I have heard time and again that fear and faith cannot co-exist. For a long time, I wasn't sure what that meant. Oh, yes, the logistical side was well ingrained, but the practical application was lacking. It was a mystery, something I assumed was an issue for other people and not me.
Ha.
Since I moved out on my own, life has been a series of ups and downs. I have had the rush of getting an A on a difficult paper and the disappointment of being very ill. As a part of this whiplash, I have become very defensive. I look for reasons to shut people out and I have taken to avoiding certain situations, just because I don't want to be rejected. Silly things like advising have become extremely stressful events, and other things (like dealing with the insurance) were so intimidating that I took to avoiding them. If there was a way, I would hide from any situation I perceived as being threatening in any way.
For a very long time, I have been dealing with depression and post-traumatic stress disorder. It is a difficult set of issues because there is no "magic cure" for either of them. Sometimes medications can help, but the times I've tried being medicated for either I usually had an adverse reaction to the drugs. Therapy can help, too, but it's so expensive that I can't justify what might be an indefinite treatment. Most of the time, I am very good at handling both the depression and the PTSD. At least, I am very good at handling it when someone else is around. Living on my own...it's been more of a battle than it has ever been before. I wasn't even able to recognize the issue until today: It hit me like a ton of bricks while shampooing my hair. I felt so stupid for missing something so entirely obvious--I'm sure several of you have seen signs of it in my life.
I am not certain how I am going to handle the situation. For several months I have been letting fear rule my life, and my faith has been hurt by it. But, I think now is the time to turn to God again. He might not be able to make my problems disappear, but He can give me the courage to ask someone out, the certainty of my own worth, and the guidance I need. Now it is time to start fighting back, and it's time to win.
Wednesday, February 15, 2012
Sunday, January 29, 2012
Too Depressing for You?
The other day, someone commented on my wordpress account (where I keep my creative writing) and told me that I am too depressing. This comment caught me a bit by surprise, if only because in person I am a very cheerful, bright person. Reading back over some of the things I've written, I can understand where the confusion came in. So, I decided to write a blogpost in order to "explain myself." I don't want anyone worrying that I am too depressed or moments away from finding a ledge.
Over the course of my life, a lot of bad things have happened. I've got scars (mental, emotional, and physical) that will not go away until the Resurrection. But, those scars are a part of who I am, now. I have actually had psychologists tell me that someone with my baggage should not be able to function, that I should be mentally and emotionally crushed. The fact I get up out of bed every morning and can smile is a fantastic victory.
My secret is rather simple. I write the bad feelings out. When I am upset, I will put the emotion into a poem. When someone close to me passes away, I express my grief by writing. Any emotion that is too great for me to handle alone, I put into words. By doing this, I remove the pain and distance myself from it. Then, I can objectively look at it and overcome whatever the issue is. Yes, this means I end up with lots of painful nonfiction and poetry pieces. But, it does wonders for my psyche. I can usually tell you a) why I am upset, b) what combinations of feelings are causing problems, and c) how I intend to resolve the situation. In its way, writing has become my therapy.
I have never considered suicide. I have never cut myself or hurt myself to "cope" with mental anguish. I have a strong testimony that God lives and loves me. I have hope that tomorrow will be better than today.
I'm a totally different 1%.
Ironically, sometimes I write poetry that is very "depressing" when I am actually very happy. The result is a totally different kind of poem, but I don't think you would be able to tell the difference just looking at them. Here are two examples: one of them was written when I was very happy and one was written when I was very unhappy. Can you guess which is which?
Just Another Foot
I ripped out my heart
And buried it
Six feet deep,
But I can still feel you
Beat, beat, beating it.
You are my ghost:
The stain on the pages
Of my history,
The taint that bleeds
Through every line,
The story I
Will never tell.
I ripped out my heart
And buried it
Six feet deep,
But it wasn’t deep enough
To escape you
Beat, beat, beating it.
You are my demon:
The curse that haunts
My storm tossed sleep,
The shadow lurking
Over my left shoulder,
The pain of my
break, break, breaking heart.
How many feet does it take
To escape the taint,
The stain,
The bruise
Of you?
Pieces of me are
Flake, flake, flaking away
And soon nothing will be left.
Maybe if I rip out my heart,
Bury it just another foot
Deeper,
I won’t be able to feel
You beat, beat, beating
My heart.
Color: Me
I’m white
–skin the color of a fine piece of parchment.
The world tells me, orders me, to hate that
To hate myself.
All of the crimes of the past:
A skin color?
Nobody ever committed a gross injustice–
Unless they were white.
White. Caucasian. Trash?
I don’t believe it,
That I’m worthless because of my flesh.
Hate me for my mind,
Disregard me for the words that come out of my mouth,
Loathe me for the things I do–
But never judge me by my skin.
I am not a portrait of the past.
I am the present, the future, the inside–
Me.
--
At first glance, I probably seem like a very depressing writer. I just want to assure you that writing is just...a form of expressing. Sometimes it helps me heal my soul, and at others I just want to put interesting rhythms together. Thank you for the concern--it really does mean a lot that you would worry.
Over the course of my life, a lot of bad things have happened. I've got scars (mental, emotional, and physical) that will not go away until the Resurrection. But, those scars are a part of who I am, now. I have actually had psychologists tell me that someone with my baggage should not be able to function, that I should be mentally and emotionally crushed. The fact I get up out of bed every morning and can smile is a fantastic victory.
My secret is rather simple. I write the bad feelings out. When I am upset, I will put the emotion into a poem. When someone close to me passes away, I express my grief by writing. Any emotion that is too great for me to handle alone, I put into words. By doing this, I remove the pain and distance myself from it. Then, I can objectively look at it and overcome whatever the issue is. Yes, this means I end up with lots of painful nonfiction and poetry pieces. But, it does wonders for my psyche. I can usually tell you a) why I am upset, b) what combinations of feelings are causing problems, and c) how I intend to resolve the situation. In its way, writing has become my therapy.
I have never considered suicide. I have never cut myself or hurt myself to "cope" with mental anguish. I have a strong testimony that God lives and loves me. I have hope that tomorrow will be better than today.
I'm a totally different 1%.
Ironically, sometimes I write poetry that is very "depressing" when I am actually very happy. The result is a totally different kind of poem, but I don't think you would be able to tell the difference just looking at them. Here are two examples: one of them was written when I was very happy and one was written when I was very unhappy. Can you guess which is which?
Just Another Foot
I ripped out my heart
And buried it
Six feet deep,
But I can still feel you
Beat, beat, beating it.
You are my ghost:
The stain on the pages
Of my history,
The taint that bleeds
Through every line,
The story I
Will never tell.
I ripped out my heart
And buried it
Six feet deep,
But it wasn’t deep enough
To escape you
Beat, beat, beating it.
You are my demon:
The curse that haunts
My storm tossed sleep,
The shadow lurking
Over my left shoulder,
The pain of my
break, break, breaking heart.
How many feet does it take
To escape the taint,
The stain,
The bruise
Of you?
Pieces of me are
Flake, flake, flaking away
And soon nothing will be left.
Maybe if I rip out my heart,
Bury it just another foot
Deeper,
I won’t be able to feel
You beat, beat, beating
My heart.
Color: Me
I’m white
–skin the color of a fine piece of parchment.
The world tells me, orders me, to hate that
To hate myself.
All of the crimes of the past:
A skin color?
Nobody ever committed a gross injustice–
Unless they were white.
White. Caucasian. Trash?
I don’t believe it,
That I’m worthless because of my flesh.
Hate me for my mind,
Disregard me for the words that come out of my mouth,
Loathe me for the things I do–
But never judge me by my skin.
I am not a portrait of the past.
I am the present, the future, the inside–
Me.
--
At first glance, I probably seem like a very depressing writer. I just want to assure you that writing is just...a form of expressing. Sometimes it helps me heal my soul, and at others I just want to put interesting rhythms together. Thank you for the concern--it really does mean a lot that you would worry.
Friday, January 20, 2012
Modern Monsters
As a Renaissance scholar, one of my areas of scholastic interest is the field of monster studies. This is an admittedly odd pursuit--it is neither in vogue or particularly well regarded--but I persist in it anyway. The other day, one of my colleagues asked why I liked monsters so much. I smiled at her and said simply, "Because I understand them."
During the sixteenth century, a man by the name of Ambroise Pare published a book called Des monstres et prodiges (or, in English, On monsters and marvels). This book represents one of the first attempts to explain birth disorders and acts as a foundation for monster studies. In it, Pare covers everything a girl with fur to a unicorn. Some of the monsters in the book are particularly difficult to believe (after all, there are very few half-ox half-human beings roaming around). Others, though, hit very close to home. After all, I have a feeling that twins would be very upset if they knew they would have been viewed as monstrous entities.
One of my favorite monsters in all of literature is Richard III (from William Shakespeare's Richard III). He is traditionally played as a heavily handicapped man, usually with a humped back and at least one gimp limb. Normally this sort of figure would be comical or dismissed, but Richard's too cool for that. Instead, he's the villain and protagonist of the play. The entire story focuses on his rise to power and subsequent fall, but he's such an awful person that it's almost impossible to call him a hero. The opening lines of the play are delivered by Richard. He is alone on stage and says,
Basically, he's saying that the conflict between the House of Lancaster and the House of York has temporarily subsided, because his brother (the son of York) has become king. With the war put aside, Death is instead busy getting up to shenanigans, and pretty everyone is having a great time. Except Richard. He goes on to say,
Richard is bitter, because he is unloved. His deformity caused him to be outcast since "monsters" were viewed as subhuman. In revenge for this mistreatment, Richard decides to get some revenge by destroying everyone's happiness. The rest of play follows the outline of his plans--though there is a small hitch in the form of Richmond (your prototypical heroic pretty boy). I understand entirely where Richard is coming from. Nobody, not even his mother, loved him. If I were in that in position, I would probably not be a very nice person either.
Of course, I think I understand him so well because I am a monster too. I have a genetic skin disorder by the name of epidermolytic hyperkeratosis, which causes my skin to grow fast and form thick scales all over my body. (Yes, even there.) Had I been born during the Renaissance, my birth would have been the focus of a broadside. I probably would have been lauded as the Alligator Human. Oh, wait, there's a site that has an article about that: Human Marvels. Point in fact, any time up until the mid-1900s I would've had to make my living as either a beggar or a side-show freak. Or, like Richard, I could've just been a diabolical villain. Take your pick.
Sadly, it took a long time for life to get better for the "monsters" of the world. Disabilities are still taboo. Going through stores, walking the street, even just attending class--I get stared at. People whisper (thinking I'm deaf) about how offensive they find my existence. "What is a freak like that doing out in public?" "That thing has no right to live." "It better not reproduce." Yes, people have said all of those things about me and to me... and worse.
Times are changing. In 1977, America finally emancipated its disabled citizens. Congress signed the American's with Disabilities Act (ADA), and we finally had rights. But why did it take so long? Am I really that different from you? I don't think so. There's a documentary by the name of Lives Worth Living, and it tells the story of the fight to pass ADA. If you want a taste, watch this:
In a way, my study of monsters is studying my heritage. All of the stigma, all of the hatred, and all of the determination that come with being disabled are mine. But they belong to millions of other people, too. Through my writing and scholarship I hope to shed light on the evolution of how disabilities have been viewed. I hope that it creates conversation and understanding. I hope that it encourages people to not be afraid. Most of all, I hope to make a difference.
I am a modern monster. A mutant. An ichthyosaur. But I'm also human. Maybe you should treat me like one.
During the sixteenth century, a man by the name of Ambroise Pare published a book called Des monstres et prodiges (or, in English, On monsters and marvels). This book represents one of the first attempts to explain birth disorders and acts as a foundation for monster studies. In it, Pare covers everything a girl with fur to a unicorn. Some of the monsters in the book are particularly difficult to believe (after all, there are very few half-ox half-human beings roaming around). Others, though, hit very close to home. After all, I have a feeling that twins would be very upset if they knew they would have been viewed as monstrous entities.
One of my favorite monsters in all of literature is Richard III (from William Shakespeare's Richard III). He is traditionally played as a heavily handicapped man, usually with a humped back and at least one gimp limb. Normally this sort of figure would be comical or dismissed, but Richard's too cool for that. Instead, he's the villain and protagonist of the play. The entire story focuses on his rise to power and subsequent fall, but he's such an awful person that it's almost impossible to call him a hero. The opening lines of the play are delivered by Richard. He is alone on stage and says,
Now is the winter of our discontent
Made glorious summer by this sun of York;
And all the clouds that lour'd upon our house
In the deep bosom of the ocean buried.
Now are our brows bound with victorious wreaths;
Our bruised arms hung up for monuments;
Our stern alarums changed to merry meetings,
Our dreadful marches to delightful measures.
Grim-visaged war hath smooth'd his wrinkled front;
And now, instead of mounting barded steeds
To fright the souls of fearful adversaries,
He capers nimbly in a lady's chamber
To the lascivious pleasing of a lute.
Basically, he's saying that the conflict between the House of Lancaster and the House of York has temporarily subsided, because his brother (the son of York) has become king. With the war put aside, Death is instead busy getting up to shenanigans, and pretty everyone is having a great time. Except Richard. He goes on to say,
But I, that am not shaped for sportive tricks,
Nor made to court an amorous looking-glass;
I, that am rudely stamp'd, and want love's majesty
To strut before a wanton ambling nymph;
I, that am curtail'd of this fair proportion,
Cheated of feature by dissembling nature,
Deformed, unfinish'd, sent before my time
Into this breathing world, scarce half made up,
And that so lamely and unfashionable
That dogs bark at me as I halt by them;
Why, I, in this weak piping time of peace,
Have no delight to pass away the time,
Unless to spy my shadow in the sun
And descant on mine own deformity:
And therefore, since I cannot prove a lover,
To entertain these fair well-spoken days,
I am determined to prove a villain
And hate the idle pleasures of these days.
Richard is bitter, because he is unloved. His deformity caused him to be outcast since "monsters" were viewed as subhuman. In revenge for this mistreatment, Richard decides to get some revenge by destroying everyone's happiness. The rest of play follows the outline of his plans--though there is a small hitch in the form of Richmond (your prototypical heroic pretty boy). I understand entirely where Richard is coming from. Nobody, not even his mother, loved him. If I were in that in position, I would probably not be a very nice person either.
Of course, I think I understand him so well because I am a monster too. I have a genetic skin disorder by the name of epidermolytic hyperkeratosis, which causes my skin to grow fast and form thick scales all over my body. (Yes, even there.) Had I been born during the Renaissance, my birth would have been the focus of a broadside. I probably would have been lauded as the Alligator Human. Oh, wait, there's a site that has an article about that: Human Marvels. Point in fact, any time up until the mid-1900s I would've had to make my living as either a beggar or a side-show freak. Or, like Richard, I could've just been a diabolical villain. Take your pick.
Sadly, it took a long time for life to get better for the "monsters" of the world. Disabilities are still taboo. Going through stores, walking the street, even just attending class--I get stared at. People whisper (thinking I'm deaf) about how offensive they find my existence. "What is a freak like that doing out in public?" "That thing has no right to live." "It better not reproduce." Yes, people have said all of those things about me and to me... and worse.
Times are changing. In 1977, America finally emancipated its disabled citizens. Congress signed the American's with Disabilities Act (ADA), and we finally had rights. But why did it take so long? Am I really that different from you? I don't think so. There's a documentary by the name of Lives Worth Living, and it tells the story of the fight to pass ADA. If you want a taste, watch this:
Watch Scaling the Capitol Steps for Disability Rights on PBS. See more from Independent Lens.
In a way, my study of monsters is studying my heritage. All of the stigma, all of the hatred, and all of the determination that come with being disabled are mine. But they belong to millions of other people, too. Through my writing and scholarship I hope to shed light on the evolution of how disabilities have been viewed. I hope that it creates conversation and understanding. I hope that it encourages people to not be afraid. Most of all, I hope to make a difference.
I am a modern monster. A mutant. An ichthyosaur. But I'm also human. Maybe you should treat me like one.
Monday, January 16, 2012
Because of Him
I had originally planned to write a blogpost about Tebow and my various thoughts on the media today. However, circumstances lead to me having something of a conniption fit. As always, I coped by writing a poem, which I decided to share with you all. Whenever I get scared, upset, or hurt poetry seems to be the best venue for me to vent through. Tomorrow, later on, I will be certain to write up my original post. For now, though, I just...need to vent a little.
Because of Him
He hurt me.
Bits of my soul are
Shattered, tainted, warped
Because of him.
Everyone seems to think
I should be over it,
Moved on,
Healed up.
But it’s not finished.
He hurt me.
He broke me.
He tried to take away my life.
What part of that just
Doesn’t make sense?
I am terrified, trembling,
Shaking with fear
Because I know,
I just know...
Some day he’s going to
Find me,
And when he does?
Bits of my body will be
Here and there...
Because of him.
Because of Him
He hurt me.
Bits of my soul are
Shattered, tainted, warped
Because of him.
Everyone seems to think
I should be over it,
Moved on,
Healed up.
But it’s not finished.
He hurt me.
He broke me.
He tried to take away my life.
What part of that just
Doesn’t make sense?
I am terrified, trembling,
Shaking with fear
Because I know,
I just know...
Some day he’s going to
Find me,
And when he does?
Bits of my body will be
Here and there...
Because of him.
Thursday, January 5, 2012
Individuality
When I was about nine years old, boy bands became the biggest thing. N'Sync, Backstreet Boys, 98 Degrees... Yeah, those boy bands. Many of my friends were very into Backstreet Boys while I spurned the entire thing. Eventually, though, I realized that I was being ostracized because I lacked a patron boy band. It didn't make much sense to me, but I figured I might as well like one of them--if only to fit in. Rather than pick the band all of my friends like, I decided on going with Backstreet Boys' nemesis: N'Sync. I bought the magazines, had the posters, rocked out to the tapes. Oh yes, I was hardcore. My very first tape I purchased? N'Sync's debut album. I was living on the edge of pop-culture. One day, though, one of my friends turned to me and said, "You know, I thought you hated boy bands. So why do you like one all of a sudden?" Not what you'd expect of a life changing moment, eh? I told her that I just did, but the moment has stuck with me for more than a decade.
After the boy band trend began to fade, Pokemon became the rage. I go into that too. There were several years where I just followed the trends because it was easier, because then I'd have more friends. It wasn't until high school that I realized I'd been stuck in an identityless hole. I wore black because my friends did, and I was making lame choices because I didn't know what I actually liked.
Cue epic turnaround.
One day, I stopped wearing black. I distanced myself from the friends who were leading lives I did not want. I even tossed out several cds and movies I owned because I realized I didn't actually like them. Ever since then, I have striven to be as unique and individual as possible. Of course, this does come with its problems. For instance, some time ago I became very enamored with steampunk. Clock gears, Victorian clothing, magic systems... Oh, I fell hard. It was a combination of history, art, and fantasy--what more could a girl want? I tried to convince everyone around me that steampunk was the most fantastic thing ever. Most people just gave me confused looks and went on with their lives. Flash forward two years. Suddenly the popular crowd in my university's theatre department "discovered" steampunk, which I had told them about a year before. My beloved underground movement had gone mainstream, and it has only continued to do so. Instinctively, my reaction is to find a different movement to support. I don't want to be without an identity again, and I really hate being too mainstream. I really hate it. But, steampunk is absolutely wonderful. I mean, it gives me an excuse to wear corsets, goggles, and top hats! (I know, odd things to want to do. But I do love them.) Mostly, I have come to terms with the fact that other people want to enjoy the awesomeness of steampunk.
But... I can't help but feel that my sense of individuality is threatened.
In my family I used to be the anime geek. And then one of my cousins became intensely interested in anime, to the point she began to cosplay. By that time I had found steampunk, so I thought nothing of it. I had my new love, so everything was fine. Lately, though, this same cousin has began to gain an interest in steampunk. You guessed it, I became defensive. "It's my movement, though," I told someone. "If she starts to like it, who am I in the family?" Because, really, I don't know what sets me apart from the rest of my family. I write! But so do several other members of the family... I act! Well, gee, so do half the cousins. I have a degree! Kudos, but so do a lot of other people in the family. I am a huge nerd! Yeah, that's in your dna, kid. If it weren't for the fact I can sing very well, I would probably be having an identity crisis. As it is, I am currently experiencing the need to re-evaluate myself.
Going into the new year, I've decided to make goals rather than resolutions. One goal is to develop a new hobby or talent. Another is to befriend someone new, preferably someone with whom I have not been on good terms. I also want to get accepted into another conference (even if I don't go), and I want to get a much better score on the GRE this year. I'm hoping these things help me feel more like I'm unique, shiny, and lovely. Fingers crossed!
After the boy band trend began to fade, Pokemon became the rage. I go into that too. There were several years where I just followed the trends because it was easier, because then I'd have more friends. It wasn't until high school that I realized I'd been stuck in an identityless hole. I wore black because my friends did, and I was making lame choices because I didn't know what I actually liked.
Cue epic turnaround.
One day, I stopped wearing black. I distanced myself from the friends who were leading lives I did not want. I even tossed out several cds and movies I owned because I realized I didn't actually like them. Ever since then, I have striven to be as unique and individual as possible. Of course, this does come with its problems. For instance, some time ago I became very enamored with steampunk. Clock gears, Victorian clothing, magic systems... Oh, I fell hard. It was a combination of history, art, and fantasy--what more could a girl want? I tried to convince everyone around me that steampunk was the most fantastic thing ever. Most people just gave me confused looks and went on with their lives. Flash forward two years. Suddenly the popular crowd in my university's theatre department "discovered" steampunk, which I had told them about a year before. My beloved underground movement had gone mainstream, and it has only continued to do so. Instinctively, my reaction is to find a different movement to support. I don't want to be without an identity again, and I really hate being too mainstream. I really hate it. But, steampunk is absolutely wonderful. I mean, it gives me an excuse to wear corsets, goggles, and top hats! (I know, odd things to want to do. But I do love them.) Mostly, I have come to terms with the fact that other people want to enjoy the awesomeness of steampunk.
But... I can't help but feel that my sense of individuality is threatened.
In my family I used to be the anime geek. And then one of my cousins became intensely interested in anime, to the point she began to cosplay. By that time I had found steampunk, so I thought nothing of it. I had my new love, so everything was fine. Lately, though, this same cousin has began to gain an interest in steampunk. You guessed it, I became defensive. "It's my movement, though," I told someone. "If she starts to like it, who am I in the family?" Because, really, I don't know what sets me apart from the rest of my family. I write! But so do several other members of the family... I act! Well, gee, so do half the cousins. I have a degree! Kudos, but so do a lot of other people in the family. I am a huge nerd! Yeah, that's in your dna, kid. If it weren't for the fact I can sing very well, I would probably be having an identity crisis. As it is, I am currently experiencing the need to re-evaluate myself.
Going into the new year, I've decided to make goals rather than resolutions. One goal is to develop a new hobby or talent. Another is to befriend someone new, preferably someone with whom I have not been on good terms. I also want to get accepted into another conference (even if I don't go), and I want to get a much better score on the GRE this year. I'm hoping these things help me feel more like I'm unique, shiny, and lovely. Fingers crossed!
Tuesday, November 8, 2011
A Puppy or a Man
We all have our highs and our lows, emotionally speaking. Today was definitely a low point for me (putting it lightly). The stress and loneliness built up to such a point that I just about started to sob; I even felt homesick. This made me start to think about my life, though. I know, I know. Just what you wanted to hear about. At least I'm not ranting? That has to be some sort of benefit, I think.
Anyway, back to my not so grand revelation. This week is my birthday (yay!) and I move into a whole new realm of expectations. Most of my friends from high school are settling down: it seems a week cannot pass without an engagement or baby announcement flickering through my facebook feed. I'm happy for my friends, and I am excited that so many of them are finding their Happily Ever Afters. There are just days where I wonder when it's going to be my turn to ride off into the sunset. Now, I know I'm young. I know good things come to those who wait. But that doesn't make it any easier. Lately I've even started to gravitate towards listening to Adele and Kelly Clarkson because their music reflects the profound sadness of being alone. In many ways, their music is perfect for grad school. As silly as it sounds, grad school is one of the loneliest enterprises under the sun. We are all so busy and working so hard that we just...don't have time to be people any more. We get together to edit homework or discuss the readings for class--not much of a life, if you ask me. And making friends can be complicated, if only because the very nature of grad school is to isolate. How does this scattered little wheel of thought tie together? Well, as I told my bishop on Sunday, "How on Earth am I supposed to get married if I can't even land a date?!" As you can tell, this is a vivid point of frustration for me. In order to date, you have to have friends (at least, that's how it goes when you're someone like me). But having friends and being in grad school don't seem to match up... So, am I just doomed? There are days where I feel like I very well might be.
This entire conundrum is why I've decided to name the next year of my life the "Puppy or Man Year." Basically, it translates to "either I need a second puppy or I need a man in my life before I go absolutely bonkers." One puppy is nice and exciting, certainly, but when snuggling either my toes or my tummy get cold. A second puppy would be able to snuggle my toes while the first snuggled my tummy. It'd be perfect, I tell you! That, and first puppy would have a friend in second puppy! A husband could also fulfill the snuggling/friend position, but... Well, the likelihood of that one just... Mm. I'm not counting on it. So, I think I will instead budget for a second puppy. That seems far more realistic a goal for someone like me. At least there are plenty of dogs looking for a good woman to love them.
Anyway, back to my not so grand revelation. This week is my birthday (yay!) and I move into a whole new realm of expectations. Most of my friends from high school are settling down: it seems a week cannot pass without an engagement or baby announcement flickering through my facebook feed. I'm happy for my friends, and I am excited that so many of them are finding their Happily Ever Afters. There are just days where I wonder when it's going to be my turn to ride off into the sunset. Now, I know I'm young. I know good things come to those who wait. But that doesn't make it any easier. Lately I've even started to gravitate towards listening to Adele and Kelly Clarkson because their music reflects the profound sadness of being alone. In many ways, their music is perfect for grad school. As silly as it sounds, grad school is one of the loneliest enterprises under the sun. We are all so busy and working so hard that we just...don't have time to be people any more. We get together to edit homework or discuss the readings for class--not much of a life, if you ask me. And making friends can be complicated, if only because the very nature of grad school is to isolate. How does this scattered little wheel of thought tie together? Well, as I told my bishop on Sunday, "How on Earth am I supposed to get married if I can't even land a date?!" As you can tell, this is a vivid point of frustration for me. In order to date, you have to have friends (at least, that's how it goes when you're someone like me). But having friends and being in grad school don't seem to match up... So, am I just doomed? There are days where I feel like I very well might be.
This entire conundrum is why I've decided to name the next year of my life the "Puppy or Man Year." Basically, it translates to "either I need a second puppy or I need a man in my life before I go absolutely bonkers." One puppy is nice and exciting, certainly, but when snuggling either my toes or my tummy get cold. A second puppy would be able to snuggle my toes while the first snuggled my tummy. It'd be perfect, I tell you! That, and first puppy would have a friend in second puppy! A husband could also fulfill the snuggling/friend position, but... Well, the likelihood of that one just... Mm. I'm not counting on it. So, I think I will instead budget for a second puppy. That seems far more realistic a goal for someone like me. At least there are plenty of dogs looking for a good woman to love them.
Thursday, October 27, 2011
The Disabilities Dichotomy
The fact I have a disability is pretty darn hard to miss. My skin looks like something escaped from a B sci-fi movie, and I get a lot of comments on my appearance. A lot of comments. Lately, though, something strange has been happening to me. I seem to be constantly forgetting that I have a skin disorder; I always seem to be surprised when I catch a glimpse of my skin. I know it makes no sense: how can I forget I have a skin disorder that I've had for nearly twenty-three years? Honestly, I can't explain the psychology behind it.
I have begun to think a lot about disabilities this week because of it, though. I know that there are many people who define me by my ichthyosis, and I honestly can't blame them. If one of my friends seemed to be the missing link between humans and dragons that'd stick out pretty firmly in my mind too. What surprises me the most, I suppose, are people who define me by something else. A long, long time ago (during my senior year of high school) I remember being brought to tears by a single comment. We had just finished one of the performances of the Holiday Dinner, a huge Christmas choir concert (with food) wherein I was one of the narrators. I was thinking about getting to go home and sleep off all of the wassail I'd consumed when a woman I didn't know approached me. She said, "You know, I really loved your performance. I was really touched."
My role, the Queen, had a particularly great monologue about the Savior and the meaning of Christmas. It frequently put me near tears, so I was not too surprised that it had an impact on someone else. "What really impressed me," the woman continued, "was you. I didn't notice your skin until someone else pointed it out to me. You were so confident and strong that I could only look at your eyes; you really know how beautiful you are." I was caught completely by surprise. I have never been a renown beauty; in fact, in high school I was officially one of those "awkwardly pretty" sorts that never got asked to dances. More than that, though, I was...astounded that she had not noticed my skin. I was under the impression that everyone noticed my skin first and me second. To have someone see beyond the scales was amazing. I started to cry even as I thanked her for her kind comment, which in turn made her cry My experience with that concert has always held a special place in my heart because of moments like that.
After a time I began to accept my skin as a banner of honor. I told myself that it meant I had survived the torture of elementary school, the agony of middle school, the dejection of junior high, and the loneliness of high school without giving up. I had been teased, oppressed, hurt, and neglected, but I was still alive. In some ways, pride in my disability began to get in my way. Frequently I would do idiotic things like push myself too hard or get involved in things that were unhealthy for me. (Like fencing... People who can't sweat really should not fence.) One day, though, someone asked me if I had an identity beyond my skin. The question made me uncomfortable, and with good cause. My skin was me; I was my ichthyosis. That lead to a time of major reevaluation of my priorities and paradigms. Not long after I was given a blessing to have my skin disorder healed; I was certain it would work. Weeks passed without my skin disorder clearing up, and I could tell the people around me were frustrated. They had thought that my skin needed to be healed, but what they did not realize was that I was what needed healing. My skin disorder is, in many ways, a psychological condition. Many of the ichthyosis youth hate themselves and hate their appearance. I understand why they do because I have been there and have felt that way. After the blessing, though, ichthyosis wasn't my identity, it wasn't the cross I had to bear, and it wasn't my badge of honor; ichthyosis was just something I happened to have.
Over the years I have learned to laugh at my skin. I tell little kids that I am one of the X-men (since I'm an actual mutant) and at fantasy conventions I joke that I could write the best dragon narrative ever (life with scales is never accurately represented). I've learned to smile at the people who ask me if I'm burned or dirty, and the stares don't burn into me the way they used to. My identity has changed, and I love the new way I view myself.
This week, though, I want to address something that concerns me a little. I have a very dear friend who I love very much. She always tells me how brave and smart and wonderful I am--even when I'm not. This past month this friend's brother has been the focus of a lot of media attention. He is an autistic teenager who did something I admire very much: he earned all of the merit badges in scouting. Now, I do not want anyone to misunderstand me. I think his accomplishment is fantastic, and I think he deserves all the praise this world has to give. What confuses me is that I have known several young men who have made the same accomplishment without getting any recognition beyond a little four line blurb in the town newspaper. Were their accomplishments less because they don't have autism? I had been under the impression that any young man who earned all his badges was something of a superhero, and I wish they would get as many accolades as my friend's brother.
Forgive me if I am not making very much sense. I suppose what this is all about is a matter of two words: "special" and "unique." Now, I know that these words have a whole lot of meaning behind them, and that most people can't agree on how they're different. I believe that "special" is something that comes from a person's heart while "unique" is something innate about them (like autism or ichthyosis). This week I have asked myself time and time again, "Am I special because I am unique, or am I unique because I am special?" In other words, I wonder if God gave me my skin disorder because I am special or if something special came out in my personality because of my ichthyosis. Confused yet? I know I am.
At the heart of this entire matter is the issue of how other people perceive me. I am grateful that so many people look up to me and admire all that I have accomplished; their belief in me gives me strength. I sometimes worry, though, that if I did not have ichthyosis that my accomplishments would not seem as great. I worry that I would be just like the hundreds of boys who are "normal" and are never recognized for the amazing things they do. This world would be a much better place if everyone felt like their accomplishments mattered and that no one was more "special" than anyone else. But it won't happen. What I ask instead is that people see me as a talented young woman with the determination to overcome any sort of obstacle that is put in my path rather than that "amazing girl with ichthyosis." I think most of the people in this world who are disabled feel the same way. We want to be our actions and our accomplishments rather than a single element of ourselves. Most importantly, though, I want to recognize the fantastic, amazing, and special people in my life. They have overcome so many trials and obstacles that would have brought less people down and they still find such great joy in life. They are my heroes; they are who I want to be like when I grow up. They are the truly victorious.
I have begun to think a lot about disabilities this week because of it, though. I know that there are many people who define me by my ichthyosis, and I honestly can't blame them. If one of my friends seemed to be the missing link between humans and dragons that'd stick out pretty firmly in my mind too. What surprises me the most, I suppose, are people who define me by something else. A long, long time ago (during my senior year of high school) I remember being brought to tears by a single comment. We had just finished one of the performances of the Holiday Dinner, a huge Christmas choir concert (with food) wherein I was one of the narrators. I was thinking about getting to go home and sleep off all of the wassail I'd consumed when a woman I didn't know approached me. She said, "You know, I really loved your performance. I was really touched."
After a time I began to accept my skin as a banner of honor. I told myself that it meant I had survived the torture of elementary school, the agony of middle school, the dejection of junior high, and the loneliness of high school without giving up. I had been teased, oppressed, hurt, and neglected, but I was still alive. In some ways, pride in my disability began to get in my way. Frequently I would do idiotic things like push myself too hard or get involved in things that were unhealthy for me. (Like fencing... People who can't sweat really should not fence.) One day, though, someone asked me if I had an identity beyond my skin. The question made me uncomfortable, and with good cause. My skin was me; I was my ichthyosis. That lead to a time of major reevaluation of my priorities and paradigms. Not long after I was given a blessing to have my skin disorder healed; I was certain it would work. Weeks passed without my skin disorder clearing up, and I could tell the people around me were frustrated. They had thought that my skin needed to be healed, but what they did not realize was that I was what needed healing. My skin disorder is, in many ways, a psychological condition. Many of the ichthyosis youth hate themselves and hate their appearance. I understand why they do because I have been there and have felt that way. After the blessing, though, ichthyosis wasn't my identity, it wasn't the cross I had to bear, and it wasn't my badge of honor; ichthyosis was just something I happened to have.
This week, though, I want to address something that concerns me a little. I have a very dear friend who I love very much. She always tells me how brave and smart and wonderful I am--even when I'm not. This past month this friend's brother has been the focus of a lot of media attention. He is an autistic teenager who did something I admire very much: he earned all of the merit badges in scouting. Now, I do not want anyone to misunderstand me. I think his accomplishment is fantastic, and I think he deserves all the praise this world has to give. What confuses me is that I have known several young men who have made the same accomplishment without getting any recognition beyond a little four line blurb in the town newspaper. Were their accomplishments less because they don't have autism? I had been under the impression that any young man who earned all his badges was something of a superhero, and I wish they would get as many accolades as my friend's brother.
Forgive me if I am not making very much sense. I suppose what this is all about is a matter of two words: "special" and "unique." Now, I know that these words have a whole lot of meaning behind them, and that most people can't agree on how they're different. I believe that "special" is something that comes from a person's heart while "unique" is something innate about them (like autism or ichthyosis). This week I have asked myself time and time again, "Am I special because I am unique, or am I unique because I am special?" In other words, I wonder if God gave me my skin disorder because I am special or if something special came out in my personality because of my ichthyosis. Confused yet? I know I am.
At the heart of this entire matter is the issue of how other people perceive me. I am grateful that so many people look up to me and admire all that I have accomplished; their belief in me gives me strength. I sometimes worry, though, that if I did not have ichthyosis that my accomplishments would not seem as great. I worry that I would be just like the hundreds of boys who are "normal" and are never recognized for the amazing things they do. This world would be a much better place if everyone felt like their accomplishments mattered and that no one was more "special" than anyone else. But it won't happen. What I ask instead is that people see me as a talented young woman with the determination to overcome any sort of obstacle that is put in my path rather than that "amazing girl with ichthyosis." I think most of the people in this world who are disabled feel the same way. We want to be our actions and our accomplishments rather than a single element of ourselves. Most importantly, though, I want to recognize the fantastic, amazing, and special people in my life. They have overcome so many trials and obstacles that would have brought less people down and they still find such great joy in life. They are my heroes; they are who I want to be like when I grow up. They are the truly victorious.
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