Here's my blog history.
My first blog was here: http://2corinthians74blogspot.com. This was where I wrote during my high school years...enter at your own risk.
Then, after a long haitus, I was here, where you are now.
Next was my adventure with wordpress, here: http://rachaelmogle.wordpress.com.
But then I decided that I wanted to be able to create my own template to some degree, so I am currently here: http://birdcagesongs.blogspot.com. (sorry for the restless blog syndrome.)
You can find me there if you'd like. Enjoy.
Friday, February 25, 2011
Sunday, February 14, 2010
love.
Well, I missed yesterday. However, hopefully the length of tomorrow's blog will make up for it. Today in church I got some new inspirations for my book SO tomorrow I'm just going to write and see what happens. For today, though, since it's Valentine's Day, I'd like to re-post someting that I wrote on this day in 2006. It's just interesting to see where I was on this day 4 years ago:
Valentine's what? Valentine's SUCKS.
Yes, that's right, I said it - Valentine's Day is DUMB. It should be entitled "Let's Make Singles Feel Bad Day," because, the way I see it, if you do have a significant other in your life, they should be treating you like it's Valentine's 365 days a year, not just one. It's a dumb marketing ploy that the stores came up with just so they could have one more reason to sell a card. You know what I think it is? SICK. And you know what else is sick? Here at good ol' UU, I'm sure some of you know that we have certain hours on the weekends that guys can come in our dorms and we can go in theirs...but they made TODAY be open dorms from 1-8 just because it's stupid Valentine's Day. Can I throw up now? Please? And after that I'll treat myself to a whole box of expensive chocolate, buy myself a diamond necklace, and toast a glass of champagne to...nothing. Yes, that's right - here's to you, Cupid, for ruining my life. Thanks a lot; it's been really great. Not.
I heard some single friends of mine talking in one of my classes today, and one of them said, "You know, I mean, Valentine's Day isn't that bad! I don't love it, but it's not like I hate it..." and I turned around and said, "You know what? No! Valentine's Day SUCKS." Seriously, most days I'm completely fine with being single, but do we really have to declare a national holiday where we all point and laugh at those members of the population who just happen to be lucky enough to be alone on the biggest day for couples of the entire year? Honestly. That's exactly what I am - honest. I wouldn't describe me as bitter, just honest. I'm not going to sit back and pretend that Valentine's Day doesn't suck for single people, because it does. Don't deny it - it really does.
Wow - how different my life is now! 2006 was my last single Valentine's Day. I don't really remember how I felt, but apparently I didn't like it too much. You know, this does give me a lot more sympathy for my single friends. I feel like I should read this every Valentine's Day just to give me some insight on how a lot of people in the world feel on this day. Well, no matter how your day has gone, whether you have someone to celebrate with or not, I hope this is a day you can celebrate just love itself. Because, in the wise words of the Beatles, "All you need is love." It is, after all, "a many splendored thing," as Frank Sinatra would say. Many would argue, but it's impossible to live, really live, without it. "For God so loved the world that he gave his only son, so that whoever believes in him will not parish but have everlasting life" (John 3:16). Love is the only way to life.
Valentine's what? Valentine's SUCKS.
Yes, that's right, I said it - Valentine's Day is DUMB. It should be entitled "Let's Make Singles Feel Bad Day," because, the way I see it, if you do have a significant other in your life, they should be treating you like it's Valentine's 365 days a year, not just one. It's a dumb marketing ploy that the stores came up with just so they could have one more reason to sell a card. You know what I think it is? SICK. And you know what else is sick? Here at good ol' UU, I'm sure some of you know that we have certain hours on the weekends that guys can come in our dorms and we can go in theirs...but they made TODAY be open dorms from 1-8 just because it's stupid Valentine's Day. Can I throw up now? Please? And after that I'll treat myself to a whole box of expensive chocolate, buy myself a diamond necklace, and toast a glass of champagne to...nothing. Yes, that's right - here's to you, Cupid, for ruining my life. Thanks a lot; it's been really great. Not.
I heard some single friends of mine talking in one of my classes today, and one of them said, "You know, I mean, Valentine's Day isn't that bad! I don't love it, but it's not like I hate it..." and I turned around and said, "You know what? No! Valentine's Day SUCKS." Seriously, most days I'm completely fine with being single, but do we really have to declare a national holiday where we all point and laugh at those members of the population who just happen to be lucky enough to be alone on the biggest day for couples of the entire year? Honestly. That's exactly what I am - honest. I wouldn't describe me as bitter, just honest. I'm not going to sit back and pretend that Valentine's Day doesn't suck for single people, because it does. Don't deny it - it really does.
Wow - how different my life is now! 2006 was my last single Valentine's Day. I don't really remember how I felt, but apparently I didn't like it too much. You know, this does give me a lot more sympathy for my single friends. I feel like I should read this every Valentine's Day just to give me some insight on how a lot of people in the world feel on this day. Well, no matter how your day has gone, whether you have someone to celebrate with or not, I hope this is a day you can celebrate just love itself. Because, in the wise words of the Beatles, "All you need is love." It is, after all, "a many splendored thing," as Frank Sinatra would say. Many would argue, but it's impossible to live, really live, without it. "For God so loved the world that he gave his only son, so that whoever believes in him will not parish but have everlasting life" (John 3:16). Love is the only way to life.
Friday, February 12, 2010
day four.
I'm watching the Opening Show for the Winter Olympics 2010. So far, it's been supa cool - thanks for the entertainment, Vancouver, thanks.
The Olympics gets me thinking, though. When I was 6 years old, I was on track to be an olympic gymnast. Yes, I know that sounds a bit silly now, since I'm 22 and all. But seriously, I started gymnastics when I was 3 years old, and by the time I was 6, I was already on level 9 (the highest possible) and in classes with all 14 and 15 year olds. That year, my coach sat down with my mom and me and told us I was on the road to the Olympics and that I needed to be on the team. I competed for 2 years, but when I was 8, I quit. Gymnastics was hurting my back, and my mom was worried. To this day, she says it was my decision, but I think I didn't want to disappoint her. I missed it so much that I tried to go back when I was 10, but I had lost a lot of my abilities and I was too upset with myself to keep going, so I quit again. I moved on to voice, piano, and drama lessons and that was that.
It makes me wonder, though, what would my life be like if I had stayed on that track? To this day I feel like it's the only thing in my life I've been really good at. I wonder how I would feel about myself, who my friends would be, where I would live. I know I'm where I'm supposed to be, and I really do love my life. Honestly, I wouldn't trade anything for my husband and friends, and I wouldn't know hardly any of them if I had become a professional gymnast. Actually, the people in my life are my favorite part about it; I like them so much more than I like myself.
But it still hurts to think about that dead dream. It gives me more motivation to really be a writer, though, and a good one. That is my dream now, and I will not give it up.
The Olympics gets me thinking, though. When I was 6 years old, I was on track to be an olympic gymnast. Yes, I know that sounds a bit silly now, since I'm 22 and all. But seriously, I started gymnastics when I was 3 years old, and by the time I was 6, I was already on level 9 (the highest possible) and in classes with all 14 and 15 year olds. That year, my coach sat down with my mom and me and told us I was on the road to the Olympics and that I needed to be on the team. I competed for 2 years, but when I was 8, I quit. Gymnastics was hurting my back, and my mom was worried. To this day, she says it was my decision, but I think I didn't want to disappoint her. I missed it so much that I tried to go back when I was 10, but I had lost a lot of my abilities and I was too upset with myself to keep going, so I quit again. I moved on to voice, piano, and drama lessons and that was that.
It makes me wonder, though, what would my life be like if I had stayed on that track? To this day I feel like it's the only thing in my life I've been really good at. I wonder how I would feel about myself, who my friends would be, where I would live. I know I'm where I'm supposed to be, and I really do love my life. Honestly, I wouldn't trade anything for my husband and friends, and I wouldn't know hardly any of them if I had become a professional gymnast. Actually, the people in my life are my favorite part about it; I like them so much more than I like myself.
But it still hurts to think about that dead dream. It gives me more motivation to really be a writer, though, and a good one. That is my dream now, and I will not give it up.
Thursday, February 11, 2010
"you are lookin' GOOD" say the people in my pictures
Today is a day to be documented in history. According to my husband, “Who are you and what have you done with my wife?”
That’s because today, friends, I went to apply for a job. I read the end of 1 Chronicles. Then, I even decided that tomorrow is the day to put pictures in the picture frames.
To you, that probably seems like a very minor thing. But these picture frames have been empty for 7 and a half months now, ever since I moved in here. It’s getting to be sad. Pictures are one thing I depend on for sustenance. I love to be surrounded by pictures, so that when everything is going wrong, I can look around at the smiling faces all around me saying, “Hey, we love you anyway.” It’s time for me to put my life support up on the walls and embrace my new life.
You know, though, change is funny. Even though I’m making all these positive changes in my life, there are still these damn things I can’t seem to get rid of. Is it like that for everyone? For some people, it’s hair in the shower drain, nicotine stains, in-laws, etc. For me, it’s a number of annoying thoughts and habits. I feel like they creep up at the most unwanted times; for example, just when I’m feeling good about myself, I look at the mirror and realize how much weight I’ve gained. And I was just thinking that I was doing well! Sometimes I just want to look in the mirror and say, “Okay really? Can you save that thought for another time? Because I was just enjoying being AWESOME.” Argh. It never ends. Just like lint on your black pants. No matter how many times you roll, there will still be that stray piece of fuzz. I mean seriously, what’s its problem? Can’t it just leave us alone?
Even in the midst of this really good day, I still burned my dinner. And you know what we were having? A frozen pizza. Could anything possibly be easier to cook? But I still messed it up. I’m improving, but it still looks like I have a ways to go. Damn.
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
"don't write stuff on here next time" -my left hand.
You know what I saw on the news yesterday? That Sarah Palin had an interview and wrote some notes on her hand. Now, the whole United States is up in some tizzy because apparently it's not okay to write notes on your hand when you're under the political microscope in this country.
You know what I have to say to that: Who the heck cares?
Last time I checked, Sarah Palin is incredibly smart and talented; if she weren't, she wouldn't be where she is. Throughout my life, I've made notes on my hands more times than I can count, and I'm sure most of the country is in the same boat as I am on that one. I just don't understand what the big problem is. I think that anyone (yes, even democrats) who has gotten far enough in the political world to be talked of as a presidential candidate, then he or she has earned the rights to write a note on a hand if he or she wants to. But hey, maybe that's just me.
Currently, I'm addicted to Mario on the Wii. Mark is discovering a new side of me - the gamer. He's never experienced it before. Well, since I have nothing much more to say for today, I think I'm gonna go play.
You know what I have to say to that: Who the heck cares?
Last time I checked, Sarah Palin is incredibly smart and talented; if she weren't, she wouldn't be where she is. Throughout my life, I've made notes on my hands more times than I can count, and I'm sure most of the country is in the same boat as I am on that one. I just don't understand what the big problem is. I think that anyone (yes, even democrats) who has gotten far enough in the political world to be talked of as a presidential candidate, then he or she has earned the rights to write a note on a hand if he or she wants to. But hey, maybe that's just me.
Currently, I'm addicted to Mario on the Wii. Mark is discovering a new side of me - the gamer. He's never experienced it before. Well, since I have nothing much more to say for today, I think I'm gonna go play.
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
day one.
Well, it certainly has been a while again. And I have a new theory: New Month's Resolutions.
Every year, at the beginning of January, millions of people (myself included) make resolutions that fail 99% of the time. And why? Because we make them and then never look at them again. I'm pretty sure one of the principles of goal setting is to make little checkpoints along the way. For instance, if a person wants to lose 30 pounds, it won't happen unless a workout plan and eating regimen is established. The same is true for every other goal in life. One of my new year's resolutions this year was to get my apartment organized and clean. So, it only makes sense to make goals like: by the end of this month, everything will have a place; no more loose things lying around. I've decided to do this with all my resolutions, plus a few more. So, here we go.
1) (The original resolution was: Get a job.) February resolution: Make some phone calls and do some research.
2) (Original resolution: Finish the Bible.) February resolution: Finish Chronicles through Psalms.
3) (Original resolution: Write a book.) February resolution: Write a chapter, figure out a plot for Tuesday.
4) (Original resolution: Get something published.) February resolution: Do some research in my Writer's Market books.
5) (Original resolution: Get my apartment clean and organized.) February resolution: Have a place for everything.
6) (Original resolution: Be a better wife...) February resolution: Do something special and out of the norm for Mark.
7) (Original resolution: ...daughter...) February resolution: Tell my parents I want them to come eat with us.
8) (Original resolution: ...sister...) February resolution: Call Amy just because.
9) (Original resolution: ...and friend.) February resolution: Write 10 notes to people telling them how much I love them.
10) (Original resolution: Serve. Serve. Serve.) February resolution: Talk to my Hartland girls about Jesus.
11) Finish reading Alice in Wonderland.
12) Write in my prayer journal every day for the rest of the month.
13) Write in my blog every day for the rest of the month. I've decided I'm starting my 365 over again. Welcome, day one.
Well, I think that's enough for now. I've decided I'm going to do this every month, so as to keep a better check on myself and my life. I've found that it's really easy for people who are prone to depression to lose themselves in meaningless things for months at a time, only to emerge and realize that half their life has slipped by. I don't want to be one of those people anymore.
Depression comes and goes in funny ways and times. It's frustratingly unpredictable, and it really is an addiction. As badly as you want it to disappear, there's the familiarity of it, just like alcohol or pain pills or purging food. Often, it's harder to fight depression off and "be happy" than it is to succumb to the dull state of meaninglessness. I'm getting a lot better at it though; it just takes some time. Since this is my second round of major depression in my life, I've had experience. It's comforting because I got out once. It's nightmarish to think of the statistics, though: 30% of people who have had major depression once are likely to go through it a second time. However, 70% of the people who go through it twice are likely to go through third and fourth (and on it goes) rounds throughout their lifetime. Great news, eh? Oh well, I do believe in hope and strength from Jesus, which is all that's getting me through these days. I suppose he's all that will ever get me through life, though.
In other news, the theory of global warming has been proven to be complete bullshit. Where is Al Gore these days? Probably in Australia to avoid ridicule. It's already the third snow day of the year here in West Tennessee, and they're calling for more this weekend. I'm definitely not complaining. If it's this cold, it needs to snow. And secondly, I love when Mark is home from work. So bring on the Ice Age: I'm ready.
Well, that's really all I have for now. I've gotten further with my ideas for my character Tuesday, although my plot has completely changed. I'm still foggy on where I'm going in the end, but I'll just try to work on the beginning for now. I like to write stuff on here first and then save it in a word document. Word documents are like a brain block to me sometimes. I tend to just sit there and stare at the curser for a really long time with no direction. If I'm writing on here, though, I feel like I need to go someplace so I can post my work. So, hopefully this will inspire some words that will become worth something someday.
***
September 19, 1996
Dear Diary,
Guess what? I'm twelve years old today. Today! I'm so excited. And my birthday is on a Friday, how lucky is that?! I don't have much time to write, but I just wanted to write something on the best day of my life so far. Today for lunch, Mimi and Paw Paw are coming over, and tonight, I'm having Allison, Kayley, Jewel, Rose, and Ashley to spend the night at the cabin! Mom, Dad, Ivy, and Bear are coming too. Well, that's all for now. Hasta la vista!
Love,
Tuesday
My name is Tuesday - yes, like the day of the week. I didn't know it at the time, but my twelfth birthday was a monumental event. Life is funny that way; often, we seem to place the most importance on all the wrong things. For instance, in my twelfth year of life, I was concerned about how to wear my hair, who to sit with at church, what new phrase I could learn in Spanish, and what shade of lip gloss matched my purse that matched my shoes. Looking back, I should've been spending my time hugging my dad, asking my mom how to make her vegetable soup, going to the mall with Ivy, and telling Bear that his girlfriend Leah was an idiot. But I didn't, and I couldn't predict the future. If I had only known what my thirteenth birthday would be like, my twelfth one would have meant so much more. Twelve year olds don't think like that though - not even Mother Theresa or Martin Luther King, Jr. On their twelfth birthdays, I can guarantee she was a brat and he was racist. It's just a fact of life: twelve-year-olds are consumed with themselves. They just are.
One June Saturday, when I was nine and Bear was thirteen, I helped him wash and wax both our family cars while my parents were gone on a shopping trip with the Murdock's from down the street. It was his idea, and I just wanted to keep him company. I remember the conversation we had like it was seconds ago, though:
"Bear, why are we doing this?" I asked.
"To surprise Mom and Dad when they get home," he answered.
"But Bear, can't they do it themselves?"
"Well, 'course they can." A few moments went by with no sound except our squeaking sponges. The sun beat our backs like it wanted to be included in the conversation, too.
"Then why are we doing it for them?" I said finally.
"Because it's nice," he replied.
My sponge stopped moving as I pondered this thought. "I don't understand."
"What do you mean, you don't understand?"
"I just don't know why they can't do it themselves."
"Tuesday, you're only nine. One of these days, you're gonna understand that sometimes you do nice things for people because you love them, y'see? Things mean a lot more to somebody when they didn't ask you to do them. Like the other day, remember when Ivy cleaned up all your toys so you wouldn't get in trouble when Mom got home? That's 'cause she loves you."
I thought about this seriously for a few moments. I was impressed with Bear's thought process. "Can we wash Gunner after we finish the cars? I bet Daddy'd like that."
He smiled down at me. " 'Course we can. I tell you what, Lil' Day, you're a smart one." Bear was always telling me how smart I was.
I didn't fully understand the concept, though. I was still awfully self-absorbed, but I tried to emulate Bear the best I could. To this day, he is the most servant-hearted person I've ever seen - well, he and my mother. I only wish I had understood before it was too late.
***
Sunday, January 24, 2010
a bird's healing
"blackbird singing in the dead of night
take these broken wings and learn to fly..."
The other day, I was on the phone with my mother, and in a tone of disgust, she said, "Well, it's blackbird season again. They're everywhere!"
In rural West Tennessee, this means everyone goes out in their yards each evening to shoot off guns haphazardly in the air to prevent blackbirds from nesting in their trees for the night. When I was growing up, I remember coming back inside after the day grew too chilly and dark to play anymore, helping my mom set the dinner table, accompanied by the BOOMs from other yards in the neighborhood, some closer, like the Pierces or Moody's (right next door), some farther away, like the Todds, the Ashleys, or the Webbs (down the street).
Unlike most other people, I love blackbirds. I don't know whether it's the noise they make or their threat of histoplasmosis, but people are almost always trying to get rid of them. I don't really understand why; I like when things nest near me. It makes me think that they found me comfortable enough to stay for a while. Blackbirds have existed since day five of creation, so I figure they're not going to hurt a tree in my yard. Growing up, my parents were among the shooters shooing them away. I like to think that when I have my own house, I'll welcome them instead.
When I was in high school, one of the hardest times of my life, I began to trust in blackbirds (well, all birds, but black ones in particular) as signs from God. At first, I felt guilty because I thought this was sacriligious. Then, I studied more in depth and I learned that God does often use physical things like birds to communicate with his people (rainbows, parting seas, burning bushes, just to name a few). It's not like I was testing God; I do believe that would be petty on my part as a human. God has done great things in my life so far, and I know he will continue to. He doesn't need to prove himself to me by sending a bird past my window. However, I still think that every time a blackbird passes my way, God is trying to tell me how much he loves me. Why blackbirds? Because they're a constant. They always come - every year, they come sweeping back in, making the silhouettes of trees full, their branches filled with the hollow bones of bodies that can fit in the palm of my hand. In my life, I equate them to football in the fall, rolling eyes as sleepers dream, nodding heads when a good beat resounds, and previews at the movies. These things always happen. I think God lets us have some constants in our lives so we can understand his nature better. How could I ever understand what he means when he says, "I will never leave you or forsake you" (Hebrews 13:5) if everything else in the world left me as well?
No, the comparison isn't as good, and it's far from perfect. With God, it never is. There's a possibility that the blackbirds won't come back next year. But I still think God understands the human minds he created, and he knows all believers are running along toward him with our tiny thoughts, grappling with our own selves to understand his greatness. And I believe he sends us things to help us along.
Because he sends a sunrise every day, I'm able to understand that if he healed the blind and rich and poor and lame, he can heal me. To me, blackbirds are comfort; from him, with love.
"...all your life, you were only waiting
for this moment to arise."
take these broken wings and learn to fly..."
The other day, I was on the phone with my mother, and in a tone of disgust, she said, "Well, it's blackbird season again. They're everywhere!"
In rural West Tennessee, this means everyone goes out in their yards each evening to shoot off guns haphazardly in the air to prevent blackbirds from nesting in their trees for the night. When I was growing up, I remember coming back inside after the day grew too chilly and dark to play anymore, helping my mom set the dinner table, accompanied by the BOOMs from other yards in the neighborhood, some closer, like the Pierces or Moody's (right next door), some farther away, like the Todds, the Ashleys, or the Webbs (down the street).
Unlike most other people, I love blackbirds. I don't know whether it's the noise they make or their threat of histoplasmosis, but people are almost always trying to get rid of them. I don't really understand why; I like when things nest near me. It makes me think that they found me comfortable enough to stay for a while. Blackbirds have existed since day five of creation, so I figure they're not going to hurt a tree in my yard. Growing up, my parents were among the shooters shooing them away. I like to think that when I have my own house, I'll welcome them instead.
When I was in high school, one of the hardest times of my life, I began to trust in blackbirds (well, all birds, but black ones in particular) as signs from God. At first, I felt guilty because I thought this was sacriligious. Then, I studied more in depth and I learned that God does often use physical things like birds to communicate with his people (rainbows, parting seas, burning bushes, just to name a few). It's not like I was testing God; I do believe that would be petty on my part as a human. God has done great things in my life so far, and I know he will continue to. He doesn't need to prove himself to me by sending a bird past my window. However, I still think that every time a blackbird passes my way, God is trying to tell me how much he loves me. Why blackbirds? Because they're a constant. They always come - every year, they come sweeping back in, making the silhouettes of trees full, their branches filled with the hollow bones of bodies that can fit in the palm of my hand. In my life, I equate them to football in the fall, rolling eyes as sleepers dream, nodding heads when a good beat resounds, and previews at the movies. These things always happen. I think God lets us have some constants in our lives so we can understand his nature better. How could I ever understand what he means when he says, "I will never leave you or forsake you" (Hebrews 13:5) if everything else in the world left me as well?
No, the comparison isn't as good, and it's far from perfect. With God, it never is. There's a possibility that the blackbirds won't come back next year. But I still think God understands the human minds he created, and he knows all believers are running along toward him with our tiny thoughts, grappling with our own selves to understand his greatness. And I believe he sends us things to help us along.
Because he sends a sunrise every day, I'm able to understand that if he healed the blind and rich and poor and lame, he can heal me. To me, blackbirds are comfort; from him, with love.
"...all your life, you were only waiting
for this moment to arise."
Thursday, January 21, 2010
writer's prompt
I feel like I don't have very much to say, and I've been feeling like that a lot lately (hence, my lack of posts). I was reading a blog earlier, http://pbackwriter.blogspot.com/, and it had an entry about being "blog blocked," and some solutions. There are websites out there that give you writing prompts and such, so I've decided it's time for me to do this. Until writing on here (and in general) is a habit, I need some help. I used to do this in middle and high school, and it helped my writing a lot. So, here goes. (The website I'm using is: http://www.nanok.com/in/, but there are countless others.)
Today's prompt: If you could follow someone around for one day (unseen), who would it be and why?
Well, I would have to say Barack Obama. I don't like Obama at all; I think he's a terrible president. However, I think I'd choose the President of the United States no matter who he (or she) was at the time. There's so much secrecy to being the president. What does Obama really do all day? Especially now that there's all this talk about him breaking his promises and making deals under the table. Yes, I know that I take movies like National Treasure: Book of Secrets too seriously, but I believe without a doubt that there are tons of things the president knows that I don't.
It's only 9:00 and I'm so exhausted I'm falling asleep at the keys, so I'm going to go watch some mindless TV before a quick Harry Potter session and bed. I just finished Year 4 today; 5 commences tonight. Have a good one.
Today's prompt: If you could follow someone around for one day (unseen), who would it be and why?
Well, I would have to say Barack Obama. I don't like Obama at all; I think he's a terrible president. However, I think I'd choose the President of the United States no matter who he (or she) was at the time. There's so much secrecy to being the president. What does Obama really do all day? Especially now that there's all this talk about him breaking his promises and making deals under the table. Yes, I know that I take movies like National Treasure: Book of Secrets too seriously, but I believe without a doubt that there are tons of things the president knows that I don't.
It's only 9:00 and I'm so exhausted I'm falling asleep at the keys, so I'm going to go watch some mindless TV before a quick Harry Potter session and bed. I just finished Year 4 today; 5 commences tonight. Have a good one.
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
meds and graves
It's one of those days again. You know, where all the thoughts in your brain seem to be going at hyper-speed but none of them can settle down enough to make much sense. This type of day has become regular to me since the new year decided to show its face; perhaps this is because I'm on so much medicine.
I take medicine four times a day. In the morning, I take birth control and allergy medicine. At lunch, I take calcium plus vitamin D. Another calcium plus vitamin D at dinner, as well as a seperate vitamin D pill. I finish off the day with lexapro and prilosec. Before the last couple of days, I was also taking ambien at night. I used to pride myself in being the only member of my family without a pill box; sadly, this is not the case anymore. Oh, well, I should've known...being highly medicated seems to run in my family, as well as all the other diseases: depression, alcoholism, kidney desease, heart disease, alzheimer's. Fortunately, I've only been plagued with the first of those in my life so far, and hopefully it will be the only.
The weather has been splendid lately. Yesterday, I got to spend time outside, barefoot, in a graveyard. Those are three of my favorite things in the whole world: outside, barefoot, graveyards. I realize my graveyard obsession is weird. But for one thing, there's so much history there. Think about it: yesterday, I came across many graves that had a lifespan from the 1880's-1940's. Imagine what life was like in the 1880's! The Civil War had just ended 15 years before. Arizona, Idaho, Montana, New Mexico, North Dakota, South Dakota, Oklahoma, Utah, Washington, and Wyoming weren't even states yet, much less Alaska and Hawaii. Gasoline-powered cars hadn't been invented. The internet, cell phones, and blogs were still a whole century away. Then the 1940's, right in the heart of World War II, with Adolf Hitler's peak and downfall, the end of the Great Depression, and the beginning of the baby boomers. All these things I learned in history class were their reality.
I find a different part of myself in graveyards, too. As I looked at the graves yesterday, I thought about how far away these people seemed, but how close, too: my great grandmother Nannie was alive at the turn of the century, and I knew her. These people could've been her friends. When I looked out at the graves stretching before me, I felt an overwhelming desire to have known all the people who were now six feet under, enjoying heaven or hating hell. I don't want to know them now, though; I wish I had known them when they were alive. They all each different personalities, families, and hobbies. Thinking about how they were all people just like me is overwhelming, especially considering all the graves there are in the world.
The other night, I was driving home from Memphis, and I noticed how much more prominent the stars seem when there aren't many other lights around. The number of stars God created in the universe is absolutely mind-blowing. Just like the number of people. You know, God's love is a powerful thing. He crafted every being as well as each separate thing individually, with its own characteristics and purpose. I am one explosive ball of light in a billion, one tiny ant on this thing called earth. Yet, still, God calls me and forgives me and knows me. And if that's not love, I don't know what is.
My parents are coming to eat with my husband and me tonight, so I better get to cleaning this messy apartment. Hopefully this day will be more productive than the last, and tomorrow more productive than today. Life should be taken one move forward at a time, so here I go with some stepping stones.
I take medicine four times a day. In the morning, I take birth control and allergy medicine. At lunch, I take calcium plus vitamin D. Another calcium plus vitamin D at dinner, as well as a seperate vitamin D pill. I finish off the day with lexapro and prilosec. Before the last couple of days, I was also taking ambien at night. I used to pride myself in being the only member of my family without a pill box; sadly, this is not the case anymore. Oh, well, I should've known...being highly medicated seems to run in my family, as well as all the other diseases: depression, alcoholism, kidney desease, heart disease, alzheimer's. Fortunately, I've only been plagued with the first of those in my life so far, and hopefully it will be the only.
The weather has been splendid lately. Yesterday, I got to spend time outside, barefoot, in a graveyard. Those are three of my favorite things in the whole world: outside, barefoot, graveyards. I realize my graveyard obsession is weird. But for one thing, there's so much history there. Think about it: yesterday, I came across many graves that had a lifespan from the 1880's-1940's. Imagine what life was like in the 1880's! The Civil War had just ended 15 years before. Arizona, Idaho, Montana, New Mexico, North Dakota, South Dakota, Oklahoma, Utah, Washington, and Wyoming weren't even states yet, much less Alaska and Hawaii. Gasoline-powered cars hadn't been invented. The internet, cell phones, and blogs were still a whole century away. Then the 1940's, right in the heart of World War II, with Adolf Hitler's peak and downfall, the end of the Great Depression, and the beginning of the baby boomers. All these things I learned in history class were their reality.
I find a different part of myself in graveyards, too. As I looked at the graves yesterday, I thought about how far away these people seemed, but how close, too: my great grandmother Nannie was alive at the turn of the century, and I knew her. These people could've been her friends. When I looked out at the graves stretching before me, I felt an overwhelming desire to have known all the people who were now six feet under, enjoying heaven or hating hell. I don't want to know them now, though; I wish I had known them when they were alive. They all each different personalities, families, and hobbies. Thinking about how they were all people just like me is overwhelming, especially considering all the graves there are in the world.
The other night, I was driving home from Memphis, and I noticed how much more prominent the stars seem when there aren't many other lights around. The number of stars God created in the universe is absolutely mind-blowing. Just like the number of people. You know, God's love is a powerful thing. He crafted every being as well as each separate thing individually, with its own characteristics and purpose. I am one explosive ball of light in a billion, one tiny ant on this thing called earth. Yet, still, God calls me and forgives me and knows me. And if that's not love, I don't know what is.
My parents are coming to eat with my husband and me tonight, so I better get to cleaning this messy apartment. Hopefully this day will be more productive than the last, and tomorrow more productive than today. Life should be taken one move forward at a time, so here I go with some stepping stones.
Monday, January 11, 2010
welcome back
Wow; it's been a while. I'm sorry. To myself.
I haven't written in a long time because I've been reading so much. Maybe too much. I forgot how much I love getting lost in a good book. Since the dawn of the new year, I've read the first two years of Harry Potter and then took a break to read The Lovely Bones, since the movie is coming out this weekend. Good one, Sebold. Strange, but thoroughly engrossing. Now I'm back to Harry Potter, and every page that passes, I'm more amazed and depressed at J.K. Rowling's talent. Come on, J.K., can't you share some? Just a little bit? Harry Potter's over; you don't need it anymore.
I've been watching this "Make It Or Break It" marathon all day, a show on ABC Family. I've never even watched it before today, and somewhere around 10:30 am, my best friend Katie and I got obsessed and never turned back. This girl on the show, Lauren, is a total bitch. Our favorite character is Emily. I desperately need a job.
My husband is pretty depressed today because Pete Carroll, the head coach of USC (University of Southern California) has decided to go coach the Seattle Seahawks. USC is our team, our obsession from September to January every year. Pete Carroll has been one of the most successful coaches USC has ever had. However, Mark thinks there might be some underground conspiracy going on that made Pete leave. I'd believe it. I mean, my dad's in the mafia, so I believe anything like that is possible. Mark is eating whatever he wants, watching as much TV as he wants, singing "I'm on a Boat" repeatedly, and yelling at ESPN more than ever. When it was official, he dubbed it "Black Saturday" and sat in his big tan recliner for 10 consecutive hours. "I can't believe it," he'd say over and over, shaking his head. "I just can't believe it."
Isn't it amazing how people we've never met can affect our lives? Never even come close to meeting. Just in the past couple of days, Mark feels like Pete broke up with him, and I could spend hours picking J.K. Rowling's genius brain for tips in my own career. It reminds me of my favorite part of The Lovely Bones, which actually was at the very beginning of the book:
"I moved my eyes into the cornfield, seeing if there was anything that in the morning the police might find. The hail bent the stalks and drove all the animals into their holes. Not so deep beneath the earth were the warrens of the wild rabbits I loved, the bunnies that ate the vegetables and flowers in the neighborhood nearby and that sometimes, unwittingly, brought poison home to their dens. Then, inside the earth and so far away from the man or woman who had laced a garden with toxic bait, an entire family of rabbits would curl into themselves and die."
So sad and yet so beautiful. We see things similarly, Susie Salmon.
I haven't written in a long time because I've been reading so much. Maybe too much. I forgot how much I love getting lost in a good book. Since the dawn of the new year, I've read the first two years of Harry Potter and then took a break to read The Lovely Bones, since the movie is coming out this weekend. Good one, Sebold. Strange, but thoroughly engrossing. Now I'm back to Harry Potter, and every page that passes, I'm more amazed and depressed at J.K. Rowling's talent. Come on, J.K., can't you share some? Just a little bit? Harry Potter's over; you don't need it anymore.
I've been watching this "Make It Or Break It" marathon all day, a show on ABC Family. I've never even watched it before today, and somewhere around 10:30 am, my best friend Katie and I got obsessed and never turned back. This girl on the show, Lauren, is a total bitch. Our favorite character is Emily. I desperately need a job.
My husband is pretty depressed today because Pete Carroll, the head coach of USC (University of Southern California) has decided to go coach the Seattle Seahawks. USC is our team, our obsession from September to January every year. Pete Carroll has been one of the most successful coaches USC has ever had. However, Mark thinks there might be some underground conspiracy going on that made Pete leave. I'd believe it. I mean, my dad's in the mafia, so I believe anything like that is possible. Mark is eating whatever he wants, watching as much TV as he wants, singing "I'm on a Boat" repeatedly, and yelling at ESPN more than ever. When it was official, he dubbed it "Black Saturday" and sat in his big tan recliner for 10 consecutive hours. "I can't believe it," he'd say over and over, shaking his head. "I just can't believe it."
Isn't it amazing how people we've never met can affect our lives? Never even come close to meeting. Just in the past couple of days, Mark feels like Pete broke up with him, and I could spend hours picking J.K. Rowling's genius brain for tips in my own career. It reminds me of my favorite part of The Lovely Bones, which actually was at the very beginning of the book:
"I moved my eyes into the cornfield, seeing if there was anything that in the morning the police might find. The hail bent the stalks and drove all the animals into their holes. Not so deep beneath the earth were the warrens of the wild rabbits I loved, the bunnies that ate the vegetables and flowers in the neighborhood nearby and that sometimes, unwittingly, brought poison home to their dens. Then, inside the earth and so far away from the man or woman who had laced a garden with toxic bait, an entire family of rabbits would curl into themselves and die."
So sad and yet so beautiful. We see things similarly, Susie Salmon.
Monday, January 4, 2010
january 4, 2010
I really have nothing important to say. It's just one of those times when I have millions of thoughts but none of them can come together to make any sense. So, I guess I'll just write some of them down. It will be completely incoherent, but hey, who's going to care?
I'm re-reading all the Harry Potter books right now. I'm currently in Year 2, which isn't one of my favorites, but it's still so freaking good it's ridiculous. My favorite years are 4 and 7. Reading Harry Potter makes me happy and sad at the same time - I'm so happy I get to experience its awesomeness, but I'm so sad I wasn't the one who created it. I'd die to have as much talent as J.K. Rowling does in one finger.
Right now, I'm eating my second banana of the day. Sometimes, I don't even like bananas, but I guess I do at the moment. This eating plan I have to be on is a bitch.
I'm about to dry my hair, and I will shed a TON. I pull out wads of hair every time I wash and dry it. Apparently, this is part of having an eating disorder and not getting enough protein. It's scary how much eating disorders affect you physically before you even realize it. I have to have a dexiscan (sp?) tomorrow to test my bone density. I hope I didn't let my body start eating away at my skeleton before I got help.
My husband is sitting next to me, watching ESPN, and he's adorable.
I really hope it snows this week. It's freezing outside, and it shouldn't be this cold if it's not going to snow. And speaking of cold, my wet hair is making me feel like I'm living in an igloo, so I'm going to go dry it. That's all for now.
I'm re-reading all the Harry Potter books right now. I'm currently in Year 2, which isn't one of my favorites, but it's still so freaking good it's ridiculous. My favorite years are 4 and 7. Reading Harry Potter makes me happy and sad at the same time - I'm so happy I get to experience its awesomeness, but I'm so sad I wasn't the one who created it. I'd die to have as much talent as J.K. Rowling does in one finger.
Right now, I'm eating my second banana of the day. Sometimes, I don't even like bananas, but I guess I do at the moment. This eating plan I have to be on is a bitch.
I'm about to dry my hair, and I will shed a TON. I pull out wads of hair every time I wash and dry it. Apparently, this is part of having an eating disorder and not getting enough protein. It's scary how much eating disorders affect you physically before you even realize it. I have to have a dexiscan (sp?) tomorrow to test my bone density. I hope I didn't let my body start eating away at my skeleton before I got help.
My husband is sitting next to me, watching ESPN, and he's adorable.
I really hope it snows this week. It's freezing outside, and it shouldn't be this cold if it's not going to snow. And speaking of cold, my wet hair is making me feel like I'm living in an igloo, so I'm going to go dry it. That's all for now.
Sunday, January 3, 2010
green with envy?
So I watched the movie "The Blind Side" over Thanksgiving break. And I can't count the times since then that I've thought, I wish I were more like Leigh Anne Tuohy.
Honestly, I spend far too much time thinking about all the people I wish I were more like. My best friend Katie is everything I've ever wished I could be, so I think daily about how I wish I could perform some Freaky Friday stunt and switch lives with her (well, really, I don't want that because I don't want to curse her as being me). The thoughts of "who I'd rather be" nag at me day and night, all the time.
I wish I were more compassionate like my husband.
I wish I could cook like Rachael Ray (we have the same name, shouldn't we have some of the same talent?).
I wish I had an awesome job like my sister.
I wish I were brave like Harry Potter.
I wish I could dress as cute as a J.Crew model.
I wish I could play the guitar like my dad.
I wish I could create my own world like Tolkein, Lewis, Rowling, or Dahl.
I wish I could play Rockband like my sister's friend Tony.
And the list drones on.
But as I am sitting here thinking about all this, what good does it do? None. The only thing it does is make me extremely tired. Wanting to be someone else all the time is wearisome.
If I had to guess, I'd say that envy is the most wearisome of all the deadly sins. Obviously, someone who is slothful is probably pretty well-rested. A prideful person probably can go to sleep at night thinking they're awesome. Wrath, lust, and gluttony can all be acted upon. It's possible to explode on someone with anger, to have an affair, or to eat way past the moment that the hunger light goes off. Even greedy people have goals that are often attainable; they just want more of what they already have. However, people who are envious often want what they cannot have. It is impossible to switch bodies, families, talents, or every bit of your stuff with anyone. (Okay, I realize the last one is possible. Just not too probable unless you get on some crazy reality show, and then it's probably not real anyway.)
Perhaps, then, God created us to be satisfied with who we are. Ah, now there's a thought.
It's so easy to argue this. God is tough one to argue with, though.
But if I were just more beautiful like her, I'd be more successful. If I were a talented businessman like him, I'd be able to provide better for my family.
"All beautiful you are, my darling, there is no flaw in you," God retorts. "Commit your work to the Lord, then it will succeed."
But if I could be a professional sports star, or a famous actor, I'd use my fame for your glory.
God continues, "Your frame was not hidden from me when you were made in the secret place. When you were woven together in the depths of the earth, my eyes saw your unformed body. All the days ordained for you were written in my book before one of them came to be."
But what about my family? Why is my father so abusive? My mother such a broken excuse for a human? Is it wrong for me to long for something whole?
"But you know me, for I live with you and will be in you." He proclaims, "I will not leave you as orphans; I will come to you."
But, what if I --
"No."
But, if I just could be like --
"No."
How about --
"No. I created you just as you are, and you need to enjoy my creation in yourself."
As tired as I get from being envious, I wonder how tired God is of telling me that I'm finding myself in all the wrong things?
Honestly, I spend far too much time thinking about all the people I wish I were more like. My best friend Katie is everything I've ever wished I could be, so I think daily about how I wish I could perform some Freaky Friday stunt and switch lives with her (well, really, I don't want that because I don't want to curse her as being me). The thoughts of "who I'd rather be" nag at me day and night, all the time.
I wish I were more compassionate like my husband.
I wish I could cook like Rachael Ray (we have the same name, shouldn't we have some of the same talent?).
I wish I had an awesome job like my sister.
I wish I were brave like Harry Potter.
I wish I could dress as cute as a J.Crew model.
I wish I could play the guitar like my dad.
I wish I could create my own world like Tolkein, Lewis, Rowling, or Dahl.
I wish I could play Rockband like my sister's friend Tony.
And the list drones on.
But as I am sitting here thinking about all this, what good does it do? None. The only thing it does is make me extremely tired. Wanting to be someone else all the time is wearisome.
If I had to guess, I'd say that envy is the most wearisome of all the deadly sins. Obviously, someone who is slothful is probably pretty well-rested. A prideful person probably can go to sleep at night thinking they're awesome. Wrath, lust, and gluttony can all be acted upon. It's possible to explode on someone with anger, to have an affair, or to eat way past the moment that the hunger light goes off. Even greedy people have goals that are often attainable; they just want more of what they already have. However, people who are envious often want what they cannot have. It is impossible to switch bodies, families, talents, or every bit of your stuff with anyone. (Okay, I realize the last one is possible. Just not too probable unless you get on some crazy reality show, and then it's probably not real anyway.)
Perhaps, then, God created us to be satisfied with who we are. Ah, now there's a thought.
It's so easy to argue this. God is tough one to argue with, though.
But if I were just more beautiful like her, I'd be more successful. If I were a talented businessman like him, I'd be able to provide better for my family.
"All beautiful you are, my darling, there is no flaw in you," God retorts. "Commit your work to the Lord, then it will succeed."
But if I could be a professional sports star, or a famous actor, I'd use my fame for your glory.
God continues, "Your frame was not hidden from me when you were made in the secret place. When you were woven together in the depths of the earth, my eyes saw your unformed body. All the days ordained for you were written in my book before one of them came to be."
But what about my family? Why is my father so abusive? My mother such a broken excuse for a human? Is it wrong for me to long for something whole?
"But you know me, for I live with you and will be in you." He proclaims, "I will not leave you as orphans; I will come to you."
But, what if I --
"No."
But, if I just could be like --
"No."
How about --
"No. I created you just as you are, and you need to enjoy my creation in yourself."
As tired as I get from being envious, I wonder how tired God is of telling me that I'm finding myself in all the wrong things?
Friday, January 1, 2010
resolutions.
Well, it's a new year, so I suppose I should make some resolutions. Here they are:
1) Get a job.
2) Finish the Bible (I'm stuck in Chronicles).
3) Write a book (or at least a lot of one).
4) Get something published.
5) Get my apartment clean and organized.
6) Be a better wife...
7) ...daughter...
8) ...sister...
9) ...and friend.
10) Serve. Serve. Serve.
Happy 2010.
1) Get a job.
2) Finish the Bible (I'm stuck in Chronicles).
3) Write a book (or at least a lot of one).
4) Get something published.
5) Get my apartment clean and organized.
6) Be a better wife...
7) ...daughter...
8) ...sister...
9) ...and friend.
10) Serve. Serve. Serve.
Happy 2010.
Wednesday, December 30, 2009
a holly jolly christmas
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.
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 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.
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