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)

My Journey: An Update

I have been neglecting my blog.

But I promise, the reasons are mostly good. I have been getting better. So much better. The suffocating blanket of uncertainty has almost completely disappeared. So many of my fears have been replaced with confidence and peace. I don’t feel so raw all the time anymore. I don’t always feel the need to pour my emotions out on “paper” to get them out of my system. I think I know who I am now. As an individual. And most days that means I feel peaceful, and happy.

None of things happened over night. And I’m sure I’ll change and have new questions all over again. But for once, I am not afraid of the future, because I finally trust myself to navigate it with authenticity. If I change, I change, and that’s okay. Because human beings are fluid. We are meant to change and grow, and rejecting that fact is unhealthy. P/QF folks will tell you that there’s a solid, biblical answer for every question, and if you don’t get it you need to try harder. But that kind of mindset removes us from our consciences, and from the opportunity to change and grow, which is what makes us human to begin with.

Letting go of belief in “right answers” is scary.
Letting go of the walls that you were always told would protect you is terrifying.
Letting go of the personality pajamas your parents swaddled you in at birth leaves you feeling naked and without identity.
Waking up in your twenties with no sense of self seems unbearable.

But I let go. And I started from scratch. And I trusted my conscience, and as cheesy as it sounds, I trusted my heart. It’s been over 2 years now, of slowly putting myself together, piece by piece. This is not the end of my journey. But I am happy to say that I know who I am today. I know what I want today. And that is more than enough for me.

I would love to talk more about my journey. I know how helpful it was to hear stories like mine when I was first beginning my journey. The tips and tricks and encouragements of others were invaluable to me. Please feel free to email me, or leave a comment about what you need to hear about. What will help you on your journey? If I get any responses I will write on those subjects.

The Magical Third Strand

When I got married two and a half years ago, I had a lot of pre-conceived opinions. I knew marriage wasn’t going to be easy, but I was convinced beyond a shadow of a doubt that we were going to make it. My confidence came from the belief that my fiancé and I had a special secret weapon against the trials of marriage: we had God. God was the third strand that would keep our marriage together, no matter what. I believed that my marriage was inherently stronger than those of non-believers. After all, God gave us superior insight and patience. God had gifted us with stronger and more powerful feelings of commitment. God had promised us that our cord of three strands would not be easily broken. I knew that my marriage was better than your marriage because God was supernaturally holding us together.

Imagine my surprise when I faced reality for the first time. We had been married for about 6 months. I was deep in post-patriarchy depression and I cried myself to sleep almost every night. My husband and I prayed together every day, but still I could see the toll my struggles were taking our marriage. I didn’t know how to feel better, and he didn’t know how to help me. I often thought of how much better off he would be without me. As I began facing my childhood for the first time, I developed a visceral reaction to anything that felt restrictive to me. I remember the exact moment when I first realized the magnitude of my “till death do us part” commitment.

I was sitting on my bed in our tiny apartment folding clothes. I started to think about the rest of my life. I was 19, and already the biggest decisions of my life were behind me. I would be folding these same socks and underwear every week for the rest. Of. My. Life.  I suddenly felt trapped, claustrophobic in my own life. I had committed to this marriage before God, and now I couldn’t leave. Ever. My chest constricted and my breath came faster. “I can’t do this.” I thought. “I can’t do this.”  

I imagined packing my things and leaving right then. My heart swelled with hope at the idea of being truly free for the first time in my life. Those thoughts terrified me, and in that moment I felt betrayed by God. “You promised that I wouldn’t have to feel this way!” I prayed through the tears. “You promised you would hold us together!” I felt cold and naked as I realized that there was no supernatural power keeping me here in this apartment with this man. There was no safety net protecting our marriage. There was nothing but our own desires, and I didn’t even know what I wanted.

What first felt like betrayal, turned out to be the most freeing realization of my married life. I examined my heart and gave myself permission to think about what I wanted. I gave myself permission to pursue the things that made me happy. I made a lot of changes in my life, like going back to school and moving to a new state. The biggest breakthrough of all was realizing that I wanted to be with my spouse. He makes me laugh, his personality compliments mine. He believes in me even when I don’t believe in myself. He does not “complete me,” but I cannot imagine my life without him. The life that I have is the life that I want.

The love we have for each other, and the commitment we made to each other is stronger and more profound than it has ever been. Many people question the strength and validity of our marriage because we are “unequally yoked” or too egalitarian. I used to do the same thing. The idea of stepping into a lifelong commitment is substantially less terrifying when you think you have a supernatural shield around you and your spouse. But how much more beautiful is a wedding where two flawed humans commit to one another, fully aware of the challenges they will face? How much more powerful is a marriage where two people stay together because they want to?

There is no magical third strand holding my marriage together, it’s just us. We promised each other that no matter what happens, we will never stop working on our marriage. We promised that no matter how our feelings change, we will never give up on our love. I mean it, and know that he does too. And that’s good enough for me.

Self Hatred and the Morning Person

I got up this morning at the usual time and rushed through my weekday morning routine. I’ve been doing the same thing every day for the last 3 years: shower, hair, makeup, clothes, and shoes, fly out the door just in time to make it to the office by 8. 

Getting ready in the morning has always been like a nightmare for me, ever since I was a kid. I’ve always hated my body, and squeezing into clothes makes me self conscious. Staring myself in the face without makeup makes me uncomfortable. Putting on my hand-me-down jewelry that isn’t quite fashionable embarrasses me. Leaving the house with all these insecurities makes me anxious and nervous. Maybe it’s the anticipation that makes me wake up nauseas and sore every morning, feeling like I’ve caught the flue overnight. Depression hits me the hardest in the morning.

Up until recently, if you asked me if I’m a “morning person” I would always say NO. Mornings are awful. Mornings mean facing overwhelming self-hatred. Mornings mean another long day of adversity. Waking up means the disappointment of knowing that I’m still alive. I’d rather just stay buried under the blankets where no one will know I exist.

There are a number of factors that led to my self-hatred. The Patriarchal society I grew up in demonized a woman’s body and sexuality while simultaneously glorifying the concept of the sweet, childlike virgin bride that I knew I would never emulate. I was never encouraged to express my emotions, so all my confusing feelings stayed trapped inside me. Being bisexual (and being taught that such things were abominable) also caused me to vilify a woman’s body in general. It was easier to hate it than admit to forbidden attraction. When paired with depression and lack of education, my natural bodily development became a waking nightmare. The hatred I had for myself and my body was not just a passing teenage phase; it was a devastating condition that colored my entire world in a muddy shade of black.

 For most of my life I sincerely believed that I was stupid, worthless, ugly, lazy, gluttonous, and sloppy. Self hatred is painful, debilitating, and dangerous. Lucky for me, I have people in my life who understand that. I am here today, I am healthy today, because my Hunnie, my sister, and a few close friends chose to take my struggles seriously. They insisted again and again that the opinions I had of myself were false.  They were there for me day or night to talk me though my anxiety.  It took countless long talks and years of hard work to get me to the place I am today. 

This is actually me wearing my fave brown dress pants



I don’t know exactly when it happened, but at some point this last year the heavy fog of depression, anxiety, and self hatred started to dissipate. It wasn’t until this morning that I realized how far I have come. I found myself singing in the shower at 6:00am (sorry neighbor). I winked at myself in the mirror while rubbing product into my super short hair. I put on my favorite checkered socks and walked around the house in my underwear without cringing every time I passed a mirror. And when my grey dress pants were too small to button, I switched to the bigger brown pair and it didn’t even bother me. Really.

This is ME we’re talking about here. The same girl who, at 8 years old, covered her whole body with washcloths in the bathtub because she didn’t want to have to see how “fat” she was. The same girl who refused to look in the mirror for much of her teenage life.. The same girl who stopped eating because a friend mentioned that she had a “little pooch.” And there I was this morning, smiling at my curves and meaning it. I just thought “welp, guess I’m not a size 8 after all.” Those grey pants were milestone for me.

Don’t be afraid to reach out to someone who’s hurting. You don’t have to say much. Simply tell them the truth:

You are beautiful.

                                 You are smart.

                                                           You are strong.

                                                                                         You can be anything you want to be.

And don’t stop saying it until they start to believe.

Afraid of the dark

 A year ago, I wrote a post about how as a kid I was convinced that I was possessed by the devil. I talked about the very first moment that I became afraid.

One of my earliest memories is of playing hide-and-seek at Grandma and Grandpa’s trailer. I was lying in the dark under the bed with my face pressed down into the red shag carpet. Waiting. There were dusty shoe boxes and plastic-wrapped blankets stacked all around me. I felt like they were waiting too, for the sunlight, for someone to open them again. Like most children, I was patient only when it came to hiding games, and I was willing to lie there all night, if need be, for someone to find me. I put my hands over my eyes and pushed down on my eye balls. When I lifted the pressure, the space in front of me exploded with imaginary fireworks. I pressed down harder, and harder, until suddenly I thought that maybe I could see a set of eyes. They were big and round and silver and stared right back at me unblinking, like an owl. Completely forgetting the game, I wriggled out from under the bed and went charging down the hall into the kitchen.

“Gramma! When I hide under the bed, I can see an owl’s eyes looking at me!”

Grandma looked up from the dishes with concern on her face. Grandpa, who was sitting at the kitchen table while Grandma cleaned, ordered me to come and stand before him.

 “What did you see?”

“Owl Eyes!” I laughed. “Big round silver ones! Under the bed when I close my eyes!”

I don’t remember what he said next, but I remember my excitement went suddenly cold. Grandpa was not happy. He asked me lots of questions, and before long, Grandma dried off her hands and came to sit with us at the table. They laid their hands on my head and prayed. Grandpa rebuked Satan in the name of Jesus and Grandma whispered “yes Lord” under her breath again and again.

I used to look back on that day as the moment when Satan entered my body.

 

I am sometimes afraid that if I ever become a parent I wont know how to address situations like this. When someone talks about seeing things in the dark, my automatic thought is that it MUST be demons. (Which is ridiculous since I don’t believe in demons.)  But I get uncomfortable and nervous none the less. I was wondering what I would do if my hypothetical child came to me about seeing things in the dark. As I browsed the comments, I came across one from Shadowspring that brought a huge smile to my face.

“Horrifying. You poor princess. I just want to pick up that little girl that saw owl eyes and go rewrite that whole story.

Would I be smart enough to figure out exactly what you had experienced? Probably not, but we could've put treats out for the owl, gone to library for owl books (including Winnie the Pooh), made up a series of owl adventures and/or even had a field trip to the raptor center. That's the kind of grandma I want to be.

I bet your grandparents would cry if they knew that religious freak-out was the beginning of so much pain for you. At least, I hope they would.

Hugs, SS”

 

 As an agnostic, I no longer believe in dark, powerful demons that can harm and hurt you at will. I have no reason to be afraid for myself or my hypothetical children. Thanks, SS for the sweet comment. I know someday I'll think of you when my children come to me afraid of the dark. I know i will honestly be able to say "there is nothing to fear."

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 :)

Let my Soul Heal (Spiritual Journey Part 2)

The healing process is not easy. Long suppressed feelings are even more painful when you experience them later in life. There were times I walked out in the middle of conversations with friends or family to avoid shouting or bursting into tears. Long conversations with my older sisters gave me courage to keep pressing on. Blogging has also been Instrumental in my “recovery.” Hearing from other people with similar struggles is incredibly encouraging! 

Husband kept expecting that my rest period would end with some sudden realization or conversion. But I knew that this journey was only just beginning.

I always assumed that Husband’s faith was just the same as mine, stubborn and unfounded. The more disillusioned I became with my faith, the more I started thinking that maybe He was brainwashed too, especially when nothing I could say would sway him. But the more we debated, the more I realized he really did know what he was talking about. At some point before becoming a Christian, he had done his homework. He knew both sides of the creation/evolution argument. He knew the tenants and philosophies of every main world religion. He even had experience with people from almost every walk of life. All I had was what my parents gave me: the ability to reason, and a thorough brainwashing. I had never studied other religions, I knew nothing about the evolution, and I had limited social experience. He could argue circles around me no matter what we were discussing. I was frustrated with some of his conclusions, but also shocked to discover he wasn’t nearly as hard lined as my parents had been. He didn’t believe in female submission, or spiritual headship. He didn’t think Catholics were going hell, in fact, he questioned whether hell was really the burning torture chamber I had learned about. He loved rock music and thought I looked nice in a bikini…

 I realized I could never make an informed decision on religion until I was actually informed.

I started browsing the documentary section at the library and brought home a number of different DVDs on subjects ranging from Ancient Wicka to the Galapagos Islands. Husband watched them with me sometimes and listened to me talk about what I’d learned with patience and interest. I’ll list a few of my favorites here.

I watched a documentary called “in the name of God.” It was made just after 9/11 as a look into various religions and their take on violence, war, and where “god” fits in. It was beautiful and refreshing. I teared up a couple times throughout the film as my heart celebrated the goodness of humanity. It also helped me silence my inner conspiracy theorist. Religion isn’t all bad, it’s not all evil, it’s not a tool used by the government to control the masses. Religion comes from the hearts of people seeking truth, happiness, and greater good; there’s nothing inherently sinister about it.

Another of my favorites was a PBS documentary called “The question of God.” In this film, Harvard Professor Dr. Armand Nicholi examines the questions of faith and belief. He and a panel of prestigious psychologists and philosophers look at the lives and works of C.S. Lewis and Sigmund Freud. "It may be that Freud and Lewis represent conflicting parts of ourselves," Dr. Nicholi notes. "Part of us yearns for a relationship with the source of all joy, hope and happiness, as described by Lewis, and yet, there is another part that raises its fist in defiance and says with Freud, 'I will not surrender.' Whatever part we choose to express will determine our purpose, our identity, and our whole philosophy of life."

I continue to read and research in my spare time. I’m in Psychology 101 in college and I love every minute of it. I feel like a whole new world is opening up before my eyes. Why were my parents so afraid to educate me? As I grow more knowledgeable, my discussions with my husband get less heated and more intellectual. I love being a blank slate. I love not knowing. My healing process is slowly becoming a learning process as well.

 I’ll periodically update my blog with a post about where I am in my spiritual journey. If you’re on the same path, just know that it might take you your entire life. And that’s okay! Lets learn to embrace this journey together!  

   

Hopeless?

After the falling-out with my mother, she emailed me and asked me to "agree to disagree." Told me in no uncertain terms that she was not going to change her mind. I began to have nightmares. For three nights in a row i woke up crying. My dreams were filled with terrible, unspeakably graphic horrors. I will spare you the details that still make me shudder, but the underlying theme is important. In every dream, someone i loved was being hurt, and i was powerless to stop it. I screamed and no-one listened. My parents looked away and said it was under control. I woke up every morning overwhelmed by feelings of hopelessness.

Last weekend a dear friend of mine was murdered in the crossfire of a gang war. At the funeral on Wednesday, there was more than just grief. There was palpable anger, and hopelessness. A child in a casket, so wrong, so senseless. A group of noisy young men stalked past the funeral home towards the end of the day with visible markings on their clothes. Gang members. Loose clothes easily concealing the guns they most likely carried. I wanted to scream, shake them, force them to see the damage they had caused. Don't they know there is more to life than these few city blocks? How many people need to die for them to get the point? I left that night, overwhelmed with a feeling of hopelessness.

We all yearn for a better future. Humans constantly seek to better themselves, to make a difference, to right what is wrong. But for every step forward, we fall 2 steps back. As humans we are capable of feeding someone who is hungry, but tomorrow, another person will die of starvation. I could devote my life to helping humanity, but in the end, I will die, and my dreams will die with me.The truth is, that my love is not enough. I am not big enough to hold every broken person in my arms. I am not strong enough to carry every burden and dry every tear. I cannot promise every grieving mother she will see her baby again someday. I cannot stop that boy from pulling the trigger. I cannot heal 6 billion broken hearts.

But God can.

His love is big enough to heal the hurt in every heart. We should never stop striving to make this world a better place. I am not suggesting that we sit back and hope God will feed hungry people. But don't you think a satisfied heart will last much longer than a satisfied stomach? Maybe we should do what Jesus did and share God along with our bread and fish.

"Find rest, oh my soul, in God alone. my hope comes from him. Trust in him at all times, Oh people, pour out your hearts to him, for God is our refuge. One thing God has spoken, two things have i heard: that you oh God are strong, and that you, Oh Lord, are loving." - Psalms 62.

Do you think that God is enough to heal 6 billion hearts? Do you think that you are enough?