The Awesome Stuff I've Done So Far in 2017: Part 2

A few months ago, I declared that the theme of this year would be healing. I have a lot of healing to do in my life, from unpacking the damage my brand of the Christian faith did to me to recovering from my upcoming divorce and redefining who I am as a person. This spring, I ran (aka mostly walked) my first half marathon, and this summer I went on my first backpacking trip. Both of these brought with them significant healing effects, like homeopathy, natural and subtle and hard to evidence, but very real to me. (A little crunchy skeptic humor for you.)

The Awesome Stuff I've Done So Far in 2017
Part 2: Backpacking the Shores Lake Loop

My suddenly becoming an outdoorsy person goes back to at least last year, though really when it comes to camping, I've always been a fan. From camping in my backyard and at campsites with my family as a kid to camping off the side of the side of the road in college with friends (Wes, Chris and Andrew - remember that?) to TMI camping on Merritt Island, FL and in Kilmacolm, Scotland, I love sleeping in a tent outside and sitting around a camp fire and bonding with people who smell just as unshowered as me.

I love Stacy and Chris.

But last year, I became reunited with an old friend from college, Chris. I am so thankful we became reunited for many reasons far more important that this, but Chris and his wife Stacy (whom I'm also so thankful to know) are pretty outdoorsy, which reignited my interest in camping. In March, just weeks after Scott moved out and I was facing the reality of how lonely it is to be single, Chris, Stacy and I planned a camping trip in northwest Arkansas. I was in Tulsa, OK, the week before, and oh what a week that was! Wildfires in the panhandle, a DR Level 2, and was that the week we had a tornado in Fayetteville and a train derailment in Oklahoma City? Anyway, a camping weekend was much needed, but as I drove from sunny Tulsa into Fayetteville, AR, the weather was turning colder and greyer. By the time I arrived at Chris and Stacy's house, the rain had started, and it was cold and everything was started to ice over ... and our camping trip got snowed out. 

So I spent the weekend under an electric blanket inside their cozy, beautiful house, watching the snow fall, being mothered by Stacy and having the most relaxing and healing weekend I'd ever had. I get emotional just remembering that weekend and how it was exactly what my soul needed in that indescribably painful point in my life. 

After that, between the busyness of all our lives and the summer heat encroaching upon us, we never managed to schedule another camping trip. I continued to research camping gear online and create lists and wishlists of things I'd need or want for camping, and through that I became interested in backpacking as well. My gear list was getting long - and expensive!

I went out on a date with a really cool guy who was big into backpacking, and we spent nearly the entire date talking about camping, hiking and backpacking. Nothing ever came of that date relationship-wise, but about a month later as he was planning a backpacking trip, he invited me along. The timing could not have been more providential. I was sliding fast into depression at that point; my new job was overwhelming me, my heart had recently been badly broken (yay rebound relationships), and my single parent responsibilities were crashing in on me. I felt like I was drowning fast. A weekend in the mountains sounded like an ice cream sundae smothered in chocolate syrup and rainbow sprinkles. 

But I had yet to actually purchase any gear off my wishlists, and I'd done zero exercise or training in months. I'm an overachiever though, so when David confirmed the trip was on, I said yes.

I had one week to get a backpack, hiking shoes, a sleeping bag, a hammock, trekking poles, a water bladder, a cook stove and all the other tiny essentials necessary for a weekend in the woods. I spent all week texting David and Chris about which brand of this and which style of that was best, and by the weekend, I was extremely broke but had everything I needed to go backpacking.

Just a few of the essentials.

There were two slight concerns though. Not even setbacks, just concerns. One was that everyone David had invited hiking with him had either backed out or were unavailable. It was going to be just me and him - and we'd only ever met that one time. The other was the weather. Forecasts couldn't decide if it was going to be sunny all weekend or stormy. The chances leaned towards sunny, though, so we decided to take a chance and go for it. Early Saturday morning, July 1st, David and I hit the road and drove two hours to the Ozark mountains for our 13 mile backpack around the White Rock Shores Lake Loop Trail. 

Me and my new backpacking buddy David

The hike started out great. I was immediately grateful I'd taken David's advice on bringing hiking poles! The first few miles were pretty easy. We saw a beautiful waterfall and some really cool campsites. I got to test out my Sawyer water filter and was impressed that the filtered creek water actually tasted pretty good. We spent some of the time talking and a lot of the time in silence, me often lagging ten feet or so behind but thoroughly enjoying the scenery, the sweat and my own thoughts. It's funny how you think you're going to have all of these deep revelations while hiking yet I spent half the time singing in my head, "We're going camping now, we're on our way! We're going to climb up a mountain and run and jump and play!" (Psalty the Singing Songbook anybody?)

 

Our map promised that mile 6 was full of great campsites. We'd already past some pretty nice ones, so the mile 6 campsites were sure to be fantastic. Our plan was to hike 6.5 miles both days, and with the early start, we guessed we'd be able to set up camp around 4 or 5pm at the latest. That would give us plenty of time to hang our hammocks (both of us had new ones we'd never used before), start a fire, get some food in our bellies and relax for several hours before getting a good night's sleep.

We passed mile marker 5. In a mile, we expected to find somewhere to set up camp. But the next mile marker we saw said 7. The trail we were on had merged with the Ozark Highland Trail, but according to the map the two trails should only have been merged together for a short time. We'd been following the blue flashes but by mile 7, the flashes continued to be both blue and white, signifying the two merged trails. By 7 we should've been getting back to blue only. The map showed all the turns we were taking to be part of the Ozark Highland Trail only. We hiked for another mile before being certain we'd missed the turn off to continue the Shores Lake Loop alone.

I was getting tired. Again, I'd done no training prior except a 4 mile walk with a friend two days before. We'd started our downhill hike and now we were going to have to turn around and go back uphill again. But it was better than getting lost, so we turned back around and hiked back up the hill almost another mile before running into only the second person we'd seen on the trail all day. 

He was doing the Shores Lake Loop also and was getting ready to find camp too. He was pretty sure we had been on the right track, so we turned back around, and the three of us continued back downhill in the same direction we'd been going to find the nearest campsite.

Allen and David

David and Allen (our new hiking friend) chatted together several feet ahead of me, while I struggled to keep up. It was starting to get later than we'd planned, and my exhaustion was starting to show. I slipped and fell a couple of times. (Falling and trying to get back up with a 27 lb backpack on your back sucks.) The mile markers had suddenly gone from 7 to something in the 20s, which must've been marking the Ozark Highland Trail. I had no idea how far we'd gone, but with the back-tracking, we were going on 8 or 9 miles. This was much more than I'd anticipated, but I kept up. Barely.

Then we heard the thunder.

We still had an hour before sundown, and Allen, who'd done the trail before, was certain the campsites were just up ahead. We stopped momentarily to put our rain covers over our packs and put on our headlamps just in case though, and we carried on. The rain came on and the trail grew pretty dark pretty fast. The wet dirt and rocks caused me to slip one more time. I was going to have to get control over my exhaustion!

We expected it to get dark around 7:30-8, but the storm brought on the darkness sooner than we expected. We were all getting pretty concerned about the lack of campsites. It wasn't even that we had to have the comfort of a designated campsite; the woods were so thick and overgrown that it would've been entirely unsafe to set up camp anywhere along the trail at that point. With the darkness, the vegetation, the poison ivy covering every inch of ground beyond the trail, we would've easily gotten lost in seconds if we left the trail to set up camp. David and I had already experienced that earlier in the day, when we walked off the trail less than 15 feet to investigate a campsite and were completely unable to find the trail again. Allen decided to run along ahead of us to see if he could find a campsite. He was running out of water, I was running out of steam, and David kept turning around to me and apologizing profusely for how this was turning out. It was okay though. I was just grateful I had two experienced hikers with me!

Thick vegetation and poison ivy

David and I thought we heard a whistle. It was pitch black and the rain was heavy, and we really hoped it was either Allen alerting us he'd found a campsite or our imaginations, because I really had no idea what we'd do if there was a lost or injured hiker out there somewhere! (Though I did have my first aid kit with me because I'm Red Cross Ready!)  A little ways further, we saw Allen's headlamp. He'd found a campsite! According to GPS, we'd walked 10 miles of the 13 mile trail. It was late by then, somewhere around 8pm.

The rain was heavy and there was no chance of getting camp set up. The three of us decided the best bet was to set up an emergency shelter and wait for the rain to stop. With a tarp, guideline and some tent stakes, we set up a triangular shelter between two trees - not really noticing we'd set it up right over a bunch of uncomfortable big rocks. We three of us huddled under the tarp sitting on rocks with our packs and tried to wait out the storm. We shared out snacks - granola bars, beef jerky, water. The storm wasn't letting up though. In fact it was drawing closer. The lightning and thunder indicated the storm was only a few miles away then right on top of us. The creek nearby was rushing and rising. Rain water was running all around us, creating rivulets and large puddles. I'd been sweating out water all day, but now I had to pee like I'd never had to pee before. 

We discussed just finishing the last three miles of the hike in the rain and going home, but I knew I didn't have the energy left in me. We were also worried about the rain and the slick rocks and what would happen if one of us twisted an ankle or become otherwise injured, and it just didn't seem safe. So we devised a plan.

Allen had a two person tent. David and I had only hammocks. Between the three of us though, we had tarps and para-cord and tent stakes, so we decided to set up Allen's tent, create a lean-to over and beyond the tent and build a shelter that would accommodate the three of us and our three backpacks. In the pitch dark and pouring rain, using only the lights from our headlamps, we build the tent and the lean-to and soon had a very wet but sheltered sleeping quarters. After we'd built our shelter, I told the boys to look the other way and tiptoed only a few feet into the poison ivy to finally pee. I didn't want to get lost, or swept away in the currents, and figured I'd rather take my chances with the poison ivy.

Incidentally, peeing in the woods as a female is way suckier than it is for males. 

We were hungry, but none of us had the energy to stay up any later and cook. So the three of us put our packs on the ground tarp outside the tent under the overheard tarp lean-to and crawled into Allen's two person tent. The three of us, all essentially strangers when you think about it, got very well acquainted very quickly in that small tent. The tent was leaking from the heavy rain and from being assembled in the rain. David and I hadn't brought a change of clothes, so we were soaking wet and shivering in the leaky, cold tent under a single unzipped sleeping bag. (His down sleeping bag wasn't waterproof so we were sharing mine.) Our biggest concern was the creek and the potential for flash flooding. None of us slept very well, but under the circumstances, it's amazing we slept at all.

By the next morning, the rain had stopped. We made breakfast on the cook stove, refilled our water bladders with filtered creek water, dismantled our shelter and cleaned up the campsite. We only had three miles left of the trail. The ground was slick and muddy, and I was extremely glad we hadn't tried to finish the trail during the night.

"Cool Tree Cool"

The last three miles seemed much longer than only three miles. But early in the morning, we finished our hike, and I've never been so relieved to see my car sitting in the parking lot, waiting to take me home. Allen and David seemed to feel the night before had made the whole trip a disaster, but I looked at it as quite the adventure! We'd all gotten a chance to test our survival skills, and now had a story to tell for the rest of our lives! We exchanged Facebook details, and Allen went his way while David and I drove back to Little Rock.

Allen, David and me - we made it!

Despite the rain and the cold and the overexertion of the night before, my first backpacking trip was exactly what my soul needed. My body felt strong and durable, my mind felt refreshed and clear, and my heart felt rejuvenated and light. I felt capable, resourceful (though the resourcefulness was 100% Allen and David) and empowered. Though most of my thoughts during the hours of silence trekking through the mountains were simple, shallow and unimportant, I did have several small epiphanies that helped lift me from that sinking slope into depression. I found strength in myself I didn't know I had, and I fell in love with nature and the outdoors again that weekend.

It's been stiflingly hot ever since, so I haven't been backpacking again yet, but my pack is the corner of my bedroom, cleaned, full and ready for our next adventure together in the woods.

 

The Awesome Stuff I've Done So Far in 2017: Part 1

Since January, my life has pretty much been doing somersaults all the way through the calendar. (How is it August already?) It's been the rockiest year of my life, but in amongst my marriage ending, my job role change and the transition into single motherhood, I've also done a couple of pretty awesome things. I just never got around to blogging about them. So tonight, I bring you The Awesome Stuff I've Done So Far in 2017: Part 1. In the next couple of days I'll bring you Part 2.

Part 1: The Little Rock Half Marathon

Many years ago while working at the High School of Glasgow, I decided I was going to start running, because why not? My coworker Carol and I started running during our lunch breaks. We'd change into workout clothes and run a few miles around the block - or rather, Carol ran a few miles, I ran a few feet, panted heavily, walked a few miles, then ran a few feet again. (Once, we somehow managed to get lost running around the block and were almost an hour late getting back to work. To this day, I'm not sure how that happened.) That eventually tapered off though, perhaps when I got pregnant with Fifi. I can't remember exactly. I only know that it was many years later before I got the notion to run again. This time Jen from church and I decided we were going to train for a 10k. We started out strong, running around Battery Park a couple nights a week. Until the first night it was cold and rainy. And here I'm going to go ahead and make the assumption that this means we only actually ran around Battery Park two or three times tops before encountering a cold and rainy night ... because Scotland.

That was the extent of my running career.

Then last year, my dad, whose enthusiasm for running and cycling is somehow oddly contagious, persuaded me to sign up to run the Little Rock half marathon with him. In fact, it was about this time last year. I figured I had more than enough time to train, so sure, why not? I mentioned it to another friend of mine, and she agreed to register too. Feeling motivated, Elizabeth and I started running together. But not for long. Winter came, and I didn't want to run outside. I ran on the treadmill at the gym, but I didn't do much else in the way of training.

Then Scott and I split up, and training for a half marathon was the furthest thing from my mind.

I had gotten to the point where I could just about do 5 miles before wiping out, so when March came along, I had thoroughly decided against running the race. Elizabeth's training hadn't come along much better; I think she could manage about 6 miles. So the week the runners were supposed to pick up their race packets, Elizabeth and I decided we weren't going to run after all. But since we'd already paid for the t-shirt ... well, we could at least go pick up the packets.

On Thursday, Elizabeth texted me to say she was going to go ahead and do the half marathon after all. She used some fancy mathematics to show that we could totally complete the race within the 4 hour time frame, and, well, math not being my strong suit, she convinced me to go for it too. So on Friday we picked up our packets and on Sunday, having not run in months, I found myself at the starting line of a 13.1 mile race. In the rain.

We started off great. The excitement and the adrenaline kept us going for the first few miles with no worries at all. We paced ourselves well. We cheered when we passed mile markers. We walked some and ran some. (We made sure we were running every time we passed a race photographer.) The rain wasn't going to spoil this for us.

5 miles in, I felt great. 8 miles in we were still going strong. 10 miles in we were still in this thing, though getting tired. Then suddenly ... I felt it. The next 2 miles were tough. My feet were soaked and blisters were forming. I was getting exhausted, but mostly it was my feet. Then that last mile was torture. My feet were killing me. We were really watching our time by then, coming close to the 4 hour cut off. We knew we could make it if we could just keep up the pace, but my feet!

We turned the last corner and could see the finish line about 4 blocks away. Elizabeth and I looked at each other. We had time. We could do this. Let's do this! Determined to run, not walk, across the finish line, we picked up our pace about 2 blocks away and just went for it. We weaved in and out through the walkers in front of us, like we'd been running all along, and with 15 minutes to spare*, we crossed the finish line.

During mile 13, we walked with a man who had been doing the LR half marathon for something like 15 years with his friends. He said the feeling of crossing the finish line is like no other and don't be surprised if you cry.

Yeah, right, why would I cry? But sure enough, as I crossed that finish line, the emotions welled up in me, and my eyes started to tear up. The past three months had been worst of my life. My marriage was a failure, I was barely holding it together as a single mother, and most days the best I could do was pull myself out of bed to show up for work on time. I was so depressed, and all I wanted to do was drive my car off the side of bridge and put an end to it all.

Yet there I was, finishing a half marathon. I have never in my life felt stronger. There is no describing the feeling. It was one of the most empowering moments I've ever experienced.

I'm tearing up right now just remembering it.

Aaaaand then the adrenaline wore off and OH MY GOD, MY FEET.

Elizabeth and I limped to the runners' area where I scarfed down a banana, an applesauce and the best tasting pasta of my entire life. The thought of walking back to the car was unbearable, and the walk actually was unbearable. I drove home, took a hot bath, and napped for several hours, waking up stiff as a board and unable to move from the neck down.

But it was so unbelievably worth it.

So worth it, that I'm signing up again for next year. This time though, I think I'll train first.



*For those who may wonder: The timer in the first picture makes it look like we came in only 6 minutes under time. That was the official clock. I was 20,000-odd people behind the first runners, so my time didn't start until I crossed the starting line.  

What I'm Really, Really Bad At

I'd say I'm good at a lot of things: writing, baking, eating said baking, sleeping, cleaning, coloring in the lines, making small talk, avoiding unnecessary conflict, attacking necessary conflict, making impulsive decisions that do not usually backfire, crying at the drop of a hat.

I'm also bad at a lot of things: math, making rational decisions, not burning cookies in the oven, getting my oil changed, rejecting conspiracy theories, taking care of myself and making healthy choices, showing affection to my pets, keeping my phone charged.

Two things I'm exceedingly bad at though are forgiving myself and being alone.

Those two things together create a powerfully bad situation.

I am a guiltaholic. When I'm not feeling copious amounts of guilt over something, I feel guilty for not feeling guilty enough. When I'm alone, I dwell on that guilt and rather than getting sick satisfaction from wallowing in guilt, I get more and more depressed and feel more and more guilty. And then I isolate myself because why would anyone want to have anything to do with me, this awful, horrible person who doesn't deserve anyone's love and affection? And isolation makes me dwell on the negative more and more.

It's a fantastically bad never-ending cycle.

So I usually avoid being alone. If I can be with others, I can feel okay about myself and say fuck guilt like I totes mean it.

Then I realize that I'm avoiding being alone and I'm depending on others for my own happiness and since that can't be healthy, I go back to trying to find alone time and know thyself. Which leads me to thinking of all the bad things I've done in my life, and the cycle continues.

Being a single mom now is hard for all the obvious reasons, but the hardest is all the time I spend alone now. Time to dwell on past mistakes, things that led me to where I am now, analyzing every mistake made from the moment we met until this moment, wondering at which point things turned down the wrong path, and punishing myself for all I ought to feel regret over. And when I'm alone long enough, I can come up with zillions of things to feel regret over.

I'm isolated already as a single mom, but this penchant for shame and guilt isolates me further. It simultaneously makes me want to curl up in a corner to shut off the entire world and run outside looking for someone, anyone, to talk to and share happiness with.

Supposedly being alone is good for us and getting to know yourself is important for loving yourself. So what do you do when being alone is bad for you and getting to know yourself only involves discovering all your faults?

I wonder if this is an extrovert-meets-former-evangelical issue.  As an extrovert, I need people. I get my energy from people, I get joy from people, I get my bucket filled from people. There are times when I do genuinely enjoy solitude but not for long, and even while I'm basking in solitude, I'm usually doing something communicative... writing a blog, texting a friend, scrolling through Facebook. I am really bad at being alone.

Other extroverts, is this your experience too?

And as a former evangelical, I have yet to toss aside the deep shame of "sin". I was taught that Jesus forgives, etc etc etc, but regardless, he wants you to be pure and blameless and more like him, and the only way to do that is to confess your sins and get yourself right already. And it's not just outward "sins" we're talking about; every proud, lustful, hateful thought must be purged if you want to truly be like Jesus. If you are still okay with your proud, lustful, hateful, fill-in-the-blank thoughts, then you are not truly wanting to be like Jesus.

So when your very thoughts are sinful, how much more should you feel guilt over your actual actions?

I don't believe in "sin" anymore, but I haven't shaken guilt. Other former evangelicals, is this your experience too?

So I'm in the process of learning some hard and unpleasant lessons right now. How to be alone and not berate yourself. How to not berate yourself into wanting to be totally alone. How to let people in without assuming they will despise the person they see. How to not let in people who will just be harmful to you. How to get to know yourself and like your own company. How to forgive yourself and move on.

How to remember to turn the timer on so you don't burn the cookies. I'm the sole adult now, and not burning down the house is all on me.

The Pregnant Tree

The Pregnant Tree we called her
belly bloated, bark stretched across a hallow womb.
Lifelessly pregnant
she still stands, through the decades,
refusing to bend to the ground
rooted to dirt by a spine of rotted wood.
Does she feel the hallow, wide open hole?
Does she know she is empty, a pitiful tree
by a road no one drives and no one will cut down
since she matters nothing?
Does she feel the sorrow of her existence?
Does she choose to live out of ignorance
or of womanly determination?








I don't normally share poems until I've performed a full autopsy on them but today you get a sneak peak - a raw poem, one too prosaic for me to love, fresh out of the box, with too many adjectives, one I'll hate in a few hours for its mawkishness and didacticism. But I'm feeling mawkish and didactic today. You're welcome.

Hopelessness in the Wake of the Deadliest Mass Shooting In US History

I usually try to stay pretty positive here. Even when discussing controversial topics, I try to stay away from undo negativity. I want to be a voice of hope and optimism.

But today I feel no hope and no optimism.

As you are probably aware, last night America suffered it's most deadliest mass shooting in US history. I was surprised, actually, that this was the worst mass shooting. After Aurora and Sandy Hook and San Bernardino, you start to lose track of the numbers. Along side other massacres, like the Boston Marathon and Oklahoma City, the death toll just adds up and eventually, you don't know how many people died in the latest mass murder incident.

That is unspeakably depressing.

What is even more depressing is this is just another massacre in a long, seemingly never-ending line of US mass murders. Nothing is ever going to change, is it? If the mass shooting of Christians in a prayer meeting doesn't change anything, do you think the mass shooting of gay people will? If the mass shooting of children in an elementary school doesn't change anything, do you think the mass shooting of gay people will?

I don't even know where to start. There are so many things to say about this latest incident. All kinds of incoherent thoughts are running through my head that don't add up to any real point, just more depression and loss of hope.

I predict the only thing to come of this will be more religious intolerance. There will be right wing rhetoric about combating terrorism and left wing rhetoric about stricter gun laws. It's what we do in the wake of a mass killing, we shout out buzzwords passionately but briefly - RACISM!  MENTAL HEALTH! TERRORISM! MUSLIMS! GUN CONTROL! and then move on without changing a single damn thing.

In this instance, the LGBTQ community (my community) was targeted in the middle of National Pride Month. For a few days, there will be brief conversation about LGBTQ intolerance. Not much, though, since the shooter was allegedly an ISIS sympathizer, so the bigger conversation will be about terrorism. If we're lucky, we'll hear some lip service paid to loving the gay community (but in many cases this lip service will be ruined by a call to pray for their lost souls as well).  People will shut up momentarily about the transgender bathroom issue. But nothing will change in the long run. People will change their Facebook profile pictures, politicians will argue about the root problem and how to fix it, tragedies around the world will be brought up to show that none of us really care about human rights issues unless they are on our doorstep, and then we will move on and forget about this most deadliest mass shooting in US history until the next one occurs. Then we will rinse and repeat.

This can only happen so many times with no fundamental change in our laws or attitudes before we lose any hope that America will ever come together and agree on a plan to stop these senseless killings. Nothing ever changes, and this time won't be any different.

5 Things You Didn't Know About the Girl at the Gym Today

1. She's wearing make-up for a good reason. Two good reasons, actually. First of all, she decided to workout right after work, because she knew if she came home first, she'd never get back out the door. There was no time to wipe off the eyeliner and mascara she wore after her 8.5 hour day with no breaks and lunch at her desk. Secondly, she likes how she looks with make-up, so even if she'd chosen to put make-up on solely for the gym, who cares? If it makes her feel better about herself to see a reflection in the large floor-to-ceiling gym mirrors that doesn't make her cringe, shouldn't that be reason enough? Whether she's coming in straight after work or wearing make-up just for the fun of it, she's got a good reason.

2. She chose the gym over more destructive choices. She looks at her size 10 body and sees someone twice her size. She must tell herself on a daily basis not to hate that body in the mirror. She must tell herself daily to stop comparing it to the other bodies she sees, to stop wanting all the other bodies she sees and love the one she's in. Every once in a while, the temptations creep in. She has to make promises to herself not to starve, not to throw up. She has to promise her husband she will eat and will tell him when the temptations get too strong. She has to promise herself she'll be safe. Just last night, she picked up a bottle of Dexatrim and thought how easy it would be to buy it and hide it from her husband; he'd never know. She kept her promise to herself and put it back on the shelf. She chose to workout instead and do things the right way today.

3. She sometimes hides her tears behind the sweat.  Sometimes making it to the gym is more than just a battle against exhaustion or laziness. Sometimes it's a battle against the dark specter of depression that is always waiting behind a corner for her. Often she doesn't even know it's fallen upon her until she is lost in its shadow, like a slow dusk at summertime. When that happens, she spends a little time each day fighting back tears of helplessness. During an activity like exercise that leaves her mind so open to personal thoughts and feelings, the tears spill on their own. If she can pretend to others that the salty streaks on her cheeks are sweat, she will, because she's convinced she must hide what's really going on insider her. She is terrified of being judged for her weakness.

4. In fact, she only just barely showed up today. On those days, when depression has wrapped its veiled arms around her, she already has too many choices she's forced to make: whether to go to work or call in sick, whether to make dinner or just order takeout again, whether to pay attention to her kids or hide away from them, whether to talk to her husband or ignore him. The fact that she made a voluntary decision to do something positive for herself on top of all the other things she must decide to do is a huge personal win. It would always be easier to stay home and hide from it all.

5. Regardless of how fast she can run or how much weight she can lift, she is strong.  Maybe she doesn't run very fast, but she chose to run today. Maybe she can't lift as much as she used to, but she chose to show up today. Some days she only accomplishes the bare minimum: go to work, feed the kids, go to sleep. But even on those days, she is strong. She has not given up; she has promised herself she will not give up. She can't always be the person she wants to be or that you expect her to be. Still, she keeps trying - not for your sake, but for hers. For her own sake she smiles. For her own sake she laughs. She takes deep breaths and makes many choices. She often hides the truth, but now and then, she tells it. This is how she churns her weakness into strength.

Too Stressed To Think of a Title

I am stressed.

Stressed, like, beyond anything I've ever known.

I underestimated my worth as a stay-at-home-mum, but now that I'm a working mum, I realize just how much I did when I was at home.

I stayed home with the kids when they were sick.

I took them to doctor's appointments and dentist visits.

I took the cats to the vet.

I paid the bills (on time).

I took letters to the post office.

I went to the bank.

I made calls to sort out doctor's appointments, bill queries, banking issues.

I took the cars in for oil changes and maintenance.

I cleaned out the cars.

I cleaned the house.

I kept on top of the laundry.

I kept on top of the dishes. 

I made menus and grocery lists and did the grocery shopping.

I prepared breakfast, lunch, and dinner.

I even got in my "me time" by going to the gym and keeping fit and healthy.

Now?

All those things still need to get done, but Scott and I both need to leave the house by 7:30 to get the kids to school and daycare and get ourselves to work by 8. We both push ourselves mentally to the limit daily from 8-4:30, only occasionally taking an hour for a lunch break, before heading back home to collect the kids. By the time we get home, it's too late to run errands or make phone calls. By the time we've done homework with the kids, eaten a late dinner, and put all the little people to bed, it's time to tackle all the chores.  

Throw into the mix moving into a new house, where the errands, bills, and housework are thrown into overdrive. We are surrounded by boxes we have no time to empty and loose ends we have no time to tie. We had the old house to clean too, and all the old utilities to reconcile. 

This weekend we drove nine hours to Texas to visit family which was AMAZING (minus the driving part) and fun. But upon arriving back home at 1:45am and seeing the mess my house is in and knowing I'd have to be getting up for work in just five hours was devastating. I thought I'd also get the grocery shopping for the week finally done, after living the last two weeks on takeout, but that never happened either.  

Next week, my in-laws from Scotland are coming. The guest room is still full of boxes and no bed.

I never realized before how tough working mamas have it.  I worked full time from home for several years, which was extremely taxing, but I had no idea how hard it would be to work outside the home and not be able to get daytime tasks accomplished. Some people joke that going to work is a break from the kids, but my job is just one loooong day of a shitload too much to do. I go home from working nonstop all day to thinking of all the things that didn't get done at work and at home that need to get done. I wake up in the middle of the night trying to work out problems that won't let me get back to sleep. I remember half way through my work day that I never paid the car payment but I can't do anything about it because I'm at work. All my perfectly organized systems and daily itineraries are shot. My days run into each other bringing to close week after week without my realizing where the time has gone.

I am stressed.

I tell myself that in time it'll all come together. I'll make a new, albeit busier, routine and fall comfortably into it. But at the moment, I can't see that anywhere. All I see is a rocky landscape stretching to the horizon, and me climbing and tripping over the boulders and loose stones trying to go forward under the glare of a blistering, blinding midday sun. And all that's in the horizon for me is more rocks.

Usually, when I catch myself in danger of depression, I see myself slipping down a steep slope. I see it as a fast, slick descent. Right now, I see it as something I'm pushing myself into, unable to go any other direction other than full force straight into it, because that's the direction and inertia of my life.

How do you working mothers do this? How do you balance work and home? How do you spend all day expending your mental powers on the job and then come home to children who need attention and affection and patient help with homework, without totally coming unglued? 

I want to be that mother who comes home from work and pulls all the children onto her lap like a box full of kittens and snuggles them all with sitcom-worthy good nature before setting the whole family down for a healthy meal of meat and two vegetables. Who then brushes all the teeth and reads all the bedtime stories and tucks in all the blankets and coos as she turns out all the lights. Who throws in a load of laundry, washes all the dinner dishes, and then cuddles up with her husband on the couch with a glass of wine and a happy smile on her face. Who then wriggles into her perfectly made bed (done every morning, of course) with a book to read before slipping easily off to her eight hours of healthful sleep, fresh and ready for the 6 o'clock alarm the next morning.

Instead, I'm the mother who curses at the traffic on her way home from work, who picks up the kids from daycare and screams at the them because they have immediately begun to fight as soon as they get into the car over car seats and seat belts. Who gets home to a messy house and feels a massive headache come on as she tries to figure out what to throw together for dinner in a pinch because she hasn't had time to go to the grocery store in two weeks. Who feels guilty over the lack of vegetables on the plates and the overabundance of starches.  Who then loses her temper when the kids refuse to get dressed for bed because they have suddenly remembered that they have homework they need help with. Who snaps at her husband who also has been working all day over the tiniest things because her patience is gone and the house is a mess and even though they are both trying to carry their weight, the weight is too heavy. And when the kids are finally in their beds, after yet another night with no bedtime story, she looks at all the work that needs to be done and just cries as she moves from room to room doing small tasks that lead to other small tasks that make her feel she has done nothing at all when she looks back over the whole thing. Who collapses into bed without washing her face because she's too exhausted to fucking care that her face is going to break out and eyeliner is going to smudge all over her pillowcase.

That's the beautiful image I see of this girl right here. Hi, I'm Lori, the evil, stressed out arch nemesis of Supermom. Nice to meet you.

The Difference Between You and Me: Or Is There One?

I mentioned last time that I've had several responses to the Screen Doors post that I wanted to address. One of the ones I really wanted to respond to was my friend Kate's response to Screen Doors.

She responded to my blog on her blog.  It is really good and asks a lot of questions that I am eager to respond to. (Response response response, can you say it five times fast?) I'll post snippets here as I reply, but please go read her entire post afterwards. Whether you are a Christian or not, I think it is very inspiring, honest, and furthers this amazing dialogue that is so rarely seen between believers and non-believers.

I'll begin with this:

“Most of the time I feel as spiritual as a plunger.” I worry perhaps a friend saw my sin, my depression, or my bad parenting and they knew I wasn’t being Christ-like. Did this help them turn away from those teachings we grew up with? ... I feel disappointed in myself and my lack of spiritual fortitude.

She was talking about her childhood friends whom she has seen since leave Christianity.

I can't speak for every single person who has ever left their faith, obviously. I am sure there are plenty of people who have left because of the hypocrisy or failings or bad behavior of believers. However, I can say that in my experience (and at least one or two of the friends she might be referring to), this was not remotely the case.

One thing that I do not miss about Christianity is the guilt. Oh, sorry, I mean "conviction".  If you've read my book, you'll know what I mean when I say I was a spiritual masochist. I turned everything inward, wondering if there was any part of me that was to blame for any undesirable situation. I believed this was cleansing me, making me more like Christ. I could not fathom anyone being a genuine Christian and NOT constantly rooting out the evil within them. I recognized my brokenness too deeply. I was ashamed of my poor witness. I prayed constantly to be made more like Christ, but I failed over and over again. This all basically comes down to me saying I relate all too well with Kate's concern.  I too wondered if my own imperfection was driving people away from God. I'm a crappy parent sometimes, I get depressed, and I never felt I was quite living up to the person God wanted me to be. I could be a hypocrite. As hard as I tried to be righteous, I messed up time and again. And I wondered, "Is my light so dim that no one can see Christ through me?"

The answer, almost certainly, was no.

I left the faith, and many, many others leave the faith, simply because we run out of faith. We started the race like marathon runners, but after the first 26.2 miles and the next 26.2 miles and the next, we started to slow down. We ran out of breath.  We hunched over, panting, trying to keep running. Finally, we collapsed. The faith that we either longed to have (but could never admit was lacking) or the faith that we held unquestioningly somehow just began to run out. Whether the burden of reason grew too great or the allusiveness of God too wearisome, losing faith in a religion is often a highly introspective experience. It's not caused by other people's behavior. It may be, but I'd venture to say a genuine loss of faith is usually very inward-looking.

People who care enough about their faith to worry that their imperfect lives may be causing others to stumble are almost NEVER the people who should have to worry about that. You are usually the best people around. You are empathetic, you are introspective, and you are genuine. You're the good guys.

Let me add before I go on that the greatest joy I feel daily is the lack of guilt and shame and brokenness. I thought I felt whole as a Christian, but now I realize I only felt fixed. It is only now that I feel truly whole, now that I realize I was never broken in the first place.

Another huge issue for me is my own unbelief. All Christians struggle with unbelief or doubt at times. I have gone through seasons of my life -sometimes even years- when I feel disconnected from the Lord and full of doubt. When I have a friend who outs herself as an atheist, a big part of me wonders if she is going through a similar season. And, to be very honest, sometimes you feel like your friendly atheist has made some excellent points and all your doubts coming flooding back to the surface.

Let me repeat the caveat - I can't speak for everyone here. Just myself and several people I know.

Yes, we all have our doubts, Christian or not. Sometimes they are huge and leave us in a pit of despair for far too long. And for some, that faith does return. I followed a blog for a while called Gakeat's Musings, in which the author ruminated on his crisis of faith. He eventually reconciled his belief in Christ (and has sadly stopped blogging - I'd love to hear his thoughts now that he is back on this renewed path!). Some people do go through a season of doubt and come back to their faith.

And some of us are beyond seasons. If you are an evangelical, you likely had some sort of turning-point moment that you could never go back from. I know I did. Whether that was the moment of "salvation" or just the moment where my spiritual journey took off like a rocket, I don't know, but it fundamentally impacted the next decade of my life.

I had that same kind of experience when I de-converted. To go back now seems, well, unthinkable.

For some people, it is only a season of doubt. For others, this is our new (improved) reality.

As for the "friendly atheist [making] some excellent points", that's another, more difficult topic. Do I want to venture into it? Maybe later ... But for now, my goal is not to turn people away from their faith. It's only to share the view from the other side and to keep a dialogue going.

When I found out a friend was no longer a Christian I was full of questions and worries. ... How can this be? ... We cried together, and worshiped together. Or at least I thought we did. Was she lying to me? When did this start? Was she doubting her faith when she was praying for me when I was struggling last year? Was she just acting or bowing to societal pressure this whole time?

I'm not the friend she's referring to, by the way. So I don't know what her friend was going through. But if she HAD been talking about me, here's what I'd have to say.

Those moments you refer to were real, for both of us. For me, those moments were never put on or intentionally deceptive. Growing up (adolescence, young adult years), my faith was solid. I cried and worshiped with hands lifted high.  It was never fake. Christ was my center, my All In All.  When my faith began to waiver, though, I did hide it from most people. I was afraid of being judged. I didn't want anyone to know that this girl who led worship at church, who helped in the Sunday School, who facilitated the Prayer Wall, who had been on mission trips, was now starting to doubt. I didn't know if my doubts were just one of those aforementioned seasons or not, so to share them seemed premature. But I was ashamed. So at that point, I did keep it inside. But I wasn't acting. I was just hiding in fear.

If I'd been praying for a struggling friend during that time, those prayers would probably have been the most heart-felt prayers of my life, because I was living the struggle too. No one can empathize better than the person walking in the exact same shoes.

So much of my identity is wrapped up in my relationship with the Lord. When I found out that Jane had rejected Him, it is shocking because I feel like she is rejecting part of me, and in some cases, her upbringing ... I want to say, “Jane, do you remember that [time] when I went forward and received prayer at church? It was terrible and wonderful at the same time.  I felt so embarrassed when I cried and my nose ran and I was shaking as you and the others were praying for me. I hated for anyone to see me that way. I hated to make myself so vulnerable, but I knew you understood. Do you still understand or do you look back on that time and pity me and revile my weakness?”

Oh, my heart breaks at this point. You can't imagine what feelings reading those words brings up in me. Yes, we still understand. I'm not Jane, remember, but this could easily be asked of me. I have had so many of these moments; the vulnerability, the ugly tears, the weakness, the love and thankfulness I felt for my friends who held me and understood me and prayed for me. I can never forget my own moments like that; how could I ever revile someone else for theirs?

I speak for myself here when I say that even though I often feel embarrassed by the things I said and did as a Christian, and even though I sometimes feel regret and anger and frustration, I also have come to a place where I can give myself a lot of grace. Yes, grace is a word that's been co-opted by Christianity, but it's a good word. It's something we all need, regardless of who gives it to us. I am learning to give it to myself. But I never needed to learn to give it to others; for me that just came naturally. I'm way more forgiving of others than I am of myself. I don't look back at your weak moments and feel embarrassment or pity. Just love and grace.

One other thing to mention here is the use of the word "rejection". It's a commonly used word in this context; the atheist "rejects" God or even "denies his existence".  Yet that is an entirely inaccurate word for most people.  I don't think I know a single atheist or agnostic who feels they have rejected or denied God. We simply don't believe a god exists (or are not sure either way). I don't deny or reject Zeus, nor do I deny or reject Allah. I don't believe either exist. When it comes to our friends, we no longer share that thing we once had in common, true. But we don't reject it or you. However, I can completely see where you're coming from. I don't think that's a crazy way to feel at all. When your faith is your essence, then someone leaving that shared faith can absolutely feel like a rejection. But just please remember that it's not. Again, the loss of faith is highly internal. There certainly must be people who throw out the baby with the bathwater, or in this case the Christians with the Christianity, but I hope those people eventually see that this isn't necessary.  Just as we non-believers long to be loved and accepted by others, we should extend that same love and acceptance to our believing friends. Without judgment, without arrogance.

One close friend told me that he realized his unbelief was a bigger deal for me than it was for him. ... I’m worried about his soul ... but he isn’t.

Yeah. I think this is probably true. For a lot of people, de-converting is fairly uneventful. Especially when it was a largely intellectual affair. For me, it was highly emotional, but this not normally the case. Most of my religious-turned-nonreligious friends had a harder time emotionally with losing friends and family than losing their faith.


Finally, I must address her last thought. This is truly the crux, if you ask me, of the entire subject.

I wonder about my friends who don’t have the Lord in their lives. How do they make it through the day? How do they have the strength to be the mom their children need? How do they stay married? I doubt they would say they have everything figured out or that they are better than me. They are taking it one day at time as well, but I cannot comprehend how they are still functioning. This raises all kinds of confusion within me. I am less a capable woman than them? I am just trained to be dependent on the Holy Spirit because of my upbringing and beliefs? Are they failing miserably and not telling anyone? Am I a horrible person with unfathomable depths of depravity that I need help overcoming while they are just normal functioning people?

My answer cannot be summed up succinctly or in some quaint, quirky, poetic little sentence. Here's the thing: We ALL struggle. Constantly. We are all human.

How do I personally make it through the day? When I was a Christian, I truly believed God was bringing me through. I believed he had his hand on my life and was guiding me, protecting me. When that faith began to disintegrate, I had no idea how I could cope without him.

I'll never forget the day I realized that not only could I go forward on my own, but that I'd ALWAYS been on my own. When you come to realize there is no almighty god guiding you and protecting you, you eventually make the connection that such a god didn't just disappear leaving you in the lurch but never existed in the first place. Therefore all those years before HAD been on my own. And I survived. The feeling of empowerment and strength that moment afforded me is inexplicable.

Wait, I know EXACTLY what you're thinking. How presumptuous of me! How arrogant! I seriously deserve pity now that I've come right out and said "I can do this on my own without god!" Oh boy, am I the classic Kevin Sorbo character atheist now! But hear me out, if you can.

The way I see it, you and I are no different. You and I both struggle. We have bad days, we have bad months, maybe even years. We get depressed, we get angry, we fail miserably. Yet we both find the strength to get out bed (most days) and push on. We both look at our children and think, "You are worth me trying to do better." We look at our marriages and think, "This is worth fighting for."

Your strength rises out of your faith. I admire that. I think that if faith in Jesus Christ gets you out of bed and makes you a better person, then that is awesome. Regardless of whether or not I think your strength actually comes from inside YOU or comes from God, the fact is you are strong, and you are making the world a better place for yourself, your children, and everyone else around you.

I don't have that strength anymore. Not from faith, that is. Nor do I want it. Faith no longer has that rosy fragrance drawing me to it. Now, I have a different strength.  What gets me out of bed in the morning is the realization that life is short, so very short, and I barely have any real time to put my imprint on it. I want to live every moment as a totally alive person, making the short lives of others as meaningful as possible. I want to do better for my kids so they can do better for their kids. I want to fight for my marriage, because life is too short to be alone and sad, and I've been so lucky to find someone I'm desperate to share my short life with. Since realizing that there is no afterlife in which to make up for whatever I missed here on earth, my concept of time has radically changed. Like a heart attack survivor, I've got a new lease on life. To use someone else's words - because they are so much better than mine:

I suddenly felt very deeply that I was alive: Alive with my own particular thoughts, with my own particular story, in this itty-bitty splash of time. And in that splash of time, I get to think about things and do stuff and wonder about the world and love people, and drink my coffee if I want to. And then that's it. -Julia Sweeney, "Letting Go of God"

So, no, back to your original questions, you are not a horrible person who needs God to overcome your failings while the rest of us go on functioning normally. You have tapped into a source of strength. So have I. Many people have not tapped into a source of strength yet, and for those people, I do wonder how they get through life. I hope everyone finds a source of strength, as long as it is not in something destructive. For those who find their strength in faith, I ask only that they do not use it as a weapon also. Same goes for anyone who finds strength anywhere - within themselves or externally. We are all prone to weakness, therefore we all have a responsibility of empathy. We should use our strength to lift the weak up, not beat them down. 

Challenge Accepted! March Books

Another month down!

Last month, even being a short twenty-eight day one, I got in seven books. This month wasn't quite as ambitious, but I have good reason for it. I spent the first half of the month finishing my own book.  Which, incidentally, I figure checks off one of the categories of the reading challenge: A book that takes place in your hometown.

My hometown is Nowheresville. If there was ever a book set in my hometown, I don't think I'd even want to read it. Except... my book in set in my hometown and I think you should read it so... I take that back.

Regardless, I was never going to find such a book, so I'm ticking off my own book for that category.  After all, I've read it a gazillion times now, it ought to count.

So.... the first of four:.

The Last Petal Falling by Lori Arnold McFarlane (A book that takes place in your hometown)

This book is, for lack of a better word, a memoir.  It takes you through my most formative religious experiences, starting from elementary school gospel sharing at the community pool to my spiritual revival at The Grove in college to the Day That Jesus Didn't Return. I've written the book in a sensitive and non-confrontational way, even as I describe the anger and disillusionment I experienced during my early post-Christian days, for my aim is not and never will be to needlessly attack believers of any faith, however much we may disagree. It's just to tell my own story and show others with similar ones that they are not alone.

If it's possible to be diplomatic and unbiased towards my own book (it's not), and if you'll spare thinking me a narcissist (I'm really not), this book is a book to read if:
A) you've BTDT (been there done that)
B) you've never been religious and don't understand how religious people can believe things so unbelievable or
C) you are a Christian and want to understand how a devout Christian could ever possibly turn away from the faith.

I was always in the latter category, believing that those who turned away "were never saved to begin with". I'd like to think this book, at the very least, will push that envelope, if only just a little. Clearly there will be a plethora of responses to dismiss my "salvation" or to reason away my experience by pointing at all my foibles and follies, and I fully expect that, it's the nature of the business of bearing your soul to the masses.  I just hope it will at least open eyes just a little wider to the reality that so many comfortable religious people face when life gets real.

*Once I've completed the publishing stages - I'm going to self publish - I'll include a link from which you can all go purchase it! Likely it will be e-book only to start (gah, I hate e-books), but I'm looking into Print On Demand options as well.


The rest of the books I read in March all followed a theme.  In February, a theme of hell and loss of faith emerged, but this time I found myself drawn to books about mental health.



I Never Promised You a Rose Garden by Joanne Greenberg (A book from your childhood)
I read this book in high school as one of my additional reading requirements for AP English.  We had to choose from a list a certain number of extra books to read and take simple quizzes on, and I being the go-getter I was always chose the shortest, easiest books on the list. This one was relatively short but it was not easy, and it impacted me deeply as a teenager. Ever since then, I've thought of this book often and considered finding a copy of it to re-read but never did. Until now. And I'm so glad I did.

First of all, I don't know how much of the book I possibly could have really understood in high school. Maybe I was more intuitive and empathetic than I remember, but the book is so full of complex and difficult concepts, I just wonder if I really understood it the way I do now.

One thing I know for sure: I can relate to it better this time around.

The story revolves around Deborah, a seventeen year old schizophrenic in a mental hospital.  She lives in between two worlds - Yr, the land in her mind, and Earth - and the constant coming and going is agonizing. She wants to be fully Yri but the other world keeps pulling her back without her consent. Her greatest battle in the hospital is sharing Yri secrets with her therapist, whom she grows to love and trust,and is possibly the first person she's ever loved or trusted, and the horrible backlash from the Yri gods that this betrayal earns her. It's a beautifully complex and delicate book.  I absolutely loved it again upon this second read and highly recommend it.

The book deals a lot with mental illness versus mental health.  It's a great novel even if you just read it for the plot, but the themes are really thought-provoking too. I'll just share one of them that spoke most powerfully to me.

The girls on the ward naturally despise certain nurses and are naturally drawn to others. While the aides themselves don't know what motivates these seemingly random responses, Deborah does. The nurses and aides that are the easiest targets are the ones the girls recognize as afraid. Not only afraid of the girls in the ward but afraid of themselves. They are the ones who fear they too could end up as crazy as these lunatics, and they clutch their keys tightly in their fists as proof that they are not stuck on the inside like the nuts but are still living on the outside, still "normal".  The other aides, however, the ones the girls felt protective of, were the ones who knew they were only a few steps away from crazy and were comfortable with this fact. These attendants didn't hover in suspicious groups or exercise their authority with violence or clutch their jingling rings of proof in their pockets. They smiled, shook their heads, told the girls off, maintained control (as best they could) and earned rather than demanded respect. They knew they weren't all that different, but they did have a job to do, and they were going to do it right.

I get this. I totally do. I'm not sure if I realized this as a sixteen year old, but as a thirty-three year old, I recognize that I'm really just one or two breakdowns away from crazy myself.  It could happen at any time. In fact, isn't depression a mental illness? Isn't body dysmorphia?  If I have mild cases of both, I must realize that all it would take to put me over the edge is a nosedive into either or both of those trenches.  At the moment, the only thing keeping me from either is the decision (which is remade regularly) to choose health over illness.

This is the other really powerful insight the book offers. Deborah's therapist tells her that once Deborah has experienced both mental illness AND health, she will have a choice. She can choose Yr but will likely want to choose Earth. For now, she has never experienced health, so has no frame of reference for wanting to choose it. Yr is familiar and safe; the world is mean and terrifying; that's all she knows. But once she has experienced both, the therapist is confident that Deborah will choose health.  It will be the hardest choice she'll ever make, and one she'll make over and over and over again, but she will finally for the first time have an actual choice.

I think that's profound.

There is nothing simple about choosing health. It's not as easy as choosing baked chicken over pizza. It not only feels unreachable, it feels undoable. For one experiencing mental illness (and who has at least known what it was like to be well at some other point in life), be it depressive or psychotic or what have you, the choice may be visible far off in the distance but unreachable.  To make all the efforts and take all the steps that it would require to start the slow, difficult journey towards that unreachable goal seems impossible. Once you are in the throes of mental illness, it is a painful, seemingly impossible uphill climb to get out of it.  It's much less exhausting to remain sick.  At least that's my own experience.

However, once you've made that climb, however you managed it, it's important to daily make the choice to stay on top.  I've felt myself slipping so many times, yet reading this book, and now thinking of it as a choice (again, not an easy, flippant choice) has had a huge impact on me. It's far more worth it to fight slipping into depression, even though it takes so much out of me, than to effortlessly glide right back down into it (it's so easy to glide) and find myself at the bottom again looking up in desperation with no idea how to get out.

I'm going to post more on this later. I might get a lot of negative feedback on my interpretation of this, and disagreements are welcome! I recognize that my experiences are mild compared to so many others and value other opinions and comments.

And that leads us to...

The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath (A popular author's first book)
While Sylvia Plath published books of poetry prior to The Bell Jar, this was her first "novel", so I'm going to use that definition to check off this category.

This wasn't at all what I expected it to be. I'm still not sure how to interpret it.  It's basically a vaguely fictionalized autobiography, so I don't doubt anything in it. I'm just surprised by how, well, normal she was. In fact, maybe I'm even impressed. After reading I Never Promised You... above, a book where mental illness was explicit and strange, reading about a depressed, suicidal girl who "had it all" and, on the surface of it and in the eyes of others, had "no reason" to break down, was unexpected. But it plays into the same idea that any of us are just a few feet away from crazy.  She broke down, and not over any particular traumatic event, but simply from mental and emotional overload - or underload - or who even knows what.  She just happened to walk those extra steps that you or I haven't walked yet... but could. At any time.

I didn't love this one nearly as much as I Never Promised You... but I did really like it for its own worth. The most disturbing - and eye-opening - aspect of this book to me was her relationship with suicide.  We sometimes tend to think of suicide victims as morose and wearing lots of black or perhaps as social outcasts who cry alone all day in bed.  I'm not saying this doesn't accurately portray some suicidal people, but it doesn't cover the hidden majority.  In reality, studies have shown that those who actually go through with committing suicide tend to be very detached from the idea of death. They buy their bus tickets in the morning even though they plan to die that night.  They fill the fridge with groceries, all the while planning their deaths in very pragmatic terms. It's a matter of practicality. It's frightening.  It's life in the bell jar.


Girl, Interrupted by Susanna Kaysen (A memoir)
All these books about mental illness brought to mind the movie Girl, Interrupted with Winona Ryder and Angelina Jolie. I was pretty sure it was a novel first, so I searched for it, and found it, on Amazon.  I did not realize it was a memoir! I had assumed it was fiction. Being Susanna Kaysen's actual story (complete with hospital notes) made it far more interesting.

It doesn't read like a story. There is no narrative threading the story together.  I didn't even really feel there was an arc or climax, and at the end, she just sort of "got better".  No real discussion of how or why.  She just kind of did.  Instead, each chapter is either a vignette, a bit of commentary on a subject or a combination.  The little stories are colorful (and are what make up the plot for the movie), and the commentary is relatively interesting. Considering "borderline personality disorder" is such a vague diagnosis, she admits she finds it hard to discuss, for either she feels she is defending her diagnosis and trying to "prove" she was crazy or she ends up playing it down as nothing, which she knows wasn't true at all. All she knows is she wasn't well, and she did have some episodes of "crazy", but "borderline personality disorder" doesn't explain much of anything at all, which she laments.

I didn't enjoy this one as much as I Never Promised You... or even The Bell Jar, but I could relate.  I sometimes feel when discussing my own issues with depression or body dysmorphia or my relationship with eating, I am stuck between apologizing for not really having that big of a problem (when I know that's not true) or feeling like I'm defending my problems and making them appear bigger than they are in order to prove that they are valid and worthy of comment.  I heard an interview on NPR's Fresh Air with a journalist who suffered Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder after witnessing an assault on a woman. (She wrote a book about it.) The media tore her apart, claiming she had no right to suffer PTSD after merely witnessing an assault, when others had been through so much worse. She explains that it's not a contest, and people with PTSD do not discount other sufferers' trauma just because one experience was more violent or horrific than another. Suffering is suffering, to whatever degree and whatever the reason.  I think that's what Kaysen is getting at in this book. Her crazy looked different from another person's crazy which looked different from yet another person's, but at the end of the day, it's all real and it's all valid and it's all worthy of recognition.



And that, my friends, takes me down to 35 books to go!

P.S. I'm also trying to finish The Restaurant At the End of the Universe, the second book in the Hitchhiker's Guide series by Douglas Adams.  But since the rest of the series doesn't tick off any boxes, I probably won't review them. But I'm still reading them!

To see what else I have read this year:
February
January

The Dark Cloud

Blue skies with white clouds, green, green grass, pink flowers and warm yellow sun. Energy and optimism and control are on your side. You can hardly remember what the rain felt like. You know the weather could change at any time, but for now, all is beautiful, all is well. You let your guard down.

Then the storm cloud approaches, without warning, without a reason. You wake up one morning and realize it's been coming for a short while now, but you're not prepared. The sky darkens. The raindrops sprinkle in. The technicolor world you've been enjoying fades to grayscale. You watch all those blue and green memories slip away like a distant dream but don't reach out to catch them. Maybe tomorrow. You know what you ought to do to push this cloud back, but inexplicably, you can't do it. You don't want to do it. It's too hard to do it. So you lie motionless as the darkness creeps over you, and you let the tears spill. You can beat this. You know you can. But you don't try. You can't. The black cloud is heavy, and it weighs you down. The pain of the darkness is dull and oppressive, but it's easier than the effort of fighting it. You slip, slip, slip away again.

Rainy Days and Wednesdays Always Get Me Down

Today's outfit, for a day that's weighing down on me and storming outside.   A gray tank top, boasting a cheesy skull in pink glasses and the word GENIUS in collegiate font, over The Dress with burgundy tights (a Christmas gift from my sister-in-law Rebekkah last year) and brown boots.  Complimented by my favorite accessory, my son Jaguar.  He makes me smile even on a rainy, dreary, difficult day.

Love My Body Project - Week 4: Love YOUR Body

I was at the gym yesterday, and they are starting a Wall of Success. People can email their success stories to be posted on a motivation wall. Some of the leading questions were things like "What's your favorite cardio workout?" or "How has working out affected you?" or "How much weight have you lost?"

As I kickboxed like a lumpy rhinoceros (because let's face it, I may be learning to love my body, but I still don't go no rhythm), I thought about success stories. I think they are for the most part good. They are motivating. They are encouraging. Especially for those already on a fitness journey, they can be inspiring. But they can also be demotivating.

There's been times I've read blogs about getting fit or eating right, and it just depressed me. The author would talk about how great it feels to go to the gym each day or to run miles before breakfast, and I'd just think, "I don't have time for that" or "Easier said than done." And I'd be demotivated. Their bloody enthusiasm made me want to take a nap. Or I'd read about the right way to eat or "15 Foods That Are LITERALLY Killing You", and I'd think, "I can't afford to eat like that" or "But without cake, my life has no meaning." And I'd be demotivated. Or I'd read "I've lost ten pounds!" and I'd think either, "You've lost ten pounds that quickly? Screw you." or "You've been going on and on about ALL this hard work you've been doing for THIS LONG and you've ONLY lost ten pounds?" And I'd be demotivated.

So this week, I don't want to talk fitness or healthy eating. I don't want to post success stories that will just push you further away.

Because if I know anything, it's that outside pressure will not motivate us inwardly. I can tell you all about my current successes, but it won't necessarily affect you personally. I can say I want to model positive self-love for my kids, and you may agree, but it's not enough to get you motivated to change. It's not until YOU decide in YOUR mind and heart that it's time to change - regardless of what kind of change we are talking about - that things can really start moving forward. Motivation to be healthier can only come from within.

I know many of you may not feel up to hitting the gym for a good cardio workout every day. You may not want to run a marathon (or the length of yourself). You may love cake. (I sure as hell do.) You may be suffering from depression. You may be exhausted. You may be going through a lot of stress or be in a tough situation right now.

I don't want to push you further away.

As important as your health is, today I just want to encourage you to find something you like about the way you look. I don't want to tell you to get fit, get active, push yourself away from the table or deny yourself that much needed piece of chocolate.

I just want you to feel comfortable in your own skin.

It may not be the right time for you to start a workout routine or make major lifestyle changes. Let's be honest and realistic; you've got to be mentally ready for that. But it is time to start changing the way we think about the way we look. However we look. Whatever we look like. Big noses, wide hips, lumpy legs, whatever.

You may not look perfect. In fact, I know you don't look perfect, because there is NO SUCH THING. The curvy hips one woman wishes for are the curvy hips another woman is trying to lose. Tall or short, big chested or small, tiny butt or round - there's no such thing as perfection.

All I want to suggest today is that you go look in the mirror and refuse to cringe. Don't point out your flaws. Lie through your teeth if you must, but say to yourself, "You are beautiful." Say it. Maybe even try to pick out something about it that you do like. Got sexy ankles? A flawless neck? Beautiful hands? Adorable feet? Striking eyes? Luscious hair? Smooth skin? Perfect fingernails? Even complexion? Winning smile? Straight teeth?

For a moment just forget about all the pressure out there to get motivated. You'll get motivated when that moment hits you and you are finally ready. For now, maybe just start with trying to think positively about your body. It's yours, and it's beautiful.




*PS. I'm not saying ignore your health. This really IS your only body, at least until science figures out how to give us all robot bodies, so taking care of it iS important. But sometimes, mental health has come first. Though physical health certainly improves mental health, and if you are up to it, exercising really will improve your mental health, if you aren't mentally or emotionally ready to take on the sometimes big challenge of improving physically, it can feel even harder and more impossible. All I'm saying is learn to love your body, even just a little bit. And hopefully that little taste of self-love will grow into a desire to give your body a little more healthy love.

*PPS. I'm also talking to myself here. Don't think just because I'm saying all this means I'm 100% in love with how I look myself. If you think I don't still wear Spanx under my clothes or suck in my tummy for photos, you're wrong. If you think that I'm not incredibly self-conscious about publishing the above picture, you are seriously wrong.