Talking About It

Talking about it is hard.

Whenever you make new friends there inevitably comes that moment where you have to tell them.

Maybe not right away, maybe its like a few months in.

But eventually you have to say yeah… my childhood wasn’t actually perfect.

“they were really religious… they homeschooled me k-12.” But you seem so normal!

“yeah I have 10 siblings.. no we’re not catholic…” I could never do that! Your mum must be a saint!

“no I will never have that many kids. No I don’t plan to homeschool. No it wasn’t a good experience.”

You sit there feeling like a freak show. Everybody’s gawking because they’ve never even heard of such things. Surely you must be exaggerating?! But in reality you’re dumbing it down, polishing the edges.

And in the back of your mind is the old family mantra hissing “You are so selfish. Telling tales for attention. People are going to think bad things about the family! Where is your loyalty?!”

They all shake their heads in wonderment. Courtship? Isn’t that another word for dating? You are monopolizing the conversation now. But they won’t let you stop. They have so many questions. You’re like a space alien telling stories about your exotic and barbaric planet.

You mentally sweep the years of violence and neglect and manipulation into a neat little dustpan and name it: “It wasn’t really a healthy environment.” And people infer what they want, and you move on. And eventually someone changes the subject and you sit there feeling embarrassed.

You wonder if your cheeks have turned red. Did you say too much? “You always say too much!” You smile and engage in the rest of the conversation. And then you go home and aggressively wash the dishes, fighting back your rising anxiety.

Eventually you find yourself in bed with a pillow over your face.

Trying to slow your breathing. Trying to fall asleep.

Its been ages. It should be so hard to talk about.

Longing

I am intimately familiar with the feeling called longing

Intense, sharp, caustic need

the kind that chews a hole inside your chest

like a shot of novocain, a burn and a sting

I only ever longed for freedom

burning my hands over a steaming pot

the future stretching out before me

strangled by the sameness and monotony

longing like bile in my throat

gagging, choking, my stomach in knots

fight or flight, but i could do neither

twelve years old and living in my own coffin

need is dangerous

if you acknowledge it, it demands to be satisfied

and when you can’t deliver

longing will tear.you.apart.

with sharp, curved claws

longing tore it’s way through my lungs

i stopped breathing for 6 years

those talons tore divots in my baby skin

I chased after freedom even as my lips were turning blue

flat on my belly, crawling with my fingernails

this longing is brutal

it will kill you before it will be ignored

every year i long for Fall

every fall i’d turn one year closer to freedom

it was fall when I broke away and started running

fall is a clean cold slate against fevered skin

the longing for freedom is part of being human

it’s right beneath your skin

a hungry monster you will never escape

I’d advise you to embrace it before it eats you alive

(originally published on my Tumblr)

College

Things I have learned from the 3 years I’ve spent in college:

•  Pulling an all-nighter is never worth it.
• Nobody cares what you wear to class.
• If you don’t get enough nutrition you grades will suffer.
• Getting a B is okay.
• The key to making a professor like you is to keep a low profile at first and then gradually become more engaged in class as the semester goes on. Your professor will feel like they drew you out of your shell. They’ll be really proud of themselves and totally love you for the rest of the year.
• It’s okay to procrastinate, just make sure you read all the instructions for a project way ahead of time so you arent suprised by how much there is to do the night before
• Don’t sit by fun, social people in class, they’ll get you in trouble
• Keep a constant list of assignments on your phone so you never forget stuff
• Never ever ever share your homework with classmates
• Always sell your textbooks at the end of the semester
• Never start a new show on Netflix close to finals or midterms
• Limit drinking to one night a week, if you dont you WILL get fat
• Try to have some fun. You won’t be this young forever

Things i still dont have answers for after 3 years in college:

• When you pass sombody in the hallway or on the sidewalk, is it weirder to make eye contact and smile or just completely ignore them?

Skirts Make Me Uncomfortable

I work at a tax firm, so I'm basically way too busy this time of year to be blogging. But I've been feeling very fashionable this week and I wanted to share pictures with somebody. Photo posts are so lazy, but I don't really have time for much else!

This is my outfit from Wednesday of this week. Just ignore the fact that I'm clearly standing in the bathroom at work, and also ignore the fact that I'm taking pictures of myself in the mirror. I was feeling extremely uncomfortable and traumatized all day, and I'm positive it was because of the skirt.

This is me on Thursday, suddenly feeling confident and comfortable in a pair of dress pants and a cardigan. It's amazing how much better I felt that day. 

Anybody from a Fundy background like me knows how frustrating clothes can be. I feel like I never had a chance to discover my style, and I have all these random insecurities and paranoia when it comes to getting dressed.

 "OMG what will happen if I lift my arms up? Someone might see my midrif!"

"Relax"

"Can't wear this, you can see a bra strap"

"Is it acceptable to wear pants this tight?"

"What is normal?"

"Forget it. I give up. I'll just stay in the house all day. Better yet, I'll stay in bed all day."

I've had to force myself to put aside my fears and focus on what I want and what makes me feel good. Those are both major no-no's for a Fundie girl, but those days are behind me now. This last year has been an adventure in self discover and self acceptance, and I think I'm finally starting to enjoy it.

This is me today. We do casual Friday at my office. I'm feeling awesome in my sweater from the men's section of H & M. I painted my nails green and I'm wearing neon orange socks under my boots, because they make me happy and remind me that it's okay to be me. Today is a good day. :)

Has anyone else experienced skirt-PTSD? Have you guys struggled to find your style or accept your body? What is your version of "Neon Orange Socks?"

Superhero



I look nothing like this when i work out



Every morning I wake up at 5:45am. I go to the gym and work out for 30-45 minutes. Throughout the day I eat lots of healthy snacks like veggies, fruits, and nuts and drink lots of water. My meals are low in fats and sugars. I eat around 1200 calories a day and I’m never really hungry.  Basically, I do everything right.

But every time I get on the scale, I’m still the exact same weight. According to the internet, my BMI is like 26. I’m in the “overweight” category. I need to lose almost 10 pounds before I’ll be considered healthy.

WTF?

You can literally see my abs. well, three of them at least.

Most people would say I have a slow metabolism. I prefer to think it is just madly efficient. It would keep me alive for months without hardly any food or water. My Irish genes are designed to withstand cold, starvation, and probably virus’s, which means I will be the one saving the world during the zombie apocalypse when the rest of you are enjoying brains for dinner. So really, I’m not chubby and awkward; I’m a super hero. Why didn’t I figure this out sooner?

I’m pretty sure superhero’s don’t change their bodies to fit into their clothes. Hell No. Super hero’s have clothes made especially to fit their super awesome bodies. I think it’s time I threw out my old size 8 pants and got myself some new 10’s and 11’s. I guess I’ll just always have giant, well-muscled thighs and broad shoulders. That’s not a bad thing.



I like Wonder Woman's hips. They're giant. Like mine

What does your body do that makes you special? Are your arms just the right size to reach through half closed car windows and unlock the door, thereby rescuing the person who locked their keys inside? I have news for you, you have a superhero body too. Are you super awesome at moving your hips, to the point where you rock every dance floor you stand on? Superhero. Are you so awesomely hairy that you could survive an Alaskan blizzard because of your extra warmth? Superhero. Does your extra layer of fat make treading water incredibly easy? Super. Hero.

Why do we spend so much time focusing on what our bodies look like, instead of what our bodies can do? Why do we think about our hips and double chins when we plan what to eat? Shouldn’t we be eating out of respect and love for our bodies instead of hatred and mistrust?

So, here’s some advice I should really take myself. Do you own a scale? I suggest that you go and throw it out. Or at least take out the batteries. Stop looking at charts and graphs that measure numbers instead of value. Our bodies are awesome machines that perform extremely complex and impressive tasks every day. Find some things about your body that rock, and celebrate them!

Sick-Fil-A

Chick-fil-A's homophobia doesn’t really surprise, nor does it necessarily bother me. Companies donate their money and build their products wherever and however they want all the time. If I was going to boycott CFA I’d have to boycott lots of other things, like gasoline and tennis shoes.

What surprises and frustrates me, are all the people that are using this as an opportunity to spread hatred. Whether you agree or disagree with chick-fil-a and their choices, it makes no difference. They will go on spending their money how they please. By declaring a "chick-fil-a Wednesday" you are not supporting anything or anyone, you are simply seizing an opportunity to express hatred towards an entire group of people.

I'll be staying as far away from Chick-Fil-A as possible tomorrow. Not because I dislike their menu or their business model, but because I can't stomach the idea of hundreds of people getting together to celebrate homophobia over chicken and fries.

Un-Ignorable

My feet pound the pavement relentlessly.

It’s been an hour and I’m coming up on mile 6. Four more to go… I’m cold and sore. I need motivation. On days like today I have to dig deep for the strength I need to keep on going. But my damaged psyche doesn’t know the difference between inspiring and belittling. My footsteps turn into words:

“fat, fat, fat, fat.”

I can suddenly feel the eyes of every passerby on my enormous body.

“fat, fat, fat, fat”

 I am mortified. I resolve to run faster.

 Maybe if I push harder these thick legs will melt a little,

                                                      these strong arms with shrink a little,

                                                                                  these breasts won’t protrude so far.

I find myself apologizing to the sidewalk for the weight of my body. More than anything in the world, I want to disappear.

As I drag my tired body over the last few miles, my mind is full of images. What would it be like, I wonder, to grow too small for all my clothes? To take up only half of a chair? To blend right in with the crowd instead of standing out like a sore thumb,

                                                                                 or a black eye,

                                                                                              or a broken nose?

I don’t want to be a skeleton, just small enough to be ignored. Maybe without all these eyes on me I wouldn’t have to hate myself so much.

I reach my apartment at long last, thankful for the opportunity to disappear behind my uniform grey door. It is easy to ignore my little home, and that makes me feel safe. As I’m stretching, I stare mournfully down at my legs. They are short and stout from the bottoms of my shorts to the top of my wooly running socks. I imagine how they will look one day, long and willowy and narrow.

 I reach down and grab my calves for deeper stretch,

                                                                                  .....and suddenly my daydream ends.

 My legs are all muscle; completely solid from the knee down and only a little softness around my thighs. Reality hits me like snow ball to the face: startling, refreshing, and somehow exhilarating.

I am not a big version of someone else, I am a healthy version of ME.

Call me big-boned,

                                     fat,

                                             athletic

                                                             or plus sized,

it doesn’t matter. I need to learn to call myself Sarah.  I cannot change my body any more than I can change who I am.

My body is muscled and curvy,

                                                           ......just like my heart is strong and compassionate.

Like it or not, I will never be able to disappear.

I feel a smile creep across my face.

Could it be that I have already arrived?

 Relief floods my heart as I realize the truth. My endless struggle for the perfect body finally over. My body IS perfect. Every unique inch of me is a reflection of who I am inside.

I am bold,

                       I am strong,

                                                   I am beautiful.

                                                                                 I am un-ignorable.

Powerful Insignificance

I threw away all my skirts a long time ago, but today I found one more, buried in the back of my closet.

 It was brand new when I bought it last year. I haven’t done laundry in a while, so I decide to wear it to the office.

It’s just dressy enough.

I check the mirror more than usual this morning.

The skirt is floor length, and it looks really good on me.

                          Stylish.

                                            Classy.

So why am I so uncomfortable?

I make myself hurry out the door for work. If I let myself change again I’ll be stuck in the closet all morning.

I run all the way to the car.

In part because I am cold, but also because I don’t want anyone to see me.

“You look fine” I remind myself, frustrated with my insecurity.

 On the way to work, I am grateful for the thick soft warmth wrapping around my legs, but as soon as I arrive, my skirt gets caught in the car door and I feel foolish.

The long heavy material tugs at my ankles every time I take a step. I am acutely aware of it. It feels like shackles. An invisible chain holding me hostage.

I feel fatter than usual today too. My naked legs brush against each other when I walk: a constant reminder of that extra 10 pounds.

I slouch a little,

                              embarrassed,

                                                              wondering if everyone can see what I see.

“I am thankful for this skirt.” I tell myself. “It’s hiding these unsightly legs, and this lumpy round butt.”

Confidence is a long lost memory today. I lower my eyes when people pass me. I don’t want to see the disgust I imagine I’ll find in their eyes.

Today when my boss yells at me, I forget how to stand up for myself.

                I just feel bad,

                                               useless,

                                                                           stupid.

“sorry. I’ll do better.”

I waddle back to my desk and sink into my chair, defeated. 10am and I’ve already had enough of this day.

I long for my bed.

In part because I am tired, but also because I know the blankets are thick enough to hide me from the rest of the world.

What is wrong with me today?

The skirt.

It reminds me of my old life.

                  Reminds me of the shame,

                                                                   the embarrassment,

                                                                                                         the helpless frustration.

I am angry that something so insignificant holds such power over me.

I’ll take this skirt off tonight after work.                         I’ll throw it straight into the trash.

I don’t care if it was new when I bought it last year. Nothing and no-one has the right to make me feel bad about myself. I won’t let it happen ever again.

Tomorrow I’ll wear pants. I’m actually kind of proud of this lumpy round butt of mine. J



Identity, Dreams, and Boxing Gloves

I miss Martial Arts so much.
I miss the balance, the strength, the sore muscles, the confidence, the competition, and yes, i even miss the bruises. I used to be in the gym every day. Training. 3 hours straight most nights after school. My whole paycheck went to MMA.

 I loved it..........
                       Lived it............
                                                                                                         Breathed it............

I'd give anything to be back there now, sweating out all my frustration.
 The technique thoroughly absorbed me,
                                            the intensity cleared my mind,
                                                                           the balance calmed and energized me.
Martial Arts brought me a sense of identity i had never known before. The drills taught me to push myself. The ring taught me to believe in myself. I miss the adrenalin. I miss the pain. I miss the peace.

But we have to pick our battles, don't we?

I want an education, I'm determined to have the career i want.
 I study.........
                           i write.........
                                                i plan.............
......and I've never felt so close to success.
My entire paycheck goes to rent, school, insurance, and savings. I am building my future, one day at a time. So I'll keep working 8-5, doing my home work and paying my bills. I'll keep glancing wistfully at that MMA gym on my way to school at night. I'm on the road to where i want to be. I know who i am, and i know where I'm going. Someday I'll be back on those mats, pursuing the balance that made me who i am today.

I know my dreams will come true, just maybe not all at once :)

Tired of Being Green

I try to hide my age. Most people think I'm in my mid 20's and i just let them. But since this is my place to to be completely honest, I think I'll go ahead and out myself. On Tuesday of this week, i turned 20 years old. It was my Golden birthday. I guess that's supposed to be special right? One year older means nothing to me, except an excuse to stretch the budget for some new clothes. I feel like Ive been this old forever. Maybe when I'm 30 I'll finally feel my age...

I know it sounds strange, but i really like the idea of getting old. I mean REALLY old. I picture myself standing in front of the mirror counting every wrinkle and grey hair. I think age is beautiful. I long for the day when my body's flaws will not be my fault.

Outside the trees are drooping and changing colors. You can't tell which is best because they are all so different. Nobody expects the maple to be lush and green like his oak neighbor anymore. Nobody is disappointed when the shrubs stop blooming. The leaves were so beautiful when they were born in the spring, but when summer came they had to fall in line with everybody else. Fall does not mean death and decay to me. It's the time when the trees and grass can finally escape the strict monotony of green and express their differences.

The spring in my life was short and somewhat rough. I've been green since i was 12 years old... Every birthday I get one year older and stay the exact same boring color. I look forward to the wrinkles and new curves that will come with the autumn of my life. I'm tired of being green. I know it's probably a bit early to be saying that. 20 years old is young. I'm barely an adult.. But birthdays and Fall always seem to make me wistful. Maybe when my body catches up to my old soul I'll be proud to tell my age...

In the meantime, I'm going to put on my hat and scarf and go buy myself some colorful sweaters for my birthday.

I love fall..... :)

The Mall

                                                I am
Swimming in a sea
   of people
        With a friend
We Are                             Surrounded

By the sights
   and smells of
     the weekend
Must be home                         By

    11:00 Curfew
Point at the photo-booth
       Boy kisses Girl
Classic story of                     Love

    4 new chick flicks in
The Theatre, Lets just
Shop. Please. Another
        Young couple,
On a bench                           But

Not exactly average
    Their fingers meshed
           Together over her
Pregnant belly, both             Completely

Entranced
    I almost linger
          A whiff of perfume
(a friend?) grabs my
Arm. Wont shop                 Alone.


(I didnt have anything ready to post today so i went looking through my old high school diary. This is a poem i  wrote my senior year.)

Slut Walk 2011

A comment on one of my recent posts got me thinking on the subject of modesty. I was taught all my life that dressing modestly was a requirement. If you dressed provocatively you were rebelling against God and tempting men. I learned that if you were raped it was probably your fault. Had i been sexually assaulted as a child i am positive i would not have been able to tell my parents.
Last month i attended an event in Chicago called the "slut walk." It's a protest against victim blaming in cases of rape. Women (and men) come dressed as scantily as they want and proclaim their right to live without fear.
As we tramped down Michigan avenue 500 strong, i just kept thinking about the time when i was 9 and afraid to put my hands in my pockets for fear of attracting attention. The time i was told i couldn't be friends with that little boy anymore because boy-girl friendships were inappropriate. I thought of how i have felt like an object and a problem my entire life. And It was liberating to shout along with the crowd.
Enjoy these Pictures taken by my friend Darlene Bunch. She is an extremely talented photographer and has always been an inspiration in my life. Check out her photography web page here. <3

What do you think? Would you be brave enough to walk with these Ladies? :)

Tuesday, Bloody Tuesday

My poor Husband is taking a couple killer summer classes online right now and there seems to be no end to the homework. In an attempt to cheer him up (and not destract him from his work) I decided to bake him an apple pie.
In the absense of a dough cutter, i got creative and used my hand mixer to cut the butter into the flour of my pie crust. Big mistake. I shot flour and butter chunks all over the kitchen. There was butter stuck up inside the mixer so I stuck my finger in to clean it out.
Now when i say "hand mixer" i mean the one hand type with the switchable head. I had switched to the puree head for some reason, so when i accidentaly bumped the "on" button, the super-sharp blade came whiping around and punged into the side of my finger. I remember thinking, "woah i hit the power button! good thing it didnt cut my finger!"
And then of course it started to hurt. There was blood on the pie dough, the counter, the blender, the floor, the sink, and of course on me. I immediatly put my hand under the faucet and watched the water below my finger go orange. Husband, (destracted afterall) put papertowels and pressure on the bone-deep wound and went for the First Aid kit. At this point my CNA instincts kicked in and i was able to treat myself.
After a bit, Husband went back to the couch and I went back to my pie. I managed to make an entire lattice-top apple pie with a giant bandage wrapped around my finger.

Also, I think I'm still in shock.