dump. I walked back to my car to look again and decided that the dump was not beneath me going through for $98.00.

One of the guys walked me to the dump and even pulled the trash bags out for me, but then left me to search through them. And I did, thoroughly. The worst was when I thought I had found my little brown pastry bag of tip money at least 4 different times because everyone else's little brown pastry bag of tip money was thrown away after they had taken their tips out. Smart.

I dug through coffee grounds, banana peels and plastic cutlery and only found traces of everyone else's trash. I walked back to the store to tell the guys I couldn't find it and to wash my hands for longer than 20 seconds.

While I was washing my hands I saw the parking police making their rounds. I figured I should cut the scrub a few seconds short to spare myself a $34.00 ticket (especially after losing $98.00). Thankfully they were walking in the opposite direction of my car. I ran out and I quickly realized why they were walking in the opposite direction of my car... they had already walked by my car, slapped a ticket on it and kept on walking.

I started to get frustrated and tear up a little bit because I felt like that should be my natural reaction, but for whatever reason I felt remarkably calm. I almost tried to make myself get upset about everything because it just seems like that would be such a normal response, but over and over again I just kept thinking "it's not my money anyway!"

And so, instead of getting upset I just kept repeating to myself "it's not my money anyway." It's still a bummer, for sure, but it didn't ruin my night. I'm not saying it's OK to go around being irresponsible by misplacing money, but I think, for me, I learned that I can't cling to money, which is exactly what I start to do when I start to make it. It's easy to share when you're poor.

While standing on a street corner retracing my steps, I started to accept the fact that I wasn't going to find it. I started to ask God why he couldn't just let me find it, but instead, whether out of manipulation or sincerity or a little of both, I thought about church on Sunday and said "I have nothing to give you."

At that point I didn't audibly hear anything, but as clear as day I heard and I felt God say, "good. I'm not asking you to give me anything. Just spend time with me." I laughed, mostly at myself, for thinking God would want me to find my tip money just so I could tithe on Sunday.

And so instead of continuing my search, I let it go and said out loud "it's not my money anyway!"

authentically weird

2010-10-04T11:58:00.000-07:00

I know I've only been here for less than two weeks, but the church hunt has already begun.

Week 1: Door of hope... trendy, young 20-30 something year olds who make going to church look extremely cool. Appealing, right? Sure, especially because its the perfect place to bring a non-believer so you can prove that church is hip and relevant. But hopefully that's not the sole reason that draws people in, at least not the ones looking to get spiritually fed.

I've been to churches that were cool to go to, but the actual teaching wasn't really much to rave about. The actual gospel didn't have much life, and isn't that a key point in the gospel?... that Jesus not only offers us life, but life abundant?

I'll be honest, upon first entering the "church," which is really just a body of believers who meet in a theater of some kind, I questioned how much substance these people would have; especially the pastor who looked like he just stepped right off the stage of a fleet foxes concert and got tattooed by Kat Von D on the way down. Don't get me wrong, I thought he looked cool as hell, and truth be told, I would have totally listened to him for that reason alone, but when I realized that was the case, that I'd listen to him for how he looked, I realized I needed to have a higher standard for who I want to be pouring spiritual truths into my life. I decided not to judge by appearance (whether good or bad) and just listen to what he had to say.

He opened his mouth to pray the the words that came out were like gold coins pouring out from a slot machine... I couldn't get enough of them. I just wanted him to keep praying and praying. He prayed with more vulnerability and transparency than I thought most pastors ever would (especially hard core looking pastors with tattoos).

He prayed and he taught, straight from scripture, and I don't know what all the big and little hipsters around me were thinking, but it was awesome.

He talked about how it's so common these days for people to have open relationships with each other, not really committing to any one person, but keeping their options open while holding onto plan B just in case nothing else worked out. And after talking on this subject for a while he asked me (well, he asked all of us) "Do you have an open relationship with Christ? Is there compromise in your life?"

Now again, I'm fresh in to the city of Portland, so I'm not going to claim to know everything about it, but one thing that I have picked up on is that it is a very free-spirited, open to everything, don't put all your eggs in one basket kind of place. There's a lot of spiritual stuff going on here, but I wouldn't say its all positive. It's portrayed as positive because you hear a lot about self awareness, self improvement, self enlightenment, and anything else that involves reaching a higher self, but when its all rooted in self and self is the foundation upon which you improve yourself, that's not very positive... its selfish, and its lonely.

Don't get me wrong, I'm a firm believer in taking care of yourself. I believe way too many "Christians" just serve, serve, serve thinking that if they take one minute of time to themselves they are being selfish, but I wholeheartedly disagree. It is not selfish to take care of yourself. It is scriptural. Jesus rested. Jesus spent time alone. Jesus wept. Jesus went off away from the crowds to be with His father. Are we not called to model after Jesus? Even Jesus knew when enough was enough and the time had come to be alone... to allow God to minister to Him the way Jesus Himself had been ministering to other people.

That said, when our foundation in who we are is solely dependent upon self alone, no matter how hard we attempt to take care of ourselves and find fulfillment, we will still be unsatisfied.

I think many people (myself included) want a cafeteria style type of faith... they want to go through the line, pick out all the good and appealing stuff, and leave the rest untouched. We can do that, no one is stopping us, but that's not real faith. That's compromise. That's being a Christian when it is fun and easy and relevant, and being something or someone else when the Christianity thing gets too hard, or too offensive, or too weird.

And I started thinking, how often in my life do I compromise who I am and who Christ has called me to be? I hate to say it, but its often. More often than I would like to admit. Being in a new town, certain anxieties have risen within me that I didn't even know where there. I mean yes, I have felt sad about who and what I have left behind and I have spent a lot of time grieving, which is part of why I haven't felt much like myself, but truth be told, the fear of what people think of me has become so strong that I have felt completely paralyzed in my own skin. Each morning on the way to work I have to pray, "dear God, help me not to fear man, but to fear you alone."

I admit, like most trendy and relevant Christians, I hesitate to use the word "Christian" because of the stigma associated with it, but once again, that's being afraid of what others think. When asked what I believe, my mind scrambles... "Oh great, if I say I'm a Christian they're going to think I'm some kind of stingy, staunch conservative who can't have fun and condemns those who do, so I better think of a cooler way of saying I believe Jesus is the son of God, died and rose again, and plays a crucial role in the Holy Trinity. Maybe I should leave out the part about flesh and blood... hmmm..."

The harder I try to be relevant, the more I feel the world chipping away at my confidence in Christ. I lose sight of Christ for the sake of relevance, and Christ is the whole reason I was trying to be relevant in the first place. Yet seeking relevance instead of Christ causes me to compromise a lot of what I believe, simply because when I'm trying to relate to the world, Christianity really does begin to sound weird to me (flesh and blood... really?)

I'm not saying relevance isn't important at all. I think a degree of it is good... we need to be able to meet people where they are at and relate to them in love they way Christ would, but when I begin focusing on relevance alone, I begin drifting from truth, and that is where I personally need to be careful.

To be a Christian is to be called out, to be set apart to be different. Let us never forget that as we find ourselves trying to be relevant in this world.

Towards the end of the sermon, the pastor, whose name I am now realizing I don't even know (so I'm going to call him Pastor Pecknold because he resembles Robin Pecknold, the lead singer of fleet foxes), said that Jesus offends us often because we are bent creatures. Pastor Pecknold warned us to "stop trying to present an unoffensive Jesus!" And he's right! People don't crucify an unoffensive man for no reason. The reality is, Jesus did and still does offend a lot of people because he brings to light what we hide in the darkness.

Paul said it best when he said,

"I am not ashamed of the gospel."

"The gospel would have to be offensive for shame to even be an issue. We are called to hate the things Christ hates, and He hates them because they destroy, not because He is cruel or a killjoy."*

So going back to compromise...

I can not continue on in partial faith or partial obedience for the sake of being relevant.

Pastor Pecknold laid it on the line and said it like it is...

"partial faithfulness is unfaithfulness and partial obedience is disobedience."

I can try and justify partiality, but the reality is, if I am being partial in what I am allowing Christ to have control of, I'm not really letting Him have control at all. And isn't that what He is asking for? For my all?

I don't claim to know much, but one thing I do know is that I'm tired of the show. I need to reconnect with my friend, authenticity, and live fearlessly sold out for the one who called me not only into existence, but into relationship with Him.

People, including my grandfather, warned me about the spiritual darkness of Portland, OR before coming here; and I won't lie, they are right... it is a very spiritually dark place. But what I've come to find is that because of that darkness there are real authentic communities of people searching hard after Christ, longing for truth and as a result of, set completely apart not only from unbelievers but even from other "Christians" I have met and known along the way.

You come to find what authenticity really means when you are removed from your Christian bubble and see people surrounded by darkness on every side, yet still living a life unwilling to compromise their convictions. It is truly inspiring.

I may be in a new place, dealing with all of the emotions that come along with moving, but after going to church a couple of times (will write later about church visit #2) I realize I have a choice for what my experience here is going to be like.

And so I am excited. I am excited to be here and to be getting involved with these communities. I am excited to be doing life with people again, from all different walks of life. Portland is known for being weird and being full of weird people (there are signs and bumper stickers all over the city that say "keep Portland weird!"), but let's be honest, we're all weird in some way, shape or form. So why should I fear what other people think?

I shouldn't. I should be authentic, even if that means me being considered weird, or even weirder than the weird... the weirdest of them all. Who really cares?

Portland is growing on me, and I'm slowing beginning to feel like I fit...

as a misfit.

And I admit, I like it!

------------------------------
*Pastor Pecknold

maybe

2010-10-03T18:40:00.000-07:00

creative juices are greatly lacking.

maybe it's the move, or maybe it's the annoying voice of the girl sitting beside me, but i can't think of what to write to save my life.

i don't have to write, i know that, but i want to write.

herein lies the problem... i don't know what to write about.

let's start with the basics...

i live in a new town where i have been going new places and meeting new people. sounds simple, but it's not. for whatever reason i have found myself not at all enjoying what has become a task... the task of meeting new people. i make myself do it though, i make myself be involved (for the most part), but i can honestly say i have not enjoyed it (for the most part).

why? i don't know. and the more i try to figure it out, the more frustrated i get.

i used to love this. not only love it, i used to be good at it. meeting new people, are you kidding me? pull out the clipboard, write my name on it and sign me up!

not this time, not this move.

i just want to find a place of my own and i want to hide. i want to hide from the people, i want to hide from the city and i want to hide from the reason that i have come here.

i want to hide from the reality that it was my choice to leave behind the place and the people that i have called home for the last three and a half years. i want to hide from my grief because every time it creeps up i am only reminded that i have brought it upon myself.

and so what now? how do i manage all of these emotions along with adjusting to a new town, a new job, a new school, and hopefully a new community? who do i tell how i feel? who do i reach out to? who can i be real with? and who will listen without expectation of someone greater?

maybe the expectation to be great is one that i have placed upon myself. maybe no one expects this of me at all. yet the truth of the matter is that there is this voice, whether it be one of truth or one of lies, that tells me i need to be great... i have to be great, and i don't know how to silence it and allow myself to just be.

so maybe i'll stop looking. maybe i'll stop looking for someone to confide in. maybe i'll stop looking for somewhere to hide. maybe i'll stop looking for the girl i used to be and instead just rest.

and maybe God will show up and find me here, resting and waiting. and maybe then i will be ready for what He has planned for me.

maybe it is all actually only when i stop, be still, and know who He is that i will ever really find myself and find where i fit in this life, regardless of where i am.

maybe, just maybe, this isn't really about me at all.

embrace

2010-09-27T09:55:00.000-07:00

I've moved to Portland, Oregon.

I'm laying in a bed right now that is not my own, along with the roof I am under and the clothes I am in. Most, if not all, of my belongings are sitting in my car right now which is hopefully still outside.

Without much to my name, other than boxes full of memories without a place to show them off, I feel slightly misplaced and somewhat of a burden to those who take me in, even if only for a brief while. My skin doesn't even feel like my own.

It is uncomfortable and a little bit scary, but with that said, I can't say I completely dislike it.

I feel scared, but not enough to paralyze me.

I don't know where I'm going to live, where I'm going to work, or how this school thing is going to work out without the sufficient funds, but after all, I chose to come here... I chose to move. I can choose to go back... I can choose not to feel this way anymore.

I admit there are moments when that seems like a good idea... to go back to what I know, to go back to what is safe, to go back to a place where I know I am loved. But there are even more moments when I feel this fear of the unknown and cry out "Lord God, please help me conquer this!"

As overwhelming as some of these situations may be, none of them are as overwhelming as the feeling of leaving behind the people I love. My greatest concern is not that I find a great place to live or a job to keep me afloat. My greatest concern is how my heart will handle being so far away from someone I dearly love.

I know I am here for a reason. I know God has got me. I acknowledge this as truth and I don't doubt it for a second. But I also acknowledge the painful reality of loss, even if only by distance. And so, I will allow myself to feel the hurt and question what I have done or why I have gone. And despite how much I may want to numb the pain...

I will embrace this broken heart of mine, knowing that it will draw me even closer to Him who loved me first.

unfolding

2010-07-17T22:31:00.000-07:00

I've spent a lot of time being confused about relationships... specifically between men and women.

Physicality aside, could you possibly get anymore more different than a man and a woman? The differences are enough to drive people crazy, and believe me, they do.

I am proof of that.

Sometimes mis-communication is so thick that it often feels as if I am trying to wall through a brick wall, only getting all the more frustrated with each attempt to clear it up, or "break through," if you will. I'm sure it doesn't help being intimidated by the person you are talking to or being insecure about how you words things outloud (seeing as how they make so much sense in your head), but how can a person possibly understand what you are saying when you literally can't even put your thoughts into spoken word without spitting up the all intelligent use of "like" or "whatever" or "you know."

No... they don't know. That's why you're in this mess, spit it out!

I admit, I stutter and putter around my words when trying to voice them out loud, but that aside, why is mis-communication so hard to clear up? And why do men not understand women?

OK, OK, and why do women not understand men?

How is it possible that when you ask a guy what he is thinking and he says "nothing," he literally means that there is a void of thought in his head? How is this possible? And if it is possible, then why is it so hard to accept that as a valid answer?

And so the cycle begins... it usually takes place after an argument of some sort for the purposes of seeking clarification, but sometimes it's a conversation starter that completely ends the conversation all together...

she: what are you thinking?

he: nothing.

she: but what are you really thinking?

he: nothing.

she: how can you be thinking nothing?

he: I don't know. I'm just not thinking about anything.

she: you aren't thinking anything at all right now?

he: yes. that's what I said, nothing.

she: I know that's what you said, I'm not asking what you said, I'm asking what you're thinking.

he: and I told you.

she: you told me nothing.

he: because that's what I was thinking.

she: but how could you be thinking nothing?

he: I don't know how. I just am.

she: do you not care about anything?

he: of course I care.

she: then how could you not be thinking about anything?

he: I don't know... I'm sorry.

she: I don't want you to be sorry.

he: then what do you want?

she: I want you to think about it!

I realize in looking at this, the woman seems kind of crazy, right? But if she's crazy, then we're all crazy (and that includes you Ms. Tomboy or Ms. guy's girl who hates girls). There is something in the way women are wired that just cannot and will not comprehend the mind of a man, and vice-versa, but let's face it, that's probably a good thing. Good things aside, it's still enough to make you more than a little irritated. And who hasn't allowed irritation to turn into a little bit of crazy?

Both of my hands are raised.

All this to say, I don't think one mind is better than the other... the mind of a man or the mind of a woman... they're just different. If we spent too much time trying to make the other think the way we think, I think it's a lost cause... but that's just me. Don't get me wrong, I think it's well beyond important to try and understand each other and understand where the other is coming from, but the mis-communication, the disagreements, the separation... it's all going to continue until both accept the fact that they are different and chose to love each other despite their differences.

Differences not only in being a man and a woman, but differences in their stories. I think it is vital to understand that every one has a story. How we respond to each other, react to situations, handle tough circumstances... a lot of that has to do with where we have come from and what we have been through. Seeing as that no one person has the exact same story, there's room for a lot of misunderstanding.

While I think it's important to understand and know each others stories when living in relationship with one another, I think it's also important for each individual to take full responsibility for their actions and decide whether or not they are going to continue acting based or past experiences or present circumstances.

Most importantly, there has to be grace.

I'm guilty of treating people based on past experiences. I have taught myself to hide my heart so far away that even people who dearly love me have a hard time getting in and seeing the real me. I present myself well. I would say most people who "know" me know that I am a fun, outgoing person. And don't get me wrong, I am... I love to have fun. I love to meet new people. But it's the people who get close to my heart that see a side of me that I would say most others don't. The side that's been hurt. The side that's still angry. The side that still holds resentment.

It is these people, usually the ones I care deepest for, who see such an ugly side of me because they are the ones I fight so hard against to protect my heart from. Fighting can reveal anyone's ugly side. And even though these people may know me better than the ones on the surface, they still don't get to see the real me when all the anger and resentment is removed.

Why do I fight so hard against people who not only love me, but who I care about? Fear of abandonment? Rejection? Broken heart? Fear of going through it all over again?

And while I think these are valid fears, I am starting to realize that the more I protect my heart, the harder my heart gets; which makes it all the more hard to love people, to understand people, and to give grace to people, who much like myself, don't deserve it.

These people I just mentioned... the ones who love me but have seen this ugly side of me... they have given me a tangible taste of God's grace for his people... a broken, hurt, angry, resentful people. A people who don't deserve, but so desperately desire to be loved. And a God who is so ready and willing to give it to them, despite their constant mistrust in who He is.

And so maybe I started out with the intentions of writing about the differences between men and women and my frustrations with the two, but maybe this has turned into me realizing that I can't continue to blame gender differences for (all) the mis-communication and mis-understanding I have faced in my own relationships. Maybe I need to work harder to loosen the death grip I have around my heart and allow God to work in it regardless of what the outcome may be.

Abandonment? Rejection? Broken heart? Going through it all over again?

Maybe.

But I will never be able to fully exercise my faith if I continue to allow myself to live in fear of what may or may not hurt me. And I will never learn to fully love others and show them the same grace that has been shown me if I continue to live with my heart selfishly wrapped in my own hand.

It's time to unfold.

love

2010-07-11T15:44:00.000-07:00

I love the pacifist, masochist, heretic and lunatic.
I love the sick, the week, the meek, and the bold.
I love the ugly, the pretty, the average, the absent.
I love the silent, the loud, the empty, the cold.

I love the skeptic, the cynic, the doubter and doubted.
I love the young, the old, and right in between.
I love the needy, the needless, the many, the masses.
I love the sacred, the scared, the unmanageable teen.

I love the slave and slave master, the cop and the crook.
I love the mom whose lost hope and the dad who's not there.
I love the principal, the student, the offender, the offended.
I love the merciful, the grateful, and the ones who don't care.

I love the German, the Jew, the Christian, the Agnostic.
I love the blind, the deaf, the rich and the poor.
I love the broken, the healed, the dead and the wounded.
I love the virgin, the pure, the tainted, the whore.

I love the heart that lies within no matter how badly infected.
I love the ones who make it nearly impossible to love.
I love the insecure, the hurt, the "perfect," the liars.
I love Him who without I can't love the above.

dripping wet

2010-07-09T13:52:00.001-07:00

Alexi Murdoch told me a secret about God and it was beautiful.

I saw all of humanity covered with flowers and dripping wet with rain. It smelt of honey and the bees were there but there was no sting and no pollen. It was peaceful and quiet, but not the least bit eerie. There was no such thing as normal and though it was quiet, through the stillness all you could hear was laughter. We were all the same yet all so different, and it was in our differences that we found a type of love that had yet to be experienced here on earth. I cried when he told me this secret, not because I was sad, but because I so longed for it to be a reality.

I went to bed and I dreamt I lived in an atmosphere so thick in love that it became all of who I was and all of what I saw when I looked in the eyes of another person. Even when the response was hate, I loved. Even when the response was anger, I loved. Even when the response was absent, I loved. It was in this love that I found a desire to live that I had never felt before. A desire to live not for myself, but for this Mysterious God who planted me here and asked me to grow for a while. I woke up and I planted a garden. Then I prayed for it to rain.

I wanted to thank Mr. Murdoch, but then I realized...

we've never even met.

p(r)aying for school

2010-07-02T21:08:00.000-07:00

I'm spending my Friday night on Fourth of July weekend applying for loans to go to school. I thought I'd take a break to share with the rest of the world wide web how incredibly cool I am.

Before applying for loans I was packing up my books and CDs and calling used CD and book stores to see if I could sell them. Man, the more I write, the cooler I get.

Before that I was taking pictures of my bed. I'm gonna sell that too. I'll post a picture of it and if you're interested in a super nice, most comfortable twin bed ever, let me know.

I know you can't imagine it getting any better than this, but I have a few other things that I can't post online, legal of course, but they were gifts and I don't want to hurt anyone's feelings in case they read this and find out I am selling something they gave me... but if you're curious and interested, let me know.

For those who are really curious... I will mail you a small mystery box* for the low low price of $25 (shipping included). I know it's kind of steep, but that's what you pay for a good mystery and a good cause!

If I can manage to part with them, I want to start selling some of my paintings. That's the problem with being an artist... I want to make a living doing it, yet I seem to want to keep everything I make. Aye aye aye.

I'll keep you up to date as other ideas come to mind. Until then, I've got to get back to my loan applications and my chocolate milk.

Goodnight.

creating beauty

2010-06-25T17:48:00.000-07:00

Some of these photographs are not my own, but ones taken by dear friends and loved ones. In addition, some of these photographs are my own and I was blessed to actually come face to face and spend time with the ones I photographed. I love the diversity of the people portrayed, as well as the differences in each of their stories, but most of all I love the bond that all of us (sometimes unknowingly) share... the deep human need to be loved.

Not just these people, but all people, people we know and love, people we often overlook, are all so beautiful in ways that not even we as humans can comprehend.

I want to try harder to look for the beauty in people... all people. Whether we admit it or not, all of us were created in the very image of God, who sees Christ Himself when He looks at us.

Jesus is not religion, Jesus is love. As you look at all of these photos, I hope you see Jesus in each and every face.

Do you not know?
Have you not heard?
The LORD is the everlasting God,
the Creator of the ends of the earth.
He will not grow tired or weary,
and his understanding no one can fathom.

-Isaiah 40:28*

*emphasis added

300

2010-06-23T19:58:00.000-07:00

As dorky as it may sound, I hate essay questions that limit the amount of words you can respond in. I understand that admissions boards across the U.S. don't have time to read a novel written by each and every student who wants to attend their school, but sometimes (again, as dorky as it may sound) I dream about being the one small exception to this word count rule and write endlessly about every reason why I want to attend said school and every step in life that has led me to that decision.

I need to get better dreams.

In one particular application for an art school (one I'm still hoping to hear from), I was asked when it was I first got involved in the arts and why it was I wanted to pursue a degree in art. Excited to answer yet disappointed about my maximum 300 word limit, I tried to figure out how to fit a lifetime love of art and an unceasing desire to express my creativity into one small paragraph.

Unsatisfied with any and everything that I wrote because I felt like I couldn't fully express how I felt, I finally threw together the best summation I thought I was going to get out of having such a small word limit.

My answer about the when's and the why's of art and art school was as follows...

"I have loved the arts for as long as I can remember. From coloring on my bedroom wall to arranging bubblegum I stuck under my mother's coffee table to make it look like a hidden galaxy (I got in trouble for that one), I have been coloring, creating, crafting and painting ever since I was little. My love for art grew as I entered middle and high school and much to my mother's excitement I abandoned the bottom of her coffee table and discovered the canvas. Art is the one of the few things that has remained consistent in my life. No matter where I have moved, the changes I have made, the relationships I have built or sometimes lost, art has always been a constant friend allowing me to express myself through the ups and downs on this roller-coaster of life. Unfortunately, I listened to a number of voices throughout the years that said I would never be able to accomplish anything with art, so I pursued a corporate communications degree. As a college graduate, I constantly hear that I should move on and be successful in the corporate world; and while I understand the thought process behind this thinking, I can no longer continue to ignore the creative voice within me that screams to be unleashed. I would even love to learn how to incorporate my passion for art with my hard-earned communications degree. I can honestly say I don’t know what my career options are as an artist, but I so badly desire to learn and be part of a community where I am encouraged to develop the talents and gifts I know I have been given in the area of art and creativity. Art makes me feel alive and I want to start living more abundantly."

300 words exactly. To be honest, I was more impressed with making the word count than my actual answer, but I find myself satisfied nonetheless. It may not be the answer some people are looking for, but it's the truth, and that's pretty much all I've got to write about.

I'll keep you up to date as the details unfold.

pretzels with mustard

2010-06-13T10:21:00.000-07:00

On June 2nd of this year I received an acceptance letter to the Art Institute of California in San Diego.

On Sunday, June 13th, I turned it down.

I'm still in a bit of shock.

Am I crazy? San Diego, California?

Don't get me wrong, I love Chicago, but I hate the winters. Seeing as how winter is the prominent season here lasting for about half of the year, I love Chicago about 50% of the time. With the weather warming up and the sun coming out, I have officially began my love fest with Chicago and am pleased as a pretzel covered in mustard to be living here. (That's a good thing for those of you who are wondering. I also like cream cheese on my pretzels.)

None the less... California? It's been a dream of mine to live on the coast of California for at least one, if even a short one, season of my life. None the less, I don't think it is time for that season just quite yet. I researched everything from food to churches, but mostly the cost of living, and it was at that point that I mustered up my best Italian accent and blurted out... "heeey, forget about it!"

I will get there one day, but seeing as I'm only 26 with a whole life a head of me and a lot of debt in front of me, I decided I should stay put (for now) and pay off my debt. Only when I'm debt free can I live completely care free on the coast of California.

With my lease being up in August, a decision to make about Moody, and the thought of California behind me, I recently thought it would be a great idea to add another major decision to my already full plate... I may not be going to California, but what's to stop me from going to art school (other than that four letter d-word... debt!)?

Now, before some of you go all corporate on me, hear me out...

tomorrow.

I gotta go to bed so I can wake up at an ungodly hour to serve coffee and steam milk, but no worries...

along with my internet, the blog-a-day challenge is back on!

to be continued...

without

2010-06-12T21:01:00.000-07:00

I don't know why I've been on a seemingly never-ending hiatus from reading Scripture, but today I revisited my dear old friend I'd left sitting on a homemade bookshelf for so long and found comfort in the truths that I had long forgotten.

It's easy to take on the "I don't need to read Scripture everyday because God loves me anyway" stance, because let's face it, it's true. But what I've come to realize (time and time again) is that no matter how true that may be, no matter how deeply, madly and passionately God may love me despite all my mishaps and forgetfulness of His word, I go crazy without it.

I go crazy without relying heavily on the truth He longs for me to listen to day in and day out. I don't care what psychiatrist, therapist, nutritionist, herbalist, naturalist, whatever-ist doctor may say... NOTHING, ABSOLUTELY NOTHING sustains me like His word.

I don't know how it is that I manage to forget so often, but no matter how many times it takes me to come crawling back and beg for forgiveness, I pray that I never forget the beauty of His word and the power of redemption that is found within.

I'm not here to convince anyone of the power of Scripture. I'm here to claim it's victory in my life... time and time again. Even when it seems that all is lost, there is peace in reading God's promises.

I feel as though I'm at a crossroads at this point in my life; my future lays ahead of me and there are decisions waiting to be made. I've had the hardest time the last few weeks feeling as if I'm even capable of making such decisions. I think I may even be putting more pressure and stress on myself than is actually necessary (if any is necessary at all), but I find myself desperate for clarity.

Once again, today I wore myself out with the stress. I retreated to the only place I feel peace from the chaos of life and the stress of making decisions... sleep. I took a long nap and dreaded the thought of waking up again only to deal with the decisions that would still be there when I awoke.

Sure enough, I awoke, and there they were... staring me in the face. I left my apartment and decided to walk about the city. Once outside, I immediately hated my decision... the large crowds and all the honking began to stress me out even more. Where can I go to get quiet without having to fall asleep?

After a bit I walked back to my apartment and I pulled out my Bible. I sat on my couch dreading the decision of what I would even read. I would love to say I just opened my Bible and there before me was the very verse I was waiting to hear to solve all the answers to my "problems," but that didn't happen. In fact, I think that rarely happens, so if it doesn't often or even ever happen to you, don't feel bad.

It's not you, it's life. Some things aren't always laid before us... we have to search for them.

After not searching hard, but searching more than I thought I would have to since the clouds didn't part and the light didn't shine down on the perfect verse for me to read, I finally settled on Psalm 34.

It was (and still is if you read it) beautiful.

I pulled out a big sketch pad and began to take notes. Over and over again I not only wrote down God's promises, but I wrote down my part in receiving those promises. One of the footnotes about this particular Psalm stated "God promises great blessings to His people, but many of these blessings require active participation."

I realized that I so often want God's blessings without ever having to do anything for them. I know I don't have to earn God's love, I'm not saying that, but I am saying that if I expect to receive God's blessings, then I think I need to get off my duff and do something about it.

I so often ask God for peace, and right there in verse 14 of Psalm 34 it says "Search for peace and work to maintain it."*

Search and work...

two things I haven't been doing while expecting God to answer me.

I still have a lot of decisions ahead of me and choices to make without any real direction. I can honestly say that I didn't receive much, if any, clarity tonight, but I'm OK with that. In reading God's word I received something better than clarity, I received peace...

a peace that passes understanding...

a peace without clarity.

scholarships...

2010-06-03T19:29:00.000-07:00

I've been looking all over for them.

The trouble is... I'm a single, white, female with no kids (and no, this is not a personal ad).

I'm not going to claim that I know more or even as much as any other race about discrimination, but I have to be honest, it would be easier for me to find a scholarship for school if I was any race but white (or for those who think I should be politically correct, Caucasian). A few of the scholarships I have found that are at least available to white women are for those who are single mothers.

Let me get this straight... in order to get help paying for school, because let's face it, I'm white and apparently all white people are rich and don't need help paying for school, I'm going to have to get pregnant.

I am so frustrated! So, just because I have tried as hard as I can to live out my morals and values, I can't get money for school? And I'm not even saying that my morals and values are the right morals and values by which everyone should live, I'm just saying that I have morals and values that are important to me and I shouldn't be discriminated against for having them. And just because my skin is white and English is my first language, I can't get money for school... in America?

I hate discrimination. I hate it. And I realize that being a English speaking, white woman this is a touchy subject for me write about because what do I know, right? But let me (or Dictionary.com, rather) define discrimination:

Discrimination: treatment or consideration of, or making a distinction in favor of or against, a person or thing based on the group, class, or category to which that person or thing belongs rather than on individual merit.

With that definition in mind, please know that I am not speaking against those of another race or those who are single mothers. I have friends whom I deeply love, some of which are single mothers, and some of which are a different race, who want to go back to school and I am absolutely in full support of them getting scholarship money to do so, not because they are a minority, but because they are individually gifted beyond belief.

I am just saying, just as I would say to my friends, that I too want a fair shot at scholarship money... not because I'm white, but because I know I have talent, and I know I could go far with it if given the chance.

I just want the chance... simply based on individual merit.

remember cici? (part 2)

2010-05-31T18:16:00.000-07:00

Sunday, August 3, 2008

colorless

I held Cici's hand today.

When I started to feel myself get frustrated with a customer, I grabbed Cici's hand, and I held on for dear life.

I don't know if that was a good idea or a bad because there was a combination of emotions involved. On the one hand, I smiled and thought of her smile. For a split second I was back in Uganda, sitting on her door step, holding her hand, and just watching her head go back and forth as she laughed out loud. She had a good laugh... a rare quality these days.

On the other hand, I caught myself wanting to cry. Your heart breaks when you meet someone like Cici. Maybe you don't even realize it in the moment, but give it a week or two and get back into your normal routine, and then all of a sudden one day you realize... your heart is broken... and you can't stop thinking of Cici.

The thought of Cici can break your heart in a split second... but in that same second, the thought of Cici can mend your heart. How can you not smile when you think of someone like Cici? How can that smile and the thought of that woman not mend your heart?

As I go back and forth between emotions on the inside, I continue with my usual jokes and laughs on the outside. Cici wouldn't want me to cry for her. She would want me to remember her, but she wouldn't want me to cry for her. She would want me to come back to her, but she wouldn't want me to cry for her.

And so I decide... I do Cici no good standing here crying into people's coffee on her behalf. In fact, I do two parties no good... Cici, and the coffee drinkers.

And so I decide... I will go back to visit with Cici. I will go back to hold her hand and rest my head on her shoulder. Though she is blind, she has the qualities of a good mother... times 10... maybe even 11. And though I would want to hold her in my arms, she would want to hold me in hers. She would feel my skin and tell me how beautiful I am.

I don't know that I've ever really, truly believed that until I heard it from the lips of a blind woman... the lips of Cici. Maybe it's because it had nothing to do with what I look like. Maybe it's because even though she couldn't see me, she saw me exactly for who I was. She really saw me... and so few people do these days. They see the skin that I am in and they leave it at that.

Cici sees beyond the skin. I was not white, nor was she black. I was a woman (and still am... praise the Lord), who traveled to this third world country intending to "save the day" and love on it's people, who realized... even those who "save the day" (or think that's what they're doing) need to be held... need to be loved. I wanted to be loved... in the same ways that she and all women do... and over this, we bonded. In the connection between our colorless hands... we bonded.

And with this, I accepted her compliment... not because of pride, or even because I agree with her... but because her definition of beauty is not the same as the world's... and I think that this is the biggest compliment that one can get... so I accept it.

And now that I am away from her, I close my eyes and I see her more clearly than ever. It is amazing how much you really can see someone when you can't see them at all. She is just as beautiful now as she was that day on her door step.

And so... I stop crying and I smile, because I know I will see her again, and I know what this means...

I will go back to Africa!

remember cici?

2010-05-30T13:17:00.000-07:00

I'm thinking of Cici today, so I thought I'd share a flashblack...

Sunday, July 27, 2008

Cici

She was blind.

Up front a man is complaining about having to wait for his drink... and the woman behind him complains about having foam on her no foam latte... and the lady in the drive-thru wants a 40 cent refund.

So what do I do? I stop dead in my tracks and I think of Cici.

I think of Cici and my heart drops into my stomach.

She was blind... she is blind.

"Welcome back to America," I think to myself.

She was a school teacher... a good one, and still is a good mother, but her husband beat her so badly that she went blind.

She stumbled out of her tiny little house that day and welcomed us into her home. I sat next to her and I held her hand. "I want to see you," she said, and she grabbed my face. She told me I was beautiful. And then she smiled.

She had no idea... she was the beautiful one. She had dark skin and bright white teeth... long eyelashes and big, thick lips. Her hair was cut short... almost completely shaved. She wore a long, auburn colored dress and her feet were bare... my favorite footwear... especially when in Africa.

I try to figure out how to put 40 cents back on this lady's card, and I think of Cici. I try to understand how this man thinks he is going to have a bad day because he had to wait for his drink, and I think of Cici. I watch as Lindsey removes the slightest bit of foam from this lady's drink, and I think of Cici.

"Welcome back to America," I think to myself... and then I think of Cici.

I want to hold her hand again. I want to carry her daughter on my back. I want to sit next to her while we pray. I want to walk bare foot with her and hang from the tree outside of her house. Mostly, I want to hear her laugh and I want to see her smile.

She has the most beautiful smile. Her husband beat her until she went blind, and yet she has the most beautiful smile. Her tin roof is full of holes that allow the rain to come in and soak up her dirt floor, and yet she has the most beautiful smile. She can never teach again, something that she loved to do, and yet she has the most beautiful smile.

So I'm at work, and I look at this woman in her comfy, air conditioned car, and I glance over at this man in his nice suit with spiffy sunglasses, and I quickly check out the woman who can afford to pay $4 for a cup of coffee, and I wonder... why aren't they smiling?

I wonder... why aren't they smiling? And I think of Cici.

I am torn between wanting to smile and wanting to cry. I want to smile for her, but I want to cry for them.

They have no idea... she is the beautiful one.

I could try to explain to them how beautiful she is, but I know it will do no good. Someone who doesn't have time to wait for a cup of coffee doesn't have time to listen to a good story... especially on a Sunday morning... they might be late for church. So I go about my day, and I wear a smile, and I think of Cici. And I pray that she knows...

she is the beautiful one.

poor connection

2010-05-28T21:36:00.000-07:00

After attempting three shy of a million times to get my internet to work, I was able to get on tonight right before midnight. With the shotty internet I am working with at the moment, I can not guarantee a blog a day, but I will do my best as I am out and about to post as I get the chance. Changes are coming, I can promise you that, but things are a bit crazy right now, and fixing the internet is the last thing on my mind. Hope to check back in tomorrow!

new canvas

2010-05-26T21:19:00.001-07:00

a group painting inspired me to paint on a different kind of canvas... this was the result...

a post i never posted

2010-05-25T11:43:00.001-07:00

I found this post that i never finished and instead of waiting 2 more years to finish it, I decided I would post it as is. I don't remember where my train of thought was going to end up, but I do remember that comforting feeling of being known... something I wrote about in the following post... and something I've recently seemed to have forgotten.

......................................
11/13/08

The other day one of my friends told me she wanted to take me somewhere... but wouldn't tell me where.

She said it was a surprise.

I love surprises, but rarely ever is someone actually able to surprise me. I always figure it out, not even because I want to, but simply because my intuition is that amazingly good that I always just figure it out. It's actually quite a bummer sometimes, because like I said, I love surprises.

So I agreed to to let her surprise me... and in all honesty I didn't really have a clue as to where it was... until she said how long it would take to get there and what time it closed.

I figured it out and I told myself that it was a cute idea, but I wondered why in the world she would want to take me there.

This friend knows me well... very well... or at least I thought she did. I mean, I can understand if she would maybe want to go with me sometime, but to call it a surprise and get me excited about it as if I had no clue it existed, I just thought that was kinda weird... and I started to wonder if she knew me... at all.

We make it to Wheaton and finally I ask...

"Are we going to the Billy Graham Museum?"

She laughed, and said "no... are you serious? well... yes."

Ah ha! I knew it.

"But it's not what you think," she said.

"Doubtful," I thought.

Apparently she heard my thought process because before I could even say anything she asked "do you actually think I would tell you I have a surprise for you and take you there? Don't you think I know you... at all?"

I let out a laugh, followed by a sigh of relief, but I seriously wondered what could possibly be at the Billy Graham Museum that I would want to see.

Just to keep others up to speed, I have been to the Billy Graham Museum... many times... even as a kid. It's sort of a family thing. My grandfather, or Papa, as we call him, was the worship leader for Billy Graham, so they have traveled all over the world together, ever since the beginning. For those of you who still have no clue what or who I am talking about, I like you already.

In all seriousness, Billy Graham was a well known evangelist for God knows how many years. He has been referred to as "America's Pastor" as he has met and prayed with numerous presidents from Dwight D. Eisenhower, John F. Kennedy, Lyndon B. Johnson, and Richard Nixon, to Gerald Ford, Bill Clinton, and both father and son Bush. He has also recently informed President-elect Barack Obama that he hopes to meet with him and pray for him as well. I read an article saying that Billy Graham did not always agree with the presidents' policies, but he prayed for them all.

Anyway... all this to say... this is why my friend would want to take me to the Billy Graham museum in the first place... or maybe why anybody would want to go in the first place... he's actually quite an amazing man. So yea, there's history there, and for me, heritage... sweet, right?

Right... for someone who doesn't know me well, it would be sweet for them to want to surprise me and take me to see some of my family history. But for someone who knows me, who knows my story, who knows my history, who maybe even knows the sting that comes along with the privilege of being a "Barrows," it's not so sweet.

We arrive on the campus of Wheaton College, park at Barrows Auditorium (yes... related), and we head inside, all the while still wondering what the crap we are going to do.

Before we get to the double glass doors, she tells me not to look. "I've seen what's through the glass doors," I say to myself in a total smart-alec manner. I follow her into the bathroom, wait for her to finish her business, and follow her back out... ready to walk through the double glass doors.

As we approach, I'm finishing up a story I had started telling her while she was doing her business, but I get totally distracted by a picture that I see on the wall, hanging in the room we are about to enter. As I open the doors, I try to finish what I am saying, but the picture pulled me in like a magnet... and I was silent.

"Is this what we're here to see?"

She smiled.

I whispered an "oh my God," and I smiled.

"You'll want to be here a lot longer than I will," she said, "so I'm gonna let you walk around by yourself... if I get bored, I'll be around somewhere."

I couldn't believe it.

I stood in front of the picture for what felt like 5 mintues, until I finally read what was posted beside it...

"Reflections of poverty and AIDS in Africa."

Those who know me, like she apparently does, know that I have a heart for Africa. I was not only moved by the display set before me, but the mere fact that she even thought to bring me to such an event. I think she knew it was risky to take me to an event that was taking place in the Billy Graham museum, but I like that she took the risk. I also think that in part of taking that risk, she liked the fact she knew she was going to prove my assumptions wrong.

............................................

I didn't touch on it too terribly much in the above post, but being a "Barrows" was something I struggled with for a long time, not only because of my absent grandfather who was always out winning the rest of the world for Christ, but also because my dad was a pastor. My father, being somewhat raised by his absent father had ministry modeled for him as such. I'm not saying that being a pastor is a bad thing, but I am saying that I think people underestimate how hard it is to be a pastor, or in any type of ministry for that matter, and balance it with family life.

I'm in a different place than I was in 2008. I still have a very deep love for Africa, but I am slowly coming to peace more and more with my family heritage. While I may be much different from my grandfather, I can still be proud of who he was and the life he led (and still leads, he's still very much alive).

I know he wasn't there so much for his own family, but I know he has impacted others all over the world, and I have learned to come to peace with that. Instead of being selfish and resentful, I'm learning to be grateful for the lives he has touched. I'm becoming more and more aware that my "ministry" (we all have one in some way, shape or form) doesn't have to look exactly like my grandfather's. We share the same name, and I am more proud now than ever before to say that, but the Barrows name does not define me.

I would probably be more open to a surprise visit to Barrows auditorium or the Billy Graham museum these days, but I'm thankful that the timing of that visit with my friend was about my heart and not my heritage.

Timing is everything.

Thank you, dear friend, for that cold day in November when you took me to a familiar place for a complete surprise.

As I know you have heard many times before from myself and other people who have often doubted your judgment... "thank you for taking me there."

And thank you for your patience as you have waited for us to realize how grateful we really are.

gone missing

2010-05-24T21:47:00.000-07:00

Dear people who feel ignored by me,

I have been without internet all weekend. I'm not going to lie, it was kind of nice having a vacation from technology, but I realize it has left some people puzzled as to why I have not responded to them. If you feel neglected due to my lack of facebook responses, don't worry... it's not you, it's my internet (and maybe a little me because my phone still works). Either way, I hope to catch back up with the world wide web tomorrow, yourself included.

Most Sincerely,

JJ Barrows

miscommunication

2010-05-20T20:32:00.000-07:00

Why is it so easy to mis-communicate and so hard to clear it up?

a secret chord

2010-05-19T23:20:00.001-07:00

I came home to write but I ended up playing guitar instead. I lost track of time until I realized I needed to post something before midnight.

I haven't been playing guitar for a while but I picked it back up in the last few weeks. My fingers are hurting and calluses are re-forming, but I love it.

I don't mind not writing tonight. I got to play instead.

I hope to have some more substance for you tomorrow... tonight I'm just going to enjoy the music.

flashback

2010-05-18T22:07:00.000-07:00

I was going through old posts earlier and found a few I never posted. I thought this one was a good reminder about keeping my attitude in check.

---------------
11/13/08

Saturday was a bad day.

No particular reason other than it just was.

Work was non-stop, so it made it very easy for me to miss lunch.

I'm pretty sure all I had the entire day was a bowl of cereal before I left my house that morning.

For some people, this is normal.

For those who are in recovery from an eating disorder, not so much.

I am the latter... therefore, not so normal for me.

When I don't eat you can tell, as I'm sure you can with most people.

There's something about lack of calories that seem to bring out the worst in people... that and lack of sleep.

Saturday, I was operating on both.

I got off work around 5pm, which left me time to go to the Saturday night church service at Yellow Box. I don't normally go on Saturday nights any more, but I wanted to see an old friend who told me she would be there, so I figured I would stop by.

I went in, tired as a dog, and sat in a big comfy chair in front of the fake fireplace in the main entrance. The service had already started, and due to how I felt I was debating if I actually wanted to stay until it was over.

I decided I would think about it over some snacks. I went over to best part of what CCC has to offer... the free food... (kidding) and I loaded a small little styrofoam plate with some cheese balls and pita chips.

As I made my way back to my seat, I noticed that the other side of the fire place had a TV screen above it, and I could actually watch Jon Ferguson speak without actually having to leave the big comfy chair in front of the fireplace... this place keeps getting better and better.

I sat on the arm of the big comfy chair, and for the first time that day, I felt comfortable. I felt like I was right where I belonged... especially since I haven't had cheese balls since I was in the 9th grade.

I felt good.

Then... I was interrupted.

A young guy, who was obviously going to fill the tables up with more snacks, walks up to me and tells me not to sit like that. I was waiting for a laugh as if it was a joke, but there was no laugh.

There was a finger wave... but no laugh.

I heard the lady beside him say there was nothing wrong with me sitting on the arm of the chair and he loudly protested "YES, THERE IS!"

I moved my leg over so as to make it look like I was going to move, but I stayed right where I was... on the arm.

I was never really good with direction... at least not rude direction.

He went over to organize the snack table, then walked back by me, but decided to talk loudly about me, instead of talk to me.

I hear him walk back to the cafe, continue to talk about me, and on top of that, tell the man who is in charge of the cafe that I am sitting on the arm of a chair and he needs to tell me to move.

I see the cafe manager walk over, look at me, and walk back to the cafe.

I hear him telling the young man... "it's not a big deal. You gotta pick and chose your battles. Those chairs were made to be abused."

I sure hope so, I think to myself, considering how many youth hang out here.

I decided to be a smart-alec and show this kid that I'm not some random girl, but that I actually know the people he is tattling on me to.

I walk up to the counter...

"Is there something wrong with the way I was sitting?" I ask the cafe manager, loud enough so the guy can hear me.

The manager shakes his head and mouths "no" and kind of rolls his eyes like he knows that the guy who told on me was being kind of ridiculous, but right as he was mouthing "no," my friend, the tattle tale, yells out "YES!"

I get so frustrated and yell out as sarcastically as possible...

"you're SOO welcoming... it's a good thing you're on the welcoming team!"

I turn around and walk out the doors, but as I'm walking out I hear a girl from behind the counter yell out "oh my God!"

I left there fuming mad!

What if I was a visitor? What if I had never been there before, and that was my first impression of this place... all because I sat on a chair arm, that I'm pretty sure every teenager in the Naperville area sits on when they go to StuCo on Wednesday nights.

Imagine how that would go over...

"OK kids, welcome to Community Christian Church, we need you to sit up straight in your chairs... and while you're at it, straighten your tie."

I mean, I know I'm getting a little carried away here, but this was how I felt in that moment. I was pissed.

I drove home, still furious, wondering who in the heck that kid was, and of course my pride allowed me to wonder if he knew who in the heck I was.

Oh, that sounds so ugly coming out, but it's so true.

I got home and went down to the basement to vent to my roommate about it. "I just yelled at some little butt head at church."

(except I didn't say butt)

Before she could ask me why, I begin telling her the whole story, of course painting myself as the victim. "What if I was someone who doesn't normally go to church? That would not make me wanna go back if they're gonna be all uptight about how I'm sitting in the chair."

I finish my story, we sit silently for a few seconds, and under my breath I mumble "and I haven't eaten today."

She laughs out loud as if she's saying "OH... OK, now I know why you're acting like that."

I look at her and laugh silently as if I'm saying "I know that's why I'm acting like this," but I don't say anything.

"So let's eat," she says.

She keeps it simple, but to the point, knowing it probably isn't a good idea to talk to me about the situation until I have eaten something... and calmed down.

We order my favorite pizza from Papa Johns, barbecue chicken Hawaiian, and 45 minutes to an hour later, we're still hoping for our doorbell to ring.

While waiting for the pizza, I describe the tattle tale kid to my roommate.

"I think I know who that is" she blurts out.

"Who? Who?"

"I don't really know him, but I think he is doing community service or something, like he doesn't really go to our church."

Oh snap.

I feel it right away.

The tables have turned, and I am now the church goer I just mocked for being rude to people who don't normally go to church.

"Seriously, Lord, do you have to teach me this way? I had a bad day... that kid was rude!"

He tells me it doesn't matter.

I tell Him I don't care, because I knew I was in the right and there was no way I was going to feel bad about it.

The door bell rings.

Pizza's here!

I eat, I feel good, I calm down.

I go back to God and actually sit back and look at the situation, and it hits me...

"Oh snap... maybe I was wrong."

I look up and smirk, knowing that God was waiting for me to get there... it just takes me longer than others (and He knows that).

Some of my friends have nicknamed me "scrappy," and the above situation would be an example of a reason why... sometimes I'm just scrappy. God may have made me little, but he pumped me full of attitude. And it's not exactly an attractive quality, but it's a side of me that I have, that I know I have to acknowledge and be real about with the Lord, because let's face it, if I'm not constantly giving it to God, I'd be an all out brawler!

Did I really just say that? (I'm surprised that passed spell check... it looks so wrong)

All this to say, I knew I had to suck up my pride, go into church the next morning, and apologize to the cafe manager and the kid who "told" on me. Because ultimately, it doesn't matter how he treated me... that's not what I'm responsible for. I'm responsible for how I treat him, regardless of how he treats me.

To be honest, I kind of didn't want to. I kind of just wanted to pretend like it didn't happen, and I probably would have done that if it weren't for countless attempts of ignoring a situation that proved unsuccessful.

But I did.

I went into church, sat through the service, took a deep breath, and then walked up to the cafe. I was relieved to see the manager, but not so much to see the same kid from the night before.

I pop my head in the back and tap on the wall to get their attention. They both turn around...

"Hey... I... I just wanted to apologize for how I acted last night. I wanted to tell both of you I was sorry for my attitude... I was in a bad mood, and that was my stuff, so... I'm sorry."

The cafe manager hugs me and tells me not to worry about it... "I figured you were grumpy," he says.

I look at the tattle tale guy and say "I'm sorry."

He looks at me and smiles... "it's OK."

And I felt better.

Alright... now lets be honest... did I want him to apologize to for being so ridiculous? Yes... but that's not the point. I didn't apologize to him so that he would apologize to me. I apologized because I knew I had to be responsible for my actions.

And lets be even more honest... now that I'm looking back reading this, the whole thing is stupid. Me getting that upset it stupid. I'm kind of even hesitant to post this because it just seems so ridiculous, BUT... that's the point...

Regardless of how ridiculous it seems to me now... it was very important to me then. And it's OK. I don't have to be embarrassed about how I felt, but I do have to take responsibility for how I act or react based on what I am feeling.

feelin' tipsy?

2010-05-17T21:08:00.001-07:00

There's this guy that comes into Starbucks every morning to get a cup of coffee and every morning he acts like he doesn't have enough change... even though he knows how much the coffee costs before he comes in. I think it's just a game he likes to play to see how many times he can call the girl behind the counter "baby" before she gives him a free cup of coffee... or at least a discount.

One of the girls I work with is like a brick wall with this guy and I love it. He came in last week and once again was 5 cents short. He said he'd run out to his car and go get it, hoping she'd say "oh don't worry about it, just take it," but she did just the opposite. She just looked at him and said "OK," and proceeded to wait... probably not because she actually cared about the 5 cents, but because she refused to play his game.

I usually work on bar, so I am always witnessing this happen, but the other day I actually had the pleasure of ringing this guy up. Another thing you should know about this guy is that he is always complaining about something and often to nobody at all. He walked up to the counter and I actually saw $2 in his hands, so I was kind of bummed I wasn't going to get to play his game. Nonetheless, he walked up to the counter, "hey baby, can I get a short cup of coffee in a tall cup?" Before I could answer "yes," he kept talking. "Man, I'm so sick of times being so hard... (insert lots of talk about the government)... and they need to redistribute the wealth, you know what I'm saying? I'm just waiting on Obama, man, he's gonna give us our piece of the pie... (insert more Obama and government talk while I was getting his coffee ready).

I set it on the counter and smiled "that'll be 1.67, sir."

He kept talking about redistribution of wealth as he handed me his $2. I guess since I was thinking about what he was talking about I wasn't actually thinking about what I was doing because before I knew it I had thrown his change in the tip jar instead of handing it back to him. He looked at me kinda funny and was like "hey, hey, I need all I can get, whatchu doin?" I just sort of laughed and responded, "redistributing the wealth."

He kind of laughed at first, but then when he realized it meant he wasn't going to get his change back, he stopped laughing and again looked at me kind of funny. He got quiet and reached his hand in the tip jar to take his change back.

It's funny how passionate he seemed about redistribution of wealth until it involved his wealth. I think this was the point where he realized he didn't like someone else deciding where his money should go.

I can't say I blame him.

And that's all I have to say about that... for now.

a post to remember

2010-05-16T22:38:00.000-07:00

i'm too tired and must go to bed!

learning to drum

2010-05-15T21:57:00.000-07:00

I went to Africa once,
and I learned how to play the drums.
I learned that anyone can play the drums for children who long for your presence and not for your skill.

I miss Africa,
and I miss playing the drums.
I miss playing drums with the children whose presence I still long for... not their skill.

This is my small attempt to remember Africa today.

It was almost two years ago that I was there, and I almost forgot.

How could I forget?

Maybe I'll get a drum set.

Or maybe...

I'll just go back to Africa!

Any takers?

homemade ice cream and food for thought

2010-05-14T22:34:00.001-07:00

I read all night in a little cafe a few blocks from my apartment in the city. I drank multiple cups of decaf coffee and enjoyed some homemade cappuccino chip ice cream. It was quite lovely and I didn't want it to end, except that I was getting extremely tired and the decaf didn't seem to be helping. Nonetheless, I couldn't seem to put my book down.

I wanted you to have a taste...

An excerpt from Eat, Pray, Love by Elizabeth Gilbert

"The search for God is a reversal of the normal, mundane worldly order. In the search for God, you revert from what attracts you and swim toward that which is difficult. You abandon your comforting and familiar habits with the hope (the mere hope!) that something greater will be offered you in return for what you've given up...

The devout of this world perform their rituals without guarantee that anything good will ever come of it. Of course there are plenty of scriptures and plenty of promises as to what your good works will yield (or threats as to the punishments awaiting you if you lapse), but to even believe all of this is an act of faith, because nobody amongst us is shown the endgame. Devotion is diligence without assurance...

There's a reason we refer to "leaps of faith" - because the decision to consent to any notion of divinity is a mighty jump from the rational over to the unknowable, and I don't care how diligently scholars of every religion will try to sit you down with their stacks of books and prove to you through scripture that their faith is indeed rational; it isn't. If faith were rational, it wouldn't be - by definition - faith. Faith is belief in what you cannot see or prove or touch. Faith is walking face-first and full-speed into the dark. If we truly knew all the answers in advance as to the meaning of life and the nature of God and the destiny of our souls, our belief would not be a leap of faith and it would not be a courageous act of humanity; it would just be... a prudent insurance policy.

I'm not interested in the insurance industry. I'm tired of being a skeptic, I'm irritated by spiritual prudence and I feel bored and parched by empirical debate. I don't want to hear it anymore. I couldn't care less about evidence and proof and assurances. I just want God. I want God inside me. I want God to play in my bloodstream the way sunlight amuses itself on water."

Just some food for thought for both you and I.

running shoes

2010-05-13T18:19:00.000-07:00

I ran today.

I used to run a lot. But I don't run anymore.

Today... I ran.

I ran along Lakeshore drive with the city skyline behind me. It was quite epic. I specially crafted the perfect mix on my ipod to motivate me to keep running. I got caught up in a few of the songs, catching myself doing hand gestures and rocking my head much harder than I should while running, but I'm pretty sure I didn't scare too many people.

While I was running I started thinking about all the places I've run before. In high school I was on the cross country team, but my running didn't really pick up until college. About five or six years back I bought these bright orange asics on sale at an outlet mall in Helen, Georgia. We were there for a family reunion, complete with fishing poles, tubing down the river, and yes sir, potato guns! My younger sister actually got clocked in the eye from a potato that was shot straight up in the air while we were all trying to catch it with baseball mits. I remember hearing her yell "I got it, I got it!" and clunk, she was down. I laughed so hard I almost peed. I know, that sounds horrible, but I stopped laughing when I saw her eye. She ended up having stitches and all kinds of surgeries, but no worries, she's fine now... that's a story is for another day.

Moving on.

So at this family reunion, I found these super cheap asics and I was so excited to get them because I was really into running at this point. I decided when I bought them that they were going to run all over the world. I wanted to run as many places as I could wearing these shoes. I guess they were going to be a souvenir of sorts from everywhere I had been/run.

That summer I ran through the hills of Macon and the city of Atlanta, Georgia. I ran along the creekside on my way to run by the ocean almost everyday when I was home in South Carolina. I was blessed to be able to run along the swamps in Mississippi... I love swamps. The following year I ran around remote villages in San Lucas, Guatemala with little children following behind me the whole way. The next year I ran through the small town of Barnstable, four hours outside of London, England (and on one treadmill in this tiny little mom and pop gym). That same year, I ran all over South Africa... Capetown, Stellenbosch, Durbin, Tarkastad (this place was so remote that South Africans had never even heard of it). My experience in South Africa wasn't necessarily the healthiest one, but I can say without a shadow of a doubt that South Africa is the most beautiful country I have ever seen in my life (but I haven't been to Greece yet).

Every where I went, I ran, and everywhere I ran, I wore these shoes.

In the fall of 2006 I began training for a half marathon the following February. I ran all the time. Everyday... 2 times a day. I was obsessed. It was like being on a drug while I was running... all of my problems would go away. I would mask the emotional pain I was experiencing with the physical pain of running too hard, too long.

The weekend of the Myrtle Beach half marathon, I was in Chicago, IL, being admitted into a treatment center. The story is much deeper than running, which most of you know. It's no secret that I struggled with an eating disorder, but I don't feel the need to re-tell all of that right now. Go back and read posts from 2007 if that's what you're looking for. Part of my sickness was over-exercising, hence all the running. (Note, I am not saying that this is the case for everyone who runs, this was just my personal experience.)

So there I was, marathon weekend, and I was on exercise restriction. I hated everybody, but I was tired of the life I was living, not only physically, but emotionally. Truth be told, I think the anger was a front. I think I was relieved to have someone restrict me from running. I was tired, but I wasn't going to admit that. I wanted people to know I was a good runner, but I didn't want to have to prove it... not anymore. Its tiring when you constantly compete against yourself.

2007... that was the year I stopped running.

Don't get me wrong, I've run a few times here and there and jogged a bit through the forest preserve, but I haven't run consistently on a regular basis since 2007.

Like many things in life, I don't think running has to be all or nothing, but it has taken me a good long while to not only accept that, but believe it. Which is why I stopped running. If I can't run on my terms, I don't want to run at all. Some people may see that as a positive thing seeing as how much I used to run, but honestly, I don't think it is. I think it started out positive in my pursuit of moderation (something I have a very hard time pursuing), but it turned into laziness. And honestly, selfishness. All or nothing. My way or no way.

So today, I put on my orange asics and I went running. I didn't want to. I wanted to crawl under my covers and hide from the world, but instead I went running.

I don't plan on running everyday (at least not for now), I still very much need accountability in this area, but I do plan on being active in some way, shape or form each day (or at the very least, every other day). Not even necessarily because I want to, but because God has blessed me for whatever reason with a full functioning body and I want to glorify Him simply by using what he has given me. I want to express my gratitude for the ability to walk, run, swim, dance and move in ways that are not a right we are entitled to, but a gift.

I don't think I was created to be a runner, but I was created with the ability to run... or walk... something that not every one has. I'm not special, I don't deserve my legs anymore than someone without theirs, so why God has blessed me with such is beyond me. But I do know I want to say thank you, not just by saying thank you anymore, but by using even the seemingly simplest of gifts God has given me.

Thank you, Lord, for our run today. And whether or not we run tomorrow, I pray that in some way, I would take part in Your creation.

Pull me from under the covers and call me outside.

I don't want to hide anymore.

2007- one of my last runs after being in treatment
(wearing my orange asics)

your hands

2010-05-12T21:58:00.000-07:00

Tonight, I am thankful to be fully alive. I'm learning a new song that I have to play next Monday and I don't think its a coincidence that I was asked to learn it... not just for Monday, but for my own need to hold fast to that which is true.

Little by little I am memorizing these lyrics. And little by little I am believing them more and more.

Also, just a funny side note... the girl who wrote the song... her name is JJ.

I have unanswered prayers
I have trouble I wish wasn't there
And I have asked a thousand ways
That You would take my pain away
That You would take my pain away

I am trying to understand
How to walk this weary land
Make straight the paths that crookedly lie
Oh Lord, before these feet of mine
Oh Lord, before these feet of mine

When my world is shaking
Heaven stands
When my heart is breaking
I never leave Your hands

When You walked upon the Earth
You healed the broken, lost, and hurt
I know You hate to see me cry
One day You will set all things right
Yea, one day You will set all things right

When my world is shaking
Heaven stands
When my heart is breaking
I never leave Your hands

Your hands
Your hands that shape the world
Are holding me, they hold me still
Your hands that shape the world
Are holding me, they hold me still

When my world is shaking
Heaven stands
When my heart is breaking
I never leave You when...

When my world is shaking
Heaven stands
When my heart is breaking
I never leave...
I never leave Your hands

world's best venti nonfat latte

2010-05-11T14:39:00.000-07:00

I woke up from my nap this afternoon saying "I'm sorry, could you repeat that?"

I was dreaming I was still at Starbucks and someone was ordering this incredibly ridiculous drink that really doesn't even exist, but I some how managed to figure out he was talking about a cappuccino. As for the second drink he ordered, I asked him to repeat it, then I woke up.

Today was a weird day at Starbucks. I mean the customers, not all, but a lot of them were just weird. By weird I mean cranky. Maybe it's the weather. It's a dark gloomy day and it's been raining since at least 5am this morning when I left for work. I'm sure people are tired of the gray skies after seeing more than enough of them over the long winter, and I wouldn't exactly say spring has arrived yet. In fact, other than a randomly placed 3 days, spring never arrives in Chicago. So I can understand their crankiness.

Before I get in to that, let me start on a positive note... John. Another new favorite of mine. He's not new to the store, he's been a regular for quite some time now but me being the new girl, I've only recently had the pleasure of making his latte. John is an older man with perfectly bright white hair and I swear to you I'm not lying nor being cheesy when I say his eyes sparkle. They seriously sparkle. I don't know if its the way he smiles or something that he eats, but there is a sparkle in his eye that can not be duplicated in the movies. I honestly don't even know what color his eyes are because I'm too distracted by the sparkle to actually look. In fact, if someone were to ask me what color eyes he had, I think my answer would be "sparkled."

The first time I met John he was standing behind someone who had just ordered a cappuccino. I love making cappuccinos and I was pretty stoked about the one I had just crafted, so when I handed it off I told the lady who ordered it, "this is one of the best cappuccinos I have ever made." I was hoping for a big smile and a "thank you," but she at least grinned, so that was nice. John's drink was next, which is always a venti nonfat latte. I called it out and as he walked up to the hand off plane, he asked, "now is this the best venti nonfat latte you've ever made?" He smiled real big to show he was teasing me, but when I looked up and say that sparkle in his eye, I couldn't lie to him, "no, actually it's not." He laughed really hard as if I was teasing with him, so I clarified, "honestly, sir, it's not, I can do better."

He smiled and said "well, at least your honest!"

I smiled back and promised him that next time I would make him the world's best latte. Oh yea, I went there, the worlds best latte.

He picked up his drink, smiled again, "OK" he said, "next time!"

Sure enough, the next time he came in he walked up to the counter and ordered a venti nonfat latte. I wasn't looking at first but then I overheard him say "I hear she makes the world's best lattes!" I looked up, saw him smile, and I simply replied "you got it!"

Now, not to toot my own horn, but TOOT TOOT! It was seriously the best latte I have ever made. I realize that people not in the coffee business can easily brush this off thinking all lattes are the same... espresso and milk, but it's not true. I never thought I would become such an "expert," or some might say "snob," but there is so much more to a latte.

First, you have to get the timing of the shots just right so they're not too bitter. You have steam the milk (before pulling the shots) so it creates the most perfect foam, making it so smooth it doesn't even look as if it's been steamed... not a single bubble. Then when you pour, hold the foam back with a spoon and tilt the cup sideways so as not to create more bubbles from the milk hitting the espresso too hard. The combination of the milk and espresso should look golden brown, and then top it off with the perfect white foam. I always take the spoon and make a swirl with it, it's ascetically pleasing to the eye.

I proudly called out John's drink and left the lid off so that he could see it when he came up to the counter. He smiled real big, "well would ya look at that! WOW... that is beautiful!" I lidded the cup, brushed my shoulders off a bit and replied, "yea, I was pretty excited about it." He took the lid back off, looked at it again and said "I'm excited to drink it!"

John came back in this morning, covered in rain, but smiling big. He saw me behind the counter and said "I'll have the world's best venti nonfat latte!"

"Done!" I said, and began to rinse out my pitcher.

After I finished, I called out the world's best venti nonfat latte and held the cup out for John to see... "OH WOW, that is BEAUTIFUL! MAN!! We should start taking pictures of all the lattes you make and hang them up over there on the wall!"

I laughed out loud, secretly thinking to myself what a great idea that was. We talked for a little bit longer before he headed back out into the rain.

Only shortly after John did the cranky people start coming in... one woman literally scolded me because it was always so crowded and there was never anywhere to sit every time she came in. "Can't you kick people out?" She asked frantically. She really frustrated me and I was so prepared to come home and write about all the crazy things she said, but just now after writing about John, I don't feel the need to focus on her negativity.

Sometimes it so easy just to grab on to that which is negative that we often forget the positive... I do... a lot. So today I'm going to chose instead to be thankful for people like John instead of complain about the many other people who bring me down (with their own complaining). Its people like John who should be recognized for their attitude on life and the way they treat others instead of those people who can cause the most drama or make the biggest scene.

And though I'm not necessarily saying we should put up with people who bring us down or make us feel less than, I am saying that it is amazing how much your perspective can change when you choose what to focus your attention on... the good or the bad.

We may not be able to help what other people do to us, but we can chose how to react to it.

Thank you, John, for your positivity, the sparkle in your eye and your appreciation for something as small as a venti nonfat latte.

I'm working on this just for you...

newsflash

2010-05-10T22:15:00.000-07:00

i love this woman...

2010-05-09T21:02:00.000-07:00

and her outfit!!!!

Happy Mother's Day, momma! I really really love you... like a lot!

the reality of simplicity

2010-05-08T09:19:00.000-07:00

I forgot today was Saturday. Maybe it's because I always work on Saturdays so it never actually feels like Saturday to me.

I woke up, made some coffee, grabbed a bowl of vanilla pudding (with bananas and strawberries, of course), hopped back in my bed and read my most recently favorite book for a while. The book I am reading right now makes me want to travel all the more than I already do. As I started planning trips in my head to big cities and remote islands, I decided I would check my bank account.

Then I stopped planning.

I sat in my bed for a while and swam around in my thoughts. After what may have appeared like a long moment of silence to onlookers (had there been some in my room), I shot up, threw my covers off and said out loud... "I may not know what I'm doing with my life, but I'm gonna do something!"

My student account at Moody has been on hold since the end of last semester because I never turned in my health forms. I guess they were a little late in noticing because apparently I never should have been able to register in the first place… whoops.

So today when I jumped out of bed, I grabbed my health forms that I had finally made copies of (OK, actually my mom made copies of them when I was home visiting… thank you, mom!), and I ran to Moody so I could turn them in and register for class, all the while thinking “I may not know what I’m doing, but I’m gonna do something!”

Now, when I say I ran to Moody, usually I would explain to you that I am exaggerating a bit, seeing as how I don’t run anymore unless I hear an ice cream truck, but this time its the truth… I literally ran to Moody. The funny thing is, I don’t even know why I was running, nor did I realize I was doing it until I was half way there. What am I doing? I thought to myself, why the hell am I running? There’s no ice cream truck, and even if there was, it’s too freakin’ cold… although I don’t think I would care if it were dippin’ dots… those are so good…Wait… why the crap am I still running?

As I was running I started smiling, and that caught me off guard too… why am I smiling now?

So I'm running in the wind, because let's face it, its Chicago, I'm smiling like an idiot, and I have no idea why, nor do I seem to be able to stop myself. For some reason I seem to ignore the fact that I may possibly be excited about starting classes again in the fall and instead convince myself that it is annoyingly chilly and I need to run so as to keep warm (keep in mind, I never ran once during the winter).

I finally make it to the front doors of the alumni center and walk inside, nearly out of breath. The few students who are in there look at me as if I had just ran a marathon or something. The cafe was closed and everything was so quiet, but I walked confidently up to the front desk where I saw a young man in a tie and v-neck sweater and right as I was about to ignore him and walk upstairs, it hit me... its Saturday.

So I stop, as if I was planning on it the whole time, and ask him if health services is open. He is very nice and informs me that nothing on campus is really open on Saturdays, which makes sense but just not something I thought of while I was running with a hanger-in-the-mouth smile down the sidewalk.

I inform him that I'll come back Monday and he informs me that everything will be closed on Monday as well seeing as it is an institutional day off (the day before finals). I think my face looked something like a cross between getting kicked in the stomach and being told I won Miss America... really bummed and really confused (while some girls would be ecstatic at the thought of being crowned the face of our nation, I would be seriously concerned... who in their right mind would vote me Miss America?).

I guess he notices my facial expression and my concern for our nation were I to represent it, so he starts typing fervently away on his computer... "let me just double check for you, I'm not 100% sure if EVERYTHING will be closed."

I like this guy.

He tells me he's not actually sure because its not listed on the website, so my best bet would be to call on Monday morning. He writes down the number for me and sends me on my way. I walk slowly out of the building, a much different exit than entrance, put my head phones on and just stand right outside the door.

I don't know if it was because the wind had picked up or my attitude had shifted, but I hung my head, much like Charlie Brown when he gets the wrong kind of Christmas tree, and just took my time walking back to my apartment (even though I could have kept warm by running). I look down at the paper the guy in the tie gave me and I read out loud... "food services... 312-yada-yada-yada." I rolled my eyes and put the paper in my bag. Honestly, I can see how you could mix up food services and health services.

Nonetheless, I couldn't help but feel like I was being blocked. How come as soon as I decide I want to do something, the walls go up? I think to myself (maybe a little out loud... to the Lord).

He responds... how come you wait so long to decide?

So I respond... how come you wait so long to tell me?

So he responds (instead scolding, which is what I would have done if my child had gotten that sassy with me)... who says I waited this long to tell you?

I get frustrated... well... DAAAAHHHHH!!!!

I get quiet, realizing I am no longer the over-enthusiastic smiling runner, but now the crazy lady who walks up and down the sidewalk "talking to herself" (probably a more fitting description of myself).

See, this is what I do... I take my time, I do want I want, I even get lazy, but as soon as I make the decision to get my butt in gear and get moving, I assume everybody else should be ready too. When things don't happen at the moment I want them to happen, instead of waiting (actively not lazily) I get frustrated and give up.

I actually had to stop myself from saying "maybe this is a sign I'm not supposed to go back to school!"

I can picture God throwing his hands over his head, yet remaining very patient... "no, it means health services is closed on the weekends so people can relax, and possibly on Monday because the students have finals to worry about... not everything is about you."

Ouch.

Followed by...

duh.

Not everything is about me. There's not a conspiracy at Moody to keep me my from getting the hold off of my account so I can register for classes. It's just the weekend, the weekend of finals, and to the relief of 99.9% of the students, a long weekend, meaning no class on Monday. My frustration at wanting to get things done now, or at the very least, by Monday, are another students relief at having an extra day to study for exams without having to worry about class on top of that.

Waiting till Tuesday doesn't mean giving up, it means waiting till Tuesday.

Oh, the reality of simplicity.

Duh.

reading

2010-05-07T21:34:00.000-07:00

Instead of writing tonight, I'm going to read.

I usually have a hard time getting through a whole book, but the book I am reading right now I just can't seem to put down. I love love love a good book, and I finally found one (for now).

I encourage you to grab your favorite book and join me.

I am currently enjoying this book oh so much!...

It kind of makes me want to write a book, but I don't know if I should put that out there yet.

Oh well, happy reading!

green

2010-05-07T20:50:00.001-07:00

I love the city, but sometimes it makes me wonder where nature has gone.

Being a lover of the color green, I realized the other day that I don't see enough of it in the city. I see a lot of gray and blue when I look up (as with any outdoor location), but I definitely don't see enough green.

I miss climbing trees.