The True Confessions of a Wookie Princess

Something Normal

2010-08-10T21:58:00.002-06:00

Is there such a thing as normal? I've been looking for it all my life. I looked under rocks and over horizons. I looked for it in boxes of put-away-things. I looked for in drowning rains of grief and moments of sun-soaked hope. I never found it--not in any of those places, anyway.

What I found over and over was humor. I found ways to laugh through the utter unbecomingness of my three-legged-dog life. And sometimes, under a pile of humor, I found peace. Still, all that laughter has made me somewhat of a jester. A clown. I'm no ordinary painted-face variety. Instead, I am a painter of words. To know me, is to know that I'm unafraid to stand in front of a room full of people and make them laugh, to try to inspire them, to move them any way I can. To really know me, is to know that I am deeply terrified to speak my heart to the ones I love.

What was lost in all that leaf-blown laughter is the truth. It's a pity, really.  My truth is so much finer and gentler than the garish facade. Veritable Faberge to the neon plastic I spew. I But my heart still tells me that my truth must be protected somehow. That my fundamental self is still too fragile to stand on her new-born legs.

And so over and over I take my pratfalls and wait for the echoing sounds of approval. Pausing only momentarily to truly loathe my need for it. But the words of a friend have been ringing desperately in my ears over the last few hours. It was not her words that struck me most, though they were startling. It was her genuinely surprised tone. "Andrea!" she cried, "you just said something so normal!" Something in me cracked and then sank. Why? Because she sounded so flabbergasted.  My unsaid fears were confirmed. The joker, it seemed, has at last consumed me. I am unknown.

I have friends who don't know I was pretty once. I'm ok with that. That will come again. And I have friends who have never seen me blonde. That was another lifetime, now set aside. But the fact that I have friends who don't know me as anything but a poor Yorick terrifies me. Surely, they must suspect that I am something more. They must! But they don't. How would they know? I have given no hints, sent up no flares.  And so, I will begin again to unearth my normal from the place I've been most fearful to tread--my heart.

Plastic.

2010-05-15T01:38:00.005-06:00

I'm the first to admit, I'm a big... feeler. I'm the orginal Ms. McFeeley. I've been this way forever, I think. I cry when other people cry. I cry thinking about other people crying.

When I was very young, I remember standing in a toy store somewhere in Colorado. I was looking at a large display of toys and weeping unabashedly. Why? Because I had found a small, plastic doll of a Native American baby–its face covered in plastic tears. It was the most pathetic looking doll I'd ever seen. Why on earth they made such a doll is utterly beyond me. I’m sure it had some political connotations about the plight of the American Indian. Trust me, I didn’t get that. What I got was that it was a crying dolly. The dolly was in pain. It needed a home. It needed ME to love it.

When my parents found me weeping so profoundly over the little plastic baby, I’m sure they were a little stymied. What 6 year old reacts that way to a doll? But to me, both the doll and its sorrow were real. He was, of course, purchased and taken home to be cared for. I was beside myself at the idea of leaving him behind.

Fast forward an entire lifetime. I still seem to find the weeping plastic dolls of life. And it is still an innate part of me to want to take them home and fix them. But they aren’t dolls and helping isn’t half as simple as paying my $1.50 and saving the dolly from his sorrowful fate. Ever the protector and defender of all suffering things, I have fallen prey to many plastic tears–more than ever, it seems, in the last few months. The tender absolutions of "only" and "always"– how easily I am swayed by them! And how quick I am to rise to rescue, even when the victim isn't actually drowning. The slightest waves begin to churn and you'll find me racing to the edge of the water, tearing off my shoes and preparing to jump. It's like a very unsexy Baywatch.

In fairness, I genuinely do want to help. I want to lift the hands that hang down. I have somewhere within me an almost fierce sense of charity. But for all my efforts, I usually end up thrashing around in 3 feet of water until I'm nothing more than wet, cold, dirty, and tired. How heroic is that? Who did that help? I'm sure it made quite a spectacle. But it's frustating trying to separate the mere flailers from the drowners. Both are caught in a certain undertow–only one needs help to get out. So what next? I don't want to lose my sense of compassion. It's one of the things I genuinely like about myself. But I can't bear to have it wrung out every minute either. So, do I keep breathlessly running to save even when the tears and the fears are nothing more than painted plastic?

Pithy.

2010-05-14T00:02:00.001-06:00

"What I meant to say..." How many hundreds of times have I thought that? How many times have what I really meant and what I said in a moment not matched at all? My words–my filtered, fitted words–how they eat at me. All the things I might have said if I had had been brave enough, sure enough. So much goes unspoken. Which is odd, if you know me well. I am nearly endlessly buried in some story or conversation. But I realize more and more that all those meaningless words are only thinly stretched over what I genuinely mean. If I stopped motor-mouthing on, what would I actually say? If I saved my words for what meant something to me, would I know the sound of my own voice? Sometimes I catch myself choking on the truth when it spills over–generally, at the most inopportune times. But I feel like I'm suffocating on it. I literally can't spit it out. Frankly, I'm not sure I'm not strong enough to bear the weight of my own honesty. How foolish is that? How utterly ridiculous is it to push people away with your words? Especially when it the people you most dearly and deeply care about. How is anyone supposed to know what you're feeling if you never tell them? More and more I see myself dammed. Hemmed in by my boxes and bags of constant jokes. Ever pithy. Ever pushing.

I was stopped not long ago by someone I just met. She looked at me and with a note of satisfaction said, "You're sarcastic. I dont really get it, but I see it." It was like she had finally figured out some great puzzle. "Oh yes," quipped another friend, "the longer you know Andrea, the more you'll find that everything she says is a joke." I was startled, but not surprised per se. It's not like I dont know this, it's just strange to hear it said. Somehow, it makes the flaw more real. It's the worst kept secret ever. The real secret is that I'm not that way. I think and feel so achingly deeply, it's all I can do to spare people. And so I see that the very cover I chose to protect people I love is the very thing that's hurting them. How ironic. Bittersweet. And, finally, I have nothing pithy to say.

Again, I resume.

2010-05-12T20:26:00.000-06:00

Our youth is fleeting
Old age is just around the bend
And I can't wait to go grey

And I'll sit and wonder
Of every love that could've been
If I'd only thought of something charming to say.

Maybe turning 31 has pushed me to that point where I am settling–not settling for less, per se, just settling in. I'm in that state where I know that time is fleeting and not best spent in a state of consternation. Still, I am occasionally compelled to travel back to the bends in my road... to examine how a different reaction would have simplified or completely altered my life. I see now how frighteningly powerful our words are. And how quickly one choice can change who we are and who we become. Everything from the jobs we take to the subjects we study or the place we live changes who we are.

I alluded to at last finding my PEOPLE here–where I live now. And it's true. But would I have found them had I not chosen to pursue treatments with Dr. Hammond? Would I have met my amazing friend Mr. N had I not said yes to a road trip on a whim? One strange and quick drive to St George forever altered my path. I became friends with all the amazing people I know now because of that. I repaired my splintered friendship with Mr. J on a walk around town after breakfast on that same trip. Who would have guessed? Do you see what I mean? One moment...one yes.... one no.... everything changes. Every minute matters. Every person matters.

And so I begin... again... to find my place–my belonging sense. I want to curl up in that space between the lines. I have no earthly desire for position or power. I simply want to fit; to sit among my professional peers and not feel garishly out of place. Like a red dress at a funeral. I often wonder how other people do it. How do other people FIT? How, when life is so different for you than it is for anyone else, do you calmly go off to work and push keys and make choices and meet deadlines? How, when some days you linger on the brink of madness–willfully peering over the edge–do you still dress in business casual? How do pressed khakis and collared shirts make everything equal? I cannot fit the pieces of it together. Trust me, I have tried. And again, I will try. I will be well-behaved for as long as it lasts. I will not ask more or less of myself than I can reasonably give. And more than anything, I will pray in earnest that my words will not sink me, maroon me, farther that I can swim. Because if I fail again, I'll drown.

Unconvinced

2010-05-03T00:53:00.002-06:00

Is this what the bottom looks like? It's all over. Or is it all beginning? It's hard to tell from where I'm sitting. What I thought was going to be a great albeit difficult adventure ended as abruptly as it started. Friday was my last day of work. I lack... Challenger values, they said. I suppose in some ways, I take that as a compliment. And I agreed with them. So why do I feel like a failure?   Sucker punched.

I want more--more from life, from myself. I feel so much like I'm in line--waiting to be good at something. Anything. I don't fit in a cubicle, but I have to work. I have to earn money and support myself and find enough meaning in it to get up and go every single day.   And try not to get utterly lost in the translation. I have to choke down the fear that I'm not good at anything anyone actually wants or needs. And let's get real here for a minute, that's hard. Some days, it's almost impossible to feel like I'm doing anything that anyone will remember. Or care about.  Someone pulled me aside today to ask how I was doing... and did I need anything? No, no... of course not. I'm fine. I was unconvincing. She tried to remind me of how great she thought I was... but I admit, it sounded foreign and false. One has to offer such platitudes in times of crisis, don't they?   After more protest on my part,  she said, "I don't think you see yourself the way other people see you. People love you." I heard her, but she must be right, I didn't understand. I don't see it.  How can anyone respect and love so obvious a failure?

But these words were brought home again to me later that same evening. I went to visit a friend who had had a small accident with his eye. He's far from home and without insurance, so a little bit of extra help has been needed. As I left, he, loaded on pain pills, thanked me for my love and concern. I smiled and joked that he must be pretty loaded on drugs, if he LOVED me now. It was all in good humor.   Poor kid gets really sweet on the pills. But almost immediately my old friend jumped in and said, "What? We have to be on drugs to love you?  Why don't you just accept our love?  There's a lot of love for you here..."  Of course, it was all in good fun, but I think in some small way, he actually meant it.  I don't accept love. I try not to think of it that way... but it's the truth. I haven't accepted love in a long time.  Years, maybe.  Frankly, I feel like if I did, it would break me entirely.   There's something inside me so well-protected, no one can pry it open. It's a Pandora's box of sorts. It might even be that box I buried in foreign fields so long ago. If anyone managed to dig it up and break the lock off... Oh what a sad and vast disappointment!! No great treasure lies within. It's just my bent and broken parts... everything I thought I threw away. All my trembling weakness. All my waiting. All my blown out candles and ungranted wishes. How could anyone love THAT?

epic.

2010-04-18T14:23:00.002-06:00

I'm not really sure where to start... but I am quite certain that in time I will look back on all of this and laugh. For now, I am sort of muddling my way through. The last couple of months have been--is there a word bigger than epic? It all feels epic. Epic fails. Epic changes. Epicness abounds. I took the job, knowing there would be adjustments. Man, i had no idea what I was in for. I've been to rallies, tea parties.... waved my "don't tread on me" flag at some speaker I've never heard of and will surely never think of again. On Thursday, I may find myself marching on the capitol building. For what? Because 16 months is a long time to not have a job... and this is what I have to do to keep the one I have now. Sometimes I am overwhelmed with the lunacy of it all. To have said the company was a little right wing was the understatement of the year. I spend my day in the company of people just teetering on going off the grid. It's been eye-opening to say the least. It's been more than I bargained for ... but I am learning. Whethter they keep me or fire me now almost doesnt matter. Did I say that out loud? I think I did.

And yet in the midst of the strangest experiences of my professional career, I still find time to reflect personally. Reflect might be a mild word. The other morning, as I raced off to my harried commute, I walked out the door with three things in my hands. None of them were keys. Locked out of my house... my car.... I stood in that place between dead panic and maniacal laughter. Truth? I felt viscerally alone. No one to let me back in or offer me a ride, I was trapped. I called home. Home. That word has become so gray lately. Home is where I live. Home is where my family is. But they aren't the same. It's stretched tenuously across my mind, at times barely clinging to itself. Of course, I did what any reasonable person would do. I sat down on my steps and cried. I'm trying so hard to keep a job I struggle at and maintain my independence and it all came crumbling in on me for one moment. The key at home was missing. I felt as though I had fallen farther through some epic crack. Doesn't anyone keep me in mind enough to know where my key is? Just bring me a car key... bring me ANYTHING. DO SOMETHING. I was choking on the helplessness. I momentarity pondered breaking my own windows. How would I explain this to a company that already treats me like a failure? A car key was, at last, procured. I arrived at work 30 minutes late. Knowing I had done what I could to get there. I worked harder. Of course there was the accident I didnt get in at my exit that morning. But that somehow felt like cold comfort. Ungrateful, I know. You can't be perfect all the time. Sometimes, you dont feel like keeping it in perspective. Sometimes, the threads that hold it all together get tangled and some of them even break. Sometimes, you have to sit on your front steps early in the morning and have an epic cry. And then you get up, dust off, and drive.

Snapped. Shot.

2009-09-17T00:37:00.000-06:00

It's that time again. Time to stand in front of a camera and be made a terribly static creature. Unchanged. There's something so garish about staring back at yourself like you would at a corpse. Sure, there’s the occasional mirror. It’s not like I don’t SEE myself. But a reflection is such a transient thing...a photograph lingers like the last guest at an unsuccessful party. Why won’t they just go home? Can’t you see the host is tired? A photo—it's passed-around, thumb-printed proof. Proof of what? That nothing, it seems, ever changes. A little fatter, a little thinner... it almost doesn't matter. It's my constant minus-one reminder in a plus-one world. Everyone else sits cozily in their family groups... and then there's me in plain pained portraiture.

In two years, when it’s time again… will anyone one remember that when this was taken, I was living one of the loneliest years of my life? The year one of my best friends got cancer? The year I was rejected… completely… And saved. When I am locket locked in that moment, will I think of the dozens of times I was asked to sum myself up? And how I couldn’t? How utterly impossible that task was? Will anyone realize that in this picture I am a completely different person than I’ve ever been? How would anyone know that 20 years of self had been stripped away… when the only thing that will look different is that my hair will be longer. Up, maybe. Or down. How will this click of the camera hold all weight of the burden I bore? Will my frozen face give away the secret of my sleepless nights? Not likely. The tricks of light and shadow will cover for that. What a cheat. What a liar. It kills me. I will look no braver, no better, no more refined by the fire of experience. But Cheshire cat that I am—I’ll be snapped. Shot.

Foolish protestations...

2009-08-03T16:18:00.000-06:00

A friend recently asserted that perhaps emotional connections weren't worth much... at least in comparison to the pain they invariably caused. For a moment, I confess, I was nearly inclined to agree with him. But I couldn't. If you sat back and looked over my history and heartache, it would be readily apparent that I, in fact, would have had every reason to agree. I have been broken-hearted for the majority of my adult life. I almost can't imagine any other state of being. I will not list my sorrows here... it's not my purpose to garner pity for myself or point out the failings of those who have wounded me. After all, I know I am not so very singular in the universe. There are those with far greater woes than mine...

But as I, and those I love, pass through these veils of tears, I am beginning to see the temptation to respond to each other with ever increasing nonchalance. If you just stop giving, you'll never be disappointed. In large measure, that is true. But what is life except the meaningful exchange of emotions with others? We crave it. We seek it. We risk everything for it. This need for intimacy with others is what makes us fundamentally human. It is part of our relationship with our Maker. Our souls demand outreach. We reach heavenward so often, in search of happiness or peace... but in the end, find our comfort in the arms of an old friend. This is by no means a small thing. This very fact is why we simply cannot stop trying. Because someone, somewhere, is praying for us to find them. And more often than not, that person is the one standing right next to us. Who among us isn't lonely? Who among us isn't yearning to be heard and understood? Who among us doesn't bear some burden that would be lightened immeasurably in the sharing of it?

The truth is, we need each other... more than we know. We simply cannot trudge blindly along in our ever-deepening personal stoicism. We are not independent creatures; despite our foolish protestations to the contrary...

The Guest

2009-06-20T12:56:00.000-06:00

Once more, I find myself in the throes of change which I did not invite. I am determined to be the finest hostess, though. I will find her an unused chair and politely make conversation. Change has come to visit often... stayed a while, until I could no longer endure her smiling face and eager urging for progress. Oh yes, I have sent Change packing over and over.... literally cast her out in the heat of an unbending moment. But this time, I am resolved to let her stay. She is the strangest little house-mate. Instead of settling quietly in, as I would prefer, she's sweeping out all my static foolishness and uncovering long-packed strength. The windows I once only had the courage to crack, she is casting open--rain or shine. And in the most peculiar way, I am feeling the seasons move through my darkened rooms. I am seeing the sharpened angles of things in newly-spun light. How catastrophic it all looks...and how lonely. A box of memories here, a skeleton there. The garishness is startling. No matter how many times I have fallen over that same stack of should-have-beens, there they still sit—in the middle of the floor. Perhaps it's time to push them back, or simply put them away. Here comes Change again, arms full, ready to rid me of all my debacles. No, thank you. See, I'm still deciding where the rest of this nonsense belongs. Another time, perhaps. Never mind all that, Change tells me, cheerily. We're going to toss these first. Are you ready? Am I what? Wait! No, I'm not ready. I'm pleading with her-- Please, let me examine them again.... feel the weight of them against me, holding me down. How long can I stand here, under the weight of my unfulfilled glory. Forever, maybe? These things, they anchor me. Can't you understand? Without them, I am free-floating—undetermined. Let me hold them a little longer. No? How strange it must seem to you, sister Change, to want to hold so tightly to what should have been cast away ages ago. But they are all I have. I have nothing bright and beautiful to replace these precious broken relics. And with them gone, how empty my house will be. I’m not sure I can bear the grace of moving freely down my halls. I’ve grown accustomed to my cursing stagger. But Change is most insistent. All of this must go. She is proving herself more maid than guest. I try to hush her constant chatter. Indeed, how much easier it would be if she would just leave me be. Still, this violating determination to scrub clean is strangely cathartic. I am moved by her pace and I’m still moving. I’m in no hurry. I remind Change to be patient with me…to give me time to adjust. She just smiles and opens another cupboard.

2009-06-17T14:42:00.000-06:00

Sojourn

Hope and I sojourn again,
amid the yellow roses
and fallen grace.
Without her I have wandered,
waited;
for Godot, perhaps.
At last, we meet!
embrace-
and part.
The silence of our reunion,
deafening.
Empty-handed as I began,
I journey on,
treading softly roads
diverging-
into woods unknown.

Benediction

He waits in silence for the rising sun;
some small ray to shatter the darkness-
send its pieces crashing to the floor.
Hands hard-pressed against the pain,
cling to the tenuous light of morning.
Behind blind eyes, tears still run freely
Bathing wounds too deep to see;
and scars unknown.
But in the swiftly dissipating moonlight,
Peace and grace at last converge;
offering their blessing on the unknown day.
Mercifully, the horizon yields the first pale hues of hope
and the aching supplication of night
resigns to the benediction of dawn.

Between The Aching

An earnest prayer,
Escapes unmoving lips;
No louder than a sigh.
All the strength he can muster
To push it toward heaven,
Gasping to be heard.
Sleepless nights of wearied consideration,
Press upon what's left
of mind and heart
Expelled.
Weakness and might clamor for time,
Before tomorrow
Slips in
Between the aching
and the darkness
no different from dawn.

Pockets-full

2009-04-28T13:28:00.000-06:00

Oh gentle time,
where have you brought me?
Led by the hand,
to the precipice
of panic and peace.
Sifting through
the last fragments
of what I'm losing...
Gleaning
bits to take with me.
Pockets-full,
there's just a shard
here and there
I'm sure I have room.
Or maybe it's time
to dust off
my empty hands.
And ashes to ashes
let it all
fall down.

coming clean...

2009-03-24T18:53:00.000-06:00

It should come as no great surprise to anyone that I'm a master illusionist... Queen of Duplicity. I'm no liar...I'm just careful. Having had my trust misused and mistreated over the years has made me this way. And yet, I demand that others trust me.... rarely giving them the same courtesy. Holding poeple at arm's length means that when they inevitably reject me... they won't be rejecting me as a whole... only the smattering I subjected them to. It's a whole lot less hurtful that way.

But as I bemoaned the less-than-satisfactory reacation I got from a friend in a time of crisis, I realized the folly of my ways. I had given him no basis for what I needed. I had sheltered him from myself so carefully, that when it came time to reach out, he could only reach part way.... utterly unknowing. And as we talked over lunch the other day, I realized that if I wanted a fair and equal friendship, I would have to open the door. He wasn't going to beat it down, because he didn't know it was even there.

I had told him a few times of my frequent visits to the hospital at the U.... but gently rebuffed his further inquiries. While I craved the idea of sharing my life with someone, I was hesitant, too. And please don't mistake that phrase: "sharing my life." We are in no way 'those' people. Not like THAT. But truth be told, we are ALL those people. We are ALL sharing our lives, to one degree or another, with a chosen circle of friends and family. I digress.

I have long feared sharing myself with him...as it would spoil the illusion that I'm perfect. You're welcome to laugh here as the chunky girl asserts that she would, in any way, be perceived as perfect. But emotionally, I wanted to be seen as strong, tough, and able to bear the burdens of the world without difficulty. As was recently put to me: a sow pig with a tit for everyone. A startling mental picture, I confess. But real nonetheless. I'm here for the benefit of others.... and someone who is often on the edge of fragility herself would never be trusted with such important matters. So the idea that I would confess my own many and sundry imperfections to him seemed implausible at best. The balance of power would be spoiled irrevocably.

To be frank, this life-long habit of mental posturing has done me no great favors. So in recent weeks, I've attempted to crack my own shell and unearth my crumbling cornerstones... to level the playing field, as it were. In that spirit, I gave in to friendship and trust without bricked-in boundaries yesterday. I have been unfair in my expectations. I thought he would judge me. In fact, I knew he would. I thought the friendship would be over if I was myself. And, I confess, he did judge me...so generously and compassionately. Imagine my relief! As I described my struggles that brought me to this point, he listened patiently. As I reveled in recent triumphs, he supported me. How little credit I had given him.... I genuinely regret that. We've been close friends for some time now, and I still judged him harshly. I saw him as selfish... when it was I who had withheld my generosity of spirit.

...Oh what a tangled web we weave, when first we practice to deceive... I'm so relieved to be untangled now

End of an era...

2009-03-07T13:58:00.000-07:00

You would think that positive change would be something to get excited about. But it's still change and I still suck at it. For as long as I have memory, I have struggled with OCD, anxiety, depression, and sometimes inexplicable anger.

Seasons have changed and I have suffered more or less depending greatly on my life circumstances. In recent years, say the last decade, I have been exceptionally well-managed on medication. Still, the demons have haunted me... altered my ability to be in relationships, destroyed friendships, and cost me jobs under often humiliating conditions. I can't say I'm not grateful for the grace and strength these experiences have afforded me. But I will say, that I have suffered sometimes almost unendurably under the weight my own thoughts and actions. It's difficult to describe myself to people who do not suffer this way. I have yet, in all my searching, found a way to put into words the 'needs' that drive me--my own will grated against logic and reason. I have conquered many of these foes with a match of will and spiritual strength. However, there is still a marked duality within me although I have managed to merge for the purpose of daily life. I have studied and explored the realms of mental health and how it changes us. Am I who I might have been without these struggles? Surely not. Would I trade it? I cannot say.

I have felt fundamentally flawed all my life--even knowing that what drove me was my disease and not my personality. But these walls I've built--brick by brick-- have sheltered me. I have my wit and my humor, acerbic though it may be, it is purely mine. I have my boundless compassion which forces me outside myself when, without it, I might otherwise have been consumed. I have a loyalty which has forced many to the brink of reason by its pure and unwavering intensity. To you who have truly known me and born my maddness gladly, I thank you. In fact, I cannot thank you enough. Without you, I might never have survived. I owe my very life and happiness in large part to you.

And now, who am I to become? I am embarking on a process that may take my crutch and replace it will a wellness I have never known. I will no longer be a chemically altered version of myself, but instead a self I have never met. I am eager and afraid to meet her. I will have no more excuses for my failures. They will be entirely my own.... as will my success. I will have nothing to blame but myself for what I become. And the prospect of that terrifies me. In the same manner my physical weight has protected me from life and love, the weight upon my mind and reason have done the same. I have been safe within myself. This distorted self is the only one I have ever known... and we have made peace, she and I. But peace is only worth so much. Peace has pacified me into an unchanging state. And so I stretch painfully toward change.... toward another life... and horizons vastly unknown.

I don't remember...

2009-03-07T13:57:00.001-07:00

when I got old. I can only suppose that it happened while I was occupied with other things. I went to dinner with a few friends last night... to chat and catch up. One them lost her mom recently to cancer. It's been a very difficult time for her, needless to say. So, we all offered our support and understanding. And then, just as it was about time to say, "check please!" she blurts out, "so I have cancer." As you might imagine, we all nearly fell off our chairs. No one knew what exactly to say. What do you say? What's the RIGHT thing to say in that moment? She went on to tell us that she found out about her illness the day before her mom died. She was so pragmatic. I was dumbfounded. Had I not had another friend ask about it (she heard it from a friend of a friend) that same morning, I think I would have cried right there in the restaurant. As it was, we asked what questions we deemed appropriate and went home in stunned silence. I called her that night to talk about it in person. Was I mad she hadn't told me earlier? She wanted to know. How could I be mad? What use is that? Did I wish I had known? Sure. But I can't tell ANYONE how to handle themselves. I just don't remember when it was that we became people who talk about cancer at the dinner table like it's the economy or a new phone. I'm not sure I'll ever get used to it. But I think this is life now.

Meeting Grace...

2009-03-07T13:55:00.000-07:00

It is a well-known fact that I am a something of a loyal person. Loyal may even be an understatement. Nevertheless, I have a certain... stick-to-it-iveness. For the last 2ish years I have been engaged in a pretty remarkable friendship with someone I never thought I would even find myself in the same social circles with. It has been a rare a cherished gift as this person was once much-admired. During this time, I have rebuilt my confidence, learned, if not to GIVE my trust, to at least put it out on loan, and finally how to look logically at something and realize its natural life is coming to an end. It's a pity in some ways, but I also see the writing on the wall. I can't over-stay my welcome. As the saying goes:

“Some people come into our lives and quickly go. Some stay for awhile and leave footprints on our hearts. And we are never, ever the same.”

I have only had a small handful of such people in my life. Each one has come and gone in their own particular way. But I will confess that the beginnings of each relationship were far better than the ends. They seemed to end in epic battles of will. I readily accept responsibility for my half of those battles. I haven't always. I have been quick to assign blame, but I've come to realize the folly of that behavior. Though I must clarify--while I do take responsibility, I must say that so much of what has happened to me has been a direct result of my inabililty to control my thoughts, actions, and beliefs. It was never for a lack of trying. I have spent my life trying to conquer myself; to manage the mind that has sometimes driven me to the depths of hell and in so many ways carried all around me with it.

That being said, as I have pursued treatment for my OCD (among other things), I have been the beneficiary of a peculiar side-effect: Reason. Hope and I know each other well. And I'm on a first name basis with Strength, Mercy, and Grief. But Reason and I have never been well-acquainted. Though, I have forcefully driven him out in the name of Love. But as I have met him in recent weeks, I am beginning to see the wisdom of his companionship. He is fair, generous, and liberating. And so together, Reason and I are coming to terms with the end of what I hoped would be a fine and long-term beginning. And while we're at it, Reason is going to introduce me to his old friend Grace. I hope to become good friends.

Here on the eve...

2009-01-06T22:39:00.000-07:00

of what's left of my 20's I feel compelled to write something meaningful. In the last ten years, I have known the heights of joy, the depths of sorrow, and at last, found the peace of contentment. I have loved and been loved. I have lost everything dear to me, and found myself. I flew my kite into fields unknown and crossed more horizons than I can count. I buried yesterdays and looked to a hundred more tomorrows. The pain of the past has all but been put to rest. The Lord's plan and and His mercy have unfolded before me and surrounded me. Will there be more hills to climb and more valleys to traverse? Of course. But looking back, the inescapable truth is that no matter what rises up before me now, I can meet it with courage and optimism. I'm not yet all I could be, but I am who I am... and I'm happy with that.

A hundred years ago, when I was a different person, a dear friend and I chose this passage to inspire us. It inspires me still as I forge ahead with a newness of hope: "I have fought a good fight, I have finished my course, I have kept the faith." I have fought a good fight... truly, a fierce one at times. I have conquered my own demons and in turn, tried to help others do the same. The insights I have gained and the pains I have known have ALL been worth it. As the great Henry Van Dyke once wrote, "be glad of life because it gives you the chance to love and to work and to look up at the stars." I think I have finally learned that lesson. At last, I'm turning the page again.... pen in hand... ready to write the next chapters.

And so, my friends...

Grow old along with me!
The best is yet to be,
The last of life, for which the first was made:
Our times are in His hand
Who saith "A whole I planned,
Youth shows but half;
Trust God: see all, nor be afraid!

~Robert Browning

I follow...

2008-12-18T17:54:00.000-07:00

at least a dozen blogs. Some of friends... some of family. I am completely fascinated by what people have to say.. by how they get along in this crazy, mixed-up world. As I was reading the other day, I came across a very brief, but poignant entry: Ever settle in for a night of soul searching, only to discover that your cupboards are bare, so to speak? Somehow, someone I had never met and likely never will, connected with me. It stung and soothed at the same time. I guess I'm one of those people who likes to write when I have something to say. But sometimes I do have something to say... just not the right words to match the feelings... and so the soul-searching goes unanswered. I've been doing a fair bit of soul-searching lately. The brevity of life has been on my mind the last few days in a way it never has been before. A friend and I were out late on a Friday night... a bad double date to a concert we never made despite running 3 blocks in our nylons, my date close on our heels... after depositing my poor blind date at home in West Valley, we began out journey back to reality. As we drove, my friend noticed something in the road. The high winds and nearby field made a large sack or other kind of trash likely. But as we got closer, we realized it was a person. A man, face down in the intersection. People we driving around him like he wasn't even there. I thought... surely someone has already called 911... but I couldn't stand leaving him there. I drove back and parked my car in front of his lifeless body. Not knowing whether he was drunk, stoned, or the victim of a hit and run, all I could tell the operator was the intersection and that he wasn't conscious. Soon enough, we were alone on the street with him. I was still on the line with the operator when he came to. He was visibly bleeding from his mouth and eye and was struggling to stand. Once he was up, he approached the car... I told him to stay down and got out of the car to see if I could help him control the bleeding. He told us he'd been beaten after asking for a ride. He couldn't remember anything else, except that he was aware of passing cars. I sat down on the curb next to him and tried to calm him down. He kept saying, what am I, a piece of trash? No one stopped. No one stopped. He was covered in tattoos and had clearly been drinking. Still, he was unarmed and his eyes filled with tears as he cursed about being left for dead in the street. It never occurred to me that sitting on the street with a beaten drunk in my Sunday clothes was an unlikely thing to do until the emergency crew arrived and looked us like we were a little crazy. But how could ANYONE just keep driving? I couldn't have lived with myself. Even now, I feel like I didn't do enough. He refused care from the EMS crew; he wouldn't even give a statement to the police. To be honest, I don't know his name. But it was a life out there... someone's brother... someone's son. What does it matter to me that it's midnight on a desereted street? Only a few days later, I learned that a dear friend's mother will not last much longer. She was diagnosed with cancer a very few months ago.... Chemo failed. She has 6-8 weeks. The timeline is startling: Christmas, New Year's... maybe Valentine's Day. Maybe. And then it'll be over. How very brief a sojourn. My own heart has begun giving me problems over the last little while. I hadn't thought about it much, or even realized what was going on until I talked to my mom. She looked sort of... well there's a look only a mother can give and that's the one I got. Apparently, I have more of a family history of heart problems (on both sides) than I had understood. And this is about the age it hits...late 20', early 30's. Such a little thing, a human heart...how fragile... and how infinitely important. Ironically, it's just as I'm learning to give it away again that it falters. I just think, we have but brief moments here on this earth. A moment of friendship... A moment of love... A moment of remembering. How many things are really worth treasuring? And how many things do we leave behind in the road? In the face of so much distress and saddness, I am reminded of a quote by Souza: "...treasure every moment you have and remember that time waits for no one..."

Better late than never...

2008-12-07T15:05:00.000-07:00

While I'm not usually one of those people who is entirely comfortable with the 'going around the table and saying what you're thankful for' tradition, I am still one of those people who believes in being thankful. Ingratitude, in fact, is a pet peeve of mine. So I'm not going to let a little thing like the fact that it's now December and nearly Christmas stop me from making a list of things I'm thankful for. It's also exactly one month today until my... gulp... 30th birthday. The jury is still out on whether or not that's something to be thankful for.
So here's a short list, in no particular order:
1. Every nook and cranny of my cozy house. It brings me MUCH happiness; especially when filled with friends.
2. Flipping through photo albums.
3. Little random text messages. The kind that just pop up and make you smile.
4. The 3 most magical little words: I missed you.
5. Neighborhood cats adopting me. Thanks, Samwise, Hazel and Midge!
6. Sticky baby hands on my face.
7. Stopping for pedestrians in crosswalks. They always seemed so surprised.
8. Friends who encourage me to do something hard.
9. A painfully good book.
10. Second glances.
11. Having just enough to share.
12. Curling up in the middle of a giant bed at the end of the day.
13. Ice cream as payment for babysitting
14. Finding kindred spirits in the strangest places.
15. Wondering what's next
16. The smell of clean laundry.
17. "Musical discernment"
18. An invitation
19. Reading old journal entries and wondering what in the WOLRD I was thinking!
20. Crooked smiles.
21. Being called Aunt Annie
22. Humble pie.
23. Having a home in Texas, too
24. JW, JS, JM, JC, BB, SL, CW, DJ, OHCL, JN, JT, and CM
25. Having more to be thankful for than I can reasonably express...

Do SOMETHING...

2008-11-29T00:34:00.000-07:00

My friend CW and I have very similar theories... albeit of entirely different mentalities. He believes that people should go about making declarations of love; whether physical or verbal, it doesn't matter. He simply believes in the inherent honesty of such impromptu actions. I can't say that I entirely disagree... this theory should hold up well in groups of popular, lovable, good-haired people. The people on say, Friends, this theory would work well for. "Excuse me, unrealistically charming and particularly good-looking person, would you like to go for drinks? Later, I'll tell you that I love you. We'll fight a lot, but because we are both good-looking and not prone to the emotional attachment that would lead to personal disappointment, it'll all work out in the end. Even if I break your heart. At least we will have begun the relationship 'honestly'." An enthusiastic reply will invariably follow. See? See how well honesty works? Oh yes! Yes! (insert When Harry Met Sally joke here) It's brilliant.

Truly, while I'm about to introduce you to my theory of human relationships which will sound a little like a trip into the depths of hell, I do admire the pluck of the aforementioned method.

So let me tell you what my theory is. It goes a little something like this: if you're going to hurt someone, do it quickly. All relationships will inevitably wind up breaking someone's heart. They are seldom evenly matched and rarely kind. Harsh words, I know. But this leads me to my next point. While it is unrealistic to pounce on someone and pronounce you love them... it is equally as unrealistic to not just get the disappointment out of the way if it's looming. If you plan to dump someone... even from a non-defined relationship... don't do it slowly... just DO IT. Finish it. Be a guillotine, not an axe. Don't chop away at it... slipping away casually, until you think you've disappeared. This is a cruel prank; leaving the other person wondering what it is they did or didn't do.

The inexorable and perhaps single truth that both these obviously flawed theories posses is this: do something. Don't hang indefinitely--and often indifferently around--wondering what the other person thinks. Be honest. If you like them, show them. If you don't, tell them. Whenever I think the words do something I cannot help but see in my mind's eye a scene where the most endeared solider is gunned down... circumstantially the day after Christmas... by the guys he let go only the day before. And while he's lying there, choking to death on his own insides, everyone else is yelling 'DO SOMETHING! DO SOMETHING.' The medic appears... but it's always too late. All that's left to do is hold his head while he asks for his mother. And while they can never save him, they are in fact, doing SOMETHING. They are showing unrestrained kindness. Human nature demands that we do something; good, bad, or otherwise. Make a statement. Tell someone you truly care. Or end it when it fails, not 6 weeks later when you hope they've forgotten you. The really funny irony here is that while I myself nearly demand honesty, I cannot live up to my own expectations of the word. And sometimes, that makes me choke on my own insides.

Unemployment 101

2008-11-27T01:18:00.000-07:00

So I thought it would be somewhat entertaining to make a list about all the 'perks' of not having a job....

1. Spending all day in your pajamas.

This can be a good thing and a bad thing. It's fun because it's like a sick day without the puking... it's a bad thing because people get upset when they call you to do something and you can't because it's 4 PM and you're still wearing your Vote for Pedro T-shirt and monkey bottoms. I solve this problem by answering the phone in my 'I'm-really-busy-so-why-are-you-interrupting-me' voice. This makes people believe you are doing something important, like saving the rain forest. And not playing Jezzball...

2. Nice people help you out.

Sure it's embarrassing, but I think of it as the universe giving back to me for all the times I've helped someone out. Sorry, I don't have $5 to pay to go dancing and Club W.... (I literally did NOT have $5 in cash) Oh, that's no problem and you'll pay?? While I'm slightly humiliated... also: THANK YOU. Old friend J*, can I catch a ride to a far-distant wedding reception? Argh! I truly don't have the gas money right now. And what's this? Dad takes my car for an oil change and it reappears full of gas, too?? Awwww, you shouldn't have!! But you did, and I'm not going to refuse it. One of these days, I'm going to make a cardboard sign and just hang it around my neck. I think with my crazy hair and jammies-are-the-new-Prada look, I could get some serious cash. Hmmmmm... But to be fair... I'm so freaking grateful I could cry.

3. Your mom gives you food that's already prepared...and that tastes good.

Sometimes, I don't like eating my own cooking. I really thought I would... but to be honest, I have disappointed myself on occassion. For example... do NOT under ANY circumstances leave mushrooms on the stove to saute by themselves. This is not an authorized mushroom activity. The 'shrooms need adult supervision. I learned this the hard way. I also learned that my smoke detectors don't work... at ALL. *Cough* Luckily, my mom is still cooking for a family of 5 and is thrilled to have me take food away after Sunday dinners and the like... because I'm poor and can't afford fancy places like, say, Wal-Mart. Yeah, I'm almost too poor for Wal-Mart. You know that scene in Cinderella Man when Renee Zellwegger makes the milk last longer by adding water? It's not quite that bad--but almost. My mom says donating to my cause helps her by keeping the fridge clear and she somehow just can't cook for 2.... I know she does it because if she doesn't, I might wind up eating Honeynut Cheerios for all three meals.... with watered-down milk.

4. Unlimited time online... blogging, IM'ing, etc...

I'm beginning to think this may have been the downfall of Rome. OK, so it was really lead in the water or something... but trust me, this much time on the internet really does turn your brain to poop. (Enter stage right: aggression and occasional lonliness.) And it doesn't take all that long. Mine is already pretty poopified. Of course the net is great for the job searching, but you can only look at so many 'Wendy's team member' postings before you get so discouraged that you start looking for some rope.... to lasso a job! Ha ha... you SO thought I was gonna say something else, didn't you? Anyway, once you give up entirely, you start wandering through facebook, myspace, and whatever other pointless websites you can find that are half-way interesting. This of course leads me to think of new facebook status witticisms all the time. Luckily for me, I have some stellar friends who also hang out online. We chat and it makes the time pass more quickly. Seriously, without them... I might be more poopified than I already am.

5. You don't necessarily have to clean your house.

This is among my favorites. Why dust? Why vaccuum? Take out the trash! Ha! I'm in my pajamas and thus NOT inviting anyone over! See how this works? The hang-up here is that sometimes people appear unbidden... like, say, your visiting teachers. Then you have to run around sweeping everything into the laundry room and closing the door quick as a bunny... while not appearing breathless when you answer the door.

6. Not wearing make-up.... or doing your hair.

It's true, ladies and gents... the last of the great divas has retired. The once Elizabeth Taylor-like Andrea has conceded defeat and stopped looking fabulous. Blush? What's that? Mascara? Please! On the upside, my skin looks great...no make-up=no zits. I thought age would do this. It didn't. On the downside, I actually look a tad homeless. But let me say this... LONG LIVE THE HAT!! Any kind of hat... any color... any shape. How I love the speed and ease. And no all you Freudians, this is NOT a reflection on my dating style. I'm simply a sucker for hair sloth. Granted, I will toss on some make-up to go out... like on a date or to church... the rest of the time, it's the great one: unmasked and uncoiffed. Think 'Marie Antionette just moments before her beheading.'

OK... that's enough for now. I'll keep adding to this list perhaps... check back regularly.... you never know when I might find some other unexpected pleasure.

Metamorphosis

2008-10-15T00:05:00.001-06:00

Franz Kafka wrote an insightful tale of a young man who one day awakes to find himself turned into little more than scrambling vermin utterly reliant on others for his basic needs. It has long been a favorite tale of mine... read and re-read. Strange, I know. It hardly seems befitting to me or my life to be endeared to the tale of Grergor Samsa, the traveling salesman. But it speaks to me for a couple of reasons. I think that to one degree or another we are all traveling salesmen, whoring ourselves to the highest bidder. We give ourselves in love, in lust, and in sometimes to little more than longing; rising only enough to elevate ourselves above the state of the debased self. And so I ask you, who are you if you sell yourself to a job? To an ideal? To another person? The answer is a startling. We begin to scuttle about indulging our wants and our desires... craving more... and remaining both mystified by our unhappiness and wholly unsatisfied. The challenge then, is what we make of these creatures? Do we conquer our filth? Our souls' hermitage?? Or do we remain locked in our self-imposed prisons, hopelessly dependant on others? Do we simply lay down and die in the face of our own debased natures? I once thought that the answer to that was a resounding no. But the longer I live, the more I have come to understand that human nature is, for some, the inconquerable foe. It is the fire through which so many are too afraid to pass. It is too great a metamorphosis. But should we rise to our potential, how does one put off the vermin self and become what he was meant to be?

I, myself, am in the midst of a great change. Having lost my ability to produce in a temporal sense, I am once more searching for some contruibution to be made. Perhaps I am a mere Don Quioxte, battling windmills in the name of progress, but still, I have to fight on. There's more to be had than this grinding reality of push and pull.

Even memory

2008-09-18T14:56:00.000-06:00

I have been twisting out the last of my emotions, trying to feel something worth writing down. But I can't. I've never needed a muse before. In times past, feelings and words poured out of me like water from a shattered vase. But I'm too glued now. I can't even break myself enough to write. I pour over letters and pictures from my past life, aching to evoke an emotion. I need a spark. Something to strike me enough to light what's left of my soul. I'm not crazy in love. I'm not nursing a hurt. I'm not soulfully frightened. One might think that this is a good thing. To be satisfied enough that no great emotion is boiling below the surface. But the truth is I'm utterly emotionally ambiguous. I feel nothing. I cried the other day, but more because I got exactly what I expected. Nothing more, nothing less. Everyday is a strange repeating grind. My actions and the events of the day change, but the way I feel about them doesn't. Some part of me feels dead. I can't entirely put my finger on why this is. It just is. I can't recall the moment when it happened.... nor how long I have endured it. The distraction of my 8-5 life took my mind off my waning heart; without it now, I feel acutely my lack of passion. Ironic, I know.... to feel acutely the loss of feeling. It defies logic. But then logic and I parted ways at birth. I've spent my whole life rising and falling on the waves of passionate crusades and heartfelt connections. But now even my memories are fading. And in the calm of at last being washed ashore, I find it difficult to stand.

Not for lack of trying...

2008-09-16T17:41:00.000-06:00

seems to be my personal mantra these days. I haven't written much of late... but not for lack of trying... I haven't gotten a call back on any of the jobs I applied for... but not for lack or trying.... I haven't heard from my oldest friend in an age... but not for lack or trying. These, it seems are trying times, indeed. I've got enough melancholy to keep me in my pajamas for an entire day (or two, but not in a row). It seems, ironically, that I can't seem to get it quite right. But again, not for a lack of trying!

It was quite interesting, really. After I lost my job, I called on a few select friends for consolation and support. A fairly short list, actually. Among those I called was Emily, a girl in my ward whow works for an employment agency. After a brief conversation about me losing my job she starts to cry. What? What's this? OK.... Tell me, what's going on.... Oh, she says, I work long hours... and my boyfriend isn't doing what I want him to. Ok. Can she come over? Of course.... yes, that would be lovely. I'm in the middle of making 100 chocolate lollipops for Relief Society... but sure. She comes over... cries, eats ice cream, never offers to help, and then on the way out (because Collin came over and I actually wanted to talk to him) she calls me fat. All in all, I feel very comforted. Yes, all better.

I experience similar reactions from various people. All well-meaning; all very kind. The one person I really didn't expect to be very supportive, was. Which to be frank, was a nice surprise. He asked often how I was feeling and the first day without work... when I was freaking out... he let me. And in his own very awkward way, he empathized. A few emails from people unexpected have cheered me on in this struggle. A rare thing indeed. Despite many kindnesses, I have felt very much alone in this, really. So many of the people I have kindly supported are still requiring constant care... But let's be honest, I set myself up for it. A continual force, I am apparently not allow to take a break. Perhaps this is what motherhood is. Occasionally feeling like a failure, but smiling and working hard anyway. I still think I missed my calling in some kind of social work. I wish I had the education for it. But things are what they are and I felt good about my chosen major at the time. In retrospect, a Business minor would have been wise. But wisdom was not in the cards then... survival was.

And so, in this dim moment, survival it continues to be. The greatest sting of all, I will readily admit is the fierce silence I've endured. Determined not to give in and go home to my parents, I have held my ground in my own house. I get up... I clean... I send resumes... all in silence. It's startling the things you think of in the empty spaces. Discouragement has crept in, but not despair. Still, the emptiest space has been the one where he fit.

There's little I can do to encourage or persuade the friendship. Attempts are not met coldly... they are just not met at all. I'm sure he's worried that it will be like the last time I found myself without work, despite the fact that was several years ago. I'm sure the suffocating closeness is too fresh in his memory. It's fresh in mine, too. It was a difficult time, to put it mildly. At that trying crossroads, I was without anchor or rudder. I was half of a broken whole. But time and experience have changed me. Winds and rain weathered on my own have shaped me into a creature full of faith and determination. Am I frustrated? Of course! Human nature dictates! But I am not without a wealth of tenacity. I'm dusting myself off. I'm pushing forward. I have no fear for the future. I've been led to this point in my life... and I'll be led onward and upward. Better, finer things await!! And so to you, gentle friend of my youth, I will wait. And assure you that I'm fine... and shining on like an unbroken diamond.

I was taught

2008-09-03T10:29:00.000-06:00

a brief, but poignant, lesson in history over the long weekend. I began boxing up the remainders of my life at home to bring with me to my own little abode. It didn't seem like it would take all that long, but as I began to sift and sort, I was compelled to stop and stare, too...so many letters, half-written and unsent. So many ribbon-bound exchanges stacked neatly in boxes of yesterday's memories. Much of what I found came as no surprise, really. But the emotion I felt turning the pages again did catch me utterly off-guard. I found myself moved at who I was and who I've eventually become. In my papers, I saw glimpses of the girl I was yet to be. It was a bitter-sweet examination of my roots. So much drove me to depths untested; caught between hope and despair. I remember well the trenches in which I learned to live. And while those are times I would never repeat, I cannot say I am ungrateful. I earned every scar and every ounce of wisdom and strength. I bled and wept and ached countless hours so that I could stand here without fear. I am forward-facing at last. Calm and resolved and without deep regret. My finest qualities gleaming from the heat of the refiner's fire. And perhaps I am a little bent, but I am unbroken. I still have passion. I still have hope. And I still have the memories to guide me into who I may yet become.

It's a little crowded in here....

2008-08-26T11:40:00.000-06:00

In this new life I've worked for all my life, I find myself a little claustrophobic. Strange, isn't it? Ever since I can remember, I've wanted scads and heaps and piles of friends. I've wanted people to be happy to talk to me... and notice when I wasn't there. But it never seemed to happen. Outside my family, I was alone most of my childhood. I used to tell people that I preferred the quiet company of just myself. At least there was no one to disagree with, right? But the truth was, I ached deeply for a sense of belonging. I yearned for a niche to fit nicely into. I was the perpetual square peg in a round hole.

And so I began to build my sense of self on the immovable foundations of solitude. No one minded where I went or if I came. And over the years, that sturdy foundation grew into immeasurable walls of stone. Inch by steady inch, I made myself safe and content and accidentally unlovable. My circle of influence grew small and tightly wound. Any hint of change, and I might spring back and wipe out an entire friendship. It happened over and over. I was a self-fulfilling prophecy; made profoundly alone by my own secured insecurities.

Fast-forward a decade or two... and I find myself here: the person I always wanted to be despite my best efforts. And I'm terrified. There, I said it right out loud. I'm frightened that I'm becoming something I can't control. I can control alone. I can craft solitude into something melancholy and beautiful. Human relationship is entirely too unpredictable. Sad experience has taught that the chaos caused by other's agency is often far too excruciating for words. Disappointment has left me distant from a sense of willingness to engage.

And yet, the walls are being scaled. I won't even say brought down... that would take a miracle. But one by one, I am letting people in. Letting them see something I have hardly seen myself. Me. The untested version of me where I'm liked and happy and invited. At last, the summons to the ball has been left on my door. Do I have the shoes? Do I have the dress? Not really. But mysteriously, no one seems to care. All the things I thought I should be liked for have fallen away and as I had long hoped, it's just about the person inside. It doesn't matter what size I am. There's always someone bigger and someone smaller. It doesn't matter how much money I have... someone invariably has more... or less. These things should not come as a great shock to a person of my age or intellectual capacity. But the frightened girl inside has held to these false truths for a long time. Convincing her to just put them down will be a challenge.

So, I'm letting the new friends talk me into long-awaited relief. For now I am learning to just let myself BE. I come when I' m invited, whether or not I feel I belong. I go and that's good enough. I accept that they are laughing at my jokes and not at me. And I fight with all my heart the urge to crawl back in my safe solitary confinement where all is ordered and safe. And above all else, I let THEM finally crowd out the fear and fill me love.

They tell me I should blog....

2008-08-19T16:01:00.001-06:00

I'm not sure who "they" are... but there are a lot of them... "What?!" they say, "you don't have a blog!?" Psh. And I call myself a writer. And so in the spirit of all things blogesque (yes, that's the technical term) I write. I read my friend Jamie's blog the other day. (she's quite talented, by the way) I don't generally READ blogs either. Yes, I have a cell phone. No. I'm not Amish. As I read her latest thoughts, I began to see the value of writing it all down: good, bad or otherwise. In our gluttony of mirco-communication and as the "R U LDS 2?" English slowly strangles out the last semblance of language before we return to hieroglyphics all together, many are making one last-ditch effort to be writers. I find this ironic, as I wandered through Barnes and Noble the other day and found nothing worth reading. Perhaps I can Google... "decent, literary blogs." I wonder what I would find? Would I find art? Would I find the mindless meandering of those with access to computers but not an education? In truth, I think I would find a generation screaming to heard. Texting madly in the hopes that someone, somewhere will CARE. Maybe that's hopeful, but that's how I see it. We all live so meanly.... aching for abundance that can't be purchased on Overstock or sold for half-price on e-bay. And so we write, waiting to be read. In the words of CS Lewis, we read to know we are not alone... And so a generation searches for each other across the endless space of consumerism and reads and blogs to know that we are, in fact, not alone.

Couldn't you just MEAN it... just once...

2008-08-19T13:45:00.000-06:00

Something inside me is breaking just a little. Not a lot, mind you. There's not a lot left to work with really. I'm keeping it together with bits of paste and tape and will-power that is tested to its very limits.

I went on a date last night. Yes, I thought, a real date. He asked... he paid... he put his arm around me.

But he didn't MEAN it. He didn't ask me because he wanted to be with ME... God forbid anyone should choose THAT. He's in therapy, you see. He's getting help for a depression that has nearly consumed him. This was the lesson on spending money on something frivolous and not feeling bad about it. I happened to be at hand. I was part of the exercise. Lesson #12... Injure someone close to you by asking them on a fake date...

Am I entirely weak for feeling hurt? Had he TOLD me clearly what he was doing, I would have understood. Instead, he let me believe for a whole 12 hours that something was changing... that he was breaking through his stuggles and at the other end found me... and that he was willing to take a chance on it. I feel so phenomenally foolish; so utterly wretched.

Good sense says I should talk to him. But this dead horse has been beaten and beaten. Nothing I can say now would make any difference. He is resolute in his feelings. And mine are beaten and scarred beyond recognition. He and I are the contents of an age-old Pandora's box... barely contained with the lid of my silence.

He has set his terms... over and over. But I think that THIS time, I may just need to set MINE. I need my own emotional boundaries. I abide by the thousand limitations that he and others give me... but sometimes they are too restrictive. I deserve more. I deserve to have my own needs met and to not feel guilty for holding my own head up. I am NOT second rate. I am not damaged goods. No one found me in the scratch and dent bin and dusted me off. I am not an idle bystander in my own life.

So maybe, this time... he didn't MEAN it.

But I do.

Reflections on New York....

2008-08-04T12:26:00.001-06:00

What a strange, bustling loneliness reigns in this city... a city where snobbery is an art and indifference a lifestyle. They tell me that I have not met her, this peculiar place called New York, though I have felt her gritty sidewalks under my shoes--the pavement marched block by block against my soul. The homeless, stirring in the doorways of the churches... rise to face another glanceless day. Dogs upon dogs raise legs to wet the priceless grass where children seldom play. And the hobbyist runner paces without greetings on paths foot-beaten by the sweating titans of industry. Only the artistic street vendor calls out for a cheapening gaze from passers-by. A pastime reserved for gawking tourists, no native would deign to buy such shoddy work. Yet here they are, the melted of the melting pot. A German, Korean, Russian, and Jew all lumped together-- the plebeian throng. They are what's left of the huddling masses-- still huddling against the shame of an almost honest day's work. And in the midst, the museums rise in pillared grace, up from sidewalks littered with walk-weary workers. Tucked neatly on the city scape, they beckon, "rise!" from brownstone-hurried lives. I wash the sweat of the day from my face-- revealing myself again. The jerk of the subway is showing on my hands. My shoulders are tired from carrying the anonymity. Remembering the wink and smile of the big, black bus agent somehow eases the load. Canal St. swarms...led down 5th Avenue's faux, by ivory smooth faces on leashes of expectation. Behind sweltering back room doors begins the bargainer's waltz. Coach? Prada? You like? Yes, yes.... all very nice. The careful girl mouse-scurries to and fro -- lower prices...something special... something different? Please. Casting wishful glaces at SoHo's border I descend into the mazes below. The roar of the Red line shatters the sweltering heat. The pink haired crack-whore, littered with tattoos and memories of better days, is close-eyed slumped against the bench. A lag-tongued dog curled next to her growls. How long since she has felt the touch of human kindness? A smiling Jewish teen rewards the bucket drummer under the stairs with a dollar or two while back and gray clad workers clamor to be the first through the quick-opened doors. Rock-tumbled together we ride in silence before greeting the tumult of the streets above. Without warning, Shawshank redemptive grace drifts solo voce down from the heights of the gaudy-lit Square. Lucia di Lammermoor soars over the push and pull of needing to be somewhere else. I pause to praise the sound before the crushing wave of tourism sweeps me on. In Union Square, the gay men and their silent-hopeful hags run in circles of drunken conversation. The singers and songwriters, poets and poor ooze together in a crayon-colored mass. Does anyone have a name here? The wine and theater have robbed them of their wits and left them loudly practicing worn-out prose under a canopy of smoke and thick night air. Dream-wakened, I hear a man's voice-- "swing!" as a low ball slides across my path. The too-late swish of the bat and children's laughter cling to me. A little boy, eager with "Again, Daddy!" hope, is learning the art of childhood in a town I thought bled only steel and concrete. The thunder-honk of the city softens into steady, heartbeat sighs.

It seems to me...

2008-08-04T12:25:00.000-06:00

that life is comprised of series of sub-lives. We can live an entire lifetime in a matter of a few months or a few years. And when we come out the other side, we have the life that is the kicking screaming product of the past and we get to discover ourselves all over again. This, of course is an infinitely complicated process.
We have to CHANGE... to leap over that proverbial wall. This of coures, means you have to be ready-- Go at it too slowly and you crash face-first into it.... don't jump high enough and you find yourself hopelessly and miserably hung up on either side... incapable of getting down. But when you make a proper run at it... you soar over it with a grace you didn't know you had. And while it seems that there's nothing but a barrier between you and what was, just think of the wide open space that lies ahead!
There's really no getting around it, really. The wall runs the length of your soul and is not to be circumvented. To try, is to deny the importance of your increasing abilities... in short, to be damned; held at the never-ending notion that you are not strong enough to conquer it. What a frightening proposition that is!
Having scaled a few walls myself I am, on occassion, forced to wonder at the number and height of each of them. How many did i put my face into or fall back down from? More than I can count! How many versions of myself have I known? Plenty. It's the whole... two roads diverged in a yellow wood thing. So, here I stand on the precipice of change... feet near the edge and ready to jump into the unknown. It thrills me and terrifies me all at the same time. Sometimes, even the awful unknown is far better than the boredom and discontent of sitting on that fence of descision!
And so I allow Thoreau's words to urge me on: Go confidently in the direction of your dreams! Live the life you've imagined. And so my dreams increase... as does my ability to rise to the occassion. Onward and upward....

How are YOU

2008-08-04T12:24:00.002-06:00

Last night, in an utter despair, brought on upon by another conversation of lies and manipulation, I prayed for a friend. I am soul-weary. I have been so infinintely patient. And wouldn't it be nice to just be asked, "how are YOU?"
I encountered an old friend earlier in the day and was reminded how much I have missed conversation.... actual CONVERSATION. The sort of thing where you listen and share in equal measure. I didn't realize how long I've been without it. It was a much-appreciated respite.
In my present situation, I listen a lot. I like listening, I really do. Perhaps it was my years of being shy which aided me in developing this skill. Now, don't get me wrong, I also love to talk. Those who know me best know that this is an undisputed fact. But in recent weeks, I have found myself without much of anyone to really talk to.
I miss being understood. I feel so often just on the edge of the circle...the one everyone thinks must be just fine because no one really knows much about her. And yet on the rare occassions when I find myself IN the circle I feel like some kind of anomolous creature... not quite like the others. The eternal challenge of fitting somewhere...
I can't imagine that anyone really feels like they fit anywhere... I know I'm not the only one. I think we all feel a little like planets orbiting some mystically ideal life--sometimes basking in the warmth of it... sometimes feeling so far that not even the dimmest spark of its glow can reach us. And so, for a season, I will travel in shadow, knowing that the light is just on the other side of the horizon.

Unafraid

2008-08-04T12:24:00.001-06:00

Here on the precipice of starting change, I stand. Aware that every travelled path has led me to this crossroads. Hammer in hand, I can only begin to bridge the gap between who I have been and who I will become. I see myself in increasing contrast... the colors sharpened with each passing season. I knew myself once, the girl--over-defined, frightened. But who is this tenacious woman--fierce and free? I sometimes feel very much as though I've only just arrived, and yet, I feel as though some part of me has been waiting here forever; patiently impatient until my gaurded heart was mended. So often the winds of change have served only to rustle the leaves, but now, I feel driven forward by gale forces. One moment, carefully cocooned in completely certainty... the next, cast into stark reality. But gentle guides and true companions urge me forward toward untested strength and independence. So stone and timber bound, I cross the great divide and I find myself: unafraid at last.

All my words have all been expelled...

2008-08-04T12:23:00.000-06:00

...it seems, in a relieved sigh of remembering. But I have to try to write. The weighty walls of long-held grief are crumbling. In the last few hours, I have reverently unearthed the deeply buried box of memories. The contents spilled helter-skelter before my mind's eye. Shadows of a yesterday that ended a lifetime ago rose up to act out the familiar scenes. I paused to examine the venerable little forget-me-nots of nostalgia I've kept for so long. Pressed between the pages of my heart I'd long since set aside, they are magnificently fragile. A single breath, it seems, could render them to dust. Yet here they are, perfectly preserved. I am astonished at the peace I feel with them in my hands again.
And still... he was dead. I had buried him, mourned deeply at the tragedy of it all, and in time moved on. But as with all dearly-loved things that die, I could not ever fully erase the memory. Though I confess, I tried. Here, now, in the box I had buried as far from my heart as I could, remains the innocence I had thought perhaps was lost. And so I wipe it clean again to find my own reflected wisdom. And his.
How startlingly different we both are. And how strange to it is to meet like this again– both as long-lost and new-found friends. It couldn't have happened a moment sooner. Of this singular fact, I am acutely aware. A moment sooner, and I might have crushed this fragile gift... Now, I find I can hold it in my hands without fear. What a precious thing it is... so new and tenuous! But oh how we must tread lightly down this unknown path! For all its ancient familiarity, it is still utterly uncharted. But how grateful I am for a balm in Gilead! How deeply and immeasurably grateful...to find again the kindness of a dear old friend.

Wordsmith

2008-08-04T12:21:00.001-06:00

It's strange. When you find a long-forgotten treasure... a bent and broken memory... you can never be quite certain how it will find its way out on to the pages of the present. And so I write to free the captives of my heart. To ease my thought's burden. Undirected and impure, my words spill helter-skelter across a blank page... waiting for the hand-held guidance of my craft. My feelings roll together like chaotic tides on unknown shores. Then, without warning they rise up to be written and live. I breathe life into them only to have them wander far from where I planted them...or wither in the heat of sudden exposure. I have tried to tame them... but they are unruly, headstrong, foolish. In my mastery, I am abusive and trusting all at once. I tell my story, utterly unsorted, to anyone who will listen. But you must understand, sometimes my words betray me. They dig up the past. And what I buried long ago belies the unruffled faith of now.
Currently listening : Happenstance By Rachael Yamagata Release date: 2004-06-08

At last...

2008-08-04T12:20:00.003-06:00

Cradled snuggly between what has been and what is yet to come, I feel somehow cramped. It's neither too hot nor too cold, but it's too something... Too dark? Perhaps. Too quiet? Most assuredly. Like a dim and endless waiting room with peeling walls and torn magazines. My breath fogs up the dirty glass of the single window. Still, I struggle to catch the breeze just beyond it. I crave the life I imagine is just over my walls. I ache for it. But the door... if I could just find the door! How I would run, head-long, into the wind or the rain... just to feel alive. To be awake... To taste the salt of success or the tang of failure on my lips would be enough. I would bear the cuts and scrapes of paths undiscovered, if only to feel the raw earth under my feet and between my fingers. And yet, here I am, tiger-caged, pacing my narrow horizon; sometimes putting my fists into walls of stone, ever mystified that I come up bleeding time and again. I strike over and over. I am compelled. How I've suprised myself with my own tender-hearted tenacity. It sounds strange, I suppose. But for all the hurt and loss which had brick-by-brick sealed me in, I am slowly learning to forgive. And to give again; as I am naturally wont to do. I can finally see the sun, and breathe the unstale air. All that I've worked and prayed for will be mine. One final blow, and I think I'll be through. The walls will fall, and I will be free at last.

Solitary

2008-08-04T12:20:00.001-06:00

I recently watched a clip of Paris, Je t'aime with a friend. And while he chuckled at the portrayal of the frausy middle-aged mail carrier in her high-water pants and fanny pack, I was deeply moved. She looked like my mom, who I will surely someday become. As she described her journey in her abominably American French, I could hear myself talking. She sat alone in a park, eating her lunch and watching the world as if through a looking-glass. She said that she suddenly felt very happy and sad at the same time. She knew what I was to be alive. And watching… I felt exposed. In some bittersweet way, someone found me and told my story. The places I've seen and wished so deeply for someone to share it with. Despite that longing…I have tasted the tang of life on my tongue a hundred times. I've looked out at the world and found a startling bittersweet comfort both in, and sometimes despite, my solitude. To fuel this fierce introspection, my dear friend's mother was just diagnosed with cancer. I cannot even say diagnosed, because that sounds so calm and logical. It's neither. After weeks of terrible illness, a trip to the ER revealed that she was dying. Immediate surgery followed and so much of her was removed, it will be a miracle if she recovers. I can offer only platitudes and prayer while I sit snugly nestled in my life of security. There are no words to heal the breaking hearts. I cannot even really offer empathy. I still have my mother. But I do know loss. I know loss so exquisite and acute that I thought I would perish from the grief. And to be honest, I think it would still pale in comparison. These two women: mother and daughter…have almost no one but each other in all the world. And if she dies, my friend will be alone in a way inexpressible… In a way that only God can heal. I pray for Him to guard and guide her as He has me... in all my aching hours.

My Best Friend Spooky is Dead…

2008-08-04T12:19:00.000-06:00

Despite my best efforts to make other friends and NOT be afraid of the dark, my dearest childhood friend was still a ghost named Spooky. How I loved my Spooky. Spooky was the champion of my chubby-hearted youth. He was kind and compassionate and he brought me things; not like a cat brings you a dead mouse or a half-eaten moth, but good things—very good things. Spooky brought food and money. My two life-long passions. Maybe Spooky is the reason I'm a fat chick with a love of filthy lucre. I don't know. He was like the Tooth Fairy, only without the blood or the screaming or someone trying to tie you to a door handle and expecting you to hold still while your baby teeth are ripped merciless from your head. Does that trick really work on anyone?
At the very least he was consistent. If I was sad, I would write my dear friend a note: "Dear Spooky," One should always be polite when requesting things from ghosts, it's just good sense. "Could you bring me some pennies and marshmallows?" Invariably, the morning would bring 12 marshmallows and 6 pennies. Not the old, green pennies…the nice ones… the SHINEY ones. And of course, Spooky would have written me a note in his ghostliest hand-writing; squiggly and mysterious.
But one day, Spooky didn't come. My note had gone unheeded. There were no marshmallows. No pennies. No note of explanation. I searched the house. Perhaps Spooky had HIDDEN my treasures. Yes, I assured myself, Spooky was just being… tricky? But Spooky wasn't usually tricky. I looked and looked. There were no pennies and no marshmallows.
Like all good relationships, I had a special way of communicating with Spooky. He lived down the laundry chute. It's really the only logical place for a ghost to live in suburbia. I locked myself in the bathroom, pulled open the trap door, and called to my friend. Was he alright? I leaned down the shoot, straining for an answer.
"Aaaaaaaaaaaaandrea?" a whisper rose from the dark.
"Spooky? Spooky, is that you? Are you ok?"
"I'm dyyyyyyyyyying, Andrea. I'm very sick. Oooooooooooh…. Cough…. Cough..."
I sank to the floor in horror. Spooky was dying. My dear friend, perishing alone and in the LAUNDRY room. Suddenly, my lack of pennies and marshmallows seemed a very petty thing.
"Spooky!!" I wailed, "You can't die!"
"Aaaandrea?"
"Yes, I'm here. I'm here!"
"This is Spooky's mooooooother."
"Mrs. Spooky, is that you? What's wrong with Spooky?"
"He's dyyyyyying…… He's dyyyyyyyying!!!!"
Dying! It was true. Mrs. Spooky had said so. I stared into the darkness of the chute and wept unabashedly, like only a 5 year old can. My mind raced. What would I do? How could I go on? In my heart I still needed the marshmallows and the pennies. More than that, I needed the friendship.
"DON'T DIE SPOOKY!!!" I sobbed, "OH, PLEASE DON'T DIE!"
Giggles erupted from the darkness. It is ever a wonder to me that I didn't
realize sooner how much Spooky and his mother sounded like my two older sisters.
"Hello? Spooky?"
"WHAT ARE YOU TWO DOING DOWN HERE!?"
Mother-bear had arrived.
"Mom? Mom! Spooky is DYING! He's DYING!" I shrieked into the darkness.
If anyone could save Spooky, it was mom. I knew it. She had the healing powers.

"Aaaaaandrea? It's Spooky. The REAL Spooky."
Ha, ha! The real Spooky was here. But wait… if that's the REAL Spooky, why does he sound like my Mom? ....
"Spooky? "You sound like my mom."
"Um, no I don't. I'm Spoooooooky"
More giggles.
"SHHHHHH!!"
Silence.
"Aaaandrea? It's Spooky again. Those were your siiiisters. They were playing a trick on you. I'm oooookaaaay. I promise. Andrea?"

I think there might have been some spanking. I think there might have been an apology. It didn't matter. It was too late. I never talked to Spooky again. My best friend, Spooky, was dead.

God Pity Me

2008-08-04T12:18:00.002-06:00

and pity us all,
Who vainly the dreams of youth recall.

For of all the sad words of tongue or pen,
The saddest are these: "It might have been!"

Ah, well! For us all some sweet hope lies
Deeply buried from human eyes;

And, in the hereafter the angels may
Roll the stone from its grave away!

~ John Greenleaf Whittier ~

The seasons are changing again... not nature's, but my own. And I seek solace in the refuge of my faith and tell my soul, be still. Yet, I cannot help but lament the loss of so many might have beens. The greatest sorrow of my heart is that I may never have a child of my own. I commented to a friend that I wished I might have had children. She smiled and said that if only I would abandon my morals, I could have a child any time I wanted. I laughed... but I didn't mean it. It's true, actually. It seems I could have a child any day of the week if I wanted to have one THAT way. But I know better. Both morally and personally. It's coming down to the fact that while I may yet marry in this life, the chance to have a child with that husband is growing slim. There are many genetic challenges in my family tree. My sisters have both been immensely fortunate and none of those struggles have befallen their sweet families. But each began her family while still in her 20's. I will not. And notwithstanding those potential challenges, I am most accutely aware that my own mother stopped being able to have children at all at just my age. Christy, as she got older, miscarried at least 2. As I have contemplated my changing personal health, I realize that each passing year robs me of a little more of my hope for a family. Perhaps mine is not to know that age-old travail. Of course, there is adoption. And somewhere in the back of my heart, I have always felt that it would be a great honor to adopt one of God's sweet angels from a fallen mother. But what a strange grief to bring to a marriage. To love someone so completely and yet be unable to bear his children. It makes me a fragile, empty vessel. Who would want such a creature? Who is a mother without her children? What is love without a recipient? So perhaps THIS is my life's travail: a wealth of gifts, unopened.

With a muumuu here... and a muumuu there....

2008-08-04T12:18:00.001-06:00

I was born in the wrong era in history. Or perhaps I was born in the wrong place in the world. One or the other—maybe both. Had I been born Flemish, Rubens would have asked me to be a model and perhaps a lover. Had I been born in Africa, my fatness would have be distinguished as well-respected and wealthy.
But here, now, I'm the 5th grader in a muumuu. A big, pink and white hibiscus inspired muumuu. Complete with little white buttons and pockets I'm certain are for keeping your extra chocolate… This, if you really want to know, is how you get into a muumuu in the first place. There's picture proof that I filled every inch of my muumuu; both of my muumuu's, in fact. I had both an everyday muumuu and a princess muumuu.
Oh yes, I had a PRINCESS muumuu. It was pink, too. Is there really any other color for a proper muumuu? I wore my muumuus to dances, to church services, and of all the horrors, to school. TO SCHOOL! I have long wondered why it is that our mothers ever let us out of the house after dressing ourselves. There's something intrinsically wrong with that. Thankfully, it was the 80's and everyone looked like a half-pegged version of Punky Brewster. But even during one the singly ugliest times in the history of fashion, I managed to look like the Michelin Man's mother in her eatin' dress.
I was still wearing a muumuu as a teenager; my "grown-up muumuu." I had gone to a Christian camp for youth between the ages 14 and 18. It was my very first year and my hopes for social acceptance soared. Both of my sisters had attended this camp and had, for years, regaled me with stories of activities and dances where everyone was loved and accepted and you didn't have to worry about being the chubby 14 year old in a muumuu.
I remember waiting for the closing ceremonies and dance. The camp had proven taxing, at the very least. Always remember to zip up your zipper. Enough said. We'd been placed in groups and it was one of the ghastly things where there were two guys to every girl. Don't ever do this. People in the high school age group are not nearly as charming or attractive as they think they are. We were instructed to get all dressed-up and then come sit in the lobby of the dorm that had been our home for the week. We waited, eagerly—reeking of Chantilly Lace and glistening with fresh hairspray. The boys had each been given two flowers to present to the waiting girls. It was one of those contrived self-esteem builders where everyone gets a flower and even if she never gets another one in her whole life, she will have gotten one on this night.
Standing nervously in my best muumuu I felt like Anastasia waiting to be crowned princess of Russia. I knew in my heart, I would be found out. I was just a terrified fat girl in a muumuu. And the truth was, I had never gotten a flower from anyone but my mother. The boys arrived. Giggling girls received flowers—pink carnations. I waited. Sweaty-handed boys gratefully accepted Big Hunks from red-lipstick bedecked girls. I still waited. Arm-in-arm, our group filed away. Flowerless, I waited. One scruffy looking guy stood clutching his carnation. He looked at me and I looked at him. We were the last. No one moved. As our numbers dwindled, a choice had to be made. Give me the flower or walk away. He walked.
Trapped and unflowered, I stood waiting, wishing I could disappear into the recesses of my voluminous muumuu. Some counselor grabbed in the nick of time, bestowed a broken carnation upon me, and walked me quietly to the dance. But hidden behind the pink flowers, I crumbled into my muumuu'ed shame.

The UNhappiest Place on Earth... (Jack, this one’s for you!! ~ Joy)

2008-08-04T12:17:00.000-06:00

Pinocchio. Geppetto. The Mad Hatter. Somewhere in the back of my throat a lump of fear is rising at the very mention of those names. No, it's more than fear. It is terror; the kind that only experience can bring. I am a very happily medicated social phobic. Very happily. But I have not always been, and even a little pink pill cannot rid you of the life-altering memories of big-headed attacks.

Now, I have to explain that I harbor no ill will toward Disney specifically or any of its characters. It's just the idea of the over-sized heads and the people inside that scares the hell out of me. I think it might have something to do with my fear of trick-or-treaters. I was an impressionable fifteen when the first one struck. It was Pinocchio. Stupid freaking puppet. If he had been a real boy, I can tell you where I might have kicked him. As it was, I didn't know who was inside that infernal suit and why it kept stroking my hair during what should have been a relaxing dinner. I'm like a junk-yard dog; don't touch me when I'm eating.

My family, of course, was no help at all. In my hour of dire need, I was stranded by the people I should have been able to count on. All they could was laugh hysterically while I was being mimed to death. First it took my menu. Then, it tried to pet me. Frantically, I drank my water. With both hand occupied I couldn't strangle Thane from Ottumwa or whoever was behind those hard plastic eyes. The really wicked thing about these creatures is that they have a vulture instinct. Like well-dressed buzzards, they'll attack anything that looks helpless enough. Maybe they're trained to smell fear. Pinocchio could. I know he could because when I thought he was finally leaving me alone—he wasn't. He was going for reinforcements. The staff must have had a jolly chuckle on the petrified fat girl at table six that night. First it was Pinocchio, then Geppetto. They wouldn't leave me alone. Patting… stroking…PETTING MY HAIR… Don't ever, ever, pet my hair. It took me 2+ hours to get it to stand up vertically like that. It wouldn't have been so bad if that had been the only experience. But it wasn't. Like alien abduction or potato chips, it never stops at one. I was twenty-one when I was attacked again. Attacked and chased. Yes. Chased.

I went to Disneyland with a couple of friends after my college graduation. What possessed me to do this, I will never know. Maybe it was my desire to be a child again. Maybe it was just the fact that I needed another tiara to add to my collection. Yeah, I have a tiara collection. They're the good kind…the real kind.

It began at breakfast. We went for one of those ridiculously expensive "Character" breakfasts. $27.99 per person, just to have the crap scared out of you. My friends knew that I loathed the characters, which is what I'm sure, in part, helped make that decision. They repeatedly assured me no characters would get me. I'm sorry, there's no way to promise that. They will find you. They will. I had taken note of the location of every possible attacker. Minnie at 2 o'clock, Goofy at 4. They had me surrounded. But I wasn't nervous because they were all being smeared happily by freshly-peanut buttered six-year olds. All that is, except the Mad Hatter. He had ME scoped out. Lurking just beyond the 'characters only' door he and Alice were planning their ambush. We were seated and then plates in hand we headed for the buffet.

Round one down; I'm still eating in safety. Then out of nowhere, Donald was making a beeline right for me. "Ha ha!" I mused, crunching happily, "I'm here safely seated against the wall. You can't get me!" I could not have conceived the degree of my misconception. I think that perhaps some escapee circus strong man had been stuffed in Donald's suit that day. In one swift, terrorizing moment, Donald had lifted my friend, still in her chair, out of the way. WHY?! Why in the name of heaven could they not leave me alone?! I don't like you! I don't! I don't! Leave me in peace! I beg of you! Then like the Pinocchio's assault of long ago, they came in droves. Pluto committed the unspeakable crime of touching my hair. He LICKED off my do-rag. Ok, please don't ask why a jello-fed girl from Utah is wearing a do-rag. I was. End of discussion. But he licked me! I'm 21! No one else at the table was even being looked at. They could have been dancing the Charleston and whistling Dixie; no one would have noticed.

After this assult, I retreated to the safety of the breakfast bar. And by the time it was the big "eat-your-sugar-coated-breakfast-and-the-day-will-almost-kill-your-parents" song and dance number, I was cowering behind the eared waffles and fruit. No, literally. I had gotten trapped there. I had forsaken speed for temporary safety. I couldn't go back to the table…one of them might grab me and my breakfast sausage and I might have had to dance along! I shudder, even now, at the thought. Despite my terror, out of the corner of my eye I noted the Mad Hatter was still watching me. Having successfully survived breakfast, we headed out into the park.

I was relieved. There were millions of bermuda-short clad parents and well-tethered children playing push-me, pull-you in every direction. I was safe. Surely, here, with droves of willing victims, I would at last go unnoticed! Finally, I could revel in the anonymity and child-like glee I had come all the way to Disneyland to enjoy. My joy however, was short lived. Mid-way through the day, I was found. A short cut through Fantasyland gave the Mad Hatter his shot at me. "Pirate! Oh Pirate!" he called. Pirate? Who are you calling pirate, buddy? I was irate. I had already discovered how stupid I looked. Apparently, only in movies or on TV do Californians actually wear do-rags. Too bad no one had bothered to tell me this BEFORE my hair had been smashed under my rhinestone kerchief. Even more unfortunate was the fact that the Mad Hatter was now calling me a pirate. A PIRATE!! "Pirate, oh pirate!" he called again…and started advancing on me. Had he harmlessly stood under the awning of the hat shop where he belonged, I might have excused his behavior. But no; he was coming for me and Alice, the little brat, joined him. I had two choices: fight or flight. They were coming, and I couldn't stop them. The silicone nose between his face and my fist wasn't going to save him. Besides, I think it's a federal offense to savagely beat a Disney character. And so, to the great delight of my friends, the Mad Hatter, Alice, and everyone else in the long line waiting for the Tea Cups, I ran. Yes, I ran. Not jogged, not skipped, trotted, or limped—I RAN for my life. "Come back pirate! Come back!" they called, waving wildly. Without a second thought, I raced pell-mell into the seething mass. My best friend Jamie was nearly doubled over in hysterical laughter as I took off into the crowd.

It wasn't until several years later when I found myself in Orlando, the motherland of all Disney characters, that I realized how ghastly it must be to be on the other side of the sweltering hot mask. My best friend Joel was serving time there…. I mean, participating in the summer internship program at WDW. By the way, if you ever go there to visit someone, be sure to bring your birth certificate, immunization records, passport, and your soul. They'll ask you for all of them to cross into the inner sanctum of employee housing. I've been less nervous taking a breathalyzer test. It was under STRICT instruction that I even ventured into the park. I told Joel that if even ONE character touched me, looked at me, approached me, or waved at me, there would be hell to pay for him and his cohorts. Being the Wookie princess that I am, he knew I meant business. Though I think it came as a great surprise when I actually dove for cover when Simba wandered by on his way to the safari party. For me there's nothing quite like a backstage tour, though, to ease the terror.

One night, while we were out shopping, I actually got to meet the face behind the Tigger mask. Apparently, Disney characters only have to dance about waving their arms while they're stuffed into rented polyester suits. Tigger, whose real name I have long forgotten was nice, polite, charming; he didn't try to touch my hair. Thank goodness for that—Tigger would have lost more than his bounce. To my great relief, with the protection of employee-of-the-month-Joel, not one large headed, goggle-eyed fish, mermaid, or dancing bear bothered me. Well, I can't say that. I was bothered at the very sight of them. I tucked and rolled more than a traveling carnival.

I was deeply grateful that I managed to endure an entire trip without incident; my joy, however, was premature. It was in the Mrs. Cavanaugh's shop where I met my doom. We had wandered in, ride-weary and in search of chocolate. There she was: Mrs. Cavanaugh's evil twin. I learned from Disney that all good characters have evil twins that do bad things. Mrs. Cavanaugh, good. Woman in store, bad. Joel and I were dear and best friends. But we were most certainly not in love. Joel, I think, was in love with the guy behind the Tigger mask. Nevertheless, horrible-twin Mrs. Cavanaugh wanted to incite a love affair right then and there with her caramel chocolates. Joel hates caramel. I hate Disney induced magic. Mrs. Cavanaugh apparently hated taking no for an answer. "Do you know why people eat chocolate?" the gushy woman inquired, waving her tray of goods in our direction. "To get more fat?" I thought."Why?" I implored sweetly, wishing I had something large and blunt to hit her with. "It's an aphrodisiac…." She said, carefully pronouncing each syllable as if she had either invented the word or was hoping for one of her own later. I looked her blankly, wishing that my need for chocolate was not physically compelling me to stay in the store. "You know when your lover brings home chocolates… what he's hoping for," she continued, advancing on us like a well-trained foot soldier ambushing the enemy.

Joel turned a horrible shade of red. I turned to him and choked out the words, "well, honey…we'd better eat some, then…" Poor Joel was still standing there, horror struck, at this FAR less than magical side of Disney. He reached out forcefully, automatically, and took the forbidden fruit from her sweaty hand. Then he stood there, holding it dumbly wondering, I'm sure, what to do. "I don't like…caramel." "Here, I'll just take it," I said, taking it from his out-stretched hand. Turning my back on the devil in the red apron, I crammed them both in my mouth. "Oooooooh! Look, now you know what HE wants!" Mrs. Cavanaugh jiggled with glee. No, no, that wasn't what he wanted. It wasn't what I wanted. What I wanted was to pitch her headlong into the nearest case of truffles. I don't care if it IS the happiest place on earth, not everyone WANTS to be a goggle-eyed lover in search of her prince. Sometimes you just want to go ride the rides, eat the food, and have everyone just leave you the hell alone. If I want to ride the Tea-Cups, let me ride. If I want to dress like a pirate, let me. And if I want a big Disney hug, I'll be sure to let you know…but don't hold your breath.

A farewell to Hope

2008-08-04T12:14:00.000-06:00

I bid you a bittersweet farewell, my old friend, Hope. How often we have sojourned amid so much turmoil and woe. Together we have waited for Godot to come. I, yearning for just a bit of rope…and you, regaling my laden heart with your endless tales of brighter tomorrows and better times long-past. What a gentle guide she's been! Yet, despite my deepest sorrow, our roads are destined to diverge once more. How bitterly I weep! No, I do not weep for her. She will go merrily along, her paths smooth and wide. It is for me alone, I weep. I am left stranded on narrow, stone-strewn roads, without even my shoes. Oh! Hope, can you not stay a little longer? Just bear with me over the next hill...perhaps? Or at least stay until the rain subsides? No. She smiles. Hope is kind, but firm. She must go. And all my pleading cannot bring her back. I watch her move noiselessly into the dark; taking with her all the light I had. I crumple, roadside. The storm raging so close I cannot see my hands before me... yet I clasp them all the same. Shuddering in the frozen rain I brought upon myself, I pray. No, not for Hope. She is fled. Sobbing words escape my lips...What of my old, rough-hewn ally Strength? Will you come to me now? Or have you abandoned me, too? The rain's steady beat against my back comes with thunderous pain. And then… a reprieve. The rain seems to cease. I raise my head to find him leaning close; his mighty presence sheltering my own trembling frame. Oh, Strength! Is it really you? Yes! With a hearty laugh, he takes my hand. Come on, he urges. We've so many mountains yet to climb!