So, I normally hate celebrating my birthday. Well, that's not quite true. I used to love celebrating my birthday; I would look forward to it as soon as Christmas was over. After Phillip came into our family, though, I came to fear my birthday. It seemed like every November 10th something would go horribly wrong - I couldn't even have a birthday party without a disaster happening. Eventually, I got to the point where I refused to let anyone acknowledge my birthday, and I would have nightmares about all the things I thought would go wrong.
Over the past three years, I have been trying to work past those fears by trying to celebrate my birthday. It's been ... rough. Last night, though, major progress was made. Several of my friends and I went to see Wreck-It Ralph, which is about the geekiest movie I have seen in a long time. We hooted, hollered, and laughed throughout the entire movie, and not once did I feel afraid. It was like being a kid again: I was excited, happy, and animated. After, three of my friends made me a birthday dinner (cake included). I ... have never been so surprised in all my life. (I'd never tell Nathanael, Kimmie, and Katie, but their offer to make me dinner made me cry.) Then, we played Cranium and just had a really marvelous night.
By the time I got home, I was too tired to have nightmares. And, really, it was one of the best nights I have had in a very long time. I am so blessed to have the friends I do, and I think (just maybe) birthdays can only go up from here. This year is going to be awesome.
Thank you Lian, Laura, Katie, Kimmie, Nathanael, Bethany, Katie, Caitlan, Nicole, Lauren, Jessica, Brandee, and all my other wonderful grad school friends. You have made one of the hardest times in my life an amazing adventure. To my other friends and my wonderful family, thank you for loving me and sticking with me. You mean the world to me.
Sunday, November 11, 2012
Thursday, October 25, 2012
Seattle Adventures
This past weekend, I was able to attend the Pacific Ancient and Modern Language Association Conference in Seattle. I was presenting a piece of my thesis on the Literary Monster as Message panel, which was pretty exciting. As per request, here follows my brief recital of my adventures.
When I left home, it was three in the morning. My flight left before six, and I had to leave myself enough time to make the hour drive. I made it easily through security, and in no time I was settled on the plane. I hate flying--it always makes me feel sick--but I was so tired I did not care. To say I slept like a rock would have been putting it lightly. It was well into the afternoon by the time I made it to my destination (I had a three hour layover in Houston) and found myself making my way towards the light rail. I ended up in the company of an older woman, who had come to Seattle to see her son; I helped her navigate the rail system, and my own worries about traveling in a strange city were placed on the back burner.
Getting off the train, I found myself in a ... difficult position. I had been unable to use my wheeled luggage, because its handle had broken, and so found myself carrying both my laptop bag and my carpet bag a mile through the city's heart. Every step seemed to be moments away from danger, since so many eyed my possessions as though evaluating their worth and ability to be stolen. By the time I arrived at Hotel Five, I felt dead on my feet. Check in went quickly, and soon I was collapsed in my room. But, as such things always go, I had to find food. I eventually made my way to a nice little Mexican restaurant, where I ate a spicy beef burrito. (For those of you who know me, this instance is particularly stunning, since I am known for loathing spicy food.) When I made it back to my hotel room, though, I was surprised to discover that someone had hacked my Paypal and used $120 of my money to buy Starbucks Pumpkin Spice Lattes. I was upset almost beyond consolation. (I am still waiting to hear back on whether or not I will get my money back.)
When I finally fell asleep, I spent the night tossing and turning as nerves ate at me. In the morning, riding the bus proved to be an adventure. Drunken stumblers, vomit, and even someone smoking weed added a distinct element of local color to the ride. By the time I arrived at the conference itself, I was expecting who knows what--perhaps more trouble. After the first panel, I was able to meet one of the other members of my panel, and we decided to get lunch together. We talked about monsters, phd programs, and the eccentricities of Southern life. It was fun. I felt better about my presentation, if only because I would not be in a room of total strangers.
My actual presentation was, in many ways, laughable. Since it was the first panel on the last day, no one came. Well, that's not true. The moderator, the head of the panel, another presenter's husband, and one other scholar attended. I felt ... let down. I had expected this conference to be as magical as my visit to the Ohio Valley Shakespeare Conference, but it wasn't. It was proving to be an entirely different experience. When it came to lunch, Katie and I decided to go to lunch together. While I had been waiting for her, though, I noticed another girl. She was talking to someone about Middle English, but was soon abandoned. I decided to invite her to lunch, and she was so relieved. We ended up hitting it off, and she is also applying to one of the programs I am looking at.
By the end of the conference, I had gained new and exciting friends. More importantly, though, I had discovered an idea. I am going to try to function as an editor a book--a collection of essays on a particular subject. We'll see how it goes or if I'm just plain crazy. A pending publication, though, would be an amazing standout on a phd application.
When I left home, it was three in the morning. My flight left before six, and I had to leave myself enough time to make the hour drive. I made it easily through security, and in no time I was settled on the plane. I hate flying--it always makes me feel sick--but I was so tired I did not care. To say I slept like a rock would have been putting it lightly. It was well into the afternoon by the time I made it to my destination (I had a three hour layover in Houston) and found myself making my way towards the light rail. I ended up in the company of an older woman, who had come to Seattle to see her son; I helped her navigate the rail system, and my own worries about traveling in a strange city were placed on the back burner.
Getting off the train, I found myself in a ... difficult position. I had been unable to use my wheeled luggage, because its handle had broken, and so found myself carrying both my laptop bag and my carpet bag a mile through the city's heart. Every step seemed to be moments away from danger, since so many eyed my possessions as though evaluating their worth and ability to be stolen. By the time I arrived at Hotel Five, I felt dead on my feet. Check in went quickly, and soon I was collapsed in my room. But, as such things always go, I had to find food. I eventually made my way to a nice little Mexican restaurant, where I ate a spicy beef burrito. (For those of you who know me, this instance is particularly stunning, since I am known for loathing spicy food.) When I made it back to my hotel room, though, I was surprised to discover that someone had hacked my Paypal and used $120 of my money to buy Starbucks Pumpkin Spice Lattes. I was upset almost beyond consolation. (I am still waiting to hear back on whether or not I will get my money back.)
When I finally fell asleep, I spent the night tossing and turning as nerves ate at me. In the morning, riding the bus proved to be an adventure. Drunken stumblers, vomit, and even someone smoking weed added a distinct element of local color to the ride. By the time I arrived at the conference itself, I was expecting who knows what--perhaps more trouble. After the first panel, I was able to meet one of the other members of my panel, and we decided to get lunch together. We talked about monsters, phd programs, and the eccentricities of Southern life. It was fun. I felt better about my presentation, if only because I would not be in a room of total strangers.
My actual presentation was, in many ways, laughable. Since it was the first panel on the last day, no one came. Well, that's not true. The moderator, the head of the panel, another presenter's husband, and one other scholar attended. I felt ... let down. I had expected this conference to be as magical as my visit to the Ohio Valley Shakespeare Conference, but it wasn't. It was proving to be an entirely different experience. When it came to lunch, Katie and I decided to go to lunch together. While I had been waiting for her, though, I noticed another girl. She was talking to someone about Middle English, but was soon abandoned. I decided to invite her to lunch, and she was so relieved. We ended up hitting it off, and she is also applying to one of the programs I am looking at.
By the end of the conference, I had gained new and exciting friends. More importantly, though, I had discovered an idea. I am going to try to function as an editor a book--a collection of essays on a particular subject. We'll see how it goes or if I'm just plain crazy. A pending publication, though, would be an amazing standout on a phd application.
Wednesday, September 26, 2012
Clipped Wings
Today I woke up to the sound of landscaping. Hedge trimmers, lawn mowers, leaf blowers... Yeah, they were out in full force. I have gotten used to this particular sort of wake-up, though, since it happens every other week. I crawled out of bed and got ready for the day (something I have to do while still possessing the motivation). Evie wiggled at me in anticipation as I came out of the bathroom: She assumed we were going on a walk. Lucky for her, she was right. I clipped on her leash, and we walked out into the morning light.
As we were making our rounds of my apartment complex, we came across one of the saddest things I have ever seen: A butterfly's wing had been clipped by an edge trimmer. Its body was entirely unharmed, but the wing was damaged beyond repair. As it fluttered pathetically across the sidewalk, I felt my heart sink. When I was a little girl, I would frequently capture butterflies and put them in jars (with holes in the top and a little thing of honey in them). They never survived more than a day or two. Seeing the wounded butterfly at my feet, I thought there was not much I could do to save it. But, I could at least make it feel better. Picking it up, I carried it over to a nearby sea of flowers. I carefully set it down in the center of them, and it seemed to settle down immediately.
Staring down at the butterfly, I thought of my own life. There are many times I have felt ravaged and broken--sometimes it was my own fault, sometimes not. In those moments where I felt like giving up, someone usually came along and helped me get to a safer place (physically or emotionally). This realization was nothing new. The new element, instead, was the thought that I chose how to respond to that help. The butterfly, as I carried it, remained perfectly still as it perched on my finger, and it even struggled towards one of the flowers in order to eat. Even though its fate was all but sealed, the butterfly was not about to give up. If something so small could have a fighting spirit, why not me? Just because life has sometimes dealt me a bad hand, it does not give me permission to wallow.
Sometimes I think that the struggle is worth more than the damage or the outcome. Life is more valuable when we have to fight to make it worthwhile.
As we were making our rounds of my apartment complex, we came across one of the saddest things I have ever seen: A butterfly's wing had been clipped by an edge trimmer. Its body was entirely unharmed, but the wing was damaged beyond repair. As it fluttered pathetically across the sidewalk, I felt my heart sink. When I was a little girl, I would frequently capture butterflies and put them in jars (with holes in the top and a little thing of honey in them). They never survived more than a day or two. Seeing the wounded butterfly at my feet, I thought there was not much I could do to save it. But, I could at least make it feel better. Picking it up, I carried it over to a nearby sea of flowers. I carefully set it down in the center of them, and it seemed to settle down immediately.
Staring down at the butterfly, I thought of my own life. There are many times I have felt ravaged and broken--sometimes it was my own fault, sometimes not. In those moments where I felt like giving up, someone usually came along and helped me get to a safer place (physically or emotionally). This realization was nothing new. The new element, instead, was the thought that I chose how to respond to that help. The butterfly, as I carried it, remained perfectly still as it perched on my finger, and it even struggled towards one of the flowers in order to eat. Even though its fate was all but sealed, the butterfly was not about to give up. If something so small could have a fighting spirit, why not me? Just because life has sometimes dealt me a bad hand, it does not give me permission to wallow.
Sometimes I think that the struggle is worth more than the damage or the outcome. Life is more valuable when we have to fight to make it worthwhile.
Tuesday, September 25, 2012
Thursday, August 16, 2012
Internal Triptych
Over the past day or so, I have been reading over one of my journals. It begins in the February of last year and covers up until this summer, so it has a pretty good span of time under its belt. Reading it has been a very interesting experience. And yes, interesting really is the best word for it.
At the time I was going through applying to graduate school and pining after a boy, all while trying to keep my head above water in school. I think one of the things that has amazed me most is the enthusiasm I displayed in my writing then. Everything was about how I hoped I would be wanted in return (by both boy and grad programs) and just how lucky I was to be at that point in my life. I constantly mentioned my Heavenly Father's goodness and trusting His will to be the right course... Looking back, I was so happy and so excited about just about everything.
That person from a year and a half ago is still a part of me. She is quieter in the face of grad school--it is a bit harder to be enthused and happy when you feel like you're constantly running down hill in pursuit of a wheel of cheese. But, I had forgotten about her. It was easy to ignore that part of, to just wallow in the difficulties I have faced since that journal began. Because, really, it takes work to have faith and to find things to be happy about. The world is more conducive to negativity than optimism, and it probably will be until the second coming.
The person I have been lately is humbler than the shiny-eyed SUU graduate, but also a good deal darker. The me of now finds it only too easy to suppose that I will not be accepted into a phd program, and that I will wind up in some awful, dead-end place that will drive me insane. My angst has weighted down my soul to the point that I am even struggling to write creatively. It has been years since I have felt so confined and utterly overwhelmed. The funny thing? It's not even the stress that is making me feel this way. Oh, the work of doing a thesis, teaching, going to grad school, and preparing for a conference is great; don't mistake me there. But, I know it's just ... me. I am screwing myself over, and I hate it. I've even been considering going to therapy or getting medicated for my depression. Maybe then I would feel like I had a fighting chance.
Comparing these two elements of who I have been and who I am has lead me to consider who I want to be. I don't think I can go back to the fluttery senior, but I certainly don't want to remain as I am now (because, really, that'd just suck). The future-me will hopefully still have the humility of now, but perhaps with more of the vigor of the past me. If nothing else, I want to be able to believe in myself, utterly and entirely. Slowly but surely I am becoming a more refined, better version of me; transitioning from one stage to the other, though, is a wench. But, I know I will get there. I will be someone you are proud to know. Eventually.
At the time I was going through applying to graduate school and pining after a boy, all while trying to keep my head above water in school. I think one of the things that has amazed me most is the enthusiasm I displayed in my writing then. Everything was about how I hoped I would be wanted in return (by both boy and grad programs) and just how lucky I was to be at that point in my life. I constantly mentioned my Heavenly Father's goodness and trusting His will to be the right course... Looking back, I was so happy and so excited about just about everything.
That person from a year and a half ago is still a part of me. She is quieter in the face of grad school--it is a bit harder to be enthused and happy when you feel like you're constantly running down hill in pursuit of a wheel of cheese. But, I had forgotten about her. It was easy to ignore that part of, to just wallow in the difficulties I have faced since that journal began. Because, really, it takes work to have faith and to find things to be happy about. The world is more conducive to negativity than optimism, and it probably will be until the second coming.
The person I have been lately is humbler than the shiny-eyed SUU graduate, but also a good deal darker. The me of now finds it only too easy to suppose that I will not be accepted into a phd program, and that I will wind up in some awful, dead-end place that will drive me insane. My angst has weighted down my soul to the point that I am even struggling to write creatively. It has been years since I have felt so confined and utterly overwhelmed. The funny thing? It's not even the stress that is making me feel this way. Oh, the work of doing a thesis, teaching, going to grad school, and preparing for a conference is great; don't mistake me there. But, I know it's just ... me. I am screwing myself over, and I hate it. I've even been considering going to therapy or getting medicated for my depression. Maybe then I would feel like I had a fighting chance.
Comparing these two elements of who I have been and who I am has lead me to consider who I want to be. I don't think I can go back to the fluttery senior, but I certainly don't want to remain as I am now (because, really, that'd just suck). The future-me will hopefully still have the humility of now, but perhaps with more of the vigor of the past me. If nothing else, I want to be able to believe in myself, utterly and entirely. Slowly but surely I am becoming a more refined, better version of me; transitioning from one stage to the other, though, is a wench. But, I know I will get there. I will be someone you are proud to know. Eventually.
Saturday, July 21, 2012
The Tenderest Mercies
Sometimes, life can be very challenging. We can face periods when everything seems to go wrong: death takes a loved one away, a nightmare can become a reality, or we might loose something we value. Disaster is a part of being alive. Luckily, we never have to face these situations alone.
Lately, everything in my life has been going along just great. Oh, sure, I haven't finished my thesis like I wanted to or completed some projects; but, on the whole, I have nothing to complain about. I have money in the bank, great friends, a loving family, and I am even (kinda) dating again. So why this post?
Tonight I was puttering around Facebook long after I should have gone to bed, and a friend of mine sent me a simple message. She said, "Thanks for playing the Facebook games with me." She'd lately joined one or two games I play, and so we've been helping each other out. I thought nothing of the actions--I help lots of people in those dorky games--so I just told her that it was no problem. This opening sprung into a two hour conversation that was very powerful.
I've not really spoken to this friend, except in passing, since high school (so more than five years ago). Her life is a mystery to me, and when the conversation began I had no real emotional investment in it. Sure, it's nice to say hi to someone, but what do you really say beyond that? I've never been very good at conversations with people I don't know intimately, so I felt like a fish out of water. But, what I quickly discovered was that my simple gaming and just being online late at night were very helpful to my friend. She is currently going through a very difficult time in her life--what I refer to as a Hell Year. Right now, she's feeling utterly alone and lost, because the situation in her life is so out of her control. But, I was able to be there for her. Because of the difficulties I have had in my own life, I was in a position where I could offer her advice and comfort; things I hope help her.
I guess what I am trying to say is that, for once, I got to be the person through whom the Lord exercised a tender mercy. Sometimes just knowing someone is there to listen can be more powerful than anything else. Even in the midnight of despair, we're never alone, because God is always listening. And, when God listens, He sends us the people we need, however imperfect a friend they may be.
Lately, everything in my life has been going along just great. Oh, sure, I haven't finished my thesis like I wanted to or completed some projects; but, on the whole, I have nothing to complain about. I have money in the bank, great friends, a loving family, and I am even (kinda) dating again. So why this post?
Tonight I was puttering around Facebook long after I should have gone to bed, and a friend of mine sent me a simple message. She said, "Thanks for playing the Facebook games with me." She'd lately joined one or two games I play, and so we've been helping each other out. I thought nothing of the actions--I help lots of people in those dorky games--so I just told her that it was no problem. This opening sprung into a two hour conversation that was very powerful.
I've not really spoken to this friend, except in passing, since high school (so more than five years ago). Her life is a mystery to me, and when the conversation began I had no real emotional investment in it. Sure, it's nice to say hi to someone, but what do you really say beyond that? I've never been very good at conversations with people I don't know intimately, so I felt like a fish out of water. But, what I quickly discovered was that my simple gaming and just being online late at night were very helpful to my friend. She is currently going through a very difficult time in her life--what I refer to as a Hell Year. Right now, she's feeling utterly alone and lost, because the situation in her life is so out of her control. But, I was able to be there for her. Because of the difficulties I have had in my own life, I was in a position where I could offer her advice and comfort; things I hope help her.
I guess what I am trying to say is that, for once, I got to be the person through whom the Lord exercised a tender mercy. Sometimes just knowing someone is there to listen can be more powerful than anything else. Even in the midnight of despair, we're never alone, because God is always listening. And, when God listens, He sends us the people we need, however imperfect a friend they may be.
Saturday, May 19, 2012
Choices, Choices
Yesterday I had a very fun conversation. I was at a wedding reception, and while there I spoke to a friend's mother. Talk about a cool lady! She has always been one of my heroes, so I was very excited to see her again. Her daughter is coming home from her mission in two weeks, and this lead to something of an interesting discussion.
Many of my friends from high school have settled down. Most have been married and had kids, others are settling into their careers, and some have even bought houses. Comparatively speaking, I am a loose cannon. I do not have a spouse, kids, or even a steady job. Instead, I am known as the globe trotting academic. In high school, this particular future would have seemed impossible. I was seriously dating someone I thought I loved, I had no plan for my future, and I was generally just a mess. When I graduated, I was in even worse a state--since I had broken up with my boyfriend the year before and just had...a lot of things going wrong. Over the past five years, I have gained both direction and a steadiness of personality, which in turn has transformed me into a different person. (This does not mean, however, that I am remotely near perfect. Far from it.) The people at the reception all commented on how I had changed, and that the change was for the better.
How did this become important in talking to Laura's mom?
Well, Laura chose to go on a mission. Unlike many other young women, she decided to put off the husband hunt in favor of serving the Lord. I'm extremely proud of her, and I could not help but tell her mother how I felt. Laura's mother countered with how impressed she was with me. "You have decided to seize the adventure," she said, "and you are going to change the world. Even if you never have a family of your own, you will make a huge difference in the lives of others." Last night was the first time I had really considered that: Some part of me had always believed that I would never be able to face my old friends without a man on my arm. But, there I was, solo and happy. The choices I have made in the past five years have helped me become someone independent, confident, and calm. While a husband would be nice, having a man is not the point of my life. My students and my faith have become more important to me than anything else; a man is more of a bonus at this point. Others who knew how I was were able to see the change, something I had been unable to do. My perspective on life has changed so slowly that I never even noticed it as happening.
I know there are days where my friends and family question the decisions I make--I frequently doubt them myself--but last night I saw they were not flippant or pointless. The choices I've made have helped me become a better person, and I know that it's not my genius at work. God has directed me where I've needed to be over the past few years, and slowly I am becoming the woman He wants me to be. Life couldn't be better, and I can't wait to see what happens next. All I know for sure is that applying for PhD programs is going to be yet another adventure.
Many of my friends from high school have settled down. Most have been married and had kids, others are settling into their careers, and some have even bought houses. Comparatively speaking, I am a loose cannon. I do not have a spouse, kids, or even a steady job. Instead, I am known as the globe trotting academic. In high school, this particular future would have seemed impossible. I was seriously dating someone I thought I loved, I had no plan for my future, and I was generally just a mess. When I graduated, I was in even worse a state--since I had broken up with my boyfriend the year before and just had...a lot of things going wrong. Over the past five years, I have gained both direction and a steadiness of personality, which in turn has transformed me into a different person. (This does not mean, however, that I am remotely near perfect. Far from it.) The people at the reception all commented on how I had changed, and that the change was for the better.
How did this become important in talking to Laura's mom?
Well, Laura chose to go on a mission. Unlike many other young women, she decided to put off the husband hunt in favor of serving the Lord. I'm extremely proud of her, and I could not help but tell her mother how I felt. Laura's mother countered with how impressed she was with me. "You have decided to seize the adventure," she said, "and you are going to change the world. Even if you never have a family of your own, you will make a huge difference in the lives of others." Last night was the first time I had really considered that: Some part of me had always believed that I would never be able to face my old friends without a man on my arm. But, there I was, solo and happy. The choices I have made in the past five years have helped me become someone independent, confident, and calm. While a husband would be nice, having a man is not the point of my life. My students and my faith have become more important to me than anything else; a man is more of a bonus at this point. Others who knew how I was were able to see the change, something I had been unable to do. My perspective on life has changed so slowly that I never even noticed it as happening.
I know there are days where my friends and family question the decisions I make--I frequently doubt them myself--but last night I saw they were not flippant or pointless. The choices I've made have helped me become a better person, and I know that it's not my genius at work. God has directed me where I've needed to be over the past few years, and slowly I am becoming the woman He wants me to be. Life couldn't be better, and I can't wait to see what happens next. All I know for sure is that applying for PhD programs is going to be yet another adventure.
Wednesday, February 15, 2012
Fear and Faith
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.
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.
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!
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