Some Thoughts about Thinking

Thinking about thinking is hard and most people don’t do it. The Puppeteer runs amok and it seems that the majority of people, at least in the United States, are under Its power.

            The Puppeteer is all of the forces in the world which would have you believe whatever piece of information is presented to you, without question. For example, when the preacher tells you that God is omnipotent and loving because the Bible says so, that preacher is an agent of the Puppeteer and you’re a victim of that power if you don’t question what he says. How is God omnipotent? What evidence do we have that God exists, aside from an ancient text that has been poorly translated thousands of times? How many times has the Bible been translated? How many inaccuracies exist due to translators’ desires to convey cultural context over literal meaning?

            These questions are penetrating, critical questions that help us to think critically about religion and what the preacher says. These types of questions are what I am now exploring in my class through the University of Phoenix and I feel fortunate that I now have the resources before me to take control of my own mind in a way that I hadn’t previously considered needing doing.

            The Puppeteer is evident in Its work; we see It at work with the 2016 election, as we are flooded with information from the different sides of the race. We see Hillary blasted all over the television, Bernie blasted all over the Internet, and Trump slandered all over both. What information should we believe and what information should we toss as useless? The answers lie in the research.

            Yesterday, I did some research on Hillary Clinton. I discovered that she has a history of defending women’s rights and speaking against the big banks, Wall Street, and Big Pharma. I also learned that she stands by her decision in the 1975 rape case that is often cited as a means of “exposing” her as a “villain”. The truth is, she stands by the fact that she is responsible for the lightness of the sentence because she fulfilled her obligation as a defense attorney. Initially, she requested that she not be appointed to the rapist; when her request was ignored and she was thus obligated to defend the young man, she fulfilled that obligation, regardless of how it made her feel or what the result was in the end. She was a defense attorney and she did what all defense attorneys strive to do; she defended the man against his charges.

            Some things I already knew about Hillary are that she did nothing wrong as Secretary of State during the Benghazi incident and she has not been found responsible for any loss of confidential information through her emails. In fact, all speculation against her regarding Benghazi and her emails have been led by Republicans and those supporting the Republican Party, such as Citizens United. Smear campaigns against Hillary should not be any more readily believed than smear campaigns against Bernie; however, so many Bernie supporters are willing to believe that Hillary did something wrong with Benghazi and she lost confidential information in her email scandal. These are the same Bernie supporters who proudly tout that they’ve done all their own research and have all the facts to make their decisions.

            Why are so many intelligent people so willing to sit back and just absorb whatever information best suits them? Why are they so disinclined to dig a little deeper in their research and find the real truth for themselves? It’s been touted by Bernie supporters that they’ve all done their own research, but the more I think critically about the things Berners share, the more I realize they’re sharing false information almost as much as the truth.

            When did our society come to so value laziness and lack of critical thought?

An Adventure in Puppy Fostering

This week has had an eventful start. I’ve managed to spend a good amount of time with friends, particularly one who regularly takes care of about five children, two of whom are pretty close in age with Persephone. Her name is Kita and she recently acquired a 2-year-old, half-Labrador/half-Chihuahua puppy.

            She needs to have someone take Milo, the dog, until her boyfriend’s lease ends in August and they move into a house. I thought the person to watch Milo could be me; after all, I have another dog and she could use a canine companion, and my cat is chill enough that it shouldn’t be a huge problem. She’d also told me that Milo was good with other dogs and cats, as well as children, so I had high hopes.

            So, Tuesday night, I took Milo home with me. Before entering my apartment with him, I took him for a little walk and he peed. I didn’t go too far or insist on watching him poop, as it was the end of the day, I still had to walk Baby, and I assumed he had probably pooped earlier in the day. So, I took him inside long enough to drop off his supplies, then grabbed my dog and took both of them outside.

            The greeting process was highly energetic. Milo was all over Baby, sniffing, and Baby was overwhelmed. My poor dog is so timid that this little 2-year-old puppy was intimidating her despite being smaller than she is.

            A few problems arose right away. First, Milo started barking the moment he met Randy. I put him in Baby’s crate almost immediately, to try shutting him up. We put a blanket over the top so that he wouldn’t have any stimulation and he could calm the fuck down in his own space. That was my thought process, anyway. I had to let him out, though, because his barking got worse in the crate. So, I let him out of the crate and put Baby in it so that he wouldn’t be able to bother her.

            That didn’t work. He was restless and would wander back to my bedroom, where I’d hear Baby’s growl arise from his intrusion. I managed to keep him in the living room for the most part for a little while, but then it was time for me to go to bed. Milo seemed slightly improved; he’d been listening to me, at least a little. I left him in the living room and went to bed, letting Baby out of her crate so she could lie next to my side of the bed the way she likes.

            That didn’t work, either. Milo whined, barked, and scratched at my door persistently enough that sleep was out of the question the way I was trying it. Still, I tried until I couldn’t stand the noise anymore and I got up to check on him…

Problem the second, he pooped all over our floor in front of the front door. And I mean all over—it was scattered little-dog poop (mind you, Milo is not an ankle biter; he’s about knee-high to me and I’m 5’8”). Randy had just gotten home and I saw the poop in the front hallway. Randy cleaned it up while I shoved Milo back into Baby’s crate with a new resolve to keep him there all night regardless of how much noise he made.

            Finally, his barking became whining and his whines became fewer and farther between until he was quiet except when Randy walked by. Then, he would growl and maybe bark once to voice his discomfort. I managed to get to sleep and it was glorious. I thought that the morning would be better.

            I woke up and began my day as usual, leaving Milo in the crate. I didn’t want to let him out before I was ready to walk him because I didn’t want him to potty in the house. This turned out to be an all-too-valid fear, as the moment I let him out of the crate—before I had the minute to put his harness and leash on to go outdoors—he peed on Persephone’s toys.

            I caught him the second he started, grabbed his nape, smacked his hindquarters, and shoved him down by his nape so he’d be close enough for a nice strong whiff of his piss. I didn’t rub his nose in it. He yelped and, while I don’t think I hurt him, I did reconsider the course of action I was taking to ask myself if there wasn’t some other way of punishing him for his actions. Meanwhile, I took him and Baby outside while Randy cleaned up the mess.

            This was quite early in the morning; I don’t think it was even 09:00 yet. I walked around the entire apartment complex, thinking all the while that Milo has a great deal of energy and the regular shortness of walks I take with Baby would not be sufficient. I also wanted to make sure he got out as much pee and poop as he had in him, so I was quite pleased when he did poop outside—a decent amount, it seemed, though it could have been more. I learned that later…

            It’s one thing to have a dog who is noisy and needs correction. It’s another to have a dog who seems completely un-housebroken. I took a shower yesterday to take my friend Katherine to City Hall to get her passport. After my shower ended, somehow, both Randy and Persephone ended up in the bathroom with me. When we stepped out, there it was again—

            Poop. All over the front entry. Again.

            Jumbo Chihuahua shit.

            That’s the best way I can describe it. If you’ve seen dog poop, you’ve seen the different ways it comes out of dogs’ asses, and you know that little dog shit looks different than big dog shit. Well, Milo’s shit has the aesthetic of little dog shit, but is on a slightly bigger scale because of the Labrador in him.

            Milo had shit all over my front entryway again.

            I had been considering, while in the shower, giving it a couple of days with Milo to see how things would go. With the second scattering of dog shit on my floor—and the second bout of relief at my refusal to live in a carpeted apartment paying off with the ease of cleaning up animal waste—I realized that watching Milo would be overwhelming, despite my best hopes.

            He had seemed better behaved after the initial pee incident on Persephone’s toys. I thought the pee was just an accident from being kenneled all night and not going potty. When I saw the poop on the floor after my shower, though, I knew that watching him would be too much. I don’t have a yard; there’s no way I could have put him outside. If he stayed, I would have had to monitor him practically every waking moment, watching and waiting on edge to take him outside to avoid indoor pottying.

            I have a lot on my plate. Those who regularly read my blog are aware of this; you’ve read about some of the struggles I face with raising my daughter and getting recognized for my artwork to make money with it. The last thing I need at this stage in my life—in an apartment with no yard—is an animal shitting all over my house all the time.

            So, much to my chagrin but to Kita’s understanding, I took Milo back and explained the situation. Randy was quite angry with the puppy and probably especially angry that he was the one cleaning up the shit and piss. He hadn’t wanted anything to do with the puppy, but still I’m grateful for his actions because I was busy after my shower with keeping Persephone in my room with me, away from the dog shit.

            It was difficult having a puppy in my home, but having Milo for the night and morning made me realize how wonderful Baby is and how blessed I am with the animals I have.

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.

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 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.

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.

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.

Humans are Actually Terrifying

                Many blog entries have been made to illustrate the scariness of nature. Usually, these entries revolve around animals and how terrifying they can be—and many of them have similar themes. You’re afraid of spiders? Here’s a list of the 10 largest/deadliest/scariest-looking spiders we can find pictures of and information for. You like cats? Here’s a list of the most unsettling facts we can possibly find about the feline world. Wait, you think these particular animals are scary? Let me tell you all about the animals that eat them.

Cracked.com's Scariest Animals

                Other blogs have gone the other direction—posting information in order to convince us that nature isn’t scary at all and the world is really a wonderful place full of beauty and mysticism. Such articles include things like the top 10 largest holes in the ground, largest lakes, most strikingly-colored aquatic life, etc.

                A news article covers the “ten scariest animals in nature,” an article that seems to debunk the scariness of some animals while illustrating that others are scarier than we thought.

NBC News's Scariest Animals

                Popular images when one Google searches “scary nature” include deep-sea life and tremendous storms, along with the occasional image of nature eating something like a street sign.

                Still other blogs like to simply post information with no hidden agenda. The best example of that, in my opinion, is a video series by zefrank1 on YouTube called “True Facts About...” The videos themselves are highly amusing and great fun to watch, yet they still cover facts that are, in fact, true (imagine that!).

                However, how often have we taken the time to look at humans as a creation of nature? Religious people like to argue that we are created by an almighty, omnipresent, omniscient, benevolent, just, jealous, vengeful, mysterious “God”, when the truth is that nature “created” us, just as it created every other mammal, reptile, amphibian, sea creature, and plant on the planet. The truth is that evolution is a fact, whether you decide to believe in it or not. The greater truth, as I have come to know, is that humans are by far the scariest creatures ever to come from nature.

                “But what about the box jellyfish?!” one might ask. The box jellyfish minds its own damn business and won’t hurt you unless you mess with it—intentionally or not. Now, let’s focus on what I’m actually saying, please.

                Humans are the only creatures to unintentionally cause serious harm to the environment. Wikipedia hosts a lovely list of nuclear and radiation accidents and incidents (actually the name of the page, if you want to look it up yourself), organized so that you can jump to one category in particular if you’re so inclined. Their list of nuclear meltdowns is one that I find particularly compelling for illustrating my point.

Nuclear Radiation Accidents and Incidents

Images of Nuclear Accidents:

                Those are accidents. Those images and the lists on Wikipedia don’t address what humans do deliberately to destroy the planet. A lot of people think explosions are cool. The Myth Busters are famous for blowing stuff up in nearly every one of their episodes. I have a number of friends who think explosions are really cool-looking; these are also friends who advocate firearms and are great fans of what Americans like to call “air power”. Now, don’t get me wrong, explosions can look cool… but…

                I’m sure we’re all aware of the attacks on Nagasaki and Hiroshima. Here’s a look at those explosions.

Nagasaki and Hiroshima

                Those are pretty nifty, aren’t they? Nuclear explosions are famous (or infamous) for their mushroom-shaped clouds and, conveniently, Google has a nice collection of images in stock! But this post isn’t about the explosions. It isn’t about weapons or war or firepower of any kind. This post, I’ll remind you, is about the scariness of humanity.

                Consider, for instance, the aftermath of any given explosion. If you’ve seen images on the news after Hurricane Katrina, you may have an idea. But Hurricane Katrina was a natural disaster—not something done to the planet by humans.

                We agreed that those explosions looked pretty cool, didn’t we? Sure, we did. We like looking at pictures of explosions. What we don’t like looking at is the aftermath. Take, for instance, the aftermath at Hiroshima and Nagasaki.

                The rubble and people made homeless don’t look like much, especially when placed side-by-side with pictures of the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina. The woman’s face, even, could be worse, couldn’t it? Images like these should be far more compelling than they are, but radiation itself is invisible (unless it’s glowing in the dark). We can’t see the danger floating in the air that we as a species created. What we can see, however, are the effects of that danger.

                You may still be asking yourself, “How are humans the scariest creatures on the planet?” to which I respond, “We destroy everything.” Not only do we destroy the planet in every creative way we can imagine, we destroy each other. People are all too happy to be terrified of being bitten or eaten alive by piranhas or sharks. What they don’t seem to be afraid of—as they should be—is an attack from a fellow human being.

                The irony of this is that humans attack people far more often than any other animal in nature. It’s in the news every single day—a school shooting, a serial killer on the loose, sexual predators possibly living in your neighborhoods and preying on your children, a mother who has killed her baby, and kids who have killed their mother. Why are we not more afraid of humans? Humans are unpredictable, dangerous creatures! They come in all shapes, sizes, appearances, rendering judgment by appearance impossible!

                One terrible fact that I, and many others I know, have come to notice is that people are immensely guilty of “bystander syndrome”—an inner voice that tells you, “Someone will take care of it,” accompanied by a feeling of non-involvement and non-responsibility and, perhaps, a twinge of guilt—whenever they see something that they know, ultimately, is wrong. Take, for instance, a man falling down in the street and not a single person stopping to help him for well over an hour, then by the time someone finally does stop, it’s too late. He’s dead. Or, perhaps there’s a situation you see at a bar where a man is hitting on a woman who is clearly drunk; you know the woman doesn’t want anything to do with the man but you do nothing to separate them and ultimately he rapes her.

                There are many things we tell ourselves as bystanders and we are all guilty of bystander syndrome at one time or another. In the situation with a man falling in the street, we may look at his shabby clothing and unshaven face and think to ourselves, “He’s probably homeless,” or, “If he’s really sick, I don’t want to catch his disease,” or, “I don’t know anything about him and I don’t want to put myself in any kind of danger.” We are conditioned from a very young age to think, when we see a stranger, “You never know who someone is.” The problem with this conditioning is that this inner talk is almost always negative toward strangers. We don’t stop to offer aid to a homeless man on the sidewalk because we don’t know anything about him. He could have been a largely successful man before he lost everything due to circumstances outside his control. Or, as we are more prone to assuming, he could be a drug addict just looking for his next fix. In the situation with the man and woman in the bar, we are likely to think to ourselves, “It’s none of my business,” or, “I don’t want to fight that guy,” or, “I don’t know them; I shouldn’t get involved.” We are conditioned from an early age to think that what others do is none of our business and we should never get involved in the affairs of others. We put blinders on, stick our heads in the sand, and mind our own business for fear of altercation with another person, or fear of judgment.

                More than those things, however, we laugh things off that are not funny and should not be made into jokes. The word “rape” is thrown around so often now that fewer and fewer people take it seriously and therefore are less likely to do anything to prevent a rape from happening—due to the idea that it “isn’t a big deal.” It is a big deal. It’s something that the US military is focusing on very heavily, along with drunk driving, to eliminate—and, with it, bystander syndrome, so that those around people who are drinking or making advances on drunk women are not driving drunk or taking home unwilling partners.

                Bystander syndrome may well be the scariest trait of humanity. After all, while there are rapists, pedophiles, and murderers out there—and usually you can’t identify them by looks alone—think of this: There are more people than all of those criminals combined who sit back and do nothing while these things happen. Think of Jeffrey Dahmer’s neighbors, who smelled the rotting corpses of his victims and heard the sounds of his tools while he went about cutting them into bits—yet who did nothing to investigate. Some called the police, yes—and good for them for doing so, I’m certainly not saying they shouldn’t have—but the police, after very brief questioning, went on their way and thought no more about it. Or—even worse than Dahmer’s neighbors—think of the two cops who went to his apartment with one of his last victims, a teenage boy, after finding said boy trying to run down the street naked with blood on him from being anally raped—a boy found by two girls who called for help and knew something was wrong, girls who did something and were not bystanders—and after brief questioning and absolutely no background checking, the cops left the boy with Dahmer in his apartment and went on their way. Bystanders are literally the reason Jeffrey Dahmer got away with murder so many times.

                What I’m trying to say is this: Rapists of all kinds…

…serial killers…

…and drug addicts…

…might scare you. They might make you nervous. But I have to ask you…

                What about your neighbors who will stand idly by and watch a drive-by shooting destroy your house? What about the people filling a restaurant so that nobody can get in without a reservation, turning away as you choke on a piece of your food? What about the hundreds, perhaps thousands of people in the streets, walking right by you as you fall over, coughing, in desperate need of medical attention on your way to the hospital—and not a single person stops to ask if you need help while you collapse to the ground and cough out your final breaths among specks of blood?

                It isn’t just about what humans do to destroy the planet. It isn’t even about what humans do to actively destroy one another—such as with war.

                It’s about the fact that we do nothing to stop it, and we are doing more and more of nothing every single day.