I think it is time to tell you all another story.
For some of you, this might be hard to hear. For others of you, it might be hard to face. Believe me when I say, it was definitely hard to live. But honesty is freedom from fear. I will never be completely honest, nor completely free, nor completely unafraid. I can only do what I have never done before. Therefore, let me tell you a story.
Once upon a time there was an average girl. She had dark hair and dark eyes, and she was an intelligent, happy child. She had two parents who didn't get divorced and a younger sister. She lived in a blue house on the East Coast, and played outside and pretended she didn't know how to read.
Once upon a time this average girl grew up - just a little - and had to go to school. She went to public school for the first time as a third-grader. It was hard; there were too many kids, all different from her, all louder and more rambunctious and more aggressive than her. She wilted, like a flower in the harsh summer sun. She failed to adjust, and her mother pulled her out of school.
Once upon a time, a year later, this girl tried again. She wasn't happy, but she was stubborn. She put her head down and found things to like about school. She made tentative acquaintances. She hid her fear and worry and sadness and discomfort in attitude and sarcasm. She learned to build walls to hide from the world. She stayed in school.
Once upon a time, this girl spiraled downward. She knew things that children shouldn't know. She understood too much of what happened around her. She saw that she was different, and how the other kids treated those who are different. She understood right and wrong, active and passive. She chose to be passive in the hopes that no one would think she was wrong. She chose silence; she chose hiding. She chose to fade...away.
Once upon a time, this average girl went to middle school. She suffered: it was bigger, it was louder, it was meaner than elementary school. She set her teeth and reinforced her walls and heard only the phrase "You must." So she did. She stayed in school. She got sick a lot; not sick in the body, but sick in the mind. She fought private wars and killed her classmates in dreams. She screamed, inside, and she covered her ears and pasted a sarcastic smile on her face so she didn't have to hear the noise.
Once upon a time, this middle-school girl came to a dark place. She came to a place some adults don't ever reach. She looked at herself in the mirror and she saw a body of lies and deceptions and taunts. She wasn't bullied and she wasn't a bully. She was invisible. She was a 'good student.' She was just...another...statistic.
Once upon a time this girl went to high school, still gritting her teeth, still screaming inside. She tried to fight; she tried to cut and run. She failed. She followed the rule of "You must" and went to high school. She performed well; she endured. Happiness was...inconsequential. Happiness was for people who liked themselves and felt needed in the world.
Once upon a time, this high school girl tried to change. Just a little, just enough to like herself. And she liked the changes she saw. She liked them so much, she decided to make bigger changes. The changes snowballed; the consequences grew. This girl became anorexic. She counted every mouthful, and each mouthful, each number, carried her farther from the world she had never been a part of. She began to forget what was real and what wasn't.
Once upon a time, this anoreixc girl became afraid. She was intelligent; she knew what was happening. Finally the consequences became so severe she couldn't ignore them. She broke under the weight of "You must." She broke, and she found that breaking isn't the end of the world. Breaking means that others help you rise. She learned to ask for help. Just a little. But it was enough to save her life. It was enough to give her a life.
Once upon a time, this broken girl lifted her head and said "I am me." She fought hard to find out who this 'me' was, and she is still fighting. But she has owned the sadness and fear and pain. She has owned the feelings of loneliness and grief and inadequacy. She has accepted that she is a 'me' and not a 'you.' She doesn't follow the rule of "You must" any more.
This is the story of a girl. This is my story. I hope you can understand; I hope I've told it in a way that helps you see that it's your story too. We all have "You must" in our lives. We all have our stories. I am not anything special. I am not the best or worst among all the humans that have ever lived on this little blue planet orbiting an ordinary star. But I am a 'me' and not a 'you.' The world tries to say that "You must." I'm here to say that "I am me."
WolfGrrl
Sunday, May 27, 2012
Friday, May 25, 2012
Sweet and Sour
Yes, I do like (American) Chinese food. But that's not what this post is about.
Lately, when my mother comes upstairs to tidy and make her bed in the mornings, she finds me lying on my bed, usually covered by a blanket, either asleep or near to it. Her standard question is "Do you feel all right?"
Today we were trying to remember the last time I was this relaxed. I think it's been at least a decade, if not longer. That's more than half my life, Reader. More than half.
This is the sweetness of my life. I am not depressed, I am not drugged to the point of being gaga. I am peaceful. I have found a place where I can be both social and calm, extroverted and introverted. I go out with friends, I make sponanteous trips to the mall or the library or the animal shelter. I go to work; I go to school. I go (endlessly, haha) to the doctor. My life is full but not bursting; it is sweet and has enough sour to give it vigour.
I am happy. I've lost weight, but not too much. I eat and don't worry about when, how much, or what. I laugh often and love more openly. I am sad, but it doesn't last as long, nor is it as strong. I bounce. I am so bouncy I probably annoy everyone around me - except they tell me no, they like to see me like this.
Who is this person? This wonderful, incredible, intelligent, resilient person? Has she always been in me, buried under layers and layers of dead skin, depression and darkness?
I have cast off my darkness at last; I have bloomed; I am not a catepiller (ugh) but a butterfly. (A humble one, admittedly, but hey, that's me.) It's summer where I am, and summer used to be the time I hated most. Now I shrug off the heat and snooze in the sun. I look forward to wearing shorts and flipflops and dresses. I con my friends into taking pictures of me (OHMYGAWD, that has NEVER happened before!) and let them dress me up and take me out.
Maybe I should have said this post was simply sweet.
WolfGrrl
Lately, when my mother comes upstairs to tidy and make her bed in the mornings, she finds me lying on my bed, usually covered by a blanket, either asleep or near to it. Her standard question is "Do you feel all right?"
Today we were trying to remember the last time I was this relaxed. I think it's been at least a decade, if not longer. That's more than half my life, Reader. More than half.
This is the sweetness of my life. I am not depressed, I am not drugged to the point of being gaga. I am peaceful. I have found a place where I can be both social and calm, extroverted and introverted. I go out with friends, I make sponanteous trips to the mall or the library or the animal shelter. I go to work; I go to school. I go (endlessly, haha) to the doctor. My life is full but not bursting; it is sweet and has enough sour to give it vigour.
I am happy. I've lost weight, but not too much. I eat and don't worry about when, how much, or what. I laugh often and love more openly. I am sad, but it doesn't last as long, nor is it as strong. I bounce. I am so bouncy I probably annoy everyone around me - except they tell me no, they like to see me like this.
Who is this person? This wonderful, incredible, intelligent, resilient person? Has she always been in me, buried under layers and layers of dead skin, depression and darkness?
I have cast off my darkness at last; I have bloomed; I am not a catepiller (ugh) but a butterfly. (A humble one, admittedly, but hey, that's me.) It's summer where I am, and summer used to be the time I hated most. Now I shrug off the heat and snooze in the sun. I look forward to wearing shorts and flipflops and dresses. I con my friends into taking pictures of me (OHMYGAWD, that has NEVER happened before!) and let them dress me up and take me out.
Maybe I should have said this post was simply sweet.
WolfGrrl
Sunday, May 20, 2012
The Men I Love
I thought that, since I feel so happy and beautiful today, I would dedicate this post to the men I love.
There aren't very many of them, but the ones I have are very, very special, much as a rare object is infinitely more precious than a common one. I will start with the man I've known the longest and progress from there.
My daddy is first among the men I love. He is like an orange: his peel is thick and sharp tasting, and it leaves a bitter residue on your hands when you try to break it. But inside he is full of zest and snap, lively and strong. My daddy is difficult to get to know, but when you know him you understand that he is almost too special to be real. He's too much for this world - too smart, too funny, and far too compassionate. It causes him to struggle to find his place, or to reconcile himself to never finding his place.
I love you, Daddy. I don't say it often enough. I hope you know; I will try to tell you more often.
My grandfather is the second man I love, and I haven't known him all that long. Both of my blood grandfathers have passed away, but my maternal step-grandfather (that's a mouthful) is a wonderful man who makes my grandmother very, very happy. What more can you ask than that? He is funny and mischvievous, with a big heart and a bigger sense of right and wrong. He tells tall tales and makes me laugh and bicker and feel alive. He struggles too, I think, to adjust to the notion that the world is changing and that he is changing.
I love you, Grandpa. I hope you know that every time I hug you, that's why.
The last man I love I've known the shortest time of all. I am a person who falls in and out of love easily, but has never, ever, fallen in Love. Those of you who know me, or who read this blog, (or both), may have recognized the signs. This isn't the right time or place to confirm or deny that. I have always felt that there was one person out there for me; it's a little cliche and a little frightening, to think of having only one match out of 7 billion people. I don't know very many of those 7 billion people, but of the ones I do know, this man is the only one I've met that I could Love. And that is an incredible thing.
(You know who you are, so there's no need for me to announce it to the world. I want to tell you first.)
So now you know the three men I love. I would give them sunshine and laughter and happiness every day, forever, if I could. I would wrestle sharks, eat cabbage, and face catepillers for them.
This is a song for those men. It applies to you all, one way or another.
Stealing Cinderella
WolfGrrl
There aren't very many of them, but the ones I have are very, very special, much as a rare object is infinitely more precious than a common one. I will start with the man I've known the longest and progress from there.
My daddy is first among the men I love. He is like an orange: his peel is thick and sharp tasting, and it leaves a bitter residue on your hands when you try to break it. But inside he is full of zest and snap, lively and strong. My daddy is difficult to get to know, but when you know him you understand that he is almost too special to be real. He's too much for this world - too smart, too funny, and far too compassionate. It causes him to struggle to find his place, or to reconcile himself to never finding his place.
I love you, Daddy. I don't say it often enough. I hope you know; I will try to tell you more often.
My grandfather is the second man I love, and I haven't known him all that long. Both of my blood grandfathers have passed away, but my maternal step-grandfather (that's a mouthful) is a wonderful man who makes my grandmother very, very happy. What more can you ask than that? He is funny and mischvievous, with a big heart and a bigger sense of right and wrong. He tells tall tales and makes me laugh and bicker and feel alive. He struggles too, I think, to adjust to the notion that the world is changing and that he is changing.
I love you, Grandpa. I hope you know that every time I hug you, that's why.
The last man I love I've known the shortest time of all. I am a person who falls in and out of love easily, but has never, ever, fallen in Love. Those of you who know me, or who read this blog, (or both), may have recognized the signs. This isn't the right time or place to confirm or deny that. I have always felt that there was one person out there for me; it's a little cliche and a little frightening, to think of having only one match out of 7 billion people. I don't know very many of those 7 billion people, but of the ones I do know, this man is the only one I've met that I could Love. And that is an incredible thing.
(You know who you are, so there's no need for me to announce it to the world. I want to tell you first.)
So now you know the three men I love. I would give them sunshine and laughter and happiness every day, forever, if I could. I would wrestle sharks, eat cabbage, and face catepillers for them.
This is a song for those men. It applies to you all, one way or another.
Stealing Cinderella
WolfGrrl
Saturday, May 19, 2012
Helping Hands
Instead of lying in bed listening to my heartbeat and not sleeping, I think I'll write a post about hands.
I, like most people, take my hands for granted. I expect them to function properly and become very upset and anxious when they don't. There are many hands in my life, both real and metaphorical, but they all have something in common: I need them.
I need the hands that are my family and friends as much as I need the apprendages on the ends of my arms. Friends and family are things I take for granted; failsafes I depend on without really stopping to consider how often, or even why.
While I was lying here not sleeping, I was imagining moving into my apartment. Independence is something that comes to everyone at some point in life; some of us grab it, others of us have it foisted upon us. I am slowly and carefully grasping the reins of my individual life, and finding that (no surprises here) I like having the power to direct my little bit of the world. But back to apartments. As I imagined where I would put my table and chairs, if I would get a cat or a dog, where guests would sleep and what kind of food I'd keep in the pantry, it occurred to me that all of those things involved someone else. A helping hand. A friend or family member.
My hands are necessary for daily life. I am a writer; I need my hands, and I protect them the same way a surgeon or a musician does. I draw. I drive. I cook and hold things and lift children. I had to have someone point out to me how much I use my hands when I talk to help mimic the flow of my thoughts. Without my hands, I would be crippled. Without my friends and family, I would be crippled.
Helping hands are a part of life. In my post An Angel on My Shoulder I talked about how I believe in angels because I feel protected. Some of my angels are very, very close to me: they may not always know who they are, but I do. I love them and need them, as I need my hands.
This post is slightly incoherent; apologies, it's been a busy day. But these are some of my thoughts, incoherent though they might be, and what else is a blog for but to receive (and maybe organize?) the thoughts of its author.
Et maintenant, Bonne Nuit
WolfGrrl
I, like most people, take my hands for granted. I expect them to function properly and become very upset and anxious when they don't. There are many hands in my life, both real and metaphorical, but they all have something in common: I need them.
I need the hands that are my family and friends as much as I need the apprendages on the ends of my arms. Friends and family are things I take for granted; failsafes I depend on without really stopping to consider how often, or even why.
While I was lying here not sleeping, I was imagining moving into my apartment. Independence is something that comes to everyone at some point in life; some of us grab it, others of us have it foisted upon us. I am slowly and carefully grasping the reins of my individual life, and finding that (no surprises here) I like having the power to direct my little bit of the world. But back to apartments. As I imagined where I would put my table and chairs, if I would get a cat or a dog, where guests would sleep and what kind of food I'd keep in the pantry, it occurred to me that all of those things involved someone else. A helping hand. A friend or family member.
My hands are necessary for daily life. I am a writer; I need my hands, and I protect them the same way a surgeon or a musician does. I draw. I drive. I cook and hold things and lift children. I had to have someone point out to me how much I use my hands when I talk to help mimic the flow of my thoughts. Without my hands, I would be crippled. Without my friends and family, I would be crippled.
Helping hands are a part of life. In my post An Angel on My Shoulder I talked about how I believe in angels because I feel protected. Some of my angels are very, very close to me: they may not always know who they are, but I do. I love them and need them, as I need my hands.
This post is slightly incoherent; apologies, it's been a busy day. But these are some of my thoughts, incoherent though they might be, and what else is a blog for but to receive (and maybe organize?) the thoughts of its author.
Et maintenant, Bonne Nuit
WolfGrrl
Thursday, May 17, 2012
The Great Balancing Act
Life for me is all about choices.
A friend once told me that there are some things you do just so that you can look back on them and say you regretted doing it. I didn't really understand what he meant at the time.
All my life I have made the choice not to act. In any way - healthy, unhealthy, for personal happiness or universal happiness. I just chose not to choose, and so remove myself (as much as it can be done) from the world. But adults don't function this way. And I've found, to my astonishment, that I no longer want to be a child. I have passed, somewhere in the last six months, that subtle marker of adulthood. I have begun, at last, to make choices and take responsibility for myself.
Thus, the balancing act.
It is hard for all of us - me and my parents - to go through this process. I'm sure I'll make a regretable choice somewhere down the line, and have a story, as my friend said. Personally, I am a pleaser: I derive great satisfaction from making others happy. It's only recently (very recently) that I derive pleasure from making myself happy too.
I have a choice to make. It is not the end of the world, but it is a significant choice. I want to make the correct choice...for me, for my family, and for my friends. I want to make the "perfect" choice.
Reader, I'm sure you know by now that there's no such thing as perfection. If perfection is unattainable, perhaps I should seek pleasure instead, and make the choice that pleases. But who should I please? Myself? My parents? My friends? Society? Here, then, is the balancing act of life.
For this choice I must balance the drive for perfection with the drive for pleasure. I believe in and accept the whims of Fate; that doesn't mean I can't help Fate out a bit. The best laid plans are those which are strong enough to support change. In making my choice I must account for all the What-Ifs as well as the sunny sides. That is another balancing act.
My job is to balance all of these things - perfection, pleasure, and Fate - and make choices. Above all, I must choose. I choose to live; I chose to live a while ago, but it is something that must be reaffirmed every day. Living is more than eating and sleeping and breathing. Living is being happy. Living is being miserable. Living is being engaged with the world and those who populate it.
Living is a balancing act.
WolfGrrl
A friend once told me that there are some things you do just so that you can look back on them and say you regretted doing it. I didn't really understand what he meant at the time.
All my life I have made the choice not to act. In any way - healthy, unhealthy, for personal happiness or universal happiness. I just chose not to choose, and so remove myself (as much as it can be done) from the world. But adults don't function this way. And I've found, to my astonishment, that I no longer want to be a child. I have passed, somewhere in the last six months, that subtle marker of adulthood. I have begun, at last, to make choices and take responsibility for myself.
Thus, the balancing act.
It is hard for all of us - me and my parents - to go through this process. I'm sure I'll make a regretable choice somewhere down the line, and have a story, as my friend said. Personally, I am a pleaser: I derive great satisfaction from making others happy. It's only recently (very recently) that I derive pleasure from making myself happy too.
I have a choice to make. It is not the end of the world, but it is a significant choice. I want to make the correct choice...for me, for my family, and for my friends. I want to make the "perfect" choice.
Reader, I'm sure you know by now that there's no such thing as perfection. If perfection is unattainable, perhaps I should seek pleasure instead, and make the choice that pleases. But who should I please? Myself? My parents? My friends? Society? Here, then, is the balancing act of life.
For this choice I must balance the drive for perfection with the drive for pleasure. I believe in and accept the whims of Fate; that doesn't mean I can't help Fate out a bit. The best laid plans are those which are strong enough to support change. In making my choice I must account for all the What-Ifs as well as the sunny sides. That is another balancing act.
My job is to balance all of these things - perfection, pleasure, and Fate - and make choices. Above all, I must choose. I choose to live; I chose to live a while ago, but it is something that must be reaffirmed every day. Living is more than eating and sleeping and breathing. Living is being happy. Living is being miserable. Living is being engaged with the world and those who populate it.
Living is a balancing act.
WolfGrrl
Monday, May 14, 2012
Saturday, May 12, 2012
the Stationmaster
Close your eyes for me. Thank you. Don't worry; the darkness won't last long.
Ah! See? There's a bit of light, just ahead. A speck of yellow gold - no, it's not a fire. Here, take my hand. Stand up.
Your hand is shaking. Are you afraid? Don't be - nothing can hurt you here. I'm here, you're not alone. See, we're moving towards the light now. It's getting closer. Can you feel the warmth? That's right, step up. And again. You're doing very well.
Your stomach might tingle a little; that's normal. Feel the light sliding up your arms, over your neck, up to your cheeks. It's warm. Feel how warm it is, so smooth. There, don't you feel better about this? And look, someone's waiting for you. Recognize him?
Yes, that's him. He heard you were coming and came to help you. And you were worried you'd be forgotten... They don't forget here, nor where you're going. I have to leave now, but you'll be fine. You did an excellent job.
~ ~ ~ ~
Just a quirky little something. No introspection today, haha.
WolfGrrl
Ah! See? There's a bit of light, just ahead. A speck of yellow gold - no, it's not a fire. Here, take my hand. Stand up.
Your hand is shaking. Are you afraid? Don't be - nothing can hurt you here. I'm here, you're not alone. See, we're moving towards the light now. It's getting closer. Can you feel the warmth? That's right, step up. And again. You're doing very well.
Your stomach might tingle a little; that's normal. Feel the light sliding up your arms, over your neck, up to your cheeks. It's warm. Feel how warm it is, so smooth. There, don't you feel better about this? And look, someone's waiting for you. Recognize him?
Yes, that's him. He heard you were coming and came to help you. And you were worried you'd be forgotten... They don't forget here, nor where you're going. I have to leave now, but you'll be fine. You did an excellent job.
~ ~ ~ ~
Just a quirky little something. No introspection today, haha.
WolfGrrl
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