Wednesday, July 30, 2008
Focus
Something is different today. That detachment has returned. Self confidence. Focus. An understanding of where I'm going. I'm not lost in my dreams today. I'm not overly concerned with what my friend thinks of me or if he thinks of me. I am my own person today. I am good.
Monday, July 28, 2008
motivation to live properly
I nearly died last night. Again. I wish I remembered the whole incident. Maybe it would motivate me more to live properly.
My husband told me that I stopped breathing. He shook me; I gasped for breath. He listened to my heart; it was racing. All I do remember is rolling over and continuing on with my dreams. Dreaming, dreaming, always dreaming. Sometimes I feel like I fail to live in reality at all. And yet, sometimes, like when I'm in the midst of a spiritual battle, reality seems more real than ever before. That may seem odd to you -- she feels like reality is more real when there are spirits involved -- but it doesn't to me.
In any case, I woke up and listened to my husband's account of how I had nearly suffocated in the middle of the night and I resolved that if I was going to go out, it wasn't going to be with a neglected house and children. I was going to leave my legacy: the place would be orderly, the children would be attended to, dinner would comprise of colorful balanced side dishes, warm and on the table. I would not be leaving this earth with laundry undone and the floor unswept and library books which had still not yet been read to the children. No sir. Not me.
And of course, I would leave letters for everyone. Letters of how I felt about them and how much they meant to me and how I prayed for them and wished them well and how I would continue praying and that my spirit would always be with them, even if I were gone. But then, all that is probably rather unnecessary, since I send my sentiments constantly.
My grandparents are still alive. A few months ago, I sent them the letter I would read as their eulogy. Is that crazy? Rude? I didn't think so at the time. But as always, I tend to doubt myself. When I wrote it, I figured, "Why should I wait until they're gone to tell them how I love them?" They appreciated the letter. But still, it's a little...strange.
I have some crazy insane need to tell everyone everything about myself. Expose all my struggles and vulnerabilities. It's not so much that I'm looking for sympathy. It's more that I want others to know they're not alone. Maybe they want to be alone. I don't know. I try to give to everyone the things I never had. And that's why I'm always listening to others, sharing with others, relating to others. For ten years, I dreamed of being a counselor to teens, mostly because when I was a teen, I never had a good counselor. I started a natural birth meetup group, mostly because when I was pregnant and planning an out-of-hospital birth, no one was around to answer my questions. I have often taken up projects simply because I wished someone had done it for me. Perhaps that's the wrong way to approach life. I don't know.
My friend told me he doubts that it's understanding he wants. That took me by surprise. Doesn't every person in the world want to be understood? Doesn't every one want to know that he's not alone. Doesn't every one want to relate to others somehow? Isn't everyone in the world just a little bit needy like me? I'd like to think that. But perhaps that's not reality at all. Perhaps I should just keep to myself and volunteer information only when asked. Perhaps I've been going about this friendship thing all wrong. Maybe nobody is really interested in knowing my whole life story. It's my life story, maybe I should just keep it to myself. Write an autobiography. Get it published posthumously. Get something published anyway.
It's not understanding he wants. Perhaps that's why he claims no god. So what does he want then? I wonder if I'll ever know. I pray for him. Often. I pray he'll get whatever it is he really wants. Whatever the Lord really wants for him. Do those things coincide for him? Do they coincide for me? For the vast majority of us? Probably not. But I pray the Lord's will be done, in any case.
My husband told me that I stopped breathing. He shook me; I gasped for breath. He listened to my heart; it was racing. All I do remember is rolling over and continuing on with my dreams. Dreaming, dreaming, always dreaming. Sometimes I feel like I fail to live in reality at all. And yet, sometimes, like when I'm in the midst of a spiritual battle, reality seems more real than ever before. That may seem odd to you -- she feels like reality is more real when there are spirits involved -- but it doesn't to me.
In any case, I woke up and listened to my husband's account of how I had nearly suffocated in the middle of the night and I resolved that if I was going to go out, it wasn't going to be with a neglected house and children. I was going to leave my legacy: the place would be orderly, the children would be attended to, dinner would comprise of colorful balanced side dishes, warm and on the table. I would not be leaving this earth with laundry undone and the floor unswept and library books which had still not yet been read to the children. No sir. Not me.
And of course, I would leave letters for everyone. Letters of how I felt about them and how much they meant to me and how I prayed for them and wished them well and how I would continue praying and that my spirit would always be with them, even if I were gone. But then, all that is probably rather unnecessary, since I send my sentiments constantly.
My grandparents are still alive. A few months ago, I sent them the letter I would read as their eulogy. Is that crazy? Rude? I didn't think so at the time. But as always, I tend to doubt myself. When I wrote it, I figured, "Why should I wait until they're gone to tell them how I love them?" They appreciated the letter. But still, it's a little...strange.
I have some crazy insane need to tell everyone everything about myself. Expose all my struggles and vulnerabilities. It's not so much that I'm looking for sympathy. It's more that I want others to know they're not alone. Maybe they want to be alone. I don't know. I try to give to everyone the things I never had. And that's why I'm always listening to others, sharing with others, relating to others. For ten years, I dreamed of being a counselor to teens, mostly because when I was a teen, I never had a good counselor. I started a natural birth meetup group, mostly because when I was pregnant and planning an out-of-hospital birth, no one was around to answer my questions. I have often taken up projects simply because I wished someone had done it for me. Perhaps that's the wrong way to approach life. I don't know.
My friend told me he doubts that it's understanding he wants. That took me by surprise. Doesn't every person in the world want to be understood? Doesn't every one want to know that he's not alone. Doesn't every one want to relate to others somehow? Isn't everyone in the world just a little bit needy like me? I'd like to think that. But perhaps that's not reality at all. Perhaps I should just keep to myself and volunteer information only when asked. Perhaps I've been going about this friendship thing all wrong. Maybe nobody is really interested in knowing my whole life story. It's my life story, maybe I should just keep it to myself. Write an autobiography. Get it published posthumously. Get something published anyway.
It's not understanding he wants. Perhaps that's why he claims no god. So what does he want then? I wonder if I'll ever know. I pray for him. Often. I pray he'll get whatever it is he really wants. Whatever the Lord really wants for him. Do those things coincide for him? Do they coincide for me? For the vast majority of us? Probably not. But I pray the Lord's will be done, in any case.
Saturday, July 26, 2008
discipline
"I need your discipline. I need your help." That's what he said. I was so determined to do it. But the very next morning, I struggled. The urge came over me and I gave in. The urge to talk, the urge to make contact. The need for attention, for acknowledgement. It just overwhelms me. I can't seem to hold back. But I must. I must.
I feel so out of control sometimes. So unorganized, so unfocused. I should map out my day, I guess. Map out my time -- my week, my month, my year. Schedules. I should treat myself like a child until I can behave like an adult again.
If I can make it through this, I will be able to make it through anything. I should take up running again. Discipline. Discipline.
I feel so out of control sometimes. So unorganized, so unfocused. I should map out my day, I guess. Map out my time -- my week, my month, my year. Schedules. I should treat myself like a child until I can behave like an adult again.
If I can make it through this, I will be able to make it through anything. I should take up running again. Discipline. Discipline.
Tuesday, July 22, 2008
come oh wise men, come
Sometimes our hearts are like dark caves. No natural light shines through. What is within us seems immensely black and scary and hopeless. But the Lord showed me that if we allow His light to shine within us, we will see that the cave is filled with beautiful sparkling crystals and reflective pools.
Tonight, I got an image of the three wise men. They were journeying toward that cave. They were bringing their precious gifts. And the cave was no longer a void of darkness. The star of David was shining above it. It was the stable, occupied by the Holy Family. The animals were there and the cave had been full of stench. But Mary filled it with the perfume of roses. And Joseph spread the fragrance of lillies. And Baby Jesus wafted forth the beautiful scent of a newborn begotten of the most pure virginal womb.
I await the wise men. And I long to be able to receive their gifts. I invite the Holy Family to settle into the cave of my heart and to flood out the stench with their lovely frangrances.
Tonight, I got an image of the three wise men. They were journeying toward that cave. They were bringing their precious gifts. And the cave was no longer a void of darkness. The star of David was shining above it. It was the stable, occupied by the Holy Family. The animals were there and the cave had been full of stench. But Mary filled it with the perfume of roses. And Joseph spread the fragrance of lillies. And Baby Jesus wafted forth the beautiful scent of a newborn begotten of the most pure virginal womb.
I await the wise men. And I long to be able to receive their gifts. I invite the Holy Family to settle into the cave of my heart and to flood out the stench with their lovely frangrances.
journey back to the sunshine
I had a long talk with my husband last night, trying to figure myself and all my crazy behaviors out. I generally feel like men are much wiser than women. Maybe it's my family. I don't know. But I have grown up with the perception that women are emotional weaklings who need men to point them in the right direction, to help them see the big picture, to smack some sense into them when they're freaking out about the milk being left out on the counter for a whole half an hour and how it's going to spoil if it's not put away now and does my daughter really think that money grows on trees and how am I going to pay the bills, etc. etc. etc. (And no, that whole line was not taken from my history as a parent. It was something I experienced when growing up, okay?) Anyway, I find that the men who were in my life were rather wise and stable and had a good grasp on the big picture.
So I mumbled to my husband about how horribly embarrassed I was that my friend said I was hardly faithful at all and that I was quite ridiculous as far as Catholics go. This was humiliating for me to face since my friend rejects religion altogether. I mean, I should be a good example, a faithful witness, somebody that somebody else might possibly want to be like. Apparently, I have been none of those things. I have simply been ridiculous.
That was hard to take. And the worst part was that I instantly knew it was true. I'm not always like this, but sometimes I fall into this mode where I use my religion in a superstitious way. Like if I just say enough rosaries and enough divine mercy chaplets, if I say the right prayers the right number of times, if I call upon the right saints and use the proper title of Mary when seeking intercession, then all the cards will play together and help me have the winning hand.
Deep inside, I know this is not the way the Lord intends us to indulge in the fullness of truth. But still, I tend to be quite controlling and so sometimes, even though I don't think it consciously, I try to make God my puppet, my vending machine. And I get annoyed, disappointed, sometimes desperate, and very rarely enraged when things don't work out the way I had planned they would.
My husband put it well: "You need to allow God to work through you. You cannot try to work through God." Yes, that was what I was trying to do. Sad, but true.
In my efforts to prioritize my life and to stop being so self-focused, I have taken up teaching again this week. We've been off of school work for about seven weeks now and there has been no order in the house, no routine to our lives. It has allowed me to become quite self-absorbed. It has allowed me to stop really being a mom and to just sort of referee the sibling squabbling. My husband even had a dream last week that he was in the truck following the van and all the kids were in the van and no one was driving it. He was feeling my absence in the family. My non-presence despite my being home all day every day.
But yesterday, I started my journey back toward the sunshine. I read books to my kids and took them to the library. I washed the dishes and folded the laundry and made the beds. I listened to my kids. I listened to my friends. I listened to my husband. I re-engaged myself into their lives. Today, I went out to lunch. I took care of my business. I listened my my music which makes me feel so much like me. And tomorrow, I plan to run a race -- a 2-miler. And I will run it with a friend of mine. I never feel more like myself than when I'm running. And it's always best when running with a friend.
When I was teaching this morning, I realized that I was returning to normalcy. By guiding my boys in their lessons, I was able to take on the adult role. I was able to be calm and steady and encouraging. I was able to stop being like a kid myself.
I do firmly believe that homeschooling is best for my children and for our family. But I realize too that it is best for me as a mom. It fulfills my need to be needed. It helps me know that I'm making a difference in some one's life. It enforces that feeling that I crave -- that I truly am unique and irreplaceable, that no other person can do this job as well as I can. Sometimes I am tempted to think that I'm doing it just for me, but I've prayed about it often and I do believe it's best for all of us.
Watching my sons learn, I realized again the truth of what my husband said last night: "Every person is on his own journey. You cannot make him go in any particular direction. You can only point the way and give him encouragement. But ultimately, you have to let him make his own decisions and discover things on his own." I didn't just discover this last night. But like I said, life goes in cycles and sometimes I have to rediscover it and accept it in an even deeper way than before.
I don't like to harp on hurts and I don't like to blame everything on my father's absence in my life, but I do think it has affected my entire outlook on who I am and how I perceive my relationships with other people. I grew up knowing that my father's abandonment wasn't my fault, but somehow always deep-down believing that it was. I realize now that I've carried around this notion -- I'm mostly over it, but I still cling to it from time to time -- that if I had just been a better little girl, if I just could have controlled myself more and not been so naughty as a two year old, the man that should have been my protector and my rock and my reassurance would not have walked out of my life. I understand now that I've always thought that if I could just do everything right and control my emotions and be better than I am at the moment, then I could change the men in my life to be the persons I always wanted them to be. Hearing myself now, it seems incredibly ridiculous. And that brings us back to where we started -- my ridiculousness.
I understand -- once again, in a deeper way this time -- that I cannot change anybody. I need to just be myself. I don't need to be perfect. I just need to be who I am. The people who accept me accept me and the people who don't don't. That's just the way it is. It's not my fault if they choose to move on. I can be loving and kind and merciful and forgiving all I want. But in the end, I cannot force anyone to do anything. And in the end, I need to be all those things with myself as well.
So I mumbled to my husband about how horribly embarrassed I was that my friend said I was hardly faithful at all and that I was quite ridiculous as far as Catholics go. This was humiliating for me to face since my friend rejects religion altogether. I mean, I should be a good example, a faithful witness, somebody that somebody else might possibly want to be like. Apparently, I have been none of those things. I have simply been ridiculous.
That was hard to take. And the worst part was that I instantly knew it was true. I'm not always like this, but sometimes I fall into this mode where I use my religion in a superstitious way. Like if I just say enough rosaries and enough divine mercy chaplets, if I say the right prayers the right number of times, if I call upon the right saints and use the proper title of Mary when seeking intercession, then all the cards will play together and help me have the winning hand.
Deep inside, I know this is not the way the Lord intends us to indulge in the fullness of truth. But still, I tend to be quite controlling and so sometimes, even though I don't think it consciously, I try to make God my puppet, my vending machine. And I get annoyed, disappointed, sometimes desperate, and very rarely enraged when things don't work out the way I had planned they would.
My husband put it well: "You need to allow God to work through you. You cannot try to work through God." Yes, that was what I was trying to do. Sad, but true.
In my efforts to prioritize my life and to stop being so self-focused, I have taken up teaching again this week. We've been off of school work for about seven weeks now and there has been no order in the house, no routine to our lives. It has allowed me to become quite self-absorbed. It has allowed me to stop really being a mom and to just sort of referee the sibling squabbling. My husband even had a dream last week that he was in the truck following the van and all the kids were in the van and no one was driving it. He was feeling my absence in the family. My non-presence despite my being home all day every day.
But yesterday, I started my journey back toward the sunshine. I read books to my kids and took them to the library. I washed the dishes and folded the laundry and made the beds. I listened to my kids. I listened to my friends. I listened to my husband. I re-engaged myself into their lives. Today, I went out to lunch. I took care of my business. I listened my my music which makes me feel so much like me. And tomorrow, I plan to run a race -- a 2-miler. And I will run it with a friend of mine. I never feel more like myself than when I'm running. And it's always best when running with a friend.
When I was teaching this morning, I realized that I was returning to normalcy. By guiding my boys in their lessons, I was able to take on the adult role. I was able to be calm and steady and encouraging. I was able to stop being like a kid myself.
I do firmly believe that homeschooling is best for my children and for our family. But I realize too that it is best for me as a mom. It fulfills my need to be needed. It helps me know that I'm making a difference in some one's life. It enforces that feeling that I crave -- that I truly am unique and irreplaceable, that no other person can do this job as well as I can. Sometimes I am tempted to think that I'm doing it just for me, but I've prayed about it often and I do believe it's best for all of us.
Watching my sons learn, I realized again the truth of what my husband said last night: "Every person is on his own journey. You cannot make him go in any particular direction. You can only point the way and give him encouragement. But ultimately, you have to let him make his own decisions and discover things on his own." I didn't just discover this last night. But like I said, life goes in cycles and sometimes I have to rediscover it and accept it in an even deeper way than before.
I don't like to harp on hurts and I don't like to blame everything on my father's absence in my life, but I do think it has affected my entire outlook on who I am and how I perceive my relationships with other people. I grew up knowing that my father's abandonment wasn't my fault, but somehow always deep-down believing that it was. I realize now that I've carried around this notion -- I'm mostly over it, but I still cling to it from time to time -- that if I had just been a better little girl, if I just could have controlled myself more and not been so naughty as a two year old, the man that should have been my protector and my rock and my reassurance would not have walked out of my life. I understand now that I've always thought that if I could just do everything right and control my emotions and be better than I am at the moment, then I could change the men in my life to be the persons I always wanted them to be. Hearing myself now, it seems incredibly ridiculous. And that brings us back to where we started -- my ridiculousness.
I understand -- once again, in a deeper way this time -- that I cannot change anybody. I need to just be myself. I don't need to be perfect. I just need to be who I am. The people who accept me accept me and the people who don't don't. That's just the way it is. It's not my fault if they choose to move on. I can be loving and kind and merciful and forgiving all I want. But in the end, I cannot force anyone to do anything. And in the end, I need to be all those things with myself as well.
your smile and the sunshine
I never knew that your smile
and the sunshine
could provide for us a happy place
nevermind that there's a raging war
you bring me peace I've never known before
I never knew that your smile
and the sunshine
could provide for us a happy place
This past Saturday morning, I woke up with this song in my mind. It's not a song I've ever heard before, but I imagined an older man on the top of a mountain, strumming his guitar, singing these words from the depths of his heart. To tell the truth, the man looked like my father and maybe he even sounded like him. I don't' know. He had a voice that sounded like it was from the 70's, like some John Denver or Joe Crocker or Cat Stevens. In any case, it was a beautiful voice, mostly because it was sincere. It seemed that the Lord was giving me that song as a way of healing that father wound. Like He was saying, "This is the song your father should have been singing to you when you were a child. This is the song I have been singing to you all your life."
I cried that morning. A healing cry. My husband held me and loved me in that moment. He's very good at that. He never tires of my needs. He never tires of comforting me. He never tires of listening to me. And, looking back now on what happened in the hours that followed that morning, he never tires of forgiving me and accepting me where I'm at and encouraging me to do better and strengthening me to persevere. I must say he is perhaps the greatest husband in all the world. Women are envious when I tell them all the great things he does for me.
I know a lot of great guys. I know a lot of great husbands. I know a lot of great marriages. In all my ten years of marriage and having married friends, I have never known any couple to get divorced! That has to say a lot in this day and age. And with all that, I can say that my husband is the greatest. He is everything I need him to be. Everything I need him to be. And yet, I am not always content. Sometimes it's like I think he is too good to me. Sometimes I think I really don't deserve him. Alright, alright, I admit it -- sometimes I just firmly believe that I deserve to be treated like shit. And maybe that's what this is all about. Maybe I sometimes think my husband is a dork for loving me as much as he does. Maybe that's why I have found myself, on a handful of occasions, clinging to someone who is mysterious and intimidating and who doesn't care much about me at all. That's screwed up. It really is. But what other conclusion is there?
And now I am exposed and vulnerable once again.
Okay, I'm stepping into the sunshine now. I am walking OUT of the shadows. No more musing. No more pondering. No more holding a magnifying glass to all my scars and my pathetic neurotic behaviors. I will stop focusing on myself and start focusing on others once again. I will be giving and considerate and loving. I will get my life back into its proper order. And for Heaven's sake, I will STOP being the most self-centered, self-pitying person in all the world!
God bless anyone who is reading through all this trash. I'm off to lunch now. Adios.
and the sunshine
could provide for us a happy place
nevermind that there's a raging war
you bring me peace I've never known before
I never knew that your smile
and the sunshine
could provide for us a happy place
This past Saturday morning, I woke up with this song in my mind. It's not a song I've ever heard before, but I imagined an older man on the top of a mountain, strumming his guitar, singing these words from the depths of his heart. To tell the truth, the man looked like my father and maybe he even sounded like him. I don't' know. He had a voice that sounded like it was from the 70's, like some John Denver or Joe Crocker or Cat Stevens. In any case, it was a beautiful voice, mostly because it was sincere. It seemed that the Lord was giving me that song as a way of healing that father wound. Like He was saying, "This is the song your father should have been singing to you when you were a child. This is the song I have been singing to you all your life."
I cried that morning. A healing cry. My husband held me and loved me in that moment. He's very good at that. He never tires of my needs. He never tires of comforting me. He never tires of listening to me. And, looking back now on what happened in the hours that followed that morning, he never tires of forgiving me and accepting me where I'm at and encouraging me to do better and strengthening me to persevere. I must say he is perhaps the greatest husband in all the world. Women are envious when I tell them all the great things he does for me.
I know a lot of great guys. I know a lot of great husbands. I know a lot of great marriages. In all my ten years of marriage and having married friends, I have never known any couple to get divorced! That has to say a lot in this day and age. And with all that, I can say that my husband is the greatest. He is everything I need him to be. Everything I need him to be. And yet, I am not always content. Sometimes it's like I think he is too good to me. Sometimes I think I really don't deserve him. Alright, alright, I admit it -- sometimes I just firmly believe that I deserve to be treated like shit. And maybe that's what this is all about. Maybe I sometimes think my husband is a dork for loving me as much as he does. Maybe that's why I have found myself, on a handful of occasions, clinging to someone who is mysterious and intimidating and who doesn't care much about me at all. That's screwed up. It really is. But what other conclusion is there?
And now I am exposed and vulnerable once again.
Okay, I'm stepping into the sunshine now. I am walking OUT of the shadows. No more musing. No more pondering. No more holding a magnifying glass to all my scars and my pathetic neurotic behaviors. I will stop focusing on myself and start focusing on others once again. I will be giving and considerate and loving. I will get my life back into its proper order. And for Heaven's sake, I will STOP being the most self-centered, self-pitying person in all the world!
God bless anyone who is reading through all this trash. I'm off to lunch now. Adios.
a series of cycles
It seems that life is a series of cycles. And within each cycle you're trying to learn in a deeper way the lesson that was presented to you in the first place. You go through these bright revelations of truth and you're confident and happy while walking in them. And then you go through the shadows of lies and you recognize that you've been in that place before and you are tempted to think the truth was never real and that the darkness is the place where you belong.
I have recognized once again that I have a high need for security. I long to be protected, accepted, safe. This may seem odd since I am chronically exposing myself as a vulnerable being. You would think I would hide all my vulnerability and not let anyone in. You would think I would not let anyone know anything about myself and that maybe I would take up some form of escapism on a regular basis. I have my moments of escaping...into my dreamworld of my thoughts, into the warmth of a bubble bath, into the clarity of my writing, into the pounding rhythm of my music when driving in the car, the the comfortable quiet of my room when the kids are watching videos. But it's like I need someone else to protect me, accept me, and make me feel safe. My husband does all these things for me. I thought I was over this need. So why do I find myself still looking for it? Why do I find myself in the shadows, hearing that voice, "You are not worth the trouble. No one wants to bother with you. No one wants to deal with all your emotional needs. You are not good enough for anyone to want to endure. You deserve to have everyone walk out on you. Accept it -- you are completely alone."
I have recognized once again that I have a high need for consistency. I like order and I don't like change. Even when I know the change will be a great thing in my life, I face it with nervous anxiety. I am uncomfortable with the unknown. It is not all that exciting to me. It is dark and mysterious in an intimidating way. And that's why Flip is dark and mysterious and intimidating. And maybe too that's why Tanya longs for him to come around and help her feel protected and accepted and safe -- to prove that he really is an okay guy after all. Tanya does not give up. She has hope. She walks through the shadows and she perseveres and she is triumphant -- at least in the first version. She does not hear that voice, "You have to change in order to be okay. You have to change in order to be acceptable. You have to change because nobody likes you the way you are." See, change is a negative there. Even when I know it's good for me, I feel like I have to change only so I can stop being all the bad things that I am.
I have recognized once again that I have a high need to be needed. I like to feel like I have a place in the world. I like to feel that my life matters somehow. I am a very dedicated person. That's a good thing most of the time. It's a bad thing when it turns into stubbornness -- my trying to get what I want no matter how improbable it is. Or when it turns into despair -- my giving up on even trying because my desires are deemed impossible to fulfill. My husband is wholly dedicated to me. I have four children who, despite all my faults, think I'm pretty great. I have relatives who are happy to see me when I visit. I have friends who miss me and hug me hello when they see me. And yet, I still find myself in the shadows sometimes, hearing that voice, "Nobody needs you. You do not belong here. You mess everything up. They would be better off without you. Why do you even try? Why do you bother to pray? You cannot make any difference. Nobody needs you. If you left today, they would get over it eventually. Your life is meaningless."
And now I am completely exposed once again. I am not a soldier. I am not a bird. Not today. Everyone reading this is thinking, "Get this woman some help." But these are shadows, just passing things. Most of the time, I am doing alright. Most of the time, I am really pretty great. Most of the time, I am not depressed, not feeling down about myself, not crying my eyes out, not clinging to a person I hardly know, not raging at God. Most of the time -- and I'm saying like 87% here -- I'm a lovely person to be with and I like myself and life is wonderful. Most of the time, the sun is shining on my face and I am smiling. But life is a series of cycles.
I have recognized once again that I have a high need for security. I long to be protected, accepted, safe. This may seem odd since I am chronically exposing myself as a vulnerable being. You would think I would hide all my vulnerability and not let anyone in. You would think I would not let anyone know anything about myself and that maybe I would take up some form of escapism on a regular basis. I have my moments of escaping...into my dreamworld of my thoughts, into the warmth of a bubble bath, into the clarity of my writing, into the pounding rhythm of my music when driving in the car, the the comfortable quiet of my room when the kids are watching videos. But it's like I need someone else to protect me, accept me, and make me feel safe. My husband does all these things for me. I thought I was over this need. So why do I find myself still looking for it? Why do I find myself in the shadows, hearing that voice, "You are not worth the trouble. No one wants to bother with you. No one wants to deal with all your emotional needs. You are not good enough for anyone to want to endure. You deserve to have everyone walk out on you. Accept it -- you are completely alone."
I have recognized once again that I have a high need for consistency. I like order and I don't like change. Even when I know the change will be a great thing in my life, I face it with nervous anxiety. I am uncomfortable with the unknown. It is not all that exciting to me. It is dark and mysterious in an intimidating way. And that's why Flip is dark and mysterious and intimidating. And maybe too that's why Tanya longs for him to come around and help her feel protected and accepted and safe -- to prove that he really is an okay guy after all. Tanya does not give up. She has hope. She walks through the shadows and she perseveres and she is triumphant -- at least in the first version. She does not hear that voice, "You have to change in order to be okay. You have to change in order to be acceptable. You have to change because nobody likes you the way you are." See, change is a negative there. Even when I know it's good for me, I feel like I have to change only so I can stop being all the bad things that I am.
I have recognized once again that I have a high need to be needed. I like to feel like I have a place in the world. I like to feel that my life matters somehow. I am a very dedicated person. That's a good thing most of the time. It's a bad thing when it turns into stubbornness -- my trying to get what I want no matter how improbable it is. Or when it turns into despair -- my giving up on even trying because my desires are deemed impossible to fulfill. My husband is wholly dedicated to me. I have four children who, despite all my faults, think I'm pretty great. I have relatives who are happy to see me when I visit. I have friends who miss me and hug me hello when they see me. And yet, I still find myself in the shadows sometimes, hearing that voice, "Nobody needs you. You do not belong here. You mess everything up. They would be better off without you. Why do you even try? Why do you bother to pray? You cannot make any difference. Nobody needs you. If you left today, they would get over it eventually. Your life is meaningless."
And now I am completely exposed once again. I am not a soldier. I am not a bird. Not today. Everyone reading this is thinking, "Get this woman some help." But these are shadows, just passing things. Most of the time, I am doing alright. Most of the time, I am really pretty great. Most of the time, I am not depressed, not feeling down about myself, not crying my eyes out, not clinging to a person I hardly know, not raging at God. Most of the time -- and I'm saying like 87% here -- I'm a lovely person to be with and I like myself and life is wonderful. Most of the time, the sun is shining on my face and I am smiling. But life is a series of cycles.
Monday, July 21, 2008
a soldier, a bird
I was accused last night of being unstable. And crazy me, I didn't even get what that meant until this morning.
I screwed up yesterday. Big time. I acted like a sixteen year old all over again. I don't really know why this happens to me. I mean, sometimes I wish I could just grow up already and be done with all my adolescent insecurities.
It seems to only happen when I'm feeling ignored, neglected, or abandoned. I become some overly emotional freak who thinks it's all my fault for causing every ounce of misery in my life. I become a person who needs a thousand reassurances that it's all okay and that I'm not a horrible person after all. I hate when I get like that. And what I hate even more is that every time I'm like that, I feel like it's the real me that I've always been.
Last night and this morning, I felt totally exposed and totally vulnerable and totally stupid. I just wanted to crawl out of my own skin and be a normal person already. A non-needy, self-assured, confident person.
"I need you to be strong" he said. I hardly know what that means. When I think of strong, I think of fake. Hiding true feelings, putting on a happy face, keeping a stiff upper lip. I'm raw all the time. I'm an open book even when I shouldn't be. I grew up in Southern California and I developed a severe distaste for falsity. That's why I clung onto grunge music, I think. It was raw and it was real and it was very emotional, just like me. The best compliment I ever got in my life was, "You're the only REAL person I know." That meant a lot to me.
But I think that realness doesn't have to mean rawness. I think now that it mostly means sincerity. And I think that strength doesn't have to mean falsity. I think now that it mostly means prudence. I will have to work on prudence.
The Lord told me in prayer the other night that I would have to learn to be a soldier, that I wouldn't be able to show all my woundedness anymore. He said I would have to be more like a bird, feigning health till the bitter end. Not because I'm in denial of the truth, but rather because the enemy will snatch at any weakness.
I'm not saying everyone out there is my enemy or that any particular person is my enemy. But I cannot afford to be so self-pitying anymore. Really, it's quite pathetic. I was hating myself in the midst of it all. I was raging at God and the saints and complaining about how I'm so sick of sacrificing and I thought, "What in the world am I thinking? What am I doing? What am I saying? I live a good easy comfortable life. I am sobbing out my troubles to people who lost loved ones and endured whippings and suffered trial after trial after trial. I am PATHETIC. Somebody shut me up already." So I put away my last Kleenex and stopped sobbing and wiped away the tears. I said I was sorry and I got up and I moved on.
I don't want to be pathetic anymore. I don't want to be needy anymore. And for Heaven's sake, I will slap myself if I have to hear myself saying one more time something along the lines of, "I just want to know that you really do care about me." No one person can give me all the truckloads of reassurance that I seem to need in those moments. I have to get it from within myself. I have to just be okay with myself no matter what other people think. As long as I'm doing my best, and acting prudently, that should be enough. That will be enough.
So I thank my friend for slapping me in the face with the truth about myself last night. And I thank him for asking me to be strong. It will be a new thing for me, uncomfortable at first, I'm sure. But I will do it. I will.
I screwed up yesterday. Big time. I acted like a sixteen year old all over again. I don't really know why this happens to me. I mean, sometimes I wish I could just grow up already and be done with all my adolescent insecurities.
It seems to only happen when I'm feeling ignored, neglected, or abandoned. I become some overly emotional freak who thinks it's all my fault for causing every ounce of misery in my life. I become a person who needs a thousand reassurances that it's all okay and that I'm not a horrible person after all. I hate when I get like that. And what I hate even more is that every time I'm like that, I feel like it's the real me that I've always been.
Last night and this morning, I felt totally exposed and totally vulnerable and totally stupid. I just wanted to crawl out of my own skin and be a normal person already. A non-needy, self-assured, confident person.
"I need you to be strong" he said. I hardly know what that means. When I think of strong, I think of fake. Hiding true feelings, putting on a happy face, keeping a stiff upper lip. I'm raw all the time. I'm an open book even when I shouldn't be. I grew up in Southern California and I developed a severe distaste for falsity. That's why I clung onto grunge music, I think. It was raw and it was real and it was very emotional, just like me. The best compliment I ever got in my life was, "You're the only REAL person I know." That meant a lot to me.
But I think that realness doesn't have to mean rawness. I think now that it mostly means sincerity. And I think that strength doesn't have to mean falsity. I think now that it mostly means prudence. I will have to work on prudence.
The Lord told me in prayer the other night that I would have to learn to be a soldier, that I wouldn't be able to show all my woundedness anymore. He said I would have to be more like a bird, feigning health till the bitter end. Not because I'm in denial of the truth, but rather because the enemy will snatch at any weakness.
I'm not saying everyone out there is my enemy or that any particular person is my enemy. But I cannot afford to be so self-pitying anymore. Really, it's quite pathetic. I was hating myself in the midst of it all. I was raging at God and the saints and complaining about how I'm so sick of sacrificing and I thought, "What in the world am I thinking? What am I doing? What am I saying? I live a good easy comfortable life. I am sobbing out my troubles to people who lost loved ones and endured whippings and suffered trial after trial after trial. I am PATHETIC. Somebody shut me up already." So I put away my last Kleenex and stopped sobbing and wiped away the tears. I said I was sorry and I got up and I moved on.
I don't want to be pathetic anymore. I don't want to be needy anymore. And for Heaven's sake, I will slap myself if I have to hear myself saying one more time something along the lines of, "I just want to know that you really do care about me." No one person can give me all the truckloads of reassurance that I seem to need in those moments. I have to get it from within myself. I have to just be okay with myself no matter what other people think. As long as I'm doing my best, and acting prudently, that should be enough. That will be enough.
So I thank my friend for slapping me in the face with the truth about myself last night. And I thank him for asking me to be strong. It will be a new thing for me, uncomfortable at first, I'm sure. But I will do it. I will.
Sunday, July 20, 2008
not a rock, not an island
Over the past eight weeks or so, I have experienced healing at every Mass. I used to feel this all the time at Steubenville and back then, I went to Mass daily! It was perpetual tears and humility and healing then. It is like that once again, but not quite as painful.
I have been going through some strange things lately. So many emotions. So much growth. So many highs and so many lows. I’ve been reminded a lot of my past. Past relationships. Past hurts. Past mistakes. Times when I really screwed up.
I was hurt yesterday. Hurt by a guy friend. It’s been ages since I’ve had a guy friend, so it’s been ages since I’ve been hurt by one. He bothered me because he chose to ignore what I said rather than just tell me that he didn’t want to deal with it. I hate that kind of cowardliness, that kind of cruelty. I hate when people choose not to deal with me. I hate it because it makes me feel like they’re saying that I’m not worth the trouble, like I’m not worth the anguish, like I’m not worth the work, like I’m not worth dealing with. I hate it because it reminds me of so many of my past relationships and those remind me of my deepest hurt – being abandoned by my father.
I won’t talk about my father today. But I will talk about my last boyfriend because that is where the Lord healed me today. This guy – I met him just before Christmas when I was 19. I had been feeling numb for about 8 months from my previous breakup. And he had broken up with his girlfriend the very night that I met him! Looking back on it, I always wondered why the two of us ever got together. Really, we had very little in common. His culture was different, his religion was different, his view on life was different. But I was talking about him the other day and it suddenly dawned on me – thirteen years later – that he was so much like my dad and maybe that’s what attracted me to him. Maybe. Who really knows?
I was with this guy for a total of 9 months I guess, but really it all fell apart around March or May or something like that. I won’t explain it all, but let’s just say it’s a bad bad sign when your parents file a lawsuit against your boyfriend. Yep, bad sign. It’s a bad sign when your boyfriend should be in jail and you’re still totally in love with him. Yep, bad sign. And it’s a bad sign when your boyfriend calls you on the phone and says, “Guess what – I’m in Hawaii. Thought I’d live here for a couple of months. Yeah, I know you and I talked about getting married, but you’re going off to college and well, I just can’t handle the separations so that’s why I’ve been avoiding you. Sorry. Have a great life.” Those weren’t his exact words, but you get the picture. He was such a frickin’ coward.
Anyway, before I get too upset, I will talk about my healing. Ah, the healing. I was thinking about this guy – this last boyfriend of mine. He left such a pain in my heart that I couldn’t even mention his name until just last year. Yeah. I’m serious. I have had deep sorrow over him. All my love turned to hate. I loved him very much and that’s why it hurt so badly.
I have discovered though that you cannot heal hatred until you admit how much you loved. I discovered that a couple years ago with my father. I was lying in bed, talking to my husband, talking about my father and I started crying because for the first time ever I admitted that I loved my daddy and I so much wanted him to love me in return. It was only when I admitted that I loved him that a feeling swept all through me from my head to my toes. It was only then that most of the hurt fled my being.
So I was sitting in Mass today and listening to the readings and listening to the homily and thinking about how I was hurt yesterday and remembering how I had been hurt in a similar way by my last boyfriend. And for the first time in 13 years, I just sat there and thought about my last boyfriend. I didn’t think about how much he had disappointed me or how much I hated him or how much I really needed to try to forgive him. No, for the first time in a long time, I thought about why I loved him. I thought about his face, his dark skin, his soft eyes, his charming smile, his large gentle hands. I thought about his voice and his laughter and the pain he sometimes showed. I thought about how happy I was when he said he wanted to be with me forever and how he would wait for me during my two years of being away at college. I thought about all the dreams I had had of being with him, the home we would have together, how I wanted to have his children. I wanted to have his children.
It was at that thought that the tears came to my eyes. It was at that thought that the mourning welled up from the pit of my stomach. It was at that thought that I began to pray for forgiveness – for myself and for him. I thanked the Lord for the many blessings in my life and I prayed – in a sincere way this time – that Malcolm would have blessings in his life too. Yes, I prayed for him. And I prayed that Jesus and Mary would undo the knots that I have done.
A lot of people don’t understand those prayers. Why pray for those who have hurt you? Why make reparation for the sins of others? Why not just worry about yourself? I am a Christian. It is my mission to be like Christ. I certainly do pray for myself. It is my sole focus to make it to Heaven. I struggle toward that goal every day – every single day.
I am not a rock, I am not an island. I affect everyone around me. I am responsible for how I affect other people’s souls. It is my mission to be the light of Christ in the world. If I allow my brother to fall with me into darkness, then I am responsible for my neglect. And I don’t pray for people because I’m afraid of my own punishment. Sure, it concerns me. But I mostly pray for them because I truly do have love in my heart. I truly do want them to be blessed. I truly do want them to know peace and love and joy in their lives. I truly do want them to encounter the glory of God.
And it’s because I love the Lord – I love Him with my whole heart – that I make reparation for the sins of my brothers and sisters. It’s because I love the Truth that I hate lies. It’s because I love the Light that I hate the darkness. It’s because I love Life that I hate death. And it’s because I love LOVE that I hate indifference. Understand that. Ponder that. Consider that. Then choose the path you will tread.
So, back to this guy friend I talked to yesterday. Yes, he hurt me. Yes, he reminded me of my last boyfriend. Yes, he even in a small way reminded me of my father. But I choose to keep talking to him, not because I'm happy being a doormat, not because I'm okay with being ignored. I keep talking to him because I feel it is my mission to be love and mercy in his life and I feel it is his mission (or rather that the Lord is using him) to teach me how to love purely, without expecting anything in return.
The Lord assured me that my needs now are not what they were then and that He would give me strength to endure this love. It is difficult to love with the Heart of Jesus. It is beautiful and yet painful at the same time. It is beautiful because the love just flows abundantly from the deepest part of you and it must be released, it cannot be contained. It is painful because you know -- you know, you know, you know -- that you can only HOPE that your love will be returned and that there is every chance that it won't be. MMMmmmmm. Lord, give me the strength and the fortitude to love the way You do.
I have been going through some strange things lately. So many emotions. So much growth. So many highs and so many lows. I’ve been reminded a lot of my past. Past relationships. Past hurts. Past mistakes. Times when I really screwed up.
I was hurt yesterday. Hurt by a guy friend. It’s been ages since I’ve had a guy friend, so it’s been ages since I’ve been hurt by one. He bothered me because he chose to ignore what I said rather than just tell me that he didn’t want to deal with it. I hate that kind of cowardliness, that kind of cruelty. I hate when people choose not to deal with me. I hate it because it makes me feel like they’re saying that I’m not worth the trouble, like I’m not worth the anguish, like I’m not worth the work, like I’m not worth dealing with. I hate it because it reminds me of so many of my past relationships and those remind me of my deepest hurt – being abandoned by my father.
I won’t talk about my father today. But I will talk about my last boyfriend because that is where the Lord healed me today. This guy – I met him just before Christmas when I was 19. I had been feeling numb for about 8 months from my previous breakup. And he had broken up with his girlfriend the very night that I met him! Looking back on it, I always wondered why the two of us ever got together. Really, we had very little in common. His culture was different, his religion was different, his view on life was different. But I was talking about him the other day and it suddenly dawned on me – thirteen years later – that he was so much like my dad and maybe that’s what attracted me to him. Maybe. Who really knows?
I was with this guy for a total of 9 months I guess, but really it all fell apart around March or May or something like that. I won’t explain it all, but let’s just say it’s a bad bad sign when your parents file a lawsuit against your boyfriend. Yep, bad sign. It’s a bad sign when your boyfriend should be in jail and you’re still totally in love with him. Yep, bad sign. And it’s a bad sign when your boyfriend calls you on the phone and says, “Guess what – I’m in Hawaii. Thought I’d live here for a couple of months. Yeah, I know you and I talked about getting married, but you’re going off to college and well, I just can’t handle the separations so that’s why I’ve been avoiding you. Sorry. Have a great life.” Those weren’t his exact words, but you get the picture. He was such a frickin’ coward.
Anyway, before I get too upset, I will talk about my healing. Ah, the healing. I was thinking about this guy – this last boyfriend of mine. He left such a pain in my heart that I couldn’t even mention his name until just last year. Yeah. I’m serious. I have had deep sorrow over him. All my love turned to hate. I loved him very much and that’s why it hurt so badly.
I have discovered though that you cannot heal hatred until you admit how much you loved. I discovered that a couple years ago with my father. I was lying in bed, talking to my husband, talking about my father and I started crying because for the first time ever I admitted that I loved my daddy and I so much wanted him to love me in return. It was only when I admitted that I loved him that a feeling swept all through me from my head to my toes. It was only then that most of the hurt fled my being.
So I was sitting in Mass today and listening to the readings and listening to the homily and thinking about how I was hurt yesterday and remembering how I had been hurt in a similar way by my last boyfriend. And for the first time in 13 years, I just sat there and thought about my last boyfriend. I didn’t think about how much he had disappointed me or how much I hated him or how much I really needed to try to forgive him. No, for the first time in a long time, I thought about why I loved him. I thought about his face, his dark skin, his soft eyes, his charming smile, his large gentle hands. I thought about his voice and his laughter and the pain he sometimes showed. I thought about how happy I was when he said he wanted to be with me forever and how he would wait for me during my two years of being away at college. I thought about all the dreams I had had of being with him, the home we would have together, how I wanted to have his children. I wanted to have his children.
It was at that thought that the tears came to my eyes. It was at that thought that the mourning welled up from the pit of my stomach. It was at that thought that I began to pray for forgiveness – for myself and for him. I thanked the Lord for the many blessings in my life and I prayed – in a sincere way this time – that Malcolm would have blessings in his life too. Yes, I prayed for him. And I prayed that Jesus and Mary would undo the knots that I have done.
A lot of people don’t understand those prayers. Why pray for those who have hurt you? Why make reparation for the sins of others? Why not just worry about yourself? I am a Christian. It is my mission to be like Christ. I certainly do pray for myself. It is my sole focus to make it to Heaven. I struggle toward that goal every day – every single day.
I am not a rock, I am not an island. I affect everyone around me. I am responsible for how I affect other people’s souls. It is my mission to be the light of Christ in the world. If I allow my brother to fall with me into darkness, then I am responsible for my neglect. And I don’t pray for people because I’m afraid of my own punishment. Sure, it concerns me. But I mostly pray for them because I truly do have love in my heart. I truly do want them to be blessed. I truly do want them to know peace and love and joy in their lives. I truly do want them to encounter the glory of God.
And it’s because I love the Lord – I love Him with my whole heart – that I make reparation for the sins of my brothers and sisters. It’s because I love the Truth that I hate lies. It’s because I love the Light that I hate the darkness. It’s because I love Life that I hate death. And it’s because I love LOVE that I hate indifference. Understand that. Ponder that. Consider that. Then choose the path you will tread.
So, back to this guy friend I talked to yesterday. Yes, he hurt me. Yes, he reminded me of my last boyfriend. Yes, he even in a small way reminded me of my father. But I choose to keep talking to him, not because I'm happy being a doormat, not because I'm okay with being ignored. I keep talking to him because I feel it is my mission to be love and mercy in his life and I feel it is his mission (or rather that the Lord is using him) to teach me how to love purely, without expecting anything in return.
The Lord assured me that my needs now are not what they were then and that He would give me strength to endure this love. It is difficult to love with the Heart of Jesus. It is beautiful and yet painful at the same time. It is beautiful because the love just flows abundantly from the deepest part of you and it must be released, it cannot be contained. It is painful because you know -- you know, you know, you know -- that you can only HOPE that your love will be returned and that there is every chance that it won't be. MMMmmmmm. Lord, give me the strength and the fortitude to love the way You do.
the less desirable and the very desirable
I said in the last post that I am a rather serious person. That’s not totally true. I am slowly seeing that. I’ve always thought of myself as very pensive and sensitive. Things affect me deeply. But just as it is said that a person cannot see demons without also seeing angels, I feel that I cannot experience the depths of pain without also experiencing the height of ecstasies.
I never knew this about myself until college, but I really do laugh a lot. I was with my household sisters, making a tape for an out-of-state friend of ours. We were conversing and catching her up on the news. When I played the tape back, I realized that I was the one laughing the most. I had never thought of myself like that before – as a person laughing a lot. But there it was, indisputable, on the tape. I was laughing and joking and happy.
I’ll admit that I’m never the life of the party. But I am the one laughing the loudest at whoever the life of the party happens to be. When I laugh, I laugh a lot. I double over and do not breathe for a long time. Occasionally, I come up with witty things to say which prolong the joke and make me and everyone around me laugh even louder. It’s fun. I enjoy the bantering quite a bit.
I don’t usually think quickly on my feet and that’s why I’ll never be a stand up comedian and why I’ll never be on the debate team. Like I said, I muse and I ponder and most of the time, when I’m in a heated conversation, I don’t come up with a good come back until about two hours after the conversation has ended. I am rather embarrassed by it all. That’s why I simply resign myself to prayer for the most part. But anyway, I enjoy laughing. I enjoy funny songs and crazy videos and ridiculous movies and I most especially enjoy other people who make me laugh.
I am beginning to see myself in a different light altogether. It seems that for years, I have been clinging onto the many insults that people have thrown my way – I’m too sensitive, I take things too seriously, I cry too much. But I brushed off all the compliments that were always there – I’m funny, I’m fun to have around, I’m easily entertained. I’m not brushing off the compliments anymore. I’m learning to accept the many aspects of me – the less desirable and the very desirable – and I’m learning to love myself for all those things.
I never knew this about myself until college, but I really do laugh a lot. I was with my household sisters, making a tape for an out-of-state friend of ours. We were conversing and catching her up on the news. When I played the tape back, I realized that I was the one laughing the most. I had never thought of myself like that before – as a person laughing a lot. But there it was, indisputable, on the tape. I was laughing and joking and happy.
I’ll admit that I’m never the life of the party. But I am the one laughing the loudest at whoever the life of the party happens to be. When I laugh, I laugh a lot. I double over and do not breathe for a long time. Occasionally, I come up with witty things to say which prolong the joke and make me and everyone around me laugh even louder. It’s fun. I enjoy the bantering quite a bit.
I don’t usually think quickly on my feet and that’s why I’ll never be a stand up comedian and why I’ll never be on the debate team. Like I said, I muse and I ponder and most of the time, when I’m in a heated conversation, I don’t come up with a good come back until about two hours after the conversation has ended. I am rather embarrassed by it all. That’s why I simply resign myself to prayer for the most part. But anyway, I enjoy laughing. I enjoy funny songs and crazy videos and ridiculous movies and I most especially enjoy other people who make me laugh.
I am beginning to see myself in a different light altogether. It seems that for years, I have been clinging onto the many insults that people have thrown my way – I’m too sensitive, I take things too seriously, I cry too much. But I brushed off all the compliments that were always there – I’m funny, I’m fun to have around, I’m easily entertained. I’m not brushing off the compliments anymore. I’m learning to accept the many aspects of me – the less desirable and the very desirable – and I’m learning to love myself for all those things.
Saturday, July 19, 2008
like me
I spent a load of money on myself this past week. Now, to understand the significance of this statement, you have to understand that I come from a long line of non-self-indulgent women. And when I say “load of money,” I mean about three hundred bucks. You also have to understand that I come from a long line of avid bargain shoppers.
I have a hard time buying anything for myself and I have a hard time buying anything that’s not on sale. I remember standing in the make-up aisle at Target for a good ten minutes just trying to talk myself into purchasing a generic tube of lipstick. I finally relented when I noticed it had been marked down from $8 to $3. So this is a big deal for me.
I've been buying new clothes lately. Usually, clothes shopping is not a fun outing for me. Once the clothes are on my body, they never quite look the way they did on that girl in the picture. Often, I go home with one item after having tried on fifteen. It’s usually a very depressing excursion for me. But lately, it’s been nice. I get to fit into clothes which haven’t fit me since I was single. And not only that, I have been buying clothes which I would not have worn since I was single either.
Life has been ever-changing during this past decade for me. I think I’m finally starting to embrace myself for all of who I am. It’s taken me a number of years to really figure out just who that is though. I think I was starting to have a handle on it in high school and then I second-guessed myself along the way. I went to junior college in Southern California and my friends would occasionally invite me to go dancing in the Hollywood clubs. Several people there wore black and leather and brightly colored hair. I felt that maybe I should be like they were. I bought Victorian lace-up boots, a black lace skirt, and liquid eye-liner.
After a couple years, I went off to Catholic college and all the girls there wore wearing ankle-length skirts and modest cotton shirts. I felt that maybe I should be like they were. I bought floral skirts and modest shirts and got rid of the liquid eye-liner.
I remember hearing a chastity speaker come to campus who told us that to dress like Mother Mary, we needed to have hemlines below the knee, sleeves down to our elbows, and necklines that never plunged more than a couple inches below our necks. He said we should never wear see-through materials, not even shirts with sheer sleeves. I struggled with that concept for years after that talk. I could handle the hemline and I never was fond of plunging necklines, but I just could not bring myself to feel guilty about sheer sleeves or cap sleeves. Come on!
So I went on, unsure of sleeve length for years. Then I became a mom and a homeschooler and there was that issue all over again. My first homeschooling group had numerous women who wore slip-on shoes and cotton shirts underneath denim jumpers. I felt that maybe I should be like they were. I bought myself some clogs and some nice shirts and an embroidered denim jumper.
I moved a couple years ago to a larger city. The homeschoolers here are quite different. They’re not the jumper type. They actually get cute haircuts and wear makeup most of the time! Some of them do wear jumpers, but some of them have clothes that are quite fashionable. It sort of blows my mind. I don’t have to be Ms. Plain Jane in order to be part of the homeschool group! I can be proud of whatever I feel like wearing. These women are all faithful. Many of them enroll their children in Latin classes and wear veils to Mass. And yet, there they are in their capris and denim jackets. I am rather amazed.
I was never completely unhappy with my clothing, but it seemed I bought items only to fit in with whatever crowd I was hanging out with at the time. Now when I go shopping, I feel like I buy clothes just for me and I’m actually surprised that I’m buying styles which I haven’t worn in over ten years. Tank tops and shorts, mostly. Items I never would have felt comfortable wearing with the girls at Franciscan University (where jeans in church were frowned upon). I don’t know if they would have judged me over it. But I probably would have felt like I was not up to par.
I understand there are different clothes for different occasions and I even made a special shopping trip the other day so that I wouldn’t have to attend daily Mass in shorts. But I bought pants – cute trendy pants and a cute trendy shirt (not on sale!) to go with it. Previously, I definitely would have shopped all over the place to get just the right type of skirt and blouse. Not anymore. Now I’m dressing like me.
I have a hard time buying anything for myself and I have a hard time buying anything that’s not on sale. I remember standing in the make-up aisle at Target for a good ten minutes just trying to talk myself into purchasing a generic tube of lipstick. I finally relented when I noticed it had been marked down from $8 to $3. So this is a big deal for me.
I've been buying new clothes lately. Usually, clothes shopping is not a fun outing for me. Once the clothes are on my body, they never quite look the way they did on that girl in the picture. Often, I go home with one item after having tried on fifteen. It’s usually a very depressing excursion for me. But lately, it’s been nice. I get to fit into clothes which haven’t fit me since I was single. And not only that, I have been buying clothes which I would not have worn since I was single either.
Life has been ever-changing during this past decade for me. I think I’m finally starting to embrace myself for all of who I am. It’s taken me a number of years to really figure out just who that is though. I think I was starting to have a handle on it in high school and then I second-guessed myself along the way. I went to junior college in Southern California and my friends would occasionally invite me to go dancing in the Hollywood clubs. Several people there wore black and leather and brightly colored hair. I felt that maybe I should be like they were. I bought Victorian lace-up boots, a black lace skirt, and liquid eye-liner.
After a couple years, I went off to Catholic college and all the girls there wore wearing ankle-length skirts and modest cotton shirts. I felt that maybe I should be like they were. I bought floral skirts and modest shirts and got rid of the liquid eye-liner.
I remember hearing a chastity speaker come to campus who told us that to dress like Mother Mary, we needed to have hemlines below the knee, sleeves down to our elbows, and necklines that never plunged more than a couple inches below our necks. He said we should never wear see-through materials, not even shirts with sheer sleeves. I struggled with that concept for years after that talk. I could handle the hemline and I never was fond of plunging necklines, but I just could not bring myself to feel guilty about sheer sleeves or cap sleeves. Come on!
So I went on, unsure of sleeve length for years. Then I became a mom and a homeschooler and there was that issue all over again. My first homeschooling group had numerous women who wore slip-on shoes and cotton shirts underneath denim jumpers. I felt that maybe I should be like they were. I bought myself some clogs and some nice shirts and an embroidered denim jumper.
I moved a couple years ago to a larger city. The homeschoolers here are quite different. They’re not the jumper type. They actually get cute haircuts and wear makeup most of the time! Some of them do wear jumpers, but some of them have clothes that are quite fashionable. It sort of blows my mind. I don’t have to be Ms. Plain Jane in order to be part of the homeschool group! I can be proud of whatever I feel like wearing. These women are all faithful. Many of them enroll their children in Latin classes and wear veils to Mass. And yet, there they are in their capris and denim jackets. I am rather amazed.
I was never completely unhappy with my clothing, but it seemed I bought items only to fit in with whatever crowd I was hanging out with at the time. Now when I go shopping, I feel like I buy clothes just for me and I’m actually surprised that I’m buying styles which I haven’t worn in over ten years. Tank tops and shorts, mostly. Items I never would have felt comfortable wearing with the girls at Franciscan University (where jeans in church were frowned upon). I don’t know if they would have judged me over it. But I probably would have felt like I was not up to par.
I understand there are different clothes for different occasions and I even made a special shopping trip the other day so that I wouldn’t have to attend daily Mass in shorts. But I bought pants – cute trendy pants and a cute trendy shirt (not on sale!) to go with it. Previously, I definitely would have shopped all over the place to get just the right type of skirt and blouse. Not anymore. Now I’m dressing like me.
discrepancies
So I went to this Theology of the Body conference last month and since then, I've been musing over the perception of the body in this American culture and how I myself have hated and loved my own body.
This subject comes up often, especially during the summer when people are exposing their bodies all around me. It comes up when I'm at the pool in my swimsuit and hiding behind my sunglasses, staring at all the more perfect than me girls in their bikinis. I've never worn a bikini in my life, even when I did have the body for it.
A few days ago, I was watching my kids during swim lessons when a young woman life guard stood at the edge of the pool, talking to a young man life guard who was sitting in his guard chair. Both of them were in their early twenties. Both of them had perfect bodies. Both of them were unmarried and without kids. Both of them were completely not like me.
As tempting as it was to ogle the guy, it was the girl who got my attention. I stared at her from behind my sunglasses, tracing the contours of her tan body, noting the cute smile on her face. I don't remember ever having contours like that. Maybe I did once and just never was happy with myself even when I did. And I never felt that I had a cute smile on my face.
I'm a serious person, mostly. If people don't know me, they think I'm judging them. But that's just because I'm quiet and I don't say much unless I feel I have to. But back to the body.
I thought about this woman's body for quite awhile after I'd seen it. I thought about hers. I thought about mine. I thought about the discrepancy between the two. I thought about this all as I pulled into McDonald's and drove away, munching on french fries and gulping down a chocolate shake.
Now, I must say, I weigh less now than I've ever weighed in all my ten years of marriage. I fit back into my college size actually. I'm pretty happy with myself. But after four pregnancies, my body is just not what it was when I was 19 and it probably never will be again. Sure, I can do my Pilate's and I can run a couple miles here and there. But the shape I was then will never come back for me. I have to accept that. And I think of that line, "Can I handle the seasons of my life?"
It's a strange thing, all this comparison. I mean, who cares really? My husband thinks I'm beautiful. I have lines and freckles which increase in number every summer, yet he thinks I'm beautiful. I have stretch marks and non-taut skin, yet he thinks I'm beautiful. My chest has become deflated after a total of 92 months of nursing, yet he thinks I'm beautiful. He sees all these things as the effects of my love for him and his children. And he is right to see them that way. But why can't I accept that? Why do I look at myself and see only imperfection most of the time? And I think of the line, "We all want something beautiful. Man, I wish I was beautiful."
I went in for a massage the other day. A massage and a facial, actually. There's something about just relaxing and breathing slowly and closing your eyes while some perfect stranger rubs their hands all over your body. I mean, why is that okay? Why is that desirable? Is it because this person is non-threatening? Is it because she is a professional? Is it because I trust her to earn her money to help me relax and feel beautiful? I don't know. Obviously, the whole situation would be different if the person wasn't a woman or wasn't a professional or wasn't trusted. But she was all those things and I was able to relax and feel beautiful.
I remember the first time I got a massage, I got tears in my eyes. I was experiencing in a deeper way that I -- me, yes, actually me -- I was fearfully and wonderfully made. A stranger caressed every curve of my face with care and tenderness. This person wasn't expecting anything or trying to get anything from me or trying to make me feel any certain way. She simply wanted me to relax and feel beautiful. And I did. And it was amazing.
I don't get massages often -- once a year maybe -- but it is my time to feel okay about myself and my body once again.
This subject comes up often, especially during the summer when people are exposing their bodies all around me. It comes up when I'm at the pool in my swimsuit and hiding behind my sunglasses, staring at all the more perfect than me girls in their bikinis. I've never worn a bikini in my life, even when I did have the body for it.
A few days ago, I was watching my kids during swim lessons when a young woman life guard stood at the edge of the pool, talking to a young man life guard who was sitting in his guard chair. Both of them were in their early twenties. Both of them had perfect bodies. Both of them were unmarried and without kids. Both of them were completely not like me.
As tempting as it was to ogle the guy, it was the girl who got my attention. I stared at her from behind my sunglasses, tracing the contours of her tan body, noting the cute smile on her face. I don't remember ever having contours like that. Maybe I did once and just never was happy with myself even when I did. And I never felt that I had a cute smile on my face.
I'm a serious person, mostly. If people don't know me, they think I'm judging them. But that's just because I'm quiet and I don't say much unless I feel I have to. But back to the body.
I thought about this woman's body for quite awhile after I'd seen it. I thought about hers. I thought about mine. I thought about the discrepancy between the two. I thought about this all as I pulled into McDonald's and drove away, munching on french fries and gulping down a chocolate shake.
Now, I must say, I weigh less now than I've ever weighed in all my ten years of marriage. I fit back into my college size actually. I'm pretty happy with myself. But after four pregnancies, my body is just not what it was when I was 19 and it probably never will be again. Sure, I can do my Pilate's and I can run a couple miles here and there. But the shape I was then will never come back for me. I have to accept that. And I think of that line, "Can I handle the seasons of my life?"
It's a strange thing, all this comparison. I mean, who cares really? My husband thinks I'm beautiful. I have lines and freckles which increase in number every summer, yet he thinks I'm beautiful. I have stretch marks and non-taut skin, yet he thinks I'm beautiful. My chest has become deflated after a total of 92 months of nursing, yet he thinks I'm beautiful. He sees all these things as the effects of my love for him and his children. And he is right to see them that way. But why can't I accept that? Why do I look at myself and see only imperfection most of the time? And I think of the line, "We all want something beautiful. Man, I wish I was beautiful."
I went in for a massage the other day. A massage and a facial, actually. There's something about just relaxing and breathing slowly and closing your eyes while some perfect stranger rubs their hands all over your body. I mean, why is that okay? Why is that desirable? Is it because this person is non-threatening? Is it because she is a professional? Is it because I trust her to earn her money to help me relax and feel beautiful? I don't know. Obviously, the whole situation would be different if the person wasn't a woman or wasn't a professional or wasn't trusted. But she was all those things and I was able to relax and feel beautiful.
I remember the first time I got a massage, I got tears in my eyes. I was experiencing in a deeper way that I -- me, yes, actually me -- I was fearfully and wonderfully made. A stranger caressed every curve of my face with care and tenderness. This person wasn't expecting anything or trying to get anything from me or trying to make me feel any certain way. She simply wanted me to relax and feel beautiful. And I did. And it was amazing.
I don't get massages often -- once a year maybe -- but it is my time to feel okay about myself and my body once again.
Tuesday, July 15, 2008
Love Bomb Explosion
It is late at night. The air conditioning is out. It's very dark and and very hot and very quiet. I am completely sober. I have no need to drink. The natural imbalance of my own hormones is enough for me to deal with.
I was asked recently if I was feeling too alive lately. Too alive? This question was offered by a person who thinks it's a great idea to numb himself regularly with booze just about every night. Too alive, indeed.
I'd rather feel everything, painful as it may be, than feel nothing at all. Feeling nothing -- that's not feeling. That's just being numb. And I don't care what Pink Floyd says, being numb is not comfortable, not for very long.
I have come to the conclusion within the past few days that there really is no one in the world like me. This may seem extraordinarily obvious. But I think about it. I ponder it. I muse about it. There are six billion people on the earth at this moment and there are probably another 12 billion or so who have walked it sometime in the past and none of them, not a single one out there is just like me.
That's sort of crazy to think about. There is no one out there who is a grunge music fan and a die-hard Catholic. Well, that's not true. I remember being overjoyed when attending Mass one day at Franciscan University and noticing a guy seated in front of me with a Nirvana Incesticide T-shirt on. He probably scandalized the many good girls around me, but he was God's sign of love and acceptance to my eyes. I remember I was new at the school and I thought, "I DO belong here! There ARE others like me."
Praise God for that guy in the Nirvana shirt. Praise God for that girl at FUS in the Nine Inch Nails shirt. Praise God for that guy at FUS with the Smashing Pumpkins shirt. Praise God for my boyfriend-turned-husband who had the guts to let me tease his hair and paint his eyes with eyeliner and eyeshadow and put him in a black button-down shirt and a black broom skirt and bring him to an 80's dance on campus. It was the funniest thing that night -- it was vocations weekend and on our way to the dance, we had to pass up many nuns and priests and just smile and nod.
Still, I think I might be the only person in the world who still -- 14 years later -- prays for the soul of Kurt Cobain, that he may one day soon enter into the full glory of Heaven. And even if I'm not the only one praying for him, I might be the only one convinced that he actually benefits from my prayers and helps me along from time to time. The communion of saints: The Church Militant, the Church Suffering, the Church Glorified.
I have been going through purgation lately. The Lord has been forming my heart to be much like His. I have been learning to love like He does. It's beautiful. It's wonderful. It's painful.
I have always been fascinated by the mystics -- the saints who have supernatural experiences of God. Other people read the intellectual writings of Augustine and Aquinas. Me, I read the biographies of Francis of Assisi, Teresa of Avila, Terese of Lisieux, Faustina of Poland, Padre Pio of Petrelcina. I have always been amazed by the supernatural. I am particularly amazed by the victim souls: those who ask, beg, and plead to share in the sufferings of Christ in order to make reparation for the sins of others.
This has always seemed a little crazy to me. I mean, how, why, what are they thinking, asking for suffering? Suffering is no fun. Suffering is something to be avoided, something to be soothed, to be pitied, to be made better. I have had many bouts with depression in my life and I never enjoyed the suffering.
But now I think I understand. These past few months, I have learned that it's not about wanting to feel pain. It's about aching with so much love for a person that you are willing to do anything, anything at all, to help that person have a more fulfilling life. See, the suffering is already present in the ache of the heart. The physical suffering is actually a relief because then you know you're doing something to assist that person along in their journey toward peace, love, and joy.
Now, I know that hair shirts and nail belts and self-flagellations are way out of style. They are no longer the in thing as far as the Catholic Church is concerned. I know that. I'm not going out there seeking suffering. Believe me. I've got four kids at home all day every day. I have enough to offer up just in the normal course of my routine. But I have taken up more prayers and I have taken up exercise and I have forgone simple pleasures here and there and maybe just maybe I will prove my love even moreso by taking up running again and offering that for reparation.
My heart yearns now in a way it has never yearned before. And I believe that is because my heart loves now in a way it has never loved before. Pure love. Complete love. Big blazing inferno love. A love bomb explosion, as Christopher West would say.
What is a love bomb explosion, you may ask. It is when you see somebody -- somebody in the airport, somebody in a newspaper, somebody online -- you see that person, you meet him, you hear about him...somehow, you connect with that person. And it's not like you go gaga over him. It's not at all like fainting over a rock star. It's like you suddenly see that person through God's eyes. You see him for just how beautiful and wonderful and amazing and love-worthy he is. And it doesn't matter how much you know or don't know about him. It doesn't matter how he is living his life now or how he may have lived it in the past. All that matters is that you want him to see himself just as you see him at that moment -- during that moment of that love bomb explosion. You want him to know how much he is completely, utterly, and totally loved and how much he is absolutely worthy of that love. You want him to respond to that love and be happy and be joyful and be at peace with himself.
But it's the response that's tricky. How do you explain love to someone who has never been honestly loved before? How do you explain honesty to someone who believes it is fleeting and intangible? How do you explain forever to someone who lives only in the now? How do you explain those things? How? How? My heart aches. I am completely honest with someone who admits to despising the truth. I have complete acceptance for a person who may never accept my acceptance of him. I have an everlasting love for someone who may not care if I disappear tomorrow. God give me the strength to endure the intensity of this love, no matter what the response.
-----------------
I would walk up to your door, but you would answer before I knocked. You would take my hand and welcome me into your home. I would stand there with the feeling I always have when meeting one of my newborns: You're here. You're real. Look at you – your face, your hands, your skin.
Then I would wrap my arms around you and breathe in your scent and my whole being would be filled with contentment. After the embrace, we'd talk for awhile. And the whole time, I would want to touch your hand or your arm, just to remind myself that you're really here. Eventually, you'd put on Silversun Pickups and I would have to dance. I would close my eyes, not to block out my surroundings, but to fully enter into the world that the music was drawing me into. You might join me in the dance or you might just sit there on the couch, being entertained by it all.
I'd have a drink after that – whatever you offered me – and we'd talk some more. The night would grow long and you'd take me into your sanctuary, your room. You'd show me all your pictures on the wall and explain your little treasures that you keep on your desk and your shelves. I would enjoy hearing about your memories and your travels and your view of the world. You'd grow tired of talking and you'd lay down on your bed. I'd sit on the edge beside you, holding your hand.
You'd be sleepy and I'd sing:
Sweet sweet sweet
Sweet little agony
I don't know just where you've been
But I'll take take take
All that you have for me
[And say] Where are we going?
Then I'd lift the back of your hand to my cheek and I'd notice a scar on your wrist and one on your forearm and one on your shoulder and three along your neck. I would press my lips to them all, trying to somehow ease the pain behind them. And then I'd lay next to you and put my head on your chest and listen to your heartbeat: slow, strong, steady. I'd want to fall asleep to the lulling rhythm, but you would fall asleep first and I would force myself to sit up.
I would trace a cross upon your forehead and say, God bless you, [dear sweet boy]. I'd place my hand on your chest to feel your heartbeat one last time and say, I hope to see you again one day, because Heaven just wouldn't be Heaven without you. I'd wipe away the wetness from my eyes and press my cheek to yours, breathing in your scent again. I'd touch my fingers to my lips and then yours and I'd remember you always.
I was asked recently if I was feeling too alive lately. Too alive? This question was offered by a person who thinks it's a great idea to numb himself regularly with booze just about every night. Too alive, indeed.
I'd rather feel everything, painful as it may be, than feel nothing at all. Feeling nothing -- that's not feeling. That's just being numb. And I don't care what Pink Floyd says, being numb is not comfortable, not for very long.
I have come to the conclusion within the past few days that there really is no one in the world like me. This may seem extraordinarily obvious. But I think about it. I ponder it. I muse about it. There are six billion people on the earth at this moment and there are probably another 12 billion or so who have walked it sometime in the past and none of them, not a single one out there is just like me.
That's sort of crazy to think about. There is no one out there who is a grunge music fan and a die-hard Catholic. Well, that's not true. I remember being overjoyed when attending Mass one day at Franciscan University and noticing a guy seated in front of me with a Nirvana Incesticide T-shirt on. He probably scandalized the many good girls around me, but he was God's sign of love and acceptance to my eyes. I remember I was new at the school and I thought, "I DO belong here! There ARE others like me."
Praise God for that guy in the Nirvana shirt. Praise God for that girl at FUS in the Nine Inch Nails shirt. Praise God for that guy at FUS with the Smashing Pumpkins shirt. Praise God for my boyfriend-turned-husband who had the guts to let me tease his hair and paint his eyes with eyeliner and eyeshadow and put him in a black button-down shirt and a black broom skirt and bring him to an 80's dance on campus. It was the funniest thing that night -- it was vocations weekend and on our way to the dance, we had to pass up many nuns and priests and just smile and nod.
Still, I think I might be the only person in the world who still -- 14 years later -- prays for the soul of Kurt Cobain, that he may one day soon enter into the full glory of Heaven. And even if I'm not the only one praying for him, I might be the only one convinced that he actually benefits from my prayers and helps me along from time to time. The communion of saints: The Church Militant, the Church Suffering, the Church Glorified.
I have been going through purgation lately. The Lord has been forming my heart to be much like His. I have been learning to love like He does. It's beautiful. It's wonderful. It's painful.
I have always been fascinated by the mystics -- the saints who have supernatural experiences of God. Other people read the intellectual writings of Augustine and Aquinas. Me, I read the biographies of Francis of Assisi, Teresa of Avila, Terese of Lisieux, Faustina of Poland, Padre Pio of Petrelcina. I have always been amazed by the supernatural. I am particularly amazed by the victim souls: those who ask, beg, and plead to share in the sufferings of Christ in order to make reparation for the sins of others.
This has always seemed a little crazy to me. I mean, how, why, what are they thinking, asking for suffering? Suffering is no fun. Suffering is something to be avoided, something to be soothed, to be pitied, to be made better. I have had many bouts with depression in my life and I never enjoyed the suffering.
But now I think I understand. These past few months, I have learned that it's not about wanting to feel pain. It's about aching with so much love for a person that you are willing to do anything, anything at all, to help that person have a more fulfilling life. See, the suffering is already present in the ache of the heart. The physical suffering is actually a relief because then you know you're doing something to assist that person along in their journey toward peace, love, and joy.
Now, I know that hair shirts and nail belts and self-flagellations are way out of style. They are no longer the in thing as far as the Catholic Church is concerned. I know that. I'm not going out there seeking suffering. Believe me. I've got four kids at home all day every day. I have enough to offer up just in the normal course of my routine. But I have taken up more prayers and I have taken up exercise and I have forgone simple pleasures here and there and maybe just maybe I will prove my love even moreso by taking up running again and offering that for reparation.
My heart yearns now in a way it has never yearned before. And I believe that is because my heart loves now in a way it has never loved before. Pure love. Complete love. Big blazing inferno love. A love bomb explosion, as Christopher West would say.
What is a love bomb explosion, you may ask. It is when you see somebody -- somebody in the airport, somebody in a newspaper, somebody online -- you see that person, you meet him, you hear about him...somehow, you connect with that person. And it's not like you go gaga over him. It's not at all like fainting over a rock star. It's like you suddenly see that person through God's eyes. You see him for just how beautiful and wonderful and amazing and love-worthy he is. And it doesn't matter how much you know or don't know about him. It doesn't matter how he is living his life now or how he may have lived it in the past. All that matters is that you want him to see himself just as you see him at that moment -- during that moment of that love bomb explosion. You want him to know how much he is completely, utterly, and totally loved and how much he is absolutely worthy of that love. You want him to respond to that love and be happy and be joyful and be at peace with himself.
But it's the response that's tricky. How do you explain love to someone who has never been honestly loved before? How do you explain honesty to someone who believes it is fleeting and intangible? How do you explain forever to someone who lives only in the now? How do you explain those things? How? How? My heart aches. I am completely honest with someone who admits to despising the truth. I have complete acceptance for a person who may never accept my acceptance of him. I have an everlasting love for someone who may not care if I disappear tomorrow. God give me the strength to endure the intensity of this love, no matter what the response.
-----------------
I would walk up to your door, but you would answer before I knocked. You would take my hand and welcome me into your home. I would stand there with the feeling I always have when meeting one of my newborns: You're here. You're real. Look at you – your face, your hands, your skin.
Then I would wrap my arms around you and breathe in your scent and my whole being would be filled with contentment. After the embrace, we'd talk for awhile. And the whole time, I would want to touch your hand or your arm, just to remind myself that you're really here. Eventually, you'd put on Silversun Pickups and I would have to dance. I would close my eyes, not to block out my surroundings, but to fully enter into the world that the music was drawing me into. You might join me in the dance or you might just sit there on the couch, being entertained by it all.
I'd have a drink after that – whatever you offered me – and we'd talk some more. The night would grow long and you'd take me into your sanctuary, your room. You'd show me all your pictures on the wall and explain your little treasures that you keep on your desk and your shelves. I would enjoy hearing about your memories and your travels and your view of the world. You'd grow tired of talking and you'd lay down on your bed. I'd sit on the edge beside you, holding your hand.
You'd be sleepy and I'd sing:
Sweet sweet sweet
Sweet little agony
I don't know just where you've been
But I'll take take take
All that you have for me
[And say] Where are we going?
Then I'd lift the back of your hand to my cheek and I'd notice a scar on your wrist and one on your forearm and one on your shoulder and three along your neck. I would press my lips to them all, trying to somehow ease the pain behind them. And then I'd lay next to you and put my head on your chest and listen to your heartbeat: slow, strong, steady. I'd want to fall asleep to the lulling rhythm, but you would fall asleep first and I would force myself to sit up.
I would trace a cross upon your forehead and say, God bless you, [dear sweet boy]. I'd place my hand on your chest to feel your heartbeat one last time and say, I hope to see you again one day, because Heaven just wouldn't be Heaven without you. I'd wipe away the wetness from my eyes and press my cheek to yours, breathing in your scent again. I'd touch my fingers to my lips and then yours and I'd remember you always.
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