It Is Time...

The Evergreen State College is the only school I’ve read about and attended that can help me achieve my dreams. It is true that I have true aspirations and I have given them up for other endeavors, including my attempt at becoming a security officer through Securitas.

            Had I been able to stay awake without trouble, I could easily have done the job as transit security. I am a capable woman. I am strong and powerful.

            I choose to take this experience as a lesson. It is one that has taught me that it is time for me to make myself a priority. I am an artist. I enjoy drawing, painting, and writing. I want to make my life about drawing, painting, and writing, and there are things I can do to make money that will not cause me suffocating anxiety.

            The American Heart Association can certify me as a First Aid/CPR/AED trainer and I can make good money training people. I can pay to get a teaching certificate and work as a substitute teacher, though it will behoove me to complete my Bachelor’s Degree. A degree, I can get from The Evergreen State College and I can teach classes related to those that I am taking in school. I am a good teacher; many people have recognized this about me.

            I have a world of potential being wasted by my mental illness, but I cannot lie down and simply stop living—no matter how much my depression holds me down and I want to give up.

            This blog entry may sound determined. It may sound uplifting for me. But, the reality is that just before writing this, I wanted to die. I simply wanted to stop living and give up, fade away into the dust. What saved me was a drink Randy bought for me.

            The drink is designed to reduce stress and I’m surprised—happily so—to say that it works. I will definitely be needing more of them. Or, perhaps I need to get back into taking my St John’s Wort. In reality, if I hadn’t had this drink, I would probably still be in bed, where I spent most of my day today sleeping out of depression.

            This drink has managed to assuage the monster that is depression just enough for me to realize that it is up to me to get up in the morning and fight. Fight for a clean home despite the depression’s crushing weight that usually keeps me from lifting a finger to better my situation. Fight for a healthier, toner body, despite depression’s suffocating ability to keep me in a chair for hours upon hours at a time. Fight for my dreams, which I can follow best at the Evergreen State College. Fight to create—create and post to Patreon works of illustration, writing, and even photography.

            I’ve said it many times: It’s time for me to get up and take my life into my own hands. It’s time for me to stop seeking structure from an outside source. It’s as Lucifer himself said to me: I create my own path in this world and there is no one who can hold my hand for it, for it is my own. Healing is not linear, but I am on a healing path and that is what is most important.

Happy News

My mother gained custody of me when I was 7 years old, going on 8. I spent two years with her and moved back in with my grandparents; this is no secret. I lived with my grandparents from 4^th grade all the way through high school graduation, until I left for the military. I even lived with them again after separating from the Air Force and while my little family was homeless after our first apartment as civilians.

            Living with my mother was difficult for many reasons, but one of the biggest reasons was my lack of friends. At any given time, I had one good friend, maybe a second not-so-good friend. This carried over to 4^th grade, after I’d moved back in with my grandparents; I had two friends at Roy Elementary and one of them was a bitch. Their names were Rose and Kaydee, in order of importance.

            Rose was a phenomenal friend; I loved everything about her. She was kind, thoughtful, and friendly; we played with our Barbies together and talked about school and our bullies and crushes. My memory isn’t the best for specifics, but it’s as they say: People will forget what you said to them, but will never forget how you made them feel. Rose made me feel included. I will never in all my life forget that.

            After 6^th grade, Rose moved to Illinois. For a while, we wrote each other, back and forth. Then, one day, my letter came back with a “Return to Sender” stamp on it. I tried again and again, each time in vain, to get the letter to the address I had for her. Every time, it came back, until I finally gave up and assumed defeat. That is, until I made a Facebook account.

            It occurred to me that social media could be used to find Rose. I remembered that she’d liked being on the computer as much as I’d liked it, when we were kids. Neither of us were able to spend as much time as we wanted to on our respective household computers. I thought, If I have a Facebook account, maybe Rose does, too! And so, I searched for her.

            Nothing came up. I searched again. Still nothing.

            Over the years, I searched for her less often, but none of my search results resembled the friend I’d had.

            Until today.

            Today, I typed her full name into the search bar during my lunch break. I was on my phone and I don’t know why, but I suddenly figured, “I’m gonna look for Rose, again. See what happens.” And there she was! The first result in my search was her!

            It has been a long time since I’ve felt such elation. Immediately, I sent her a friend request and a message—a rather enthusiastic message—and told two of my friends what had just happened, since I was in conversation with them at the time. I sent another message shortly thereafter, upon realizing that perhaps the first one might have come across a little creepily.

            At this time, I await a response. I don’t know if or when she will get back to me, but at least now I know I can hope. Now I know that my friend is out there, still in Illinois, possibly working in a library, and I have done my part in finding her. My hopes are that we can reconnect; she was my best friend and we’d both agreed that our only other friend, whom we shared, wasn’t much of a friend at all.

            Now I can rest more easily and perhaps with a smile in my heart, knowing that she grew up and is still out there. If we reconnect and our friendship is still strong, I sincerely hope to visit her, perhaps in June when we go to Indiana.

            For this reason, as well as the fact that I received my paycheck and learned that I will be posted as close to home as is possible within my client’s properties, today was green! I haven’t had such a green day in so long, I’d forgotten what it was like to feel so good. First, I found Rose. Then, I learned that I’ll be posted close to home. Then, I received my paycheck. Then, I received a Labyrinth T-shirt and Horcrux socks from Loot Crate!

            I live in Federal Way, Washington. Nearby cities include Kent and Auburn, both of which have stations attached to the client to which I’m assigned through my employer. The area is called “King,” while the area the rest of my class is going to is called “Paul” and includes Seattle and some areas nearby. The fact that I was assigned to the King section is not only extremely lucky for me, it’s extremely rare!

            This information came from the man who first interviewed me for the company for which I now work. He entered the classroom, spoke with the instructor for a while, and then pulled me into an office to ask me about the breathing difficulty I’d had, the other day. I told him that I don’t think it will be a problem, that I think I’ll be able to wear the ballistics vest for 12 hours without incident and I don’t know why I’d been short of breath. He then told me, first, that he almost never assigns people to the King area; he then informed me that he’d placed me there! Happy news! I grinned from ear to ear, to be repeated upon my arrival home…

            Overall, today was the greenest day I’ve had in a long time. Finding my old friend, learning my posts-to-be, the arrival of my paycheck, the Loot Crate merchandise… I can sleep well tonight, I think, and it’s the weekend! I don’t even have to get up as early as usual!

A Strong, Powerful Woman

It’s just after lunch and we’ve all returned to complete the day’s training. We’re watching videos for active shooter training and for some reason, I can’t get enough air—I’m nearly gasping. Trying to remain quiet and inconspicuous, I inhale deeply and exhale fully, doing everything in my power to control my breathing, but it’s no use; by the time the video ends, I’m noticed.

            “Are you okay, Aleashia?” Matt asked from the front desk.

            “Yeah, I’m okay.”

            “You sure?”

            “Yeah, I just can’t seem to get enough air. I’ll be fine,” I replied. Apparently, this was cause for concern, contrary to my own thoughts. Matt immediately put everyone on break and cleared the room after asking for someone who had been a medic—as it happens, a guy in my class named Ken was a medic in the Air Force, so he was the one called upon to talk to me about what was going on.

            I told them all that, yes, I’m on medication and it’s called Ziprasidone. I told them it’s a bipolar medication; I explained that this kind of thing was far from frequent and I didn’t understand why it was happening at that moment. Matt and Ryan made a point of ensuring I knew that if this was a problem, 12-hour shifts would be out of the question and they could move me to another account—not that they wanted to do so, but that it was an option. They insisted that I let them know if the problem persists, and of course I agreed. Hell, I’m not trying to deny a problem when one exists, I just wasn’t sure this was actually a problem—until they’d told me to remove my ballistics vest (prior to talking to Ken) and suddenly I managed to get oxygen enough to stop gasping.

            There’s a woman who works in one of the offices attached to the training room; her name is Kat and I’ve thought she was super cool from the first time I saw her, if only because she has a commanding presence and sports a pixie haircut. As it turns out, she’s just as cool as I imagined; I discovered this after she called me into her office to talk to her.

            “You’re on Trazodone?” she asked, incredulously, upon hearing the name of my medication.

            “No!” I responded emphatically, knowing all too well that Trazodone was not a medication I should be messing with. After all, Randy had been prescribed that particular medication, previously. Matt echoed the disbelief Kat expressed and I emphatically corrected them, “No, it’s Ziprasidone, a bipolar medication.” That was when Kat motioned me into her office.

            “Come on in!” she said, cheerfully. “Swing the door shut, let’s have cocktails.”

            “Yay!” I said joyfully, swinging the door closed as she’d requested and sitting in the chair opposite her desk.

            She began by telling me that she, too, has bipolar. “Hey!” I said, cheerfully. “Hey, crazy! How are ya?” she said, just as cheerfully. Grinning, I responded with, “I’m great! How are you?”

What followed was a conversation that was nothing short of wonderful and remarkable, to me. She told me that I am a strong, powerful woman and that she picked me out from day one as the strongest of the women in my training class and the most capable of doing well in transit security. As I’d seen her as someone to look up to from day one, it meant a lot to me to hear such things from her and I felt my chest fill with happiness at her words.

            Just before she could say her last piece to me, Matt called the break over and I had to return to my seat, to return to Kat prior to leaving in order to hear her out. I did so.

            “I want you, every hour, today and for the rest of your life, to smile,” she began. “If you’re in a place where it’s inappropriate, say it in your head, but if you’re in a place where you can speak freely, like alone in your car… say, ‘I am a strong and powerful woman.’ You’ll convince yourself.” I grinned, an ear-to-ear, shit-eating grin as she said this. “It has to be a real smile,” she added, “Not one of those fake—” and she demonstrated the forced smile of the depressed.

            I was so glad I’d heard her out for that moment and she even gave me a hug. It was a wonderful moment and every hour since being released, I have made a point to smile and say, “I am a strong, powerful woman.”

A Bit of Rambling

Today marked the start of my second week of training. Those of us on the Sound Transit account received our batons and went through training for how to use them properly; those of us on the King County Metro account went to another room and sat through training from a book. I understand KCM’s day was much more boring than mine, as a Sound Transit security officer.

            I look forward to the completion of my training and the start of my day-to-day (or, perhaps, night-to-night) work routine. I look forward to becoming stable and secure in my position and moving my family forward in purchasing a second vehicle for myself, a new couch (sectional!), and, hopefully by August, a home. It’s a lot to look forward to in the four short months before our lease ends; not every goal may be attainable by that time, but I’ll find out as I go.

            My second official paycheck should appear in my checking account on Thursday, this week, assuming the company has my direct deposit information all squared away. If I don’t see my available balance increase, I’ll know to ask some questions, at least. I look forward to using that paycheck to re-enroll Persephone into KinderCare, if nothing else. The size of the check will be a good marker for what I can look forward to in the future, as my pay will increase from the training amount of $13.00/hour to the transit security officer pay of $15.95/hour. Some of you might think that’s quite a bit—and it’s certainly nothing to sniff at—but consider…

            I live in Washington State and the cost of living is pretty high, especially to the west of the mountains and the closer to Seattle/further north you look for housing. Houses in Thurston County are less expensive than King County but sometimes more expensive than houses in Pierce County, but the overall cost of living is relatively high compared to a state like Kentucky or Indiana. In fact, the low cost of living in other states is what has me considering moving us to another state when our lease ends, but we’ve moved so much over the past year and a half that I really just want to find a place and settle down. I also don’t want to transfer elsewhere within my company—since it is all over the USA—and have my pay cut, even if the cost of living is much lower.

            Randy had the brilliant idea to take us to Dairy Queen for dinner and then to the swimming pool! I was happy as could be to hear that he wanted us to go swimming; I’m a total wannabe fish and I love being in the water, although I don’t go to the pool nearly as often as I’d really like to, because I hate—and I mean, I hate—doing anything alone. That means that no matter how much I like to do something—i.e. swimming—I will avoid doing it if there’s no one to join me in my endeavor. Since our gym is typically empty and devoid of all souls, I tend to avoid going, not because I want an audience, but because I want company. Much as I may identify with introverts, I am an extrovert at heart; as I grow older, I realize that the introverted side of me exists solely because there was such a long period of time in my childhood when I had little to no friends.

            It’s my desire for companionship that has me determined to get back into martial arts classes. The problem is, the more I think about it, the less I think it’ll be feasible; I think my work schedule will not allow me to join a regular dojo and go the two or three times a week that are offered for my skill level and because of this, I wonder what I might do to get back into shape. I ask myself, Would it be enough for me to do my workouts alone and blog about them?

            The answer to that question is not a simple one. I require companionship and support, although I tend to be shy when I’m actually placed in a group. For example, I’ve managed to make a couple of acquaintances in my training class, but I’m not sure I’d call anyone my friend; I tend to avoid approaching people of my own volition out of fear of rejection, but the couple of times I have approached individuals in my class have turned out quite well. So, would it be enough for my fragile ego to blog about my exercise routine? Perhaps.

            After all, I did manage to get out and work out by myself when I was in Germany. The only reason I had to work out was to improve my PT score, but it was enough to get me out of my dorm room and to the gym—so what’s stopping me from putting on my running shoes and blogging about what I do for a workout each day? After all, I had no one cheering me on from the sidelines when I found my motivation in the Air Force, while I now know that at least one friend would openly support me should I make a point of publicizing my progress at this time.

            I’ve questioned myself as to why I’ve been unable to keep myself motivated since separating from the Air Force. I think the answer lies in the problem: My depression and, as my doctor believes is the case, my bipolar disorder—but mostly, my depression. My diagnosis came after my separation and shortly after I gave birth to Persephone, but the weight of the diagnosis didn’t sink in until more recently.

            People underestimate mental illness. They tell us to get over it. They tell us that it’s all in our heads. They tell us to get over it. They tell us to stop feeling sorry for ourselves. They don’t realize how debilitating the illness truly can be—and neither did I, at first. Before pushing my daughter into this world from my body, I hadn’t the slightest idea that depression could keep me sitting in a chair for days on end, accomplishing nothing. It never occurred to me that the very idea of motivation would be pushed away by the monster holding me down, the name of which had been dubbed “depression”. Now I know better. Now I can do better—but it’s hard.

            My new job makes it easier. My new medication will help. But the biggest trick in the book is to take life in chunks—one day at a time, one week at a time, and so on.

A Chance to Start Over

I’ve completed my first week of training at Securitas and I’m bruised and sore. It’s the most amazing feeling in the world. I can’t believe how much I missed being bruised and sore from training—and by training, I don’t just mean my job training; in this case, I mean physical training, specifically hand-to-hand self-defense. Also, learning how to properly use handcuffs was a plus. I have bruises on the back base of each hand, on my left thigh, and on at least one hand; all of them are practically invisible but I expect they could turn color by morning.

            In moments like these, I find myself thinking pain is weakness leaving the body. I find myself wondering, why don’t I have this attitude towards running? I think the answer is, before today, I hadn’t a solid enough reason to run. Feeling sore and feeling bruises form on my body—particularly my hands, which I use so often—has me feeling like I’ve actually felt serenity again. This brings me to my next idea.

            Humanity needs violence. Violence may not always be against other animals, including humans; violence is simply destruction and that also happens in art. Art, however, is not enough for me. I prefer a certain amount of structure, which I have learned from the Art Institute, but which writing has always held for me; I can use what I learned and what I know to illustrate the things I write. My plan is to begin the day I buy a new Surface Pro because my friend dropped the one I have and it broke, last year. I’m upset about the fact that it’s been broken, but I’m not angry with my friend; she held it by the tiny plastic thing and something happened with her body—maybe it was her bad hand she held it with—and it dropped. I didn’t have the case for it then that I do now and I hope a Surface Pro 4 will have the same measurements so I don’t have to buy new shit. I digress; while I love art and I am an artist, I also need discipline in my life and the only thing—literally, the only thing—that has given me the amount I need is martial arts.

            I have missed it since the day I left in 2007. I have certificates in my file celebrating every belt transition I made, all the way up to First Degree Red Belt. Then, before I could test for Second Degree Red Belt (1^st Degree Red is a red belt with a black stripe through the center, run horizontally; 2^nd Degree Red is a red belt without the stripe), Sifu came to me to have a conversation—which I found actually meant, to talk down to me and make me feel like shit.

            He told me that I wasn’t “giving it 100%.” I couldn’t fucking believe him, but I felt guilty. I felt like I was disappointing him, and he had been “Big Sweaty Guy” in the Bill Nye the Science Guy episode on Heat! I told him I was doing the best that I could, He, a 7^th Degree Black Belt (far and above black belt by an additional 6 level-ups or however it works after Black Belt) at the time, told me that if I (a 1^st Degree Red Belt, remember) had to keep up with him when he led class, otherwise he would bump me back down to White Belt. The very bottom of the belt hierarchy; he would start me over again from scratch, after all the years I had already put into the program and all the money my grandparents had spent.

            To give you a sense of what this meant to me, I’ll tell you the belt hierarchy, beginning with White Belt. After White Belt comes Yellow Belt; then, Orange Belt; Green Belt; Purple Belt; 1^st Degree Blue Belt; 2^nd Degree Blue Belt; 1^st Degree Red Belt; 2^nd Degree Red Belt; 1^st Degree Brown Belt; 2^nd Degree Brown Belt; and finally, Black Belt. I wanted so badly to make it to Black Belt and I was willing to do anything I could to attain it without going backwards.

            I freaked out and internalized everything he said. I vowed to keep up with him, caution be damned, and I got hurt. Sifu led us in lunges wherein we pretended to lift someone up; thus, while deep into the lunge, we had to lean back with our arms out like they were around another person. Looking back, I’m pretty sure this happened because my knee overextended my feet. Sifu had not properly taught us to lunge without overextending our knees. My left kneecap popped out of place—and right back in as I hit the ground like a screaming sack of potatoes.

            Everyone told me to walk it off—carefully. Everyone. It felt like it healed well enough, until I thought it had healed well enough to wear short but skinny heels to my sophomore year Open House at my high school. I had barely made it upstairs and started to stride down the hallway when my knee gave out and I fell again. It didn’t hurt as badly as the initial incident, but I limped heavily for the rest of the day and my grandmother finally agreed to take me to the doctor.

            They found that I’d broken some cartilage off inside of my knee and they opted for arthroscopic surgery, wherein they would remove the cartilage and create scar tissue in its place so that it would heal better. It was agreed upon and that’s what happened; I was on crutches for six weeks and I never went back to martial arts.

            I don’t know why I didn’t go ahead and drive to Prague regularly to take martial arts in Germany. I guess the place lacked the structure I sought—the structure that had been given at Lenderman’s Academy of Martial Arts. I felt that it was not worth a 2-hour drive to have no direction before grappling with another person. If I had learned nothing, how was I to defend myself? I saw myself then as I see myself now: starting over. The difference is, I believe I’m finally coming to terms with the fact that I truly am starting over; with my fitness level, I may as well know nothing. My soreness and bruises remind me of that.

            My self-assurance that I’ve come to terms with having to start over: I want to get started, rather than get back to it. Breaking my ankle the day before having Persephone—in addition to actually giving birth to my daughter—was like pressing the reset button.

            But that’s no reason to give up. It’s just what I’ve been asking the universe for: A chance to start over.

12.04.2016

Some days, the smallest things must be counted as successes in order to maintain forward momentum.

            Today, I managed to stay awake a little better than yesterday. Part of that may have been because I had the rest of my second energy drink from yesterday, as well as a Rockstar, this morning. It’s relatively miraculous that I was able to stay awake while driving early in the morning, however; it took me forever to fall asleep, last night, even though I went to bed at 20:00. That’s 8pm for those who have difficulty with the 24-hour clock.

            Today, I learned about verbal judo—the art of redirecting energy and dealing with difficult people. The problem isn’t that I, too, am a difficult person; the problem is, I am highly susceptible to being “under the influence”—usually concerning emotion rather than controlled substances, sadly. As it turns out, I’m a better person, generally, when under the influence of controlled substances.

            Although I meant to ride the bus this morning, that didn’t happen. Instead, I drove. I’ve asked myself, why didn’t I do what I had planned? What made me forego the bicycle and the bus in favor of the Chevy? Answers are difficult to come by, but to put it out of my mind, I told myself it was because I was ill-prepared for this morning when I woke up, which means that in order to better meet my bicycling and bus-riding goals, I need to make sure everything is ready before I go to bed. That being said, I have a sinking suspicion that the biggest reason I didn’t get out my bicycle and ride to the transit center is because, rather suddenly, I didn’t feel like it.

            Now, many people might say, “It’s okay if you didn’t feel like it. It happens. Sometimes, we don’t feel like doing things and it’s okay to put it off for a day and get to it another time.” That’s wonderful and I’m not going to say it’s wrong, but I have fear. I fear that my emotions will continue to get the better of me. Perhaps it’s an irrational fear; after all, healing isn’t linear. I can’t just stop having bad moods or bad days, but I can allow myself forgiveness and I can get back up from the fall.

            I am allowed to forgive myself. I deserve to forgive myself and I deserve to be happy—even if it isn’t every day; even if I stumble and struggle, I deserve to see myself through the journey of healing and I deserve all of the good things in my life that depression forces me to overlook and underappreciate.

            Thanks for reading.

Some Thoughts Regarding Religion and Spirituality

Do this. Don’t do that. Feel this way about these issues, but feel that way about those issues. Contradictions. Paradoxes. Confusion.

            This is religion.

            I’ve done my research. I know, in this year’s political race, Hillary Clinton had the audacity to tell Bernie followers to “do their own research,” as if we haven’t already done our Google searches and unearthed her inconsistency and even flat-out lies. Thanks, Hillary, we did what you said and we still don’t like you, you vote-pandering bag of bones. I digress. In this case, I have done my research on religion.

            I don’t care if you’re Jewish, Catholic, Muslim, or part of one of the countless denominations of Christianity. Of these, all are the same at a fundamental level and none seem to recognize it of the others. All have a certain level of respectability and I believe it is that level of respectability that made each one as alluring as the next, throughout history.

            Judaism is the parent language. From it, Catholicism broke out and took over much of Europe, if not the whole. Islam was born from Judaism and came to being with the prophet Muhammad. From Catholicism came the Protestants, later to be known as Christians, and from Christianity came Evangelists, Latter-Day Saints, Jehovah’s Witnesses, Baptists, Southern Baptists, Jesus freaks, and more. Islam has the Qur’an; Mormons have the Book of Mormon.

The rest, as far as my still-limited knowledge goes, have the Holy Bible. The be-all and end-all of books; the most popular book in the world. The greatest work of historical fiction ever to hit the presses and people follow it like their lives depend on it because they believe they do.

I don’t care if your god exists. As far as I’m concerned, it doesn’t, but my argument here is not about the existence of some invisible deity in space. My argument is against the brainwashing, the indoctrination of children, the hypocritical self-deceit, and the very idea of sin. You can’t take a breath without sinning, according to the Bible.

Religion is different for many people. Perhaps it is true that the majority of Christians are loving people who would rather not shove their precious books down the throats of their atheist neighbors. Perhaps you follow your religion in such a way that you simply believe God exists to help you be happy and be your guide, but if that’s the case, why are you where you are now?

Maybe my friend would tell me that she’s in her place because she turned away from God and that has caused parts of her life to unravel and lead to her current situation. My thoughts run a different course.

Perhaps God gives her light in her life, but I don’t see it. I see an insecure woman who needs to feel validated for her feelings and that’s okay because it seems her family didn’t make her feel important enough as a child. I see someone who sees the good in her pastor and the good in the people at her church and thus infers goodness to the religion because she believes that God Himself is good.

Religion is not good. Religion divides. Religion has been a divisive tool used for conquest since the dawn of time, it seems. How can your religion bring you light and love if you truly follow the book that has been written and rewritten countless times with countless translations and two to four different versions?

My friends, if you believe that your religion gives you light and love, then I have news for you in the form of an opinion: You are, in fact, a spiritual being. We are all spiritual beings, but some embrace it better than others, while still others know of their spirituality in a way that keeps them from so much as naming a religion. The “majority” of people with religion who are instead loving and accepting are seen as people who “truly follow God.” I disagree.

Perhaps it is true that following God includes only love and acceptance and tolerance. If so, I believe God is misrepresented and thus misunderstood. However, it is the spirituality of people that I mean to discuss. You who follow God in the name of love, light, acceptance, and prosperity are spiritual, not religious. You name a religion and say that you follow it but it is a lie. You follow your heart and your soul and that makes you spiritual, not religious.

            Disagree all you like. That’s the beauty of opinions, my friends.

A Letter to A New Friend

I care about you deeply. You are important to me because you are a good person, underneath it all. Underneath the needless apologies and automatic defenses; behind the walls you’ve erected to protect yourself from the people around you, you have a heart of gold and all you really want to do is help people. I resonate with that.

            All I’ve ever wanted to do—short of being an artist—is help people. Part of the reason for me to get a Bachelor’s degree in Psychology is because I want to help people; what better degree to pursue for such an endeavor? Naturally, I want to help you. The thing is, I’m not even sure you realize you’re damaged; or, perhaps you do, but you don’t know how to accept constructive criticism from another person because all you’ve experienced have been negative people who have nothing nice to say.

            You’re not trying to be mean. I can accept that and appreciate it. What I think you don’t realize is how you sound to those around you even when you think you’re being “just fine”. Your voice is so sharp—as sharp as the nose on your face, as sharp as your very chin, so is your voice—and when something comes unbidden from your mouth in an environment you don’t prefer while you’re surrounded by generally undesirable people, your voice is sharp.

            Tone of voice means a lot in communication, my dear friend. The very sound of your voice when you say something—your inflections, as in, the way your voice rises and falls during speech—including the speed with which you talk and the words that come out of your mouth are all parts of the communication process. I don’t think very many people think of communication as a process; I think people think it consists only of what is said, rather than how.

            It is clear to me that you pay attention to what you say, friend. Many people do, when communicating. What I’m not sure you know is the meaning of your words. I’m not sure you know the true message you send with your body language, the words you actually say, and the tone of your voice.

            It’s different with me. When you’re with me, your tone is softer. But even when you’re with me, you’re so defensive of yourself, like you think your defenses must be up at all times and like you believe that the best defense is a good offense. God forbid you should ever offend anyone, though, so you preface many of the things you say—things that are hardly ever offensive by any nature—with “No offense.” None offense is taken and I feel like there is a larger underlying issue with you that perhaps you don’t recognize, where you feel the need to disclaim yourself before saying anything.

            Anything I say is met with, “No, I know, but—” something. Do you realize that you always say “No,” first? The first word out of your mouth when we are speaking is “No,” when I have something to say that isn’t a general nod, “mm-hmm,” or silence in listening. I might tell you that, while I understand your point of view, I think differently about the situation. The first word out of your mouth is, “No,” but I don’t think you even hear yourself say it. You hear yourself say the following “I know,” before you continue with your point and your endeavor to make me understand what you’re saying—which I do, dear friend. I do.

            I want to help you, friend. I want to help all of my friends, but I think the struggle for you is internal. Perhaps it is something only you can work on yourself and I am so glad that your goal for the year—if not beyond—is to help yourself. My hope for you, dear friend, is that you are also sincerely interested in personal growth. Perhaps there is something subconsciously that makes you speak the way you do or even act a certain way.

            I want you to remember that I love you. No matter how hard it gets for you, my love for you as a friend remains. Remember, too, that when everything is a joke, nothing is, and there is always truth in jest. I recognize your jokes as a method by which you wish to be understood and communicate your true thoughts to the outside world, but you’re so afraid of ridicule or backlash that it cannot be said in sincerity. Or, so you think.

            Where is your fear founded? What kind of terrible past have you endured to make you feel so insecure? Secure people speak sincerely and unapologetically, my friend, and you do not fit the bill except when you’re with me. Perhaps it is my sincerity that helps you to relax every so often and if that is the case, I want to move with it. I want to spend more time with you to help you feel sincerity and know it for yourself. I want to wrap you in security and make you realize that it’s okay to have your thoughts, your feelings, your opinions, and it’s okay to share them, but there is a time and a place for everything and there is always a good way to communicate a thought, even if there is no good way it can be received. Fear not, my friend, for I feel that most of what you could say would be received without judgment.

            I fear that your religion gets in the way. Perhaps it is what keeps you going and helps you see the light in life. Who am I to judge your feelings? Better that you tell them to me, in due time, as you will. Just remember, my friend: I love you.

Epiphany

I went through my file, Wednesday.

Now, you might be asking, “What file?” to which I respond, “The file of my life.”

It is exactly what it sounds like. It is a file, the kind you find in a file cabinet, filled to bursting with records and rewards, documenting my life.

I was looking for my immunization records because the Evergreen State College requires them. While digging through my file in my search, I found many other things that tell an interesting story about me—more interesting than I’ve ever given myself credit for.

There’s something about seeing an accomplishment written on paper—by someone else—that finally made it click in my mind that maybe, just maybe, I actually had accomplished something in my life. Maybe—just fucking maybe—I wasn’t a complete piece of shit, after all.

Ever since my diagnosis from the VA of “major depressive disorder,” it’s been a far more real and difficult battle than I’ve previously encountered. Fresh out of the military—thrown into adult life as a civilian with absolutely nothing—in addition to a brand-new baby and post-partum depression, along with the feeling that waiting simply wasn’t an option…

I’ve felt like a fuck-up since the day I set foot into the operational Air Force, but that feeling was the feeling of success compared to the feeling of utter failure I’ve felt since the day I separated.

But, then, I went through my file and found certificates of achievement, one after another.

Bethel High School Cultural Fair, Most Informative Booth: GSA Booth, Aleashia DeLaVergne.

Bethel High School Cultural Fair, Best Visual Display: GSA Booth, Aleashia DeLaVergne

Bethel High School Cultural Fair…

I think I have 5 different awards for “best booth” in one form or another from my sophomore year in the GSA club. My booth was about equal rights for the LGBT community and it displayed the violence perpetrated against gay people, particularly gay men and even more particularly, Matthew Shepard, whose story was the most detailed one I could find.

Lenderman’s Academy of Martial Arts… awards Aleashia DeLaVergne… yellow belt… orange belt… purple belt… green belt… first blue belt… second blue belt… first red belt.

Each belt is an accomplishment. I completed the requirements as a white belt to earn my yellow belt. I completed the requirements as a yellow belt to earn my orange belt. I completed the requirements as an orange belt to earn my purple belt, and so on until I earned my first red belt.

All this time, I’ve focused on how I hurt myself because of how badly Sifu had pressured me. I’ve focused on how hurting myself caused me to quit martial arts before I could earn my second red belt. Before I could earn my first or second brown belt; before I could earn my black belt. I wanted my black belt… I still do.

Then, finally…

I saw my reviews from National History Day, written by the judges of my performance, which I had the opportunity to perform twice at the regional competition. They all say such positive things—“Well done.” “Voicing the American People was a brave choice.” “Smooth character transitions.” “Well done.” “Good voice.” “I learned a lot from your performance.”

All this time, I’ve focused so hard on how I didn’t make it to the state competition. I was so focused on getting all the way to State—hopefully even Nationals—that when I didn’t make it past Regionals, I broke down. I remember—and now, when I remember the event, I am filled with humiliation, but at the time, I couldn’t have been bothered with embarrassment—exactly how I practically hyperventilated, I was crying so hard and so insistently. I remember distinctly how concerned Joey was—my classmate; my friend.

All this time, I’ve had six—at least SIX—positive reviews from the judges at that competition. And I burned my fucking script because I threw a fit and destroyed everything I’d worked so hard to achieve. I burned the papers, deleted the files.

If I still had my script, I would take on those roles once more, to perform as my final project in my Acting & Movement class. As it is, I’ll have to settle with singing the German National Anthem, and simply remember the competition more fondly by looking at my reviews every so often.

I also came across an essay I wrote for my AP Junior English class, my grade for which was above A+. I also found my report card for 9^th grade geometry—a solid, resounding “A” grade. Both of these things were great accomplishments for me; I felt so proud of them that I wanted to save them in my file.

In the very back of my file, there were two folders. One had my grandmother’s name on it, but the one with my name on it included my medical files from the years 1999 and 2000. In this stapled stack of papers were my immunization records, somewhere near the back.

My medical records taught me some things about my child self, at ages 7 and 8—the ages during which I lived with my mother. I have always remembered those years as the worst of my life and my medical records did little to disperse such reverie.

It was written in my medical records that we had 5 paper routes beginning at 03:00—that’s 3:00am for those of you who don’t deal with a 24-hour clock. It was written that my teachers reported my having “lots of attitude” and being “bored in class.” It even said, “Smartest kid in class.” It said I was doing 4^th grade work in the 3^rd grade because I was bored with the 3^rd-grade work.

I remember this. I don’t remember being the smartest kid in class, though; because I remember the test I took to skip the 3^rd grade. That’s right—I took a test to skip the 3^rd grade and I could have passed it. But, I didn’t. It’s probably better that I didn’t; I was always the youngest in my class, anyway.

But now I see, my entire life, I’ve only focused on how I failed the test—not on how few other children were testing to skip grades. Not on how none of the kids I wanted to be friends with had the opportunity to skip a grade. Not on the fact that the very fact that I was taking the test meant that I was extremely intelligent. No. Instead, I focused on how I failed. Suddenly, failing that test meant that I wasn’t smart at all. In fact, it meant I was stupid. I didn’t know anything.

I feel as if my life has been completely turned around. Looking through my file, reading my certificates and accomplishments, has done a great deal to go to my ego and boost me. Looking through my file has made me think to myself, “I am smart and capable.” I don’t remember the last time I thought something like that.

Looking through my file made me realize just how self-deprecating I’ve been in my life, and for how long. I’m so glad I have this organized collection of significance in my life—my SAT and ASVAB scores; my AFJROTC awards; my birth certificates. Those things are my life. My file doesn’t have an ounce of failure in it, but it does demonstrate some ways my mother failed me. It also demonstrates that I have been sick for a very long time and nobody had been able to notice it because of how bright and highly functioning I was. Not even I was able to see how bad it was because I believed that it was all in my head; I believed that I was just “feeling sorry for myself” for no reason, every time I cried over the petty losses and the small setbacks—tears I shed because I believed that they were colossal failures in my life.

Molehills were mountains. Mountains were insurmountable. I didn’t encounter a mountain until I separated from the military.

The thing is, when you come to a mountain, you have three choices. You can try to walk around it and probably spend your entire life figuring out directions; you can climb over it; or you can stay on your side of the mountain, unmoving and helpless.

My depression wants to hold me back from climbing the mountain, because the gods know that I do not have the patience to walk around. After all, what I want is on the other side, and I will do everything in my power to take the most direct path to get it. The most direct path from point A to point B is a straight line; a straight line goes right over that fucking mountain. I’m a monkey; I’ll manage. My depression tells me I’m a failure, that I can’t climb the mountain because I didn’t skip 3^rd grade, I didn’t get my black belt, I didn’t make it to State, I didn’t complete my enlistment in the Air Force. My depression told me that I couldn’t take care of my daughter because I don’t have patience, I raise my voice when I’m upset, I’m not capable of handling my emotions. My depression tells me I’m stupid and helpless.

Helplessness has never set well with me. It’s time to climb the mountain.

A Shocking Revelation

                My friend and long-time acquaintance, Alex, was visiting and Randy was napping with Persephone. We were talking about the past, a good 10-13 years ago, reminiscing on some good times, some bad times, and whatever else came to mind. We were on the topic of friends.

                “I only had two friends at Roy. And one of them was a shitty friend and the other one moved to Illinois at the end of sixth grade.”

                “Who was that?”

                “Rose Stramaglia.”

                “I remember her! You know, I was actually just thinking of her the other day.”

                “What? No way! I think about her off and on. We wrote to each other for a while, but then we lost contact. I’ve tried finding her online and everything, to no avail.”

                We went on for a little while, talking about Rose and how I missed her and how he heard her talking to his friend Meechie and that’s when he stopped picking on her like all the other kids did. I was impressed that she’d talked to one of the guys we thought were real assholes; I was also surprised to hear that she’d been a fan of and played Final Fantasy. That brought us to the topic of video games and I mentioned how my aforementioned shitty friend, Kaydee, would make me watch her play video games relentlessly.

                “She was a terrible friend. I’d go over to her house and she would just…”

                “She would just do whatever she wanted?”

                “I mean—yeah, basically—you know, she just did her own thing, regardless of my presence. She would play her video games and wouldn’t let me play or join.”

                “Wow.”

                “Yeah. Like, I’m pretty sure she’s the main reason I never was a big gamer. Because she never let me play. That, and my fucking games would disappear. Like, I had a Sega Genesis once, and my Sonic the Hedgehog and Echo the Dolphin games just up and disappeared… so I gave the console back to my dad.”

                All of a sudden, Alex was looking at me a lot more meaningfully, which is saying something, as he tends to have a very meaningful expression nearly all the time on his face. He looked away and I couldn’t figure out why he looked guilty, until—

                “Yeah, about that…” Deep breath. “I think… I’m pretty sure… I mean, I broke your game.”

                What?! Wait. No. What? How—I don’t even—what? I don’t remember taking my game to school, even. How did he break it? He never visited me; he’d never even met my grandma until just the other day! How the hell did he even get my game, let alone steal it?!

                Complete mystification. Honestly, I was shocked.

                “How—what?”

                “Yeah, I just saw it, like, hanging out of the desk, and I just… I just wanted it, so I took it. I think I wanted it for like, a collection thing, at first… and then I broke it. I don’t even know why I did it, I am so sorry. I felt like shit as soon as I did it, like, I probably just destroyed something that really meant something to someone. I’m sorry.”

                “Wow… I just… Wow. It’s okay…”

                “No, it’s not. I’m sorry. I’m a dick.”

                “Well… yeah. Just. Wow, dude, you were a dick.”

                “Yeah…”

                He looked so guilty, I couldn’t even be mad at him, which caused a great deal of confusion within me. All of a sudden, this great mystery of my life was solved, and the person responsible for me giving up my Sega was sitting right next to me, feeling as guilty as they come and apologizing profusely. Honestly, I couldn’t hold it against him. I couldn’t even say what would ordinarily have been the first thing to come to mind. I couldn’t bring myself to be indignant or angry, so I just said it was okay and he said it wasn’t, then I explained that I appreciate the honesty and it was a long time ago, so I don’t hold a grudge. Still, the revelation had rendered me shocked, to say the least.

                We revisited the topic a few more times. He couldn’t express his regret enough, despite my assurances that all was well—after all, he has a plan in place to make it up to me and it’s more than acceptable. Mostly, I couldn’t believe that he, of all people, was the person responsible for my loss of Sonic the Hedgehog. I never would have suspected him unless someone had been hinting at it. All this time, I’d thought that Kaydee had probably run off with it some time when she visited; it seemed to me as though the game was in my drawer one day and mysteriously gone the next. If someone had told me that a person had broken my game, I would have initially assumed it was my “friend”, and then I would have run down the list of kids who picked on me, from worst to best, until I gave up (because, honestly, I never would have guessed it was Alex).

                Even now, days later, I find myself bemused and mildly stunned to think of it. I hold no grudge, mind you; it was a long time ago and Alex has by and large made amends already. At the time, though, I found myself stunned. I made an attempt to take care of my daughter and it didn’t work; Randy took her back and I simply went outside to smoke because I was overwhelmed with emotion. The feeling that I’m failing as a mother is bad enough by itself; this night, it was amplified by the feeling that my peers, in my childhood, really wanted to ruin my life. I had been awash with a strange kind of joy at the moment of the revelation; the fact that Alex had provided me closure on this video game was a moment of great relief, despite the fact of the matter. It actually took a few minutes for the realization to sink in that I was sitting beside someone I now considered a close friend and he was telling me that he was personally responsible for what may have been a major event in my life that contributed to the reasons why I was never a big gamer like many of the friends I have now always have been. Suddenly, I felt as if my world had been turned upside-down. The world really was out to get me and the proof was in the pudding, as they say. Suddenly, I felt as if losing my Sonic the Hedgehog game for the Sega Genesis was the reason I didn’t play all of the Elder Scrolls games, or why I haven’t finished a video game since beating Portal 2 in tech school because my boyfriend-of-the-time insisted I play the game and I got hooked immediately. Suddenly, it was as if Alex was personally responsible for my never really fitting in to any niche or clique in school.

                I recognized the toxicity of those feelings as well as the irrational thinking behind them. I knew that what I was feeling was inaccurate and unreasonable, not to mention unfair to Alex. It had been a stupid, impulsive action by a preteen boy, for which he felt immediately sorry and has been regretting ever since. Who was I to start pinning all of my childhood woes on him? He wasn’t even a primary tormentor! If anything, he had largely left me alone up to seventh grade, when he would regularly bait me into letting out a completely predictable (because I said literally the same exact thing every time) stream of curse words that was intended to make him leave me alone. Then, after seventh grade, until he suddenly apologized for an array of things in our sophomore year and subsequently afterwards, he left me alone. We became Facebook friends after our making amends in school but still didn’t talk until I returned from the military and sent him a message, one day. I had absolutely nothing to hold against Alex—why the hell would I suddenly grasp on to this one cruel act and hold it over his head as though he deserves all the extra blame and guilt? I smoked a bowl and came back inside, moped around a bit, and finally started to feel better.

                Randy came in and Alex and I told him what we’d been discussing. Alex told Randy he was going to get me the game the next day, to replace the one he’d broken. Randy’s immediate response was to point out that I no longer have a Sega Genesis, followed by an anecdote about the Genesis he found that comes with 12 games, all for like fifty dollars, that Alex could get for me instead, for my birthday. Alex actually agreed—rather eagerly, in fact—even though I still felt as though he’d made amends enough and could make amends more in other ways if he felt the need. But, hey, he’s saving me from having to buy the Genesis myself later on!

In seriousness, though, I admire the honesty of my friend and the courage it took for him to look me in the eye and tell me what he did. Any person who has the moral fiber to do that deserves to be forgiven and to put the past behind them, releasing it and accepting it as a part of their past and nothing more, nothing worse.