Well, I've been MIA. And yes, the reason is obvious: Christmas.
You know something I don't understand? People who celebrate Christmas but don't believe in Jesus. I understand it's really commercialized these days, with Santa and all...but is it really possible to avoid Nativities for the entire season? I guess some people just love that it's a time for family to get together and things like that. But the holiday has CHRIST in its name, for heaven's sake! (yes, pun intended.) I feel like it's impossible to go through Christmas every year and never at least consider if its biblical roots are the truth.
Anyway, enough of my ranting. Christmas was great for me and mine. I hope it was great for you and yours as well. I'll be back and write something worthwhile tomorrow.
Wednesday, December 30, 2009
Wednesday, December 23, 2009
more tuesday
My mother died when I was fifteen years old, and I hate that part of my life. Her death marks everything. I look at events from my past and automatically place them into one of two categories: “Pre-Mom-Dying” or “Post-Mom-Dying.” I loved my mom. My life is completely different now, and has been ever since her death.
Immediately after the accident, my life was a living nightmare. When I finally was able to return to school, I had to go in early every day at 7:00 in the morning to meet with a grief counselor they brought in. I didn’t buy into her. Everything about her was fake. She had too much make-up on her face, too much hairspray in her hair, and too many pounds squeezed into one dress.
Her name was Jemimah – yes, like the syrup – which I found to be completely ridiculous. At the time, it was really hard for me to believe that someone would actually name their child that, which made me think she made up her name herself, which is even more ridiculous. Why would you name yourself that? What on earth would possess you to associate yourself with a bottle of syrup shaped like a woman? Don’t get me wrong, I like pancakes. But when it came to Jemimah, everything she said, every movement she made, was just like her name – like syrup. She was too sweet, too thick, too over-the-top for me. She’d lean back in her chair and say things like: “But how does that make you feel, Tuesday?” or “Tuesday, we need to get your feelings out in the open on this issue,” or “Tuesday, sugar, your feelings on this are important to me.” And every time she said the word feel or feeling she would grope her chest like she was having a heart attack. I wished she would have a heart attack. To this day, she's one person I could punch in the face without any regret. I wouldn’t even feel bad if I broke her nose and she had to have plastic surgery. In fact, I’d probably feel good about it because it would be improving her looks in the long run. It was obvious to me that woman needed some serious help. And she was the one trying to counsel me.
None of my friends could relate at all. I remember one day in particular when I was sitting at the lunch table with a couple of my friends. They started talking about how much they hate all of their parent’s rules. The conversation began because my friend Gary had missed his curfew the night before, and he was grounded for two weeks because of it. He then proceeded to talk about his mother because she’s the enforcer of the rules in their family. Then Amy said that her dad was the enforcer; her mother was the relaxed one. In my family, my mother had been the only one. My father lived with us, but most of the time, we didn’t feel like he cared about us at all, much less loved us enough to actually enforce rules. So when we got the call one night that my mother had been in a car accident, I was left with no one. My friends didn’t know what they had. I would've died to have a curfew.
“Seriously. I just wish she’d get it – that I want her to leave me alone,” I remember my friend Gary saying. “I want to live my life how I want to live it, and if I want to stay out past 10:30 on a school night, then I want it to be my choice. I just don’t understand why she doesn’t trust me. I’ve never even done anything…”
Gary’s voice became progressively more distant as my eyes began to well up. I stared down at the lines in the fake marble of the cafeteria table as they became blurred from the spots of water pooling together from my tears.
“Tuesday, what’s wrong?”
Did he seriously just ask that?
“Oh shit, I’m sorry.” It clicked. They looked around awkwardly, no one knowing what to do. I understand, though. If I were them, I would’ve felt uncomfortable too.
“Look, Tuesday…” Amy began. I didn’t stick around to hear anymore. I headed upstairs and sat in the library directly above the cafeteria, hoping they wouldn’t come after me. They didn’t. Why would they? What could they say? It’s not like their condolences would bring my mother back.
After school that day, I jetted off towards my car. When I was halfway there, I felt someone grab my arm to stop me. I jumped a little, startled.
“Oh, Gary, it’s only you.”
“Tues, about lunch today,” he began.
I interrupted. “It’s fine, really. It’s not a big deal.”
“I just wanted to say that I’m sorry.”
“Thanks.” I gave him a half-smile.
“Can I do anything for you?”
What an idiot. Could he do anything? Sure, invent a time machine, travel back to the second before my mother died, and shove that beam that sliced her in half the other way so that it would slice the passenger’s seat instead of her body.
“No, Gary, thank you, though.” I turned and walked towards my car.
I was being a jerk. I knew it. Gary was just trying to be nice, but I didn’t know how to react to anyone anymore. It wasn’t their fault that their mothers were all still alive. But that didn’t change the fact that they didn’t understand.
I got in the car and started driving. I was going to the same place I went every afternoon that year – to visit my mother’s grave. I pulled up to the graveyard gate and read the sign just as I had every day before: “Alexander H. White Memorial Graveyard. Began in 1847.” I still wonder who Alexander H. White was. I know why the graveyard was named after him, though – the very first 1847 grave was his.
I drove my car through the gate and wound around the curvy path that took you past some of the oldest oak trees in Drigs, all surrounded by graves at their bases. I was headed to the very back left of the graveyard. My mother had been one of the last; the graveyard was almost full.
When I arrived at my normal spot, I parked my car, took my shoes off, and got out. I never wear my shoes in graveyards. One time I heard that you’re not supposed to wear shoes in a graveyard because it’s bad luck. I don’t think that it’s fear of bad luck for me, though. I just love being barefoot. And when I have bare feet I feel more natural, closer to the earth, closer to my mother.
I walked over to her grave with light steps. Before I arrived, I mentally prepared myself to have a good attitude. I never wanted my mother to sense that I wasn’t okay without her.
“Hey, Mama.” I knelt down beside her grave and read her tombstone, probably for the 200th time at least.
“Margaret ‘Margie’ Grant Johnson. Born March 26, 1968. Died September 7, 2008. Loving Mother, Devoted Wife. Psalm 23.” Our family wasn’t very religious, but my mother had a picture of Psalm 23 hanging over one of the door frames in our house because she said that if all that religious stuff turned out to be true, at least we’d have something going for us.
I lay down on the grass on my stomach and pressed my ear to the ground. My mother had been my best friend. There were times that I could promise I could hear her breathing down there, in the earth. I wanted so badly to rip up the ground, claw through the dirt, and rescue her. However, even if my heart couldn’t grasp it, I knew in my mind she was dead. We had a closed-casket funeral, but they let me see the body before. She was so cut-up it looked like she was some sort of cadaver that medical students had been hacking away on. Her face was still beautiful, though; it was funny. It looked like it hadn’t even really been touched, and she had a pleasant smile on her face. When I think back on that face now, it makes me think that she’s happier wherever she is now. It also really makes me wish I could be there with her, instead of existing alone with my dad in a hell-hole we’re supposed to call a family.
That afternoon, I fell asleep trying to listen to my mother’s breathing under the earth. I woke up to a chilly wind blowing across my bare arms – fall was definitely arriving fast. I remember that I didn’t want it to come, though, because when it did, that would mean the change of seasons. And a change of seasons would mean that everyone would expect me to change and move on, get over my mom’s death, and be normal. I wasn’t ready for that, yet, though.
I flipped open my cell phone to see what time it was. 5:47.
“Damn it,” I whispered under my breath. I was late to fix dinner once again. My dad would be expecting it on the table in ten minutes. I decided it would be best just to pick something up to go and tell him I had to stay after school for something. He’d never know the difference. I hoisted myself up to my knees.
“Bye, mom.” My arms ached to embrace her, and my eyes burned with exhausted tears. I made myself get up to my feet and walk away so I wouldn’t start missing her even more.
And my body still aches for her. Twelve years later, it still aches.
Immediately after the accident, my life was a living nightmare. When I finally was able to return to school, I had to go in early every day at 7:00 in the morning to meet with a grief counselor they brought in. I didn’t buy into her. Everything about her was fake. She had too much make-up on her face, too much hairspray in her hair, and too many pounds squeezed into one dress.
Her name was Jemimah – yes, like the syrup – which I found to be completely ridiculous. At the time, it was really hard for me to believe that someone would actually name their child that, which made me think she made up her name herself, which is even more ridiculous. Why would you name yourself that? What on earth would possess you to associate yourself with a bottle of syrup shaped like a woman? Don’t get me wrong, I like pancakes. But when it came to Jemimah, everything she said, every movement she made, was just like her name – like syrup. She was too sweet, too thick, too over-the-top for me. She’d lean back in her chair and say things like: “But how does that make you feel, Tuesday?” or “Tuesday, we need to get your feelings out in the open on this issue,” or “Tuesday, sugar, your feelings on this are important to me.” And every time she said the word feel or feeling she would grope her chest like she was having a heart attack. I wished she would have a heart attack. To this day, she's one person I could punch in the face without any regret. I wouldn’t even feel bad if I broke her nose and she had to have plastic surgery. In fact, I’d probably feel good about it because it would be improving her looks in the long run. It was obvious to me that woman needed some serious help. And she was the one trying to counsel me.
None of my friends could relate at all. I remember one day in particular when I was sitting at the lunch table with a couple of my friends. They started talking about how much they hate all of their parent’s rules. The conversation began because my friend Gary had missed his curfew the night before, and he was grounded for two weeks because of it. He then proceeded to talk about his mother because she’s the enforcer of the rules in their family. Then Amy said that her dad was the enforcer; her mother was the relaxed one. In my family, my mother had been the only one. My father lived with us, but most of the time, we didn’t feel like he cared about us at all, much less loved us enough to actually enforce rules. So when we got the call one night that my mother had been in a car accident, I was left with no one. My friends didn’t know what they had. I would've died to have a curfew.
“Seriously. I just wish she’d get it – that I want her to leave me alone,” I remember my friend Gary saying. “I want to live my life how I want to live it, and if I want to stay out past 10:30 on a school night, then I want it to be my choice. I just don’t understand why she doesn’t trust me. I’ve never even done anything…”
Gary’s voice became progressively more distant as my eyes began to well up. I stared down at the lines in the fake marble of the cafeteria table as they became blurred from the spots of water pooling together from my tears.
“Tuesday, what’s wrong?”
Did he seriously just ask that?
“Oh shit, I’m sorry.” It clicked. They looked around awkwardly, no one knowing what to do. I understand, though. If I were them, I would’ve felt uncomfortable too.
“Look, Tuesday…” Amy began. I didn’t stick around to hear anymore. I headed upstairs and sat in the library directly above the cafeteria, hoping they wouldn’t come after me. They didn’t. Why would they? What could they say? It’s not like their condolences would bring my mother back.
After school that day, I jetted off towards my car. When I was halfway there, I felt someone grab my arm to stop me. I jumped a little, startled.
“Oh, Gary, it’s only you.”
“Tues, about lunch today,” he began.
I interrupted. “It’s fine, really. It’s not a big deal.”
“I just wanted to say that I’m sorry.”
“Thanks.” I gave him a half-smile.
“Can I do anything for you?”
What an idiot. Could he do anything? Sure, invent a time machine, travel back to the second before my mother died, and shove that beam that sliced her in half the other way so that it would slice the passenger’s seat instead of her body.
“No, Gary, thank you, though.” I turned and walked towards my car.
I was being a jerk. I knew it. Gary was just trying to be nice, but I didn’t know how to react to anyone anymore. It wasn’t their fault that their mothers were all still alive. But that didn’t change the fact that they didn’t understand.
I got in the car and started driving. I was going to the same place I went every afternoon that year – to visit my mother’s grave. I pulled up to the graveyard gate and read the sign just as I had every day before: “Alexander H. White Memorial Graveyard. Began in 1847.” I still wonder who Alexander H. White was. I know why the graveyard was named after him, though – the very first 1847 grave was his.
I drove my car through the gate and wound around the curvy path that took you past some of the oldest oak trees in Drigs, all surrounded by graves at their bases. I was headed to the very back left of the graveyard. My mother had been one of the last; the graveyard was almost full.
When I arrived at my normal spot, I parked my car, took my shoes off, and got out. I never wear my shoes in graveyards. One time I heard that you’re not supposed to wear shoes in a graveyard because it’s bad luck. I don’t think that it’s fear of bad luck for me, though. I just love being barefoot. And when I have bare feet I feel more natural, closer to the earth, closer to my mother.
I walked over to her grave with light steps. Before I arrived, I mentally prepared myself to have a good attitude. I never wanted my mother to sense that I wasn’t okay without her.
“Hey, Mama.” I knelt down beside her grave and read her tombstone, probably for the 200th time at least.
“Margaret ‘Margie’ Grant Johnson. Born March 26, 1968. Died September 7, 2008. Loving Mother, Devoted Wife. Psalm 23.” Our family wasn’t very religious, but my mother had a picture of Psalm 23 hanging over one of the door frames in our house because she said that if all that religious stuff turned out to be true, at least we’d have something going for us.
I lay down on the grass on my stomach and pressed my ear to the ground. My mother had been my best friend. There were times that I could promise I could hear her breathing down there, in the earth. I wanted so badly to rip up the ground, claw through the dirt, and rescue her. However, even if my heart couldn’t grasp it, I knew in my mind she was dead. We had a closed-casket funeral, but they let me see the body before. She was so cut-up it looked like she was some sort of cadaver that medical students had been hacking away on. Her face was still beautiful, though; it was funny. It looked like it hadn’t even really been touched, and she had a pleasant smile on her face. When I think back on that face now, it makes me think that she’s happier wherever she is now. It also really makes me wish I could be there with her, instead of existing alone with my dad in a hell-hole we’re supposed to call a family.
That afternoon, I fell asleep trying to listen to my mother’s breathing under the earth. I woke up to a chilly wind blowing across my bare arms – fall was definitely arriving fast. I remember that I didn’t want it to come, though, because when it did, that would mean the change of seasons. And a change of seasons would mean that everyone would expect me to change and move on, get over my mom’s death, and be normal. I wasn’t ready for that, yet, though.
I flipped open my cell phone to see what time it was. 5:47.
“Damn it,” I whispered under my breath. I was late to fix dinner once again. My dad would be expecting it on the table in ten minutes. I decided it would be best just to pick something up to go and tell him I had to stay after school for something. He’d never know the difference. I hoisted myself up to my knees.
“Bye, mom.” My arms ached to embrace her, and my eyes burned with exhausted tears. I made myself get up to my feet and walk away so I wouldn’t start missing her even more.
And my body still aches for her. Twelve years later, it still aches.
Tuesday, December 22, 2009
day four
Editing some older stuff...I don't really know where this was going, but I'm working on it.
***
"The itsy bitsy spider climbed up the water spout..."
You know, the heart is a funny thing. We go along, living our life, and little things rip and tear at it, leaving us cuts that sting in the oddest of times. For instance, when I was a young girl, about ten or eleven years old, my dad thought it was a funny joke to point out that my sister and I were gaining weight. Now, mind you, we were growing girls, and we were gaining healthy weight like any girls our age were supposed to be. But, somehow, my dad made it seem like it was an abnormality, like he was making fun of us.
“She’s a big girl!” he would say. “She’s a big girl now,” and slap us on the butt. This used to mortify me.
Now, I’m 27 years old, but that memory finds its way to the front of my feelings at times when I wish it wouldn’t. When I see a diet commercial, a magazine cover advertising "10 guaranteed ways to get flat abs," a meal set in front of me that I’m supposed to enjoy. It comes when I least expect it, re-opening the cut as I try desperately to slap on some make-shift stitches, just enough to hold my tears in and my composure together before it begins to bleed out and seep through, staining my patch-worked life I’ve tried so hard to sew together.
I think that’s how most people live – quilting everything together just so, becoming experts with stitches like spider webs, needling over the things we really feel. But as soon as we tie that last heart-thread, don’t we soon realize how weak our webs really are, and what we really need is surgery instead of stitches?
Well, we either realize it or keep running away. I ran for the longest time until I figured out I didn’t have a clue where I was going.
Spiders are the masters of needle and thread. They build their webs at night, and those same webs get destroyed every morning. They do this, day in, day out. If you’ve ever observed a spider for too long, you know how hard they work. All that spinning just to catch one measly bug.
To them, though, it’s survival. But for us, we’re just spinning webs over wounds that eventually will spill out and infect everything about us if we’re not careful, if we don’t just slow down every once in a while and realize we’re going nowhere with our rotting silk. The only good thing all that running and spinning and sewing does is tire us out so bad we’re forced to sit down, sip some water, and deal with ourselves.
For some people, it takes a big disaster for them to realize the spider web heart way of things doesn’t work, that trying to just stitch things over doesn’t make them better. Things have to be beyond control to snap them into an awakening that they need something bigger.
And a lot of times, it happens so fast. Everything seems to be going along just fine, the bleeding of the cuts is at bay and the webs have returned to functioning, ready to catch the night’s supper, when, all of the sudden, one earthquake comes and rocks the whole world.
For me, I heard the words “big girl” on TV, saw a tabloid of Lindsay Lohan's eating disorder, looked down at my shuffling feet at the end of pants that were falling off my bony body, when I suddenly realized I was right there along with Lindsay. All the strings in my heart began to unravel and dissolve, letting out pain I was trying so hard to keep in.
No, no, my mind screamed down to my heart, but the stubborn thing wouldn’t listen. It was too late – everything began seeping out. I wiped my eyes and hot tears began to brand me like blood.
I was at my friend Lauren's house. Unaware, she asked if I want anything to eat. Her words felt like a giant foot, crushing my perfectly spun silk.
“I could go for ice cream,” she said, absorbed in her own world of People Magazine.
The foot shifted all of its weight on top of me, and I found it hard to breathe. There they were, all of my patchwork webs, ripped apart before me, deflated.
“Um, I think I’m just going to go,” I said, getting up, walking out the door before she could catch me.
“Tuesday!” Lauren called out after me. I didn’t turn around.
The heart is funny, like I said. I realized I was going no place but kept sprinting off anyway. Like this time, maybe this time, I’d re-patch my shell of pain good enough to cover me for the rest of my life. I started my car and drove off.
How many crushing feet would it take for me to realize the heart wasn’t meant to operate this way?
"...down came the rain and washed the spider out."
***
***
"The itsy bitsy spider climbed up the water spout..."
You know, the heart is a funny thing. We go along, living our life, and little things rip and tear at it, leaving us cuts that sting in the oddest of times. For instance, when I was a young girl, about ten or eleven years old, my dad thought it was a funny joke to point out that my sister and I were gaining weight. Now, mind you, we were growing girls, and we were gaining healthy weight like any girls our age were supposed to be. But, somehow, my dad made it seem like it was an abnormality, like he was making fun of us.
“She’s a big girl!” he would say. “She’s a big girl now,” and slap us on the butt. This used to mortify me.
Now, I’m 27 years old, but that memory finds its way to the front of my feelings at times when I wish it wouldn’t. When I see a diet commercial, a magazine cover advertising "10 guaranteed ways to get flat abs," a meal set in front of me that I’m supposed to enjoy. It comes when I least expect it, re-opening the cut as I try desperately to slap on some make-shift stitches, just enough to hold my tears in and my composure together before it begins to bleed out and seep through, staining my patch-worked life I’ve tried so hard to sew together.
I think that’s how most people live – quilting everything together just so, becoming experts with stitches like spider webs, needling over the things we really feel. But as soon as we tie that last heart-thread, don’t we soon realize how weak our webs really are, and what we really need is surgery instead of stitches?
Well, we either realize it or keep running away. I ran for the longest time until I figured out I didn’t have a clue where I was going.
Spiders are the masters of needle and thread. They build their webs at night, and those same webs get destroyed every morning. They do this, day in, day out. If you’ve ever observed a spider for too long, you know how hard they work. All that spinning just to catch one measly bug.
To them, though, it’s survival. But for us, we’re just spinning webs over wounds that eventually will spill out and infect everything about us if we’re not careful, if we don’t just slow down every once in a while and realize we’re going nowhere with our rotting silk. The only good thing all that running and spinning and sewing does is tire us out so bad we’re forced to sit down, sip some water, and deal with ourselves.
For some people, it takes a big disaster for them to realize the spider web heart way of things doesn’t work, that trying to just stitch things over doesn’t make them better. Things have to be beyond control to snap them into an awakening that they need something bigger.
And a lot of times, it happens so fast. Everything seems to be going along just fine, the bleeding of the cuts is at bay and the webs have returned to functioning, ready to catch the night’s supper, when, all of the sudden, one earthquake comes and rocks the whole world.
For me, I heard the words “big girl” on TV, saw a tabloid of Lindsay Lohan's eating disorder, looked down at my shuffling feet at the end of pants that were falling off my bony body, when I suddenly realized I was right there along with Lindsay. All the strings in my heart began to unravel and dissolve, letting out pain I was trying so hard to keep in.
No, no, my mind screamed down to my heart, but the stubborn thing wouldn’t listen. It was too late – everything began seeping out. I wiped my eyes and hot tears began to brand me like blood.
I was at my friend Lauren's house. Unaware, she asked if I want anything to eat. Her words felt like a giant foot, crushing my perfectly spun silk.
“I could go for ice cream,” she said, absorbed in her own world of People Magazine.
The foot shifted all of its weight on top of me, and I found it hard to breathe. There they were, all of my patchwork webs, ripped apart before me, deflated.
“Um, I think I’m just going to go,” I said, getting up, walking out the door before she could catch me.
“Tuesday!” Lauren called out after me. I didn’t turn around.
The heart is funny, like I said. I realized I was going no place but kept sprinting off anyway. Like this time, maybe this time, I’d re-patch my shell of pain good enough to cover me for the rest of my life. I started my car and drove off.
How many crushing feet would it take for me to realize the heart wasn’t meant to operate this way?
"...down came the rain and washed the spider out."
***
Monday, December 21, 2009
not if, but when
My life is pitiful these days. I should've gotten up hours ago. By this time of the day, I should have already cleaned the apartment, gone Christmas shopping, made a trip to the grocery, and provided my husband with some sort of lunch. Instead, I am sitting in my underwear, waiting on an egg to boil, surrounded by dirty dishes and trash, writing.
Long sigh. All the things we should have done, right? They always haunt us.
I see my nutritionist tomorrow morning. I've had to keep a log of everything I've eaten for the past two weeks. I must say I'm a little nervous. I really have tried my hardest to keep up, but I'm still far from where I'm supposed to be. It's hard to go from eating practically nothing to a normal diet in just a couple of weeks.
I'm trying, though, and that's what matters. I think.
Eating disorders are a confusing thing. I was just going to therapy at first, and then I had to add a medical doctor and a nutritionist to beat the addiction because my therapist said she couldn't do it alone. I remember thinking at the time, Can't do it alone? This isn't even that big of a deal...aren't you a professional? I've learned since that it is a big deal. And yes, it is an addiction. An awful one. I don't even want it; it's not enjoyable. At least people who are alcoholics probably enjoyed alcohol at one point. It's not like I ever really enjoyed starving myself. Yet here I am, struggling to put food in my mouth every day. How did this even happen?
It's an emotional thing, really. I hate my body, yes, but it's more than that. I'm learning that it has to do with all these dark things that happened in my childhood that I never dealt with. When I learned about stuff like that in psychology class, I never really bought into it much. Now, I wish I had paid more attention.
I'm also learning that eating disorders are dangerous - highly dangerous, actually. When I was at the peak of self-starvation, I had somehow convinced myself that food was an option. Surprise to me - it's not.
Before I went to the doctor, I wouldn't have even really considered my eating disorder "serious." After I visited the doctor, though, I realized that I've already done some damage. I'm waiting to find out how heavy the damage is. At the doctor, they took my blood pressure three different ways, took tons of blood, and took a urine sample. I filled out mounds of paperwork. They did an EKG (electrocardiogram, I think?) on my heart. I was there for two and a half hours. During my appointment, I remember thinking, Okay, I guess this is actually a big deal.
If that wasn't enough to shake me up, the results were. My weight was dangerously low for my height, there was blood in my urine, and my EKG was off. I was put on lexapro and prilosec and was finally released for the moment. When I had arrived at the doctor's office that afternoon, the sun was still out. When I left, it was as dark as midnight.
A couple of days later, I got a call from the doctor's office just telling me to call them back. Nervously, I dialed the number, and the nurse on the other end told me that I had to go to the hospital to get an echo on my heart. When I asked what that was, she informed me that it was a heart ultrasound. She even had the day and time already set for me, later in the week. I remember feeling like I had been hit by a car that I had never even seen coming. Hospital? More tests on my heart?
Why didn't I realize I was doing this to myself?
Addictions are a funny thing, though. Even as I lay there in the hospital bed, naked with ultrasound gel on my chest, I remember wondering if I really wanted to get better.
What the heck is wrong with me? Getting better isn't an option. I have to eat. There's nothing optional about food.
But I still have to remind myself of this many times a day. Like it's something I'm trying to convince myself of but don't really believe.
I believe in Jesus, but I feel like people who have never really experienced him might do this sometimes. They never make a conscious decision to follow him, but when things start going wrong, I feel like they probably sit around trying to talk to him, thinking things like, If you're up there, can you make the cancer go away? Come on, Jesus, didn't you say you came to save the world? Why can't you save my brother from his cocaine addiction? And they sit around like the Little Engine that Could, whispering to themselves, "Jesus is real, Jesus is real, Jesus is real."
But if you don't really believe it, it means nothing. There's no "if you're up there." He's either there or he isn't. And when you really believe he's there, you know. It transforms you - everything about you. Yeah, you'll still have a lot of problems (hello, look at me). But at the end of the day, you won't wonder if you're going to make it up the mountain like the Little Engine; you'll know for certain that you will.
I don't really believe food is a good thing yet. But I believe in Jesus. So I know that I'll conquer this, even if I don't feel like it at the moment. And that's really all I need to know.
Long sigh. All the things we should have done, right? They always haunt us.
I see my nutritionist tomorrow morning. I've had to keep a log of everything I've eaten for the past two weeks. I must say I'm a little nervous. I really have tried my hardest to keep up, but I'm still far from where I'm supposed to be. It's hard to go from eating practically nothing to a normal diet in just a couple of weeks.
I'm trying, though, and that's what matters. I think.
Eating disorders are a confusing thing. I was just going to therapy at first, and then I had to add a medical doctor and a nutritionist to beat the addiction because my therapist said she couldn't do it alone. I remember thinking at the time, Can't do it alone? This isn't even that big of a deal...aren't you a professional? I've learned since that it is a big deal. And yes, it is an addiction. An awful one. I don't even want it; it's not enjoyable. At least people who are alcoholics probably enjoyed alcohol at one point. It's not like I ever really enjoyed starving myself. Yet here I am, struggling to put food in my mouth every day. How did this even happen?
It's an emotional thing, really. I hate my body, yes, but it's more than that. I'm learning that it has to do with all these dark things that happened in my childhood that I never dealt with. When I learned about stuff like that in psychology class, I never really bought into it much. Now, I wish I had paid more attention.
I'm also learning that eating disorders are dangerous - highly dangerous, actually. When I was at the peak of self-starvation, I had somehow convinced myself that food was an option. Surprise to me - it's not.
Before I went to the doctor, I wouldn't have even really considered my eating disorder "serious." After I visited the doctor, though, I realized that I've already done some damage. I'm waiting to find out how heavy the damage is. At the doctor, they took my blood pressure three different ways, took tons of blood, and took a urine sample. I filled out mounds of paperwork. They did an EKG (electrocardiogram, I think?) on my heart. I was there for two and a half hours. During my appointment, I remember thinking, Okay, I guess this is actually a big deal.
If that wasn't enough to shake me up, the results were. My weight was dangerously low for my height, there was blood in my urine, and my EKG was off. I was put on lexapro and prilosec and was finally released for the moment. When I had arrived at the doctor's office that afternoon, the sun was still out. When I left, it was as dark as midnight.
A couple of days later, I got a call from the doctor's office just telling me to call them back. Nervously, I dialed the number, and the nurse on the other end told me that I had to go to the hospital to get an echo on my heart. When I asked what that was, she informed me that it was a heart ultrasound. She even had the day and time already set for me, later in the week. I remember feeling like I had been hit by a car that I had never even seen coming. Hospital? More tests on my heart?
Why didn't I realize I was doing this to myself?
Addictions are a funny thing, though. Even as I lay there in the hospital bed, naked with ultrasound gel on my chest, I remember wondering if I really wanted to get better.
What the heck is wrong with me? Getting better isn't an option. I have to eat. There's nothing optional about food.
But I still have to remind myself of this many times a day. Like it's something I'm trying to convince myself of but don't really believe.
I believe in Jesus, but I feel like people who have never really experienced him might do this sometimes. They never make a conscious decision to follow him, but when things start going wrong, I feel like they probably sit around trying to talk to him, thinking things like, If you're up there, can you make the cancer go away? Come on, Jesus, didn't you say you came to save the world? Why can't you save my brother from his cocaine addiction? And they sit around like the Little Engine that Could, whispering to themselves, "Jesus is real, Jesus is real, Jesus is real."
But if you don't really believe it, it means nothing. There's no "if you're up there." He's either there or he isn't. And when you really believe he's there, you know. It transforms you - everything about you. Yeah, you'll still have a lot of problems (hello, look at me). But at the end of the day, you won't wonder if you're going to make it up the mountain like the Little Engine; you'll know for certain that you will.
I don't really believe food is a good thing yet. But I believe in Jesus. So I know that I'll conquer this, even if I don't feel like it at the moment. And that's really all I need to know.
Sunday, December 20, 2009
tonight
I write down almost all of my prayers in a journal. I've done this since I was 16. It helps me more than anything else.
I realize I've already posted today. I also realize that prayers are a very private thing. However, no one reads this but me (and those extremely close to me). So I wanted to post my prayers from tonight, because I want to keep them. In case there's ever a house fire or something. I'm aware that it's awful writing, but I really don't care.
12/20/09
Father,
I feel so overwhelmed. Why am I so good at running away from you? Away from you is the last place I want to be...can you lead me back? Being away from you is terrifying.
Can I still play princess like we used to? When I was little and I used to close my eyes and pretend you would twirl me around and around...you always sent the wind to let me know it was real. And we'd make flower chains together - remember that? They were my crowns. We used to talk for hours. I'm still your little girl, right? I don't want to grow out of that.
My heart is still the same heart, just with a lot more cuts and bruises. I know you already know that; I just needed to say it for me. Heal all the bad things, all my nightmares. They haunt me desperately, and I hate them.
Wash over me. Your love is like a stream warmed by sunlight with no end. I need it more than ever. Heal me with your forgiveness. Oh, God, I am such a disgusting person. I cling to your grace more than anything, because you are the only one who can save me.
I drink deep into your well and am satisfied. Oh, Father, hold me here. Tightly. Help me rest, truly rest. Give me some sort of courage to begin loving myself. It's so easy for me to run. But I know I need to quit that.
Come, Jesus, and hold me. Rock me, rock me gently. I love you.
Yours,
Rachael
I realize I've already posted today. I also realize that prayers are a very private thing. However, no one reads this but me (and those extremely close to me). So I wanted to post my prayers from tonight, because I want to keep them. In case there's ever a house fire or something. I'm aware that it's awful writing, but I really don't care.
12/20/09
Father,
I feel so overwhelmed. Why am I so good at running away from you? Away from you is the last place I want to be...can you lead me back? Being away from you is terrifying.
Can I still play princess like we used to? When I was little and I used to close my eyes and pretend you would twirl me around and around...you always sent the wind to let me know it was real. And we'd make flower chains together - remember that? They were my crowns. We used to talk for hours. I'm still your little girl, right? I don't want to grow out of that.
My heart is still the same heart, just with a lot more cuts and bruises. I know you already know that; I just needed to say it for me. Heal all the bad things, all my nightmares. They haunt me desperately, and I hate them.
Wash over me. Your love is like a stream warmed by sunlight with no end. I need it more than ever. Heal me with your forgiveness. Oh, God, I am such a disgusting person. I cling to your grace more than anything, because you are the only one who can save me.
I drink deep into your well and am satisfied. Oh, Father, hold me here. Tightly. Help me rest, truly rest. Give me some sort of courage to begin loving myself. It's so easy for me to run. But I know I need to quit that.
Come, Jesus, and hold me. Rock me, rock me gently. I love you.
Yours,
Rachael
changing fire
The other day, I started parting my hair on the other side. I've parted it on the left since high school. But earlier this week, I thought to myself, What about the right side?
Sometimes we do things just because it's the way we've always done them. Honestly, I think we can spend our entire lives like that if we're not careful.
No one has noticed my hair. It's not like I really know what side people part their hair on - even my closest friends. I even had to tell my husband it was different. My feelings weren't hurt, though. It's just one of those details that only you notice about yourself. I needed the change just for me, anyway.
The process of my decision was silly, though. As if people were going to care. I looked at how my hair framed my face, how it fell around my chin, and how it seemed to change the color a slight bit. At first, I even got so nervous about it that I wondered if it's socially acceptable for people to part their hair on the right side. Maybe this was some taboo I hadn't paid attention to, like when I was in middle school and didn't realize that perms weren't cool anymore until I was about two painful years late. In fact, I even had to physically stop myself from googling "acceptable hair parts 2009."
Rachael, calm down. No one cares but you. My head came in and spoke some reason to that crazy heart of mine. Sometimes my head and my heart are so disconnected I feel like I have schizophrenia. Does everyone else have this constant war of feelings going on all the time, or is it just me?
From my experience in life so far, it's probably just me. But I'm okay with that.
When I parted my hair on the opposite side, though, I noticed something.
First of all, my hair is purely awful without a straightener. Bless all the women who existed before straighteners did. However, since I had been parting my hair in the same way for some number of years, I had mastered making it look somewhat decent in that style. Now, though, my hair is different, and the majority of it rests on the left side of my head instead of the right. The first time I washed and styled it with my new part, I noticed that even though I went about my same routine, the right side of my head looked terrible. It wouldn't straighten out for anything; it was like I had a shirt I was trying to iron that had been wadded up for months. My hair has been this way for a week or so now, and it's still not really normal yet. I know it will be, though; the right side just hasn't ever been exposed like it is now.
Isn't it amazing how ugly we can remain when we don't expose ourselves?
And I'm not talking about going out and telling the world all our problems, bearing our souls to people we barely know. I'm talking about hiding from ourselves.
Sometimes we do things just because it's the way we've always done them. And why?
because it's safe.
Often, we like the way things are in our bubble of a life. But what if the thing we really need is for our bubble to pop so we can finally live? Bubbles can suffocate people.
I heard something interesting in church today: "Salvation is not an association." So many people (especially in the Bible Belt...I live here, so I can say that) just saunter their way through life, thinking if they just go to church and throw in a prayer or two before meals that they're spending eternity in heaven.
It doesn't work that way, though.
In Hebrews, God is described as a consuming fire. Last time I checked, no consuming fire I ever saw just sat around in some church pew and threw a few dollars in an offering plate when it passed by. No, fires destroy, burn and melt. They spread, warm, lead, and light. When man discovered fire, it was radical. Likewise, when a man discovers Jesus, it should be just as radical.
He pushes us to change, to expose, to question the things we do just because we've always done them. And if he doesn't do that for you, you've found the wrong Jesus.
It's better to not claim him at all than to pretend you believe when you're really still holding back half the hair on your head. And I've got news: whatever you keep holding back - it's still ugly under there.
So face it. Search for the real manger this Christmas season, the one that holds the fire inside. And consider parting your hair on a different side for a change.
Sometimes we do things just because it's the way we've always done them. Honestly, I think we can spend our entire lives like that if we're not careful.
No one has noticed my hair. It's not like I really know what side people part their hair on - even my closest friends. I even had to tell my husband it was different. My feelings weren't hurt, though. It's just one of those details that only you notice about yourself. I needed the change just for me, anyway.
The process of my decision was silly, though. As if people were going to care. I looked at how my hair framed my face, how it fell around my chin, and how it seemed to change the color a slight bit. At first, I even got so nervous about it that I wondered if it's socially acceptable for people to part their hair on the right side. Maybe this was some taboo I hadn't paid attention to, like when I was in middle school and didn't realize that perms weren't cool anymore until I was about two painful years late. In fact, I even had to physically stop myself from googling "acceptable hair parts 2009."
Rachael, calm down. No one cares but you. My head came in and spoke some reason to that crazy heart of mine. Sometimes my head and my heart are so disconnected I feel like I have schizophrenia. Does everyone else have this constant war of feelings going on all the time, or is it just me?
From my experience in life so far, it's probably just me. But I'm okay with that.
When I parted my hair on the opposite side, though, I noticed something.
First of all, my hair is purely awful without a straightener. Bless all the women who existed before straighteners did. However, since I had been parting my hair in the same way for some number of years, I had mastered making it look somewhat decent in that style. Now, though, my hair is different, and the majority of it rests on the left side of my head instead of the right. The first time I washed and styled it with my new part, I noticed that even though I went about my same routine, the right side of my head looked terrible. It wouldn't straighten out for anything; it was like I had a shirt I was trying to iron that had been wadded up for months. My hair has been this way for a week or so now, and it's still not really normal yet. I know it will be, though; the right side just hasn't ever been exposed like it is now.
Isn't it amazing how ugly we can remain when we don't expose ourselves?
And I'm not talking about going out and telling the world all our problems, bearing our souls to people we barely know. I'm talking about hiding from ourselves.
Sometimes we do things just because it's the way we've always done them. And why?
because it's safe.
Often, we like the way things are in our bubble of a life. But what if the thing we really need is for our bubble to pop so we can finally live? Bubbles can suffocate people.
I heard something interesting in church today: "Salvation is not an association." So many people (especially in the Bible Belt...I live here, so I can say that) just saunter their way through life, thinking if they just go to church and throw in a prayer or two before meals that they're spending eternity in heaven.
It doesn't work that way, though.
In Hebrews, God is described as a consuming fire. Last time I checked, no consuming fire I ever saw just sat around in some church pew and threw a few dollars in an offering plate when it passed by. No, fires destroy, burn and melt. They spread, warm, lead, and light. When man discovered fire, it was radical. Likewise, when a man discovers Jesus, it should be just as radical.
He pushes us to change, to expose, to question the things we do just because we've always done them. And if he doesn't do that for you, you've found the wrong Jesus.
It's better to not claim him at all than to pretend you believe when you're really still holding back half the hair on your head. And I've got news: whatever you keep holding back - it's still ugly under there.
So face it. Search for the real manger this Christmas season, the one that holds the fire inside. And consider parting your hair on a different side for a change.
Saturday, December 19, 2009
my three six five
I'm currently unemployed. Because of that, I hear this question a lot:
"so what do you do all day?"
Ah, knives to my heart. Because, in all reality, I have no answer. So I just stumble through some dumb, incomplete answer, like: "Oh, well, I'm just getting used to being married...housework...learning to cook. I'm terrible!" and pray that someone will change the subject to a cake show on the Food Network.
It always makes me think, though. What am I really doing with my life? I suppose the only answer I can come up with that makes any sense is that I'm healing.
It's hard, because people don't really buy into that, you know. No one accepts that as an occupation. It's not a typical answer you hear from 5 year olds when you ask them, "What do you want to be when you grow up?" You all know the typical answers: firefighter, astronaut, doctor, artist. I can say with confidence that no one, no matter their age, has ever said, "Oh, I'm going to go to college, get married, and then just take a little while to...heal. Then I'll pick up my life again, continue on to be a police officer, and call it a day."
Life deals us the strangest cards sometime. Even though this isn't what I would've chosen, here I am holding my hand of the deck, making the best of it. Because that's how the game works: no matter how much I want to start over to try to land different cards, I can't. So I better learn how to deal with the ones I've got.
When I was a little girl and people asked what I wanted to be, my answer was always the same: a writer. I remember the first short story I wrote when I was in second grade, entitled, "Benny and the Magic Fruit Tree." Even though it was remarkably similar to Roald Dahl's James and the Giant Peach (Dahl was my favorite author as a child), I'm still impressed with my early ability to recognize a good plot when I saw one.
The answer hasn't changed. I still want to be a writer. But, here I sit, "grown up" in every sense of the word - 22 years old, married, living in an apartment, bringing my own dishes to family potlucks - and all I'm writing is this blog that no one is reading but me. I'm okay with the fact that no one is reading my blog. I'm not okay with the fact that I want to be a professional writer, but I have no clue how to begin. I still tell people that writing is what I really want to do. When I was in college and I told my mom this, she would say, "Well, Rachael, why don't you write something then?" At that point, I gently would try to explain that I was writing - a lot, in fact. It was my major, after all: English with a Creative Writing emphasis. Yet here I am, unemployed, writing this pointless entry, just...healing.
I feel like healing is a noble thing for me right now, though. I know I need it. I can't go on without embracing it, just letting it fold its arms around me for a while until I see some light again. That's what I really want to say when people ask me what I do all day: I sit in a tunnel and strain my eyes for some particle of light to come my way. And when the light comes, I'll hopefully have a more "normal" answer for that question.
My dearest friend wants to be a photographer, and she has an account on flickr. I'm not familiar with blogs enough anymore to know if people do this with writing, but on flickr, a lot of people take on projects entitled "three six five." They take a new picture every day and post it, forcing them to practice their work. One of my professors in college once told me this: "That's the difference between good writers and great writers. Good writers write when they feel an inspiration. Great writers write even when they don't feel like it." So, that being said, here begins my three six five. I'm going to write about a lot of random things, and hopefully use this to work on my character development skills and things. Anyway, I'm going to try my hardest to remain faithful. At any rate, it will be fun to see where I am three hundred and sixty-five days from now.
In my head, I've been creating a character, so I'll close with her. There's not much yet, but it's still enough to write down so I don't forget.
***
Hi there. My name is Tuesday. Tuesday Johnson. Yes, like the day of the week. The ironic thing is that I was actually born on a Wednesday, but my mother didn't want everyone thinking I was a member of the Addams Family for the rest of my life.
I live alone in Nashville, Tennessee, in an apartment that is much too expensive for my measly income. I guess I just keep hoping I'll meet some guy, he'll sweep me off my feet, and he'll move in here and pay for some of this place. If you had asked me 15 years ago if I ever thought this is where I would be at this point in life, the answer would've been Heck, no. I'm a Christian, so it seems funny that I wouldn't have some great moral issue with a random guy moving in. I used to. Four random guys later, though, I've become okay with it. I can't say that I like it, but it's just the way things have become.
Every morning, I wake up, inhale my coffee, drink it, get dressed, and go in for work at Chile's. I'm a waitress. And yes, inhaling and drinking are two different things concerning my coffee. I drink it black. But before it's cool enough to drink, I sit there, with my face in the cup, and breathe it in. I set a timer: 10 minutes. For those 10 minutes, coffee beans feed my soul. Then I look at myself in the mirror, and say aloud, "Tuesday, life is worth living. Now go out there and love somebody."
And that's what I try to do. I'm usually not too successful, but I sure do try.
"so what do you do all day?"
Ah, knives to my heart. Because, in all reality, I have no answer. So I just stumble through some dumb, incomplete answer, like: "Oh, well, I'm just getting used to being married...housework...learning to cook. I'm terrible!" and pray that someone will change the subject to a cake show on the Food Network.
It always makes me think, though. What am I really doing with my life? I suppose the only answer I can come up with that makes any sense is that I'm healing.
It's hard, because people don't really buy into that, you know. No one accepts that as an occupation. It's not a typical answer you hear from 5 year olds when you ask them, "What do you want to be when you grow up?" You all know the typical answers: firefighter, astronaut, doctor, artist. I can say with confidence that no one, no matter their age, has ever said, "Oh, I'm going to go to college, get married, and then just take a little while to...heal. Then I'll pick up my life again, continue on to be a police officer, and call it a day."
Life deals us the strangest cards sometime. Even though this isn't what I would've chosen, here I am holding my hand of the deck, making the best of it. Because that's how the game works: no matter how much I want to start over to try to land different cards, I can't. So I better learn how to deal with the ones I've got.
When I was a little girl and people asked what I wanted to be, my answer was always the same: a writer. I remember the first short story I wrote when I was in second grade, entitled, "Benny and the Magic Fruit Tree." Even though it was remarkably similar to Roald Dahl's James and the Giant Peach (Dahl was my favorite author as a child), I'm still impressed with my early ability to recognize a good plot when I saw one.
The answer hasn't changed. I still want to be a writer. But, here I sit, "grown up" in every sense of the word - 22 years old, married, living in an apartment, bringing my own dishes to family potlucks - and all I'm writing is this blog that no one is reading but me. I'm okay with the fact that no one is reading my blog. I'm not okay with the fact that I want to be a professional writer, but I have no clue how to begin. I still tell people that writing is what I really want to do. When I was in college and I told my mom this, she would say, "Well, Rachael, why don't you write something then?" At that point, I gently would try to explain that I was writing - a lot, in fact. It was my major, after all: English with a Creative Writing emphasis. Yet here I am, unemployed, writing this pointless entry, just...healing.
I feel like healing is a noble thing for me right now, though. I know I need it. I can't go on without embracing it, just letting it fold its arms around me for a while until I see some light again. That's what I really want to say when people ask me what I do all day: I sit in a tunnel and strain my eyes for some particle of light to come my way. And when the light comes, I'll hopefully have a more "normal" answer for that question.
My dearest friend wants to be a photographer, and she has an account on flickr. I'm not familiar with blogs enough anymore to know if people do this with writing, but on flickr, a lot of people take on projects entitled "three six five." They take a new picture every day and post it, forcing them to practice their work. One of my professors in college once told me this: "That's the difference between good writers and great writers. Good writers write when they feel an inspiration. Great writers write even when they don't feel like it." So, that being said, here begins my three six five. I'm going to write about a lot of random things, and hopefully use this to work on my character development skills and things. Anyway, I'm going to try my hardest to remain faithful. At any rate, it will be fun to see where I am three hundred and sixty-five days from now.
In my head, I've been creating a character, so I'll close with her. There's not much yet, but it's still enough to write down so I don't forget.
***
Hi there. My name is Tuesday. Tuesday Johnson. Yes, like the day of the week. The ironic thing is that I was actually born on a Wednesday, but my mother didn't want everyone thinking I was a member of the Addams Family for the rest of my life.
I live alone in Nashville, Tennessee, in an apartment that is much too expensive for my measly income. I guess I just keep hoping I'll meet some guy, he'll sweep me off my feet, and he'll move in here and pay for some of this place. If you had asked me 15 years ago if I ever thought this is where I would be at this point in life, the answer would've been Heck, no. I'm a Christian, so it seems funny that I wouldn't have some great moral issue with a random guy moving in. I used to. Four random guys later, though, I've become okay with it. I can't say that I like it, but it's just the way things have become.
Every morning, I wake up, inhale my coffee, drink it, get dressed, and go in for work at Chile's. I'm a waitress. And yes, inhaling and drinking are two different things concerning my coffee. I drink it black. But before it's cool enough to drink, I sit there, with my face in the cup, and breathe it in. I set a timer: 10 minutes. For those 10 minutes, coffee beans feed my soul. Then I look at myself in the mirror, and say aloud, "Tuesday, life is worth living. Now go out there and love somebody."
And that's what I try to do. I'm usually not too successful, but I sure do try.
Friday, December 18, 2009
a new beginning
Once upon a time, years ago, I had a blog. I loved it, but then I went off to college and became too busy to continue it. The other day, though, my nutritionist suggested I return. My life is completely different now. However, after a few days of contemplation, I've realized it might be a good idea.
I logged on to my old blog and began flipping through the entries, when a realization came and slapped me across the jaw: I'm not that person anymore. So I decided to start over, fresh. I don't even know what this will consist of, or what it will end up being. I'm pretty positive no one will even read this, and honestly, I like it better that way. I used to write my blog for others; oh, sure, I used to say it was for myself, but inside I lived off of the sparse comments friends would leave me. Not so anymore, though. I'm not that person.
Since then, I have graduated from college and have married a wonderful man named Mark. I learned a lot, but I still feel like I don't really know much of anything. I cuss now, and I've had a few sips to drink. Honestly, I don't think this makes me any less of a holy person. I never cuss when I'm angry, and I never drink in excess.
A few short months ago, I was diagnosed with major depression and an eating disorder. Even though I still feel like this really isn't my life, it's what I'm living day to day. I have a therapist, and a doctor, and a nutritionist, though, so I'm getting better. I've learned that if you're shivering alone in the middle of the night, naked, unprotected, it seems like an eternity before the morning will finally come and grace your cold body with its presence. There is one thing that you can be sure of, though: morning is inevitable. It always comes, even if it seems like the sun has skipped over to a different galaxy for a little while. It will return, and darkness will end.
The only thing that hasn't changed in my life is that I am still saved. I don't want this to be some sort of "preachy" thing like my other blog was. But I can't deny that Jesus is the greatest Savior. Since those early years, though, I have learned so much more about him. He is redeeming me literally every moment of every second of every day. I believe in his great love and his power to bend his explosive light to shine on those who love him in return.
So I'm making it. And for now, that's enough.
I logged on to my old blog and began flipping through the entries, when a realization came and slapped me across the jaw: I'm not that person anymore. So I decided to start over, fresh. I don't even know what this will consist of, or what it will end up being. I'm pretty positive no one will even read this, and honestly, I like it better that way. I used to write my blog for others; oh, sure, I used to say it was for myself, but inside I lived off of the sparse comments friends would leave me. Not so anymore, though. I'm not that person.
Since then, I have graduated from college and have married a wonderful man named Mark. I learned a lot, but I still feel like I don't really know much of anything. I cuss now, and I've had a few sips to drink. Honestly, I don't think this makes me any less of a holy person. I never cuss when I'm angry, and I never drink in excess.
A few short months ago, I was diagnosed with major depression and an eating disorder. Even though I still feel like this really isn't my life, it's what I'm living day to day. I have a therapist, and a doctor, and a nutritionist, though, so I'm getting better. I've learned that if you're shivering alone in the middle of the night, naked, unprotected, it seems like an eternity before the morning will finally come and grace your cold body with its presence. There is one thing that you can be sure of, though: morning is inevitable. It always comes, even if it seems like the sun has skipped over to a different galaxy for a little while. It will return, and darkness will end.
The only thing that hasn't changed in my life is that I am still saved. I don't want this to be some sort of "preachy" thing like my other blog was. But I can't deny that Jesus is the greatest Savior. Since those early years, though, I have learned so much more about him. He is redeeming me literally every moment of every second of every day. I believe in his great love and his power to bend his explosive light to shine on those who love him in return.
So I'm making it. And for now, that's enough.
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