A Poem: Call for Help

I put my heart into the wrong container,

expecting it to be healing and warm.

Instead, what I found was a complainer

whose affection hit me like chloroform.

In those years, every time I would wake

and work to fix the situation at hand,

instead I would find a man like a snake,

all too ready to lie and misunderstand.

My inner strength was sapped away,

stolen in pieces, he’d ruin it, bit by bit.

A kick or punch is so much clearer by day

than the words upon which he would sit.

How I was so blind, I ask myself daily,

wondering how I could be so broken.

If only he’d hit me, punching as gayly

as his words and dismissal were spoken.

Now, I find myself in a vice-grip by fear,

its cold, dead fingers attached like a leech.

My first instinct is to run away, steer clear

of any affection—anxiety makes me screech.

Please, I implore, help me pick up the pieces

of what is left in the aftermath of this fall.

Alone, impossible, but with help, it ceases

to be something for which I feel I cannot call.

Perception

Mindful practice leads to mindful expression,

yet my words bring on unwarranted projection

of a psychotic, horrible, toxic perception

of unfolded events; denial; rejection.

Boomerangs aren’t my style; I prefer seeds

to plant as thoughts that, like food, feed

some ideas that might just let you see,

if I explain it right, I’m a human with needs.

Reputations do not depend on one person’s thoughts;

actions explain themselves, reason is sought,

and when reason comes up naught,

then, only then, is the true villain caught.

Those without balance devise their own doom,

regardless of dark or light on their loom

of life; the organization of their living room

does nothing to stop the disastrous boom.

“Unacceptable,” the consensus does say;

the same word is uttered every day

as an assessment of the inexplicable way

he decided he no longer wanted to stay.

A tiny spirit, confused, heartbroken, trampled and torn

over sudden abandonment, sharp as a thorn;

I do what I can to ease her pain, while my scorn

comes out in writing; yet it’s seen as something worn.

Distance, closed by screens yet expanded by air,

I am here and you’re all the way over there;

you will never see the why and the where,

the what or how I soothe her when she’s scared.

Questions Concerning Humanity and Utility

Humans are an interesting lot. It seems at once like yesterday and like forever ago that I wrote my blog entry, “Humans Are Actually Terrifying.” It seemed a popular enough piece at the time, but I think it’s good to spark some dialogue about the human condition and our habits as we live our lives.

            A classmate of mine asked, regarding architecture, “At what point does development become meaningless?” This made me think of some other things I have thought about, other questions I have asked: At what point do we realize that not every single human needs to ‘make a living’ in order to be valued and loved? What is the true purpose of cancer and why are we so intent on and obsessed with curing it in all its forms? What further studies can we do that might tell us the reason cancers appear? Isn’t cancer simply the evolutionary process taking place? Why do we grieve those who die? Is death not merely a part of life that we should all accept? Should we not honor the dead for who they were in life, rather than bemoaning the fact that they no longer breathe our same air?

            We should celebrate the lives of those who have passed. Take, for example, the late, great, Alan Rickman. Or, perhaps, the wonderful Carrie Fisher. Yes, it is sad that they are gone because they were wonderful to see on screen. Has it crossed no one’s mind, though, that perhaps it was their time to go? It may seem premature to us, as we expected Carrie Fisher to finish the Star Wars movies and Alan Rickman to tell his great-grandchildren about Harry Potter, but since when has the world cared about what humans think should happen? Life happens on its own terms and we simply need to grab on, hold on tight, and figure it out as we plunge forward with the persistent march of time. I was particularly devastated with the passing of Robin Williams. He was like the cool uncle I knew and loved but had never actually met. I felt an intimate connection with him that I would like to mention before anyone tries to tell me I simply don’t understand because I was never a true fan. It felt as though a family member and a true friend had passed when Robin Williams took his own life and I cannot fathom why he did it. All I know is that he was found to have hung himself on the day I gave birth to my daughter. Coincidence? I don’t believe in coincidences. For a while, I mourned Robin Williams, but I realize now that the best thing for me to do is to continue his legacy by ensuring that my wonderful daughter knows all of his movies, so that she can see what a wonderful soul we had with us for some time. I want her to know Robin Williams as I knew him, to feel him as intimately as I felt him, even and especially when he discussed mental illness. Robin Williams can help teach my child compassion and wherewithal, even if there is no longer a chance of my meeting him in person. I hope we can all think of our favorite late celebrities in this way.

            What is cancer, really? I always imagine one of two things. The first is to imagine feeling lumps multiplying within my body at an exponential rate, so that each time I poke a particular part of my body, it feels like more and more little balls are forming within. The other is to imagine what cells look like as they multiply… and multiply, continuously. Why do cells become cancerous? What purpose could cancer serve that humans are blind to due to our “divine spiritual and intellectual development”? People like to share things on social media that condemn cancer for the suffering it induces in those who become sick with it. People like to do things like participate in Relay for Life and purchase items from the Susan G. Komen Foundation for Breast Cancer Awareness (a scam if I’ve ever seen one). “Cancer is horrible!” “Fuck cancer!” “Rest in Peace Grandpa, Grandma, Auntie Susie, and Uncle John, all cancer victims…” I do not seek to belittle the emotional implications behind the suffering endured by cancer patients. I do, however, seek to belittle the way in which we approach the topic. Why do we think it is so vital to save every single life that comes into this world? Why are we the only species on the planet that coddles the weak and unfit? Is it so that we can flash our Good Guy Badges in one another’s faces and claim we’re such excellent citizens because we have compassion? What is true compassion? At what point does compassion turn from strength to weakness?

            I believe death is a part of life. I believe that we need to accept the inevitability of bodily death and focus less on what happens afterwards and more on what happens beforehand. The religious are, in many cases, entirely too focused on what seems to be the end of the journey that is life. I believe wholeheartedly in living in the moment as much as possible. Of course, it is important to plan for the future. After all, we do have an average life span depending on demographic and geography, so that virtually every person on this planet could plan as if to live up to that point. In this way, people could be prepared for the future even if they weren’t to reach as far into it as they’ve planned. We also need to learn from the history we are taught and presented, as well as do our own historical research in order to develop well-rounded ideas of what has happened over time and what mistakes were made, so that we do not continue to repeat that which has been detrimental to our livelihoods. It has been said that the smart man learns from his mistakes while the wise man learns from the mistakes of others. I believe this is true and I strive to learn from the mistakes of others so that I can push forward and hopefully contribute to human evolution in a positive manner. This leads me to a connecting point…

            In coddling the weak and unfit and by supporting those who would otherwise die in nature’s survival of the fittest, do we waste resources on those who do not contribute to our futures? In what way are the severely handicapped useful to our lives aside from teaching us a level of compassion that is virtually useless? At what point will our habit of coddling the weak come back to bite us in the ass due to overextension of resources? We are already an overpopulated species on this planet and we continue to fuck up the environment by transporting wildlife from place to place, disturbing local ecosystems and forcing species after species into extinction not only from the transport of species to new lands but also from such abhorrent activities as shark finning and bottom trawling our oceans. We worry about sustainability but who will we be sustaining for? At what point will we need to prioritize human lives based on people’s merit? At what point do we stop demonizing eugenics due to the Holocaust of World War II and instead look at it as a viable possibility for improving the human race and reducing our impact on the planet?

            I encourage feedback to every blog entry, but this particular entry is one on which I very much wish to see dialogue sparked. I would especially like to see what some thoughts are as far as the question regarding architectural development, as that is the question posed that sparked this entry and all the questions I’ve presented herein.

On the Road to Health

Things have been changing for me as time progresses. I’ve been calm and generally happy, lately, which I would gladly attribute to my smoking marijuana. More than that, however, I’m happy because smoking usually gives me the munchies, but lately that hasn’t been the case. I’ve overeaten a lot lately regardless, but my realization that I’m no longer feeling the munchies feels significantly important to me, like the realization itself was the first step to making the health changes I need to.

            This morning, I woke up shortly after my alarm, rather than simply shutting it off and going back to sleep to await when I need to react and get up. I’m tired of living my life in a reactionary way; my goal is to live my life in a proactive and productive way, so it gave me a measure of pride to rise before 07:30. I cooked breakfast this morning; last night, I changed the bed sheets and folded a load of laundry. These are some recent things I consider successes in my life.

            My health is not at its peak. I’m sure I’ve gained weight again; I can feel it and I can see it in the mirror. The fat is in my face and I can’t un-see it when I take a selfie or look closely at myself in the mirror. Keeping the munchies at bay while smoking weed has been my dream since I started smoking weed; the fucking munchies ruin me. I binge-eat and hold it down rather than puking like I really feel like doing. It’s unhealthy and it needs to change and that’s a fact that has been solidified in my mind since taking my health and wellness class.

            It might help me to publicize my physical health journey. I feel as though I now have the ability to control what and how much I eat, more than ever before; part of that is my starting to cook. I cooked breakfast this morning; I can start cooking breakfast every day and gradually include lunch and/or dinner. This would give Randy a break from cooking and we wouldn’t go out as often, since the cooking burden would be shared.

            This blog would serve as a decent way to log my journey and I can begin now by reporting that I ate a handful of scrambled eggs with broccoli for breakfast and Wendy’s for lunch. I’m full now but I didn’t feel too stuffed after my fast food meal; moreover, we walked over to the thrift shop and wandered around it for a while to burn off some of the calories right away. I’m exhausted now because meandering around stores takes more energy than I understand; I did eat some dumplings with my friend Katherine, as well, as we smoked a blunt together after I took her to City Hall.

            I finished last week’s homework all on time, as well. One of my assignments was to create a blog entry about an infectious disease. I chose bacterial vaginosis and I’ve been considering posting it to my actual blog, as it is good information to spread but I’m not sure it’s the most relevant thing in the world. Not as relevant as, say, climate change, that’s for sure. My first assignment was a PowerPoint presentation on Alzheimer’s Disease. That’s another topic I considered blogging about, as I am at an elevated risk for the disease due to my great-grandma having dementia.

            My healing journey is progressing steadily, I think. I’m still taking Ziprasidone at night, which may also be helping my mood. I’m excited about the new development with my marijuana habit; not having the munchies makes it really easy to just drink water or some other beverage, instead of stuffing my face continuously.

Asshole

You’re an asshole.

            You try to save face and say that you’re just an “ass,” and that it isn’t a bad thing because you’re not a bad guy, but you’re a liar. You are a fucking liar and you don’t even know it. You think you’re doing all right because you defeated addiction and continue to defeat it every day. Good for you! You got clean! That’s not the end of the journey and I know you know it, but here you are, acting like a fucking child, avoiding your daughter.

            You post things to social media that are transphobic, homophobic, and otherwise rude and insensitive. You don’t think that your daughter actually cares about these issues and if it ever did cross your mind that she might, you don’t care. You think, “She can get over it,” or, “It’s not a big deal, it’s not serious.” But it is serious. It is fucking serious because I have a friend to this day who is shamed, hated, and abused just for being who she is, because she has a man’s body.

            It’s a big fucking deal because hate crimes still happen. You think that whatever you post is your business. It’s your Facebook, right? Sure. It’s yours. You can post whatever you want and you can think it’s funny, but maybe it should cross your mind that what you put into the world actually affects other people. Those who see your Facebook posts react to it in one way or another.

            Your “mind your own business” attitude is loveless. I don’t know who you are anymore. I thought you were my dad. I thought you were someone who had turned over a new page in his life and would actually be there for his family, but you’re proving once again that you’re not there for me.

            You never really were.

Unsolicited Human Resources Visit

I was taken to Human Resources, today.

Today started out quite badly but has ended rather well, much to my fortune. Unfortunately, I woke up extremely exhausted and had such difficulty staying awake that I could easily have crashed the car had I not managed to stay just vigilant enough… but I couldn’t stay awake in class to save my life. I practically slept through the PowerPoint presentations and I’m not sure how I managed to pass the tests. Kat told me it’s because I have more brains than the average bear, and I’ll take that. I’ve always taken pride in my intelligence, particularly when others recognize it and commend me for it.

            While I’m not sure why I was so exhausted this morning, I’m equally unsure of why suddenly, around 09:00, pain shot through my chest near my left shoulder when I shifted and raised my arm slightly. The pain persisted, so I went to Kat’s office and asked if I could enter for a minute; she accepted and I closed the door behind me to sit before her and explain what was happening.

            I explained the pain and that I didn’t know why it was happening. She got up from her chair and instructed me to sit in it and lean back after she told me to take off my duty vest and belt. I followed her instructions and leaned back as told to do, then broke into some tears.

            “I can’t seem to stay awake—it’s making me really emotional, I’m sorry,” I said, my voice cracking as tears broke free from my eyes and rolled down my cheeks. She looked at me kindly and said: “It’s okay. I know it’s from frustration. You’re frustrated with yourself because you can’t stay awake.” She explained that she understood because she got the same thing; she tends to cry when she gets overly frustrated with herself. It felt so good to have someone stand before me and tell me that they get it.

            Kat told me to rest my head on her desk and get some sleep. She said she was going to go “do uniforms,” which meant going into the back room and picking out uniform items for us to take home today to wear tomorrow and for the rest of our time working on the Sound Transit account. I couldn’t believe my ears—I was being instructed to get some sleep—while at work! I wasn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth, so I moved the chair to the place she’d indicated on her desk and laid my head down, when she added, “and if you feel like crying, go ahead and do that, too.” I can’t remember feeling so blessed.

            I know that I fell asleep because I woke to a knock on the door. I’m not sure why, but I thought it was Kat, perhaps announcing her presence before entering since she knew I was sleeping as she’d told me to. Instead, it was Ryan, one of the instructors.

            “Are you okay?” he asked me. He’d asked me this quite a bit over the past couple of weeks and it made me slightly concerned because I felt—still feel, really—like more attention is on me because I’ve had a couple of difficulties that I view as minor but I understand how those above me view them as major. For example, when I had difficulty breathing, it would be a major problem if it persisted and I was unable to wear my duty vest because it prevented me from getting enough oxygen while breathing. I said I was okay and that Kat had told me to wait in her office for a little bit.

            “Are you okay to talk?” he asked. I thought he would want to talk to me again, as he’d done twice before. I was wrong.

            Instead, he led me to the head of Human Resources, Heather, and dropped me off in her office. I sat before her while she explained that falling asleep on the job is a terminable offense in my line of work, which was something I already understood because it had been covered in our first day of orientation. She repeated this probably three or four times before our conversation was through, but she did allow me to explain my situation to her and exactly what has been going on with me, which at first made me feel like she was truly listening… but by the end of the visit, I was left relatively unsure, in part because she got the last word.

            She led me back to Kat’s office and I re-entered after Heather left, sitting in front of Kat again.

            “What happened?” she asked. She asked if I’d gotten any sleep. I felt jittery, then, the way I feel when I’m woken suddenly from a sleep that may or may not have been very deep. It was a kind of jittery that comes from anxiety, I later discovered, but at the time I explained it to Kat as “the jittery I feel when I’m woken up suddenly, so I know I slept,” at least a little.

            “Ryan came and knocked on the door and then took me to her—her name was Heather?” Kat nodded and said yes. “He took me to Heather’s office and she explained to me that falling asleep is a terminable offense, which I already knew…” I explained what had happened and Kat looked at me. I’m not sure if her expression was sad, irritated, or a little bit of both, but she then explained to me that she had not wanted to involve HR.

            She had wanted to take care of me and help me feel better without involving HR because she understood that with me, like with her, all I really needed was a little rest and I would be good to go. And I was, for the most part. I still took a nap after I got home, but I did feel more awake after the short nap I’d taken in her office. She told me that she’d told Matt, the other male instructor who actively taught classes during the first three weeks of training, but that she hadn’t told Ryan, and she’d wanted me to simply rest for a bit in her office without needing to involve HR.

            Suddenly, it felt as if Human Resources was the enemy. Like involving them was my first step out the door of the company for which I’ve just barely started working. Thinking back on it, I’m still not quite filled with dread, but I am wary. I’m aware that things I cannot control could cause me to need to find different employment, and the idea is terrifying to me because I feel like I’m in a job that’s actually a good fit for me. I don’t want to be proven wrong by forces outside my own control.

            I left early today to make at least one appointment with the VA. I ended up leaving a message because the nurse didn’t answer her phone—perhaps she was on lunch—and she has yet to return my call. In the meantime, I’ve purchased melatonin to help me sleep at night and niacin to wake me up in the morning, as the sleep issue has been relatively persistent since starting my 07:00-15:00 training shift. Perhaps that persistence is why Ryan took me to HR.

            Regardless of the reasoning for what happened this morning, today did end on a positive note. I had a good nap after I got home and left my voicemail with the nurse who works for my doctor at the VA, we took Persephone to play at the mall, and we had a decent dinner. Here’s to hoping melatonin and niacin are enough to fix my sleeping problems.

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.

Turning Tides

My training for Securitas started, today. I woke well before my 04:00 alarm and slept fitfully until it finally went off, only to jump out of bed and finish getting ready for my first day a good hour before the time to leave, because I’d realized it would be better to drive with the bags of uniform items I needed to return upon my arrival. I took a quick nap before leaving, but it ruined me….

            It is so interesting—refreshing, relieving, and revealing—to have a new job, especially one that can become a great career for me, depending on my choices. This morning reminded me of basic training in that we were fitted for uniforms and made to sit through some PowerPoint and even take a test. I love the sense of militarism, for lack of a better word, that I get from the position. Moreover, I love that I come home to my husband and child at the end of every day. I also learned that I definitely need to be getting to bed by 20:00 in order to get sufficient sleep for the day.

            I could barely keep my eyes open as I drove to Securitas in Bellevue. The ride wasn’t terrible, but my ability to stay awake was and I’m still surprised I made it without crashing. It wasn’t until lunch at 12:30 that I went to a gas station and purchased two NOS energy drinks, which helped immediately and banished the sleep from my eyes and mind, like magic. If only I’d had them this morning, I might’ve passed the test 10/10: 100%, but I did pass, at least.

            So, now, I am a married, working mother who is also a full-time online student. I have reached a turning point in my life wherein I can decide who I want to be, moving forward. I’ve decided.

            I want to be a woman who is capable of managing her time like a Time Master—or Time Lord, if you will. This weekend was the beginning; I made time for family and friends. This is something I can continue to do, especially with my new job, and I can use the money I make to take my family on trips to see our far-away friends, like Lauren, who graduates from college in June and has no one to attend but the promise of Randy, Persephone, and me. I intend to fly us across the country to visit my friend David, my friend Seth, and my friend Skyler, to name a few, and I plan on organizing road trips to Oregon to see my dog-loving friend, Nick, and to Canada to visit our Canadian friends. All this, I can do, as long as I can continue to fight my bipolar disorder, which remains unofficially diagnosed by my psychiatrist, who has prescribed me bipolar medication but may or may not have documented the illness as a diagnosis for me.

            It is a daily struggle to deal with depression. Assuming that I do, in fact, have bipolar—which will likely be determined by the effectiveness of the drugs my doctor has given me—it becomes a struggle as it has never been, before. I mentioned previously, in another entry, that my manic episodes have felt, in the past, like happiness. That is true, but I have realized other behaviors that stem from mania and tend to be non-issues during depressive spells and those behaviors all have to do with impulsiveness. Impulsive spending is my worst manic habit and I fear its return because, even in the depths of this year-and-a-half-long depressive spell that I feel I may be climbing out of now, I’ve become a much more responsible person, particularly concerning money.

            My fear is that I’ll become manic and spend the money I have, leaving nothing in savings and possibly leaving us with so little at any given time that we would struggle to pay for something important. After everything that has happened and everything I’ve learned since my daughter was born and even beforehand, I do not want my finances to get out of hand again. My fear is that I’ll make a great amount of money over two weeks and use the entire amount for a weekend trip to Vancouver, B.C. or Rogue River, OR, which would make for a great trip but possibly leave us without the money for food or gasoline or bus fare. Realizing these fears makes me grateful for bipolar medication and I look forward to the drug’s integration with my system.

            In the meantime, I am doing what I can to take life one day at a time. It’s the biggest challenge I have to face—even bigger than raising Persephone—because I have to slow down and look at my immediate next action, rather than the next hundred actions I have to take to achieve a goal. I honestly believe that goal-setting is unrealistic for me at this time, if only because I then feel obligated to do multiple things at once, which is a breach of my capacity for responsibility, which I am working on growing.

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.