Still Swearing

A few months ago I wrote about swear words, with the object of my ruminations being the word “forgiveness”. In a blast of ego-centric curiosity, I googled myself the other day – guess what showed up first on the results list? That. Blog. Entry. It ended like this: “I’m not a fan! And this conversation (unfortunately) is not over.”

Oh, me. Silly, silly me.

The conversation was not and is not over. Yesterday, this word again slapped me in the face and took away my breath with its sheer audacity. It taunted me (yes, really) and flaunted its increasingly unpalatable connotations in my face. It reminded me that I have to get over myself.

See, I forgot half the things I wrote about way back in February. I was going along thinking all was well, patting myself on the back for learning my lesson and moving forward. And in some respects, that is true. I have made progress. I have moved forward. I have put forth effort into this very hard thing, and I have acknowledged that it’s a process, not necessarily a destination. But…I got complacent. I took a bow and thought I was totally owning it and enjoying my perch on top of the world.

And then. The conversation went something like this:

Irrational Me: What?! I can’t believe…the nerve…how dare…are you kidding me right now?!?!
Rational Me: Emmm, dude. Chill.
Irrational Me: It’s SO. UN. FAIR. And I have a right to be angry about this. It hurt me.
Rational Me: Emmm, dude. Seriously? Why? And how did you contribute to the situation?
Irrational Me: Not important. I can be mad about this, this one thing.
Rational Me: Emmm, no. How is that helping?
Irrational Me: Dude. There’s a reason this part of the conversation is labeled “Irrational Me”.
Rational Me: Right. Let me know when you’re done with your tantrum and we’ll talk.

That’s exactly how ridiculous it was. And the bottom line is (after a couple conversations with much more rational, logical people and a few moments to gather the tiny remaining shreds of my dignity), I need to forgive. I need to let it go. I need to acknowledge that it is what it is, and it’s not even inherently wrong per se.

And I need to remember that forgiveness is almost never about the other person. It’s about handing myself the “Get Out of Jail Free” card. Because when I don’t choose to forgive, I’m giving someone else power over me and letting that person define the parameters of my happiness. Not cool, Irrational Me, not cool at all.

So, this conversation is still not over, but I don’t think that’s unfortunate. Forgiveness is one of those things that can never be truly mastered. It requires a lifetime of conscientious and purposeful practice (such fantastic news…). Some of us (ME) may need more practice than others, but the payoff of being able to live free far outweighs the temporary solace of pointing fingers.    

Losing My Religion

I went to church on Saturday. I wasn’t thrilled about it but it had been a while. Last time I went I got surprised by one of those close encounters with my past, and I handled it poorly – it caught me off guard and I fumbled it. I really hope that person didn’t take it personally, though it probably just confirmed the perception that I’ve turned into my own evil twin. Oh well.

Church is, as usual, a conundrum, a perplexing mix of memorized responses and a huge filter that scrutinizes everything and stops most of it at the door. I’ve been struggling so hard lately with the dichotomy between the things I thought I knew and the realities of life, and the brutal, often terrifying way that the “Church” responds to different points of view. I’ve been reading a lot and I’ve been so disappointed…dismayed…disheartened by those who are supposed to be marked by their love for one another. People get all hysterical (in a very non-funny way), passionate, vehement, acidic when members of their own family (the Church family) dare to posit an independent thought.

I haven’t been able to articulate this struggle very well recently. To my friends who are still in the Church, I’ve nearly turned into an un-Church, an unreached people. I’m sure there’s a campaign under way to rescue me, though thankfully most are giving me the space I need to wrestle without too much pressure. They don’t understand why I can’t just trust and obey. To my friends who are outside the Church, they aren’t entirely sure why it’s bothering me so much. They don’t understand why I keep picking at the scab when I know it’s going to hurt. And my answer to all of them is…I don’t understand either.

Several years ago my Christian therapist (yep, been to therapy, probably need more) told me it was sort of a wonder that I hadn’t wandered farther from my religious roots, and this while I was actually still a card-carrying member of Church. At that time, before life blew up, I was already feeling like one of those inflatable punching bag dolls that always pops back up but gets slower and slower as time and frequent pummeling leech the air right out of it. This side of Kristi-shima and the total destruction of life as I used to know it, I feel like a refugee. That’s the best way to describe it. I feel like I lost my country, my culture, my religion, all the things that I thought defined me, and I’m now figuring out how to survive in a new world, still me but also not-me.

I have zero answers right now. All my questions only lead to more questions. The things I’ve read lately break my heart in myriad ways – both because they’re so arrogant and judgey and mean and conversely (and confusingly) because I just can’t swallow it anymore. From the outside looking in, it’s not a place I want to be – and that’s even with a background understanding of some of the issues. If I had no religious upbringing or experience, there’s no way I would even try.

Internal growing pains are far more painful than the aches I endured as a kid (and yes, I know I’m short and therefore didn’t suffer that much… it’s called concentrated awesomeness J). The first thing I had to do was decide to be ok with where I am in the process. It’s mine, so I need to actively participate, and not worry so much about what other people think.  

I’m trying to hold on to the things that are important, and most of it’s not that important. I know there are people that will read this and already have a counterattack planned before they get to this paragraph. Before the hyperbole starts flying, take a breath. Relax. Please don’t send any platitudes or sermons my way – chances are I’ve already preached them in the past. Losing my religion is perhaps the best thing that could have happened to me, because once the trappings fall, I can find a place to put my feet and stand up.

This was hard to write. It’s hard to be in this place. And there will be more conversations, harder than this one. Stay tuned.

How Much??

I'm trying to talk less and observe more, and also hide less and be out around people more. I've joined a couple social groups and let me tell you, it is one of the least pleasant feelings ever to step out of my comfort zone (books and coffee by myself, thanks) and be open to new possibilities (actually talking to another sentient being *gasp*).  There've been some hilarious moments and several uncomfortable moments and yet…I went again this morning and it was kind of…awesome, actually. Conversation flowed with several different people, contact info was exchanged, friendships continue to grow. It was almost like being a real live adult person.

Anyone who knows me as more than words on a screen knows that this is huge for me. I have wrestled for a long time with self-esteem issues and fears. I struggle with the direction my life has taken, since it is definitely not the direction that was on the agenda. Getting out of my house and meeting people and making friends has felt like the most impossibly uncomfortable awful terrible no-good idea ever. I spent a long time cultivating this very self-reliant, independent, I-don't-need-people (so there, Fanny Brice) persona, which as has already been discussed was a big fat mistake. Knowing that in my head and actually working towards fixing it is the gap I've been working on bridging.

I think most people shy away from prolonged introspection. I'm not talking about an egotistical self-focus - I mean a serious investigation of the whys and wherefores of one's behaviors and motivations and underlying beliefs and all the little hidden pieces that compose the total picture we present to the world. I want to put the very best spin on my situation as possible, and I know I'm not alone. Almost every conversation about past relationships (friendships, marriages, any kind of relationship) tends to focus on why the other person fell short and not so much on the brokenness contributed by the speaker. Everyone's ex-whatever is crazy/selfish/unpredictable/narcissistic/etc…it's rare to hear anything remotely resembling, "I wasn't what he or she needed/I failed/I messed up."

If knowledge is power, then self-knowledge is mostly powerfully painful. The price one ends up paying to gain said painful self-knowledge is always high. It almost always comes as a result of a mistake, a failure, a broken relationship, a lapse in judgement, a standard not met. An even higher price is paid when I ignore the lessons that these shortcomings reveal. If I remain clueless, if I approach every breakdown with a shrug and a tendency to assign blame elsewhere, I run the risk of assessing too high a price against another's patience or goodwill or personhood. So while my human nature winces at the price tag attached to becoming a better person, the price for continued ignorance is too steep and bears no resemblance to the mythical "bliss" of not knowing those unavoidable truths behind my facade.

Man, this "being an adult" stuff is hard. I'm feeling a retreat to the blanket fort and crayons coming on…

New Swear Word

I have a, shall we say, "relationship" with words. I bend them to my will…I can obfuscate with the best of them…I like the way some sound (Reykjavik)…I've been accused of using $100 words when $1 words would suffice…I've been known to invent new ones (in two languages no less)…and I have a tendency to declare certain, emmmm, undesirable words as "new swear words in my country".

You'll see the irony by the time you finish reading...

So, what denigrates a word to the new swear word list, you ask? It's usually based on certain annoying qualities that said word possesses or implies. For example: patience. That is about the foulest word that comes to mind right now. I do not have, nor do I wish to experience the process leading to, patience. We hates it forever!

Tonight, however, I came into contact with a word that gives patience a positively angelic connotation. Tonight I went to church (grumble!)…tonight the topic was *gulp* forgiveness.

*crickets*

I know, I can't believe I said it either. I hope this gets censored - somebody ought to blow the whistle, I mean, this is a family show (maybe, I don't know. I'm just talking, I have no idea who's listening). I'm being facetious but let's just put it this way…this word, this forgiveness makes me very uncomfortable.

The thing is, it was explained very very well tonight. It was elucidated, enunciated, exposited, eruditely encompassed (enough!). The speaker wasn't the most polished, but I tend to be suspicious of polished preachers anyhow (right, I know, I'm currently suspicious of almost all preachers, but this guy at least compelled me to listen, so full marks). He explained the concept so clearly I was fidgety and wondering if someone had informed him that I was there (I know it's not all about me but you know the feeling when someone's ringing your bell).

This is a hard word. This is a word that makes me cringe. This word shocks my self-righteous sensibility and challenges my worldview. This word…the power of words is almost incomprehensible…sticks and stones got nothin' on a well-placed, well-timed word. This word makes me re-evaluate…inspect…examine…consider…and I don't like what I see.

Forgiveness is not about the other person. It's not an excuse for mistreatment. It's not a glossing-over of brokenness. It's not a get-out-of-jail-free card for habitual offenders. It's not giving permission for a sequel. It's not condoning another person's misbehavior. All of that sounds ok. I can handle that.

But then what is it, if it's none of those things? What about it makes it so hard to swallow? It's about not demanding repayment of a smaller debt than the one which I no longer bear. It's about putting down the poison I am prepared to drink in hopes that the other person will die. It's about letting myself out of the jail I construct and reinforce every time I mark another offense against me. It's about making sure that what I bring to the table is the best I can bring, and it's about not taking unwarranted responsibility for someone else's actions. It's about letting myself breathe freely rather than suffocating in my own discontent. All of this sounds hard.

So yeah, it totally deserves swear word status. It's a shocking, uncomfortable, messy word. It implies painful introspection and deliberate movement towards something different. It involves leaving behind the supposed comfort of a painstakingly constructed bomb shelter and facing a brave new world free from the danger of self-imposed solitary confinement. It involves change, a word that factors heavily on most people's swear word list.

I'm not a fan! And this conversation (unfortunately) is not over.

I Want To See You Be Brave

I spent a lot of time being good - the good girl, the good daughter, the good student. I tried to follow the rules, at least on the outside (but I was standing up on the inside!!). I felt a lot of pressure to be perfect ever since I can remember. I don't know how that started or where it came from, but it was a constant companion, the elevator music in the background for much of my life. It turned into a very delicately balanced house of cards, something that looked ok but was fooling no one - anyone could see that it was just a matter of time before gravity and other principles of physics proved that a house put together with air and leaning doesn't last.

When my house of cards came crashing down, I might have been the most surprised of anyone. I wasn't surprised that there was no substance there - I knew it was all air and leaning. But I thought I had disguised it fairly well. I also thought that it would surprise more people (to date, absolutely no one has been shocked by the way it all turned out. Interesting...). I immediately felt bereft - what did I have left if not the pursuit of perfection?

I've spent some time getting to know me again - not the trying-desperately-to-be-perfect poser, but me. I didn't think there was anything under the polished veneer, actually. I had started to wonder if it was all just smoke and mirrors. My self-confidence, which was never really all that strong to begin with, was completely drained by losing my career and my marriage and all that I thought was as important to my life as oxygen.

Recently a theme has been appearing in my conversations with different people. If it was just one person, I could totally roll my eyes and blow raspberries and generally ignore him or her. But it's people who don't even know each other, all talking to me, telling me that I just need to be more confident, to believe in myself more, to let people see me, that it's ok if people know I'm smart or funny or know what I'm doing at work.  Just tonight a friend asked why I was being so negative about myself - I had been going for the self-deprecating humor approach but apparently the ugly truth showed through the stupid winky emoticon.

I could totally take a Barney Stinson approach and declare myself awesome…but it would be another case of smoke and mirrors (just like his legen-wait for it-dary proclamation). Instead I have moments where I think I might have the potential to allegedly be a little bit awesome. And based on my life experiences, for me, that's huge.

I struggle with even thinking about this because I don't want to be egotistical or self-absorbed or just plain annoying. My heart stutters as I try to say how I feel about things and not what the other person wants/expects me to say. Asking for things that I need - in a friendship, in a relationship, at work - is terrifying. What if the other party isn't willing to acknowledge my request? What if they don't care? What if they decide that my contribution is not worth their accommodation?

Another friend has been helping me realize that it's not all about me (shocker). Sometimes it's about what the other person can or can't or doesn't want to bring to the table themselves. And so I've decided to suck it up, quit whining, and seriously, just be awesome. What do I have to lose? What am I waiting for?

I spent a lot of time being afraid - of the consequences, of hell, of what people would think if they knew what really goes on in my head. I figured that thinking poorly of myself got that out of the way so that when other people inevitably thought poorly of me, it wasn't new information. What a waste of time and energy. I don't know if I have it in me to be brave enough to just be. I hope so.

Memories of Things

It's weird, starting life over from nothing in your mid-30s. At this point you're supposed to know what you want to be and, well, be that. You probably have some stuff (okay, a lot) that's begun to accumulate, especially if there are children involved. There are families and relationships and life that happens, houses or apartments that fill up and fill out, experiences that hunker down in your memories for perusal at a later date. 

I had all of that. And then I didn't. And then I started over with some suitcases and a few boxes and some borrowed furniture. I used to have lots of great kitchen stuff - I spent a lot of time in the kitchen. Now I don't spend nearly as much time as I really ought to, because when I'm there, I get mad. I look for something I just know I have, like a pastry blender or a little strainer, and it's nowhere to be found. I have the memories of all the things that I used to have, things that were mine, that I loved, that I used all the time, and that are no longer within reach. And then I look around at my new life and see memories of all those other things I used to have - and it's frustrating. 

I used to have this anticipation and excitement about the future. There was always a plan or a goal or a cause, and due to the nature of my former life, new places and adventures at more-frequent-than-normal intervals. Now I live here…in Nebraska…where I never really wanted to be in the first place…to which I swore I would not return for keeps if at all possible. 

A couple of weeks ago I had a really great conversation about what makes someplace "home". The question was, if I could live anywhere with no limitations, where would I like to be? Where would I find peace and that "I made it" feeling? If not here, where? And it was fun to talk about the possibilities and the things that would be deal-breakers. And then the conversation turned to the things that tie people to a place, things like jobs, families, familiarity, inertia. And the question then was, what would it take to make "home"? Do you pursue your career and hope it takes you somewhere you like? Do you pick a place you would like to live and find something to do there? So much has to do with attitude, with making a conscious decision to put down roots. Lots of people say they never thought they would end up in a certain place or that they would stay in a certain place…and there are not always formulated explanations for the whys. 

I wonder myself what it would take to find my home. I don't feel at home here. I have a long list of reasons, which most people who talk to me on any sort of regular basis can recite along with me. I have some ideas about where I would rather live. I definitely have ideas about some other jobs I would like to try. But my reality is, I have a job I don't hate that compensates me well enough to provide for my children, I have a place to live that is comfortable and more than adequate, my boys are tired of moving. I am blessed, even if the blessing comes with a lot of corn and snow. To my currently discontented selfish self, that sounds like a lot of settling, a lot of making do, a lot of "ok but not awesome". And I want awesome. I want to love what I do and feel like I'm making a difference, I want a lovely and love-filled roof over my head, and I want my kids to thrive. I want more than memories of things. And I want to have the courage to move towards home. It could end up being right here (I'm not giving up yet on more sand and sun, though)…but it better have a better backstory than "I just ended up here and here I am."

Not My Party

Christmas has always been a little bit of a weird time for me. As an earnest, uptight teenager, I remember coming home from my overseas trips and vowing to eschew all things material and American. I remember walking through the Mall of America and feeling overwhelmed and righteously (or so I thought at the time) disgusted by all the excess. I turned into an obnoxious version of this guy (although this particular picture is pretty cute):

I also remember the first year I was married. We picked a day early in December (the 2nd, to be exact) and went out to get all our Christmas shopping for each other done. I was so excited about what I had bought and how happy it was going to make him that we wrapped everything right away that night…and also opened presents. That night. All of them. And I remember when my marriage was floundering and heading towards total destruction, how hard it was to even care about a gift-giving opportunity but wanting, no, needing to make it grand for the littles.

I've gone back and forth through the years, sometimes annoyed by family requesting lists of things I want, other times so excited about it that I can barely stand myself. This Christmas, though…

This Christmas was a very big first. It was my very first Christmas in my whole life…that I spent alone. I had known it was coming for a very long time, since last Christmas actually. As it got closer, I just refused to deal. I kept saying, "I'm not thinking about that yet, October has to happen first," and then it was Thanksgiving, and then it was here.

My boys left town on the 21st of December. This was the year that I had them for Thanksgiving…and they went with their dad for Christmas.

I know that this is normal. Lots of people spend Christmas alone or with not their actual family all the time. Movies are made about it (I successfully avoided seeing any such drivel this year!) and songs are sung about it ("Christmas at Denny's", anyone?) and it's just reality for so many reasons for so many people. But for me, I had never not once NOT been with at least some type of family for Christmas.

Then, on Christmas Eve, my tree got smashed:

And there were no presents under it. And I had to work (all day until 5!). And my back has been hurting from a little car accident a few weeks ago. And I'm not gonna lie…I was feeling VERY sorry for myself.

So, of course I went to Midnight Mass (isn't that what every pathetic lonely Protestant girl does on Christmas Eve??). I love Midnight Mass. I try to go whenever I can. It's late and beautiful and feels like the perfect way to actually begin Christmas Day. And even though the bench was hard (my poor back) and the church was cold (cold feet and hands make it very hard to concentrate) and I didn't know anyone and I was apparently the only non-Catholic there…it was beautiful. And it reminded me that this is not my party. It's not about the presents and the people and the ribbons and the tags and the boxes and the bags…and not in anti-consumerism, shrunken heart kind of way either.

And I can honestly say now, that yes, it was weird. It was hard. It was very, very quiet. But it wasn't awful.

It was peaceful. And friends invited me for dinner on Christmas Day, and that was fun. And I have had and will have time to celebrate with family and friends on other days (and that's kind of awesome, actually, because it spreads the cheer out for a little while longer). I got to open presents with my boys and my parents this morning via Skype:

And it's okay. I made it. If I've learned anything these past couple years, it's that things I thought would break me have turned out to be survivable and even bring their own particular kind of joie de vivre. Not my party…no reason to cry…just an opportunity to learn another facet of the word celebrate.