ENG&101 Think Tank

I sat in my English class this morning and I missed something- here me out. I missed high school. It is a long thought and not nearly as judgmental of others as it may sound so that is why I say here me out. In high school I was on the accelerated track for many classes. They were more challenging- much less boring- and they were with kids I had known for years and trusted. So I sat there and missed high school and thought that besides a few required classes, I could take more challenging classes. I could search out the teachers who are more difficult or the subject matter that is more intense and then I wouldn't be so bored. But then I got scared. I thought about being in a hard class with a bunch of strangers and feeling overwhelmed and scared and doomed. In high school I trusted that my friends were feeling the same as they sat in the harder classes. I knew if we did group work we all cared about the grade. Stepping up academically was stepping up with a group- a family you trusted and had little reason to fear failure. Okay, so it is not the people. Although I did have pretty awesome high school classmates and friends, but I am sure there are great people at YVCC too. It is all in my head really. It's also probably all excuses. But before I go on and berate myself I will admit that many of the classes for the subjects I am interested in are in fact very easy and therefore kind of boring. So back to me and my nasty human nature that I should want to battle more violently... I don't want to be bored in class but I don't want to take a class that I could fail and by fail I mean get a B. I don't want to live under my potential but I want to ensure that I excel. I want the challenge but I don't want the possible pain. I could be a Doctor but I don't want to go to school for 8 years. Okay so the Doctor thing is a stretch- it's more of an illustration than truth. I would hate being a Doctor because I don't like needles and germs and people in pain. BUT... Sometimes I just stop and think about potential and then I feel this agonizing fear that I have never truly reached it and may never truly reach it because I desire simplicity and peace at the same time. Can I be simply the best at something? Can I have peace while fighting to reach top? What separates people with dreams from people who are living those dreams? What if you are living some...some that take less talent and hard work? Does that make you less of a true liver of life? If you think you can does that mean you should? If you say you don't regret the past because you are happy with who you are now does that mean it was okay not to push yourself to be the best you could? I don't really study. I don't really have to. But what if I did? I don't really try to learn how to be a better writer. I like most of what I write and people say they enjoy it. But what if I did? I don't try to train for a marathon because I am proud enough of the 5K I can run. But what if I did? What if I did all the things that don't interest me in the interest of being the best me- what the heck kind of life would that be? I can't do it all. I can't be a best selling author, a marathon icon, a doctor or scientist, the best mother in the world, a 5 star chef, an inventor, and a million dollar event planner all in one. I can't be the best at everything I am good at- so how do I still be the best me? Love matters- loving to my greatest ability is key I know. But after that? Where do peace and unrest fit into the rigors of being the best at any given thing? What do I do with these feelings in the face of living for today and working with what God is placing in front of me? Wow that is a lot of questions and a whole lot of woe-is-me-whiny-ramblings. But it feels good to write.

Oops I did it again...

Why is it always so hard for me to write when I am supposed to. When I say, "write everyday," I never do. I can't even manage to write in this once a week. I just really hate pressure. Pressure to perform or be something or someone. When I played basketball, I remember my coach getting so mad at me because I would try to get rid of the ball as soon as I got it. The pressure was just too much when it was in my hands. And in soccer, I was a wreck until the other team scored the first goal- then the pressure was off. But life is full of pressure so I should probably just grow up and deal with it.
So I drove to Othello today to visit an awesome friend and it was a great time to think. A little over 3 hours of desolate road. I thought about lots of stuff but one of the random things was this...it would be really easy to be crazy. All you have to do to go crazy is give in. Just give in when you feel worthless. When you have those little thoughts that seem crazy, enter in and let them wash over you. Never use logic. Don't believe rational thinking. Also- have zero faith. Zero faith in yourself. Zero faith in God. Zero faith in others.
Now that I think about it- that sounds kind of hard. Nasty feelings take a lot of nasty energy.
Weird.

Stuff

Sometimes stuff happens that you really don't understand. You don't understanding the timing of it. You don't understand why it happens. And you don't even really understand what exactly is happening. But stuff happens anyways- around you, to you, inside of you. About two years ago, stuff happened. Scary stuff. Confusing stuff. Stuff on top of stuff that led to other stuff.

Three years ago, this time of the year, I was depressed. I was tired, unmotivated, lonely even with my best friends, confused, irritated, and empty. I would attempt to fill up with exciting things but it was like eating air- unsatisfying, unhealthy, and leaving me with a belly-ache. I have all these sad little self-portrait-memories in my head: Me sitting on the counter and crying in front of my family; Me sitting on the coffee table crying in front of my friends; Me laying on the couch, not crying because I couldn't muster anymore tears; Me with glazed-over eyes, seeing the world through fog; Me without a smile, monotone and grey; And me, sick so often and for such long periods of time because I had no reason to want to get better. That stuff was painful. For a whole year, I dealt with that stuff. I went to counseling, I got help, I started to get better. Then stuff happened on top of that stuff.

The phone rang one day and I answered. The man laughed and I was confused. I hung up and shrugged it off until it happened again and again. Then he left me messages, then he told me what was coming, he warned me what I would get. I called the police, I carried mace, I drove laps around town before going home. I was scared. I thought, "bad things really do just happen for no reason." And just when I was starting to remember that it didn't, I was shown: life sucks.

I had good friends, and good people who took good care of me. But all that good on the outside just mocked all the bad I was feeling on the inside. I quit the job that brought that man closer to me and I hid myself away. I went from house to house, spare room to couch to spare room. I smiled a little and pretended but every time I saw a mirror I knew- there was hardly anything left inside of me. There were a lot of mirrors after a while. It seemed like every true friend was holding one up as I passed by. So I started staring deep at the little that I saw and willed myself to find something to fight for. Something glimmered and I'm not sure it was hope- maybe more the shiny gloss of an illusion. An imaged future that glows simply because it is not the dingy tinge of here and now. So I packed my things and moved west to a place I didn't really know. But my heart was never in the "dream" I was following. My heart was still scared, and empty- and now it was lonely too. I watched a lot of movies. I read ridiculous books. I went to a lot of happy hours. And pretended I could have a relationship. There were really only two good things that I did regularly in the few short months that I lived over the mountains. The first lightened my heavy spirits and the second saved my life. I watched my one and a half year old niece. We'd watch PBS together and walk to the library. She'd knock on my bedroom door after nap time and sometimes she would fall sleep in my bed while I read. I taught her some colors and pushed her on the swing until she was too worn out to hold her little head up. And the best was pretending she was my own to other moms and dads at the park. It's hard to hate everything with a little tiny person, holding on to you with their little tiny hand and telling you with their little tiny voice that she loves you. It lightened- it lifted, when I was weighed down. It prepared my heart for what would save me in the end.

The other thing of value- rather more invaluable: Every morning I woke up; put on layers of clothes and left the house when it was barely light. In the snow and in the rain, I walked two miles to church- up a horrible hill that I hated. I went to mass, prayed the rosary and read the words of the saints who loved Mary more than I knew how. Then I walked back home. Every day I did this -even though I didn't want to. I guess I didn't know what else to do. It wasn't fun. Or even very peaceful. It was hard. It was empty. My heart was as cold to the joy and consolation of prayer as the winter air that I walked through each morning. But still I walked and still I prayed.

I didn't know it at the time but stuff was happening inside of me. Each day as I journeyed I was growing stronger. I was formulating a desire. I was sparking and ever so slightly giving oxygen to a fire. A fire that would warm my cold heart and fill my empty soul. After 3 months, I moved back to town. I found a new home and job that I loved. I made some friends that took me into their hearts like a lost hungry puppy. They gave me the nourishment and affection I needed to venture wagging my tail once more. One friend in particular held me close. She asked of me and encouraged me to explore. She pointed out my new strength and helped me understand my growing desire. It was simple really. Simple yet complex. All I really wanted- all I needed- all this time- was something real. Something true. In this world of fakes- fake happiness, fake love, fake people- all I desired was something truly real.

...TO BE CONTINUED...(as soon as I can figure out a way to make a story about not pooping for 9 days sound as monumental and earth shatteringly important as it was.)

Breaking up is hard to do...

They say that breaking up is hard to do...but breaking down- breaking down is very easy.

I could describe the feeling so many ways...

Like you're going too fast on a merry-go-round. Everything is spinning past and you just have to hold on. But your palms are sweaty, you can't feel your fingers, you're a little bit nauseous and you wonder for just a second if letting go is so bad. If flying off this out of control ride and landing in the field far off is really so bad.

Like you're running a race but never getting closer to the finish. You just want to catch your breath and stop that constant stitch in your side. You're moving but your feet are numb. You just want to stop for a minute- hunch over or lay on the ground and heave until the pain goes away- but you know you'll never start again.

Like fighting sleep in a moving car. The motion, the hum, the mesmerizing lines, the heat blowing on your face, the heavy eyelids, and the lazy-swaying thoughts. Everything inside you wants to give in. Your own body is revolting against you. All you have is the will- the will to keep open your eyes. But you know the will is weak and the ride is long.

Like swimming in the ocean with the current pushing you back. Moving your arms and kicking your feet and fighting, fighting, fighting for forward motion. But your muscles just grow weak and your body just gets cold. You're veins get full of lead and you almost want to sink.

Breaking down is very easy. So is letting go, and laying down, giving in, and going under.

But going under is to drown. Giving in means you crash. Laying down is giving up. Letting go is shattering. And breaking down is one step closer to losing your mind.

Sometimes I want to lose my mind. I want to give up, drown, crash and shatter- all at once. And I can only describe that feeling one way- like my heart is about to burst.

(insert here a whole list of why. an overflowing basket of reasons for pain. show a world in need and one small silhouette of a person trying to handle it all. add self-centered shame and guilt and pity. words words words. blah blah blah. it matters little why.)

But somehow, I close my eyes and breath through the bursting. I keep moving...my eyes open. I keep running towards the finish...holding on tight. And when I feel like breaking down, somewhere in my mind I find it's not worth losing it after all.

Dream on.

So I think in order to keep my pledge, it is time that I write a new entry.

I'm sitting here trying to think of what to say and nothing is coming. It's not for lack of thoughts, on the contrary it's because there are far too many. You know that feeling that makes you grab at the sides of your head in an effort to keep it from exploding? -yeah I'm there. At this point I really rather go to sleep and shut it all off than sort it all out. It's not all bad either. I mean some of the thoughts are hard to have and some are sobering. Some are sad and some are inspiring. Some are attached to anger and some to determination. All this at the same time. That is the beauty and curse of being a women. - Not the only beautiful curse either- how about emotions? Wonderful, horrible, and distracting emotions.

I have been so distracted lately. Living in the shadow of nothing- yet pure possibility. It's an undefined dream and it steals my attention whenever it can. I'm filled with joy and then despair. Peace and then doubt. Faith and then fear. I'm a woman and I can change my mind and my heart and my hair on a whim and without knowing why either. What I really want is focus- but focus is hard work. I want to do what's right and good regardless of the fleeting and possible effect it may have on my invisible dream. I want to work towards the me in the dream regardless of the unknowns.

"Why not now? Why not here?"

I don't mean to, but I'm finding that I think when I have the life I dream of I will be the person I dream of as well. "Then I will be nicer. Then I will be more giving. Then I will complain less. Then I won't care what stupid show is on TV and change my schedule around to fit it." Yeah, I'm pretty much perfect in the future- you just wait and see. All I need is a husband and some kids and everything will fall into place. Isn't that how it works? Don't you go into crazy-demanding situations and just find the ability to handle it all with grace? What? You mean you have to have some of those skills beforehand? You're telling me that I have to learn how to do that? I have to practice now what I want to be easy for me later? Geez.

All this thought of hard work is making me tired. And I have a long day of practicing to be perfect ahead of me.

Sweet Dreams.

hard work

At times we think we are powerless- like life is happening around us. Other people are members of the orchestra and we just listen to the music. But the truth is, each of us is powerful. With every choice we make, life is different. Maybe there's not a Nobel prize for holding your tongue when your dad is a real jerk or for talking a 4 year old into un-crumpling his latest drawing. Maybe there should be.

I've been fixated on the idea that I want to change the world- that I have to change the world- for nearly ten years now. I look at this massive world I live in and dream in grandeur about ways to reach the most people with a message that inspires and gives life. My youth minister told me we should all pray that God would use us but that I should pray extra hard that it might be in a big way. Why? Because it's easier.

Do you think that is true? Do you think it is hard to be quietly powerful? To change your own little world and watch others change the rest? To be the mother of a Saint? The teacher of a doctor? The childhood coach of the Pro MVP?

I would love to see someday that I changed the world by throwing large amounts of money into the fight against hunger or because my book was a best selling self-help or inspirational piece. I would love to hear peoples lives directed by a quote of mine or deeply touched by a moment I captured in vivid color.

Then again, I always did like the easy path. Not a fan of hard work. And living like I matter every moment of every day...that is hard work. Believing that the effort I put into listening to someone makes a difference is hard work. Knowing that everything after breathing is a choice that could change someones life is hard work. Changing my own little world in order to change the whole world- that...that is hard work.

Heart

...just writing...thinking...writing...

If life was seen in terms of the heart- the real physical heart, and you had a monitor for viewing; the screen would be full of lulls and blips and spikes. You would clearly see where your heart skips a beat, murmurs and moves on. You can see on a monitor a heart attack, and the extra labor the heart undertakes to try and recover. A stroke you can identify, with its damage-caused collapsing. You would see it all right as it was happening.

If that were true, then I would have seen my heart dieing. Dieing slowly struggling for life. I weakened my heart with the drug of anxiety; I stressed it with the weight of sorrow and arrested it with despair. In its attempt to sustain, it raced and skipped and pounded but couldn’t keep pace. Emotionally bedridden and mentally broken I waited for the beats to cease. It was hell in the metaphorical hospital complete with flowers and “get-well soon” cards mocking the life slipping from me. Adjusting, readjusting hanging another IV…still dieing.

But before the final blow I received fresh life- a new heart placed inside. Rushed slowly down the hall; prepped and ripped open. My ribs peeled back, someone standing inside my chest. An unknown violence was occurring deep inside me, as I was dream-sleeping the pain away. Opening my eyes once again it is the peace I remember; the calm, the steady- inside and out. My lungs full, for the first time in so long, with the air I was breathing in anew.

The process of dieing to new life was painful and I carry the memory with me like a scar. But like all scars, it means I lived- lived to tell about it. With this unique transplant of hope, there is no limit to what I can do with the heart inside me- no fear of infection or rejection. It is more mine than the one before - more whole and healed than the one grown from conception. My new heart is the heart I was always meant to have. My new heart is freedom and love.