Love, Coffee, and Plastic Cactuses

You know those articles online with headings that go something like, “This group of bachelors did an interpretive rain dance on their trampoline. What happens to their elderly neighbor’s indoor plastic cactus will astound you…” ? You know what I’m talking about. Last year, I wrote this blog post as a joke. I hoped people would click on the title of the new post…and have a good laugh. But it’s been a year since then. And this obnoxious heading phenomenon has gotten out of hand. Far too out of hand. 

So out of hand that it makes me want to quit the internet all together. I think marketing just annoys me in general because it’s manipulation and I hate people trying to manipulate me. Especially since I grew up with indoor plastic cactuses, because my mom (I love her dearly) killed the real ones. I know all about plastic cactuses. Ain’t no stupid online article gonna fool me none 'bout cactuses (please read that with a southern twang if you will, it would make my boring night interesting). But the people posting the article know your desperation…they know your struggle of keeping your plants alive. They know the sad, sad shameful fact that plastic cactuses even exist, and that fate has written your name in the stars with them. They know that you’d be tempted to click…dang it NO! I’m not gonna do it! I’m not reading any more stupid articles.

But you know what I realized I hated even more than the manipulation? The desperation of the writers, the publishers, the people in the videos, and many people reaching out for help and support in this way for whatever reason. All of a sudden, in this age of technology, it’s become so much easier to publicly express ourselves. Watching all of this annoys me, frustrates me. Everyone is crying to be heard. Everyone is crying to be seen. Everyone is crying to make their mark. To be known. To be famous. To have their problems acknowledged. I see all of this, and it makes me feel so alone. Does it make you feel that? Maybe it’s just me. People are dying to be known, and it reminds me that though I don’t use manipulative tactics stated above, I am one of those people. I am one of many, one of everyone. I am one. And one voice is only one voice.

When I say that one voice is just one voice, it immediately feel like someone is going to respond saying, "but think of the greats! One voice can make a difference! One voice can lead a revolution that moves mountains." Maybe I’m just having a moment right now, but I guess I’m tired of hearing inspirational things like that because there’s a lot of that going around on the internet right now too. Call me a downer and a life pooper, but these inspirational things feel old to me right now.

I think it’s because, as I said, all I see are people fighting to be heard. And what I don’t like is that people have to fight to be heard. People have to be different to be seen. People have to be novel to be noticed. It’s interesting because I also feel like our culture is going through a phase where “the simple things” are supposedly appreciated. You know, like pinterest. It’s that picture of someone sipping coffee while reading the morning paper. Oh “it’s the simple things”. As I’m sitting here writing, I’m trying to understand why I hate that so much. Why am I so grouchy about that? Is it because it’s unoriginal? Because so many people do that? Because people are posting a picture of their freaking cup of coffee as if no one has seen a cup of coffee before? That! It’s that. It’s that people think they’re original when they aren’t.

I’m gonna be honest, I’m not the type of person who really enjoys talking about that kind of stuff or thinking about that kind of stuff…and BOOM! My brain just got it as I’m typing this now. It’s the fact that when someone asks if I like coffee, I feel this weird push like if I say no, I have a problem, and no, I don’t like coffee*, and if I don’t like talking about coffee there’s something wrong with me. That if I say no, I won’t fit in. And I don’t like that pressure. I feel like saying that I don’t like coffee makes me not very trendy, and the fact that I don’t really find “trendiness” interesting enough to pay attention to very often makes no difference to how I feel when put in that dreaded position of answering such personal questions as coffee preferences. Everyone wants to fit in. The issue of coffee is no exception. Let’s face it, people, drinking coffee has become trendy. I mean, people have been drinking coffee for a looongggg time, but when has it ever been glorified to the extent that it is now?

And nope, that last boom wasn’t really it. So..BOOM! Now I’ve got it. It feels to me that there is this sort of movement within a movement that is trying to reconnect with the traditional things in life. Like glorifying your morning coffee, for example. But there are people who take that even further to the important topics. Like the girls who try to make themselves look like the current cultural beauty standard rather than what they naturally look like, dress trendy, wear caked on trendy make-up, and dye their hair blonde because it’s still considered more attractive, and then claim that they don’t need Feminism. How ironic. Feminism is a movement and movements are meant to create change, to disrupt current tradition, and to be forward moving. So being a modern girl in every other sense and then going against Feminism is going to make them “oh so original” within that movement within a movement that tries to be novel by reclaiming the old, right? Well they’re not original. And they’re backward moving, not forward thinking. I could start a rant in defense of Feminism, but that’s not what this article is about. My point is, these people are being glorified as if they are so original, when in fact, they’re borrowing from the past in order to gain their attention.

Not that the past shouldn’t be remembered, not that certain things shouldn’t be kept the same, but it’s just the fact that people treat it as if it’s something new, as if they’ve started a new trend, come up with a new idea. Are caffeine addictions going to save the world? No. Is anti-Feminism going to save the world? Oh frickin’ hell, no!!! We need to fight for women. There’s a reason Feminism exists. But I digress again…

When I was actually taking courses at a university, in one of my Psychology classes, I had to write a ten page research analysis of a fictional (made up by my professor) person’s personality. One of the sources I chose was a book called The Art of Loving by Erich Fromm. Obviously, I was writing a research paper and so I didn’t read the whole dang book. But a couple of months ago I was at a used bookstore (I love used bookstores) and I saw the book there. I decided to buy it. I have been reading pieces of it here and there ever since and obnoxiously quoting it non-stop on Facebook in multiple paragraph statuses. I probably don’t agree with everything in it, but I agree with a lot. This is one of the parts of the book that I likely quoted:

Most people are not even aware of their need to conform. They live under the illusion that they follow their own ideas and inclinations, that they are individualists, that they have arrived at their opinions as the result of their own thinking—and that it just so happens that their ideas are the same as those of the majority. The consensus of all serves as a proof for the correctness of “their” ideas. Since there is still a need to feel some individuality, such need is satisfied with regard to the name plate of the bank teller, the belonging to the Democratic as against the Republican party, to the Elks instead of the Shriners…

…or the fact that you like one lump of sugar instead of two, a latte instead of a mocha, coffee instead of tea, that you follow a gluten free diet instead of gluten-full one.

All of this defining in the name of looking original, and really we all look quite similar. Such is the result of a society that mistakes equality for sameness and lack of attention as worthlessness. I think Fromm says this quite well:

This increasing tendency for the elimination of differences is closely related to the concept and the experience of equality, as it is developing in the most advanced industrial societies. Equality had meant, in the religious context, that we are all God’s children, that we all share in the same human-divine substance, that we are all one. It meant also that the very differences between individuals must be respected, that while it is true that we are all one, it is also true that each one of us is a unique entity, is cosmos by itself…In contemporary capitalistic society the meaning of equality has been transformed. By equality one refers to the equality of automatons; of men who have lost their individuality. Equality today means “sameness”, rather than “oneness”…Just as modern mass production requires the standardization of commodities, so the social press requires standardization of man, and this standardization is called “equality”.

Basically, there are a lot of people in America and we want everyone to have equal rights and protection under the government. Whether everyone currently actually has those or not is a different issue. But our understanding of what it means to be an individual is so screwed up. And I guess that’s why those stupid articles make me annoyed. Because I see a society of people who are dying to be different enough to be noticed, to stand out…but not too much…and BOOM! But wait, maybe it isn’t just the fact that people are not willing to be different that bothers me…I see a culture of certain people trying to gain recognition for their unique problems that they can’t help. I see a culture of people, like myself, who get caught up in making sure that everyone knows that my differences should be accepted, for example, the fact that I decided to stop shaving. I have a lot of good reasons for it that many do not understand. But here’s the catch, it makes me feel that I need to fight back even harder to make people accept it despite my insecurity, or wait, because of it. Either that or give in and start shaving again.

I think a lot of people are tired of people fighting for themselves and others in this way. Personally, I think it’s important for people to stand up for things. But I think what irritates me about what I and many others do is not the fact that people are starting to act differently according to who they are. It’s the fact that we don’t really have the freedom to do so which is why we lash out aggressively and fight so hard for ourselves. Others still decide to keep hidden and conform. We have many laws in place that protect us, but no laws can change people’s attitudes toward us. And despite laws that are meant to allow for individuality to be safe, there are the unspoken laws of conformity that people must follow if they don’t want to be alone. To quote Fromm again,

If I am like everybody else, if I have no feelings or thoughts which make me different, if I conform in custom, in dress, ideas, to the pattern of the group, I am saved; saved from the frightening experience of aloneness. The dictatorial systems use threats and terror to induce this conformity; the democratic countries, suggestion and propaganda. There is, indeed, one great difference between the two systems. In the democracies non-conformity is possible and, in fact, by no means entirely absent; in the totalitarian systems, only a few unusual heroes and martyrs can be expected to refuse obedience. But in spite of this difference the democratic societies show an overwhelming degree of conformity…One can only understand the power of the herd, if one understands the depths of the need not to be separated…people want to conform to a much higher degree than they are forced to conform, at least in the Western democracies.

People want more than anything to not be alone. And because this is a need, laws are not enough, because laws do not control the hearts of people. What people truly want is connection. In our culture, to be an individual means to be set apart, alone. Yet in an individualistic culture where being an individual is also glorified, to not be an individual means to be alone. It’s quite confusing, really. In this system, I feel like truly “winning” in life is next to impossible.

I want people to stop just being kind to “their kind”. What happens is people form different groups and say, but this is us, and that is you. There is an expectation that you will choose a group. But what about the true rebels? What about the ones who know they don’t fit a group completely and know that nobody does? What about the ones, like myself, who find it hard to even recognize groups sometimes? For example, labeling what type of genre a musical group belongs to. Recognizing the “type” of person that my clothes might tell people I am according to their understanding of stereotypes.

So many people say “stop stereotyping”, stop being biased. One might even argue that it’s trendy to do so. But I think that’s what I don’t like. People say they believe in that because it’s a trend. Not because they believe it in their heart. I guess I want people to start figuring out what is important. Looking to the principles rather than rules meant to uphold the principles. I see all these people trying be the "right thing", and be that thing better than anyone else. Instead, you and I should be who we are individually, and do what we know is right because it is right, and not because it will gain us recognition, but because self-improvement and character and personal responsibility are what matter most.

If there must be a uniting factor that connects us to others, let it be character qualities like kindness, grace, love, compassion, honesty, patience, etc. When you post that photo of that coffee cup, and everyone else does it too, you are not the one becoming famous. Nobody is. Coffee is famous. What if sacrificial love were as popular as coffee? What if love was that famous, and truly that trendy? What if the principles underlying the true beauty of the world were famous? What if we made those the necessary factors we need for connection, rather than making sure our physical appearances, occupations, etcetera are going to make us “likable” and “not alone”.

As President Eisenhower put it, “A people that values its privileges above its principles soon loses both.” I think if we were to make valuable principles our priority on a personal level intrinsically, everything else would fall into place. I think people would feel more connected and understood and noticed much more often.

Let’s make love popular.

*As is the case for raw vegetables which I don’t usually like, sometimes I see someone drinking coffee, and I need that coffee. Like there must be vitamins in it that my body is missing. Are there vitamins in coffee? That being said, this is a very rare occurrence. So rare, that it was almost worth not mentioning.

Life Itself

Why me? Why not me?

The truth is, you don’t always get what you want in life. Yet we have to live life believing that we may someday regardless of if it will be true or not. That is hope, right?

The fact is, that life itself is not merciful. It doesn’t care how close to death you are. It doesn’t care that your tank is empty and you’re running on fumes. It doesn’t matter if that one thing that you wanted, you wanted because you needed it, and you never got it. It will let you walk in circles until you’re insane with frustration. The fact is, life does not respect itself enough to make sure that things go right for you. It doesn’t care if you think of it positively or not. The fact is, life always loses in this world. It will always lose. And it doesn’t care if you end up dying a slow and painful death.

Life doesn’t care if you’re someone who was lucky enough to have a tail wind, or someone who has to walk in gooey muck your entire life, every step a hellish challenge. It doesn’t care, and there is nothing you can do about it. You can try, you can fight, but you can’t save life. It doesn’t matter if you have to go through more crap than another. It doesn’t matter if someone gets that exclusive thing that you desperately want. It doesn’t care if you understand. It doesn’t care if it’s fair or not. It isn’t really concerned with justice or morality.

I guess this is all something I never understood until now. There was this expectation that life would get better. Maybe it won’t. Maybe it will. But you can’t be sure. Life isn’t comfortable. It isn’t safe. It isn’t ever perfect. If you hope, you may be disappointed. If you don’t hope, you might be surprised. So when people ask me, “Do you believe there is hope for you?” Is it worth believing in hope? Should I really be blamed if  decide to say “no”? Is it really such a disgrace to say “no”? Is “no” really the wrong answer? Maybe it’s the right one. Is it disgraceful to decide that you don’t want to fight for it anyway? Why do we respect life so much? After all that we know about life, why do we say that it deserves attention, that above all, it deserves to be fought for? Because we are part of it? And to say that it isn’t worth it, is to deny something within our being?

So when you think about someone committing suicide, and you feel shame for them and/or pass judgement on them, do you think maybe it’s because you are taking offense to the fact that that person did not value life, and you are life, and therefore, maybe unintentionally, they are saying you aren’t worth it. Do they see the truth? Or are they mentally ill? Is seeing the facts really mentally ill? Don’t you, in a sense, have to lie to yourself to want to remain alive? So why do it? Why live in denial? Why do people want to? When life itself does not hold up to the standard of morality that you cling to, why respect it enough to keep it going? Why fight? I don’t know. The quote I have at the top of my blog describes a certain action to be taken regarding life. How does one carry that through? And is it right to do so? Is it a failure to live in denial? Or a failure to deny life the breaths of itself that still exist?

It’s all basically just a really complicated way of saying, “Why is it okay that he didn’t love me? Why is he supposedly justified? Why does he get to choose? And why didn’t he choose me?”

And if he is a piece of life, and life has shown itself to not be worth it, then I guess he’s not worth the fuss. That solves that problem, but then why would anyone else be worth it either? If they aren’t worth aching over, what makes them worth living with? So why put effort into any kind of relationship at all? If there is no purpose to you, to them, if you have no destiny other than death, why bother? Why bother to question if you have no purpose? Why bother to know if you have the right answer then?

And if all of this is true, then why do I feel resentment, in denial, in pain? If this is just how it is, why do I have this sense that I deserved better? How did I come to question a reality that I was wired to be? How do I even have the ability to question it? How did this happen? How did I happen?

Why do I have to be here? If life is just a pleasure-less fight, then why? If you have to force it, then why? If no one in this world is worth suffering over, if no one is worth fighting for, then why do I have to suffer for myself? And if it’s true that you have to believe that you yourself are worth suffering for, but no one else is, and everyone else has to believe the same thing, isn’t that denial? Isn’t that lying?

Either I have to believe that I wasn’t worth suffering over, or that he was. And maybe he was. But I guess that means that everyone else is too. In which case, why does life seem to be based on picking favorites. If there is no distinguishing between worth, how do you choose? Why does there have to be rejection? If we are all worth it. If I am worth it, then why not me?

Why not me? I am life. Why me?

Breaking Shame: The Story Of My Life

A couple years ago, I was a part of a book study where we worked through a book called Storyline together. Storyline is a self-discovery book written by Donald Miller. In the book, you map out a timeline of your life, decide what the theme of the story of your life is, and create goals for your future. Looking back on myself two years ago, I was in a similar place in that I just didn’t know what to do. I knew I needed to get a job, and not much later I succeeded. Now, two years later, I’m still stuck. And I’ve been stuck for nearing on a year. I guess I’ve been stuck for longer, but it’s getting closer to a year that I haven’t been working and haven’t been in school. I’ve been going to counseling for half a year and trying to become a more independent and mentally and emotionally and physically healthy person. Immediately when I say that, feelings of shame emerge. So much shame.

The theme that I saw within my past and present at the time, two years ago, dealt with “rejection, fear, and battling life alone”. And then there was the flip side to that that I hoped to achieve that others in the group helped me with: “hope, strength, and community”. Looking back on the last couple of years, I do see a difference. But I don’t see more hope or more community, and sometimes, it doesn’t feel like I’m really that much stronger. I see more rejection than I ever have before, I still see fear, and I still feel as if I’m battling life alone.

I remember that right at the end of the study, an event occurred that seemed to kill me inside. Like that was just the last straw. That was just it. I didn’t realize that at the time, but I remember in retrospect when my heart sunk deep, deep down beneath the surface and locked itself into a treasure box as if never to emerge again. I felt it happen. I also remember at that time begging God not to let it happen. He did.

I wrote something this last June outside my blog that I just remembered and dug up. It’s funny that it feels like way longer ago than just a couple of months. It was this:

I think sometimes people look at the rough things that happen in your life as fuel that you should just burn to make you stronger and keep going. But you can’t burn dirt. Dirt puts out a fire. Sometimes you have to find the right shovel to remove it and reclaim the buried treasure underneath. And once it’s found, share it with the world.

I wrote that at a time when I felt like people were just expecting me to not be affected by all of the things that had happened to me. That I should just be invincible. Things haven’t changed much. But the truth is, since the sinking of my heart a couple of years ago, I had carried on with my life. Got a temporary job until that was finished, then got another. After over a year of working with a few months break between jobs, taking other people’s shifts, sometimes working overtime, and usually failing to show up on time, I quit. I couple of months later, the place I worked went out of business, so there was no going back there. I haven’t been working since. But all that to say, I burnt myself out. It got to the point where the Christian music playing in the background at the store was too much. People expecting me to be a smiling Christian was just too much. Stocking the bookshelves was too much. And helping customers with a smile was especially too much. I hid in a corner away from people so they wouldn’t see the tears I tried to suck back into my eyeballs.

Shame.

Shame to feel so much about something that everyone said I shouldn’t even care about. Shame that the thing that was the last straw shouldn’t have been according to other people. Shame that I was a silly, immature girl, deserving of all I got. Shame in feeling that I had just done this to myself. And anger and resentment. But that was just a response to shame.

Just before beginning to write this post now, I was completely bawling into my journal. When I finished I realized that I had soaked through about a quarter of my notebook in spots and the purple ink had pink rings all around it. Now it’s crinkly. I had just read a message from someone on Facebook I held really dear to my heart who decided to cut me off forever. This person had sent me a message almost a week ago. It wasn’t a mean message, but it wasn’t one that I wanted to hear, because it meant we would truly never, ever speak again.

When I first read it a week ago, I didn’t cry, my heart just pushed it away, deluded itself in certain areas, romanticized in others, and rid me of true feeling. And with all of that, I wrote a poem. A few days later, I made myself read the message again. That time emotions emerged against my will for a moment, but only for a moment, and a few tears came. Today, I made myself read it a third time, and not only that, copy it into my journal. As I rewrote it, I noticed the name in black on the computer that meant the person’s profile had been blocked from me. It wasn’t that way before. By the end of rewriting it, I was bawling. Not the kind of bawling where you feel like you want to kill yourself and scream at the top of your lungs. The kind that is true release. That is just so, so, so sad, but not tormented by questions. The beginning of acceptance. Where your mind still battles its delusions, but also really realizes the weight of the situation and just feels sad. I think the tear stains that ended up in my journal speak more than any words I wrote. And though it wasn’t intentional, I’m glad it happened. Those moments when I let myself go to the point where I don’t even think to cry away from my journal, the pages with tear stains, I think are some of the most revealing.

Two years ago, I didn’t really have any truly close friends. Since then, I have had multiple close friendships come and go. And today, at the conclusion of my cry, I felt I was back to square one. Maybe I am. Maybe it feels like I haven’t moved forward toward community. And maybe now more than ever, the more that people strand me, it feels like there is no hope of finding reliable relationship with others. It feels like there must be something wrong with me.

Shame.

Shame that I am unworthy. Shame that I am unwanted. Shame that I am not chosen. Shame that I push people away. Shame that they push me away.

And through all of this, those who gave up on my friendship with them, those who would be my friend and see me every few months but no more, and didn’t seem to really want to get too close, and those who didn’t want to be friends at all, there was mostly no explanation as to why I was rejected. There was an exception or two, but usually there was no explanation.

When I look for the root cause of things, I look for the common denominator. Well, that would be me. So how am I not the cause? Maybe I am, maybe I’m not, but I guess I’ll never know because of course I'm the common denominator. I'm me and I can only see life with my own mind. But what I realized is that though it would be nice to know if there is something about myself that I should change, maybe I don’t need others to show me that so much. Maybe that’s God’s job. And what I realized is that regardless of the reason that I may or may not have been a bad friend, I am human, but so are they. Those who rejected me aren’t flawless either. And I realized that I’m motivated to not be alone, but I’m more motivated to not feel shame. I hate shame as a feeling.

Shame.

It needs to be added to the recurring theme of my life. Motivated by shame.

During the time of the book study a couple of years ago, there was a woman at the church I still went to sometimes who came up to me randomly. I had never met her before. She told me that she had seen a vision in which I stared at a broken mirror, and that I kept staring at the broken mirror rather than turning to the banquet table God had laid before me. She told me that she thought I had good discernment when it came to others, but that when it came to myself I didn’t allow grace to be part of the picture. I was amazed by the vision then, but I never spoke to her again.

Now, what I thought I understood back then, I am realizing now again. I guess I didn’t understand it then as well as I thought, but I do now. At least I think I do...That broken mirror controls me. Perfectionism. That is the theme of my life. But I don’t want it to be anymore. Being perfect here in this world, that’s not the point. The point is to live. And I’m letting the shame or fear of accidentally doing something shameful keep me from grabbing at the banquet of life that God wants for me. I don’t live.

I still don’t have it all together. I still don’t know what I’m going to do. But right now, in this moment, I feel a weight lifted from me. I am forgiven. I am loved as I am. God is here. I don’t have to keep searching for Him, or be perfect for Him to be near. I just have to believe He is here. Because He is. And he loves me. Nothing can ever change that. No stupid mistakes that I might end up making, nothing will change that.

I am thankful for the friendship that I had with that guy who thought he destroyed me. The one who thought he was my breaking point (see this post: Like Mist Over Water). I’m thankful for him because what he didn’t realize was that he was the exact opposite of being my breaking point. I don’t believe that he really wanted to break me. And though he hurt me, I am not destroyed. He was the break, alright. He helped to break the storm clouds of shame that finally let in the sunlight. He may have put me through some hell, but he was unconsciously waking me up. Like a slap on the face. Like a sharp shovel that dug at least a good ways closer to regaining the buried treasure of my heart. Part of his last message was, “I’m learning to live my life on life’s terms.” I guess I am too. And through the pain and disappointment, I understand just a little more clearly now.

(P.S. I fixed the link. I had the wrong one at first. And I felt a lot of shame. But no! No more shame!)

Simple Lines

I tend to write when I'm in pain. At least sometimes it happens. I don't often write poems. But yet again, as before, hurt drove me to write something cheesy. Really cheesy because I didn't take long to write it. Words are just stale in comparison to reality sometimes. But it's an outlet.

Simple Lines 

By Jessica Cruz

Tingles in my back, my spine.

The haunting kind.

The ones that make you

close the blinds.

And face the dark,

without the stars.

The kind that promises

to break your heart,

That beats too fast

to grab the past.

The kind that always

will never last.

That never kept,

though I have wept.

The kind with no more

entrances left.

The bridges burned.

The road has turned

in ways that make

your stomach churn.

I vomit care

while gasping for air.

The kind that makes you

say more than you dare.

I’ll say words now

that I know how.

The kind that mean more

than I thought I allowed.

So leave me cold.

Feeling so old.

In a way that threatens

to cripple the soul.

The soul so sensitive.

But it means you live

in ways that prove

you have something to give.

You can't come back

though I’ve wanted that.

I know the ways

that I would react.

And you would too.

This hated you.

In ways that explain

just why we’re through.

Completed in haste.

So hard to face.

The kind that makes you

slow down the pace.

And write some rhymes.

Just simple lines.

The kinds that break down

the complicated times.

While I'm in fear

as I am here.

Letting go of the one

Who I held so dear.

Goodbye my love

who I’m thinking of.

You’ll find someone else

who fits like a glove.

I ache in my bones.

I hate this poem.

When was the last time

that I felt so alone?

Like Mist Over Water

As I’ve been thinking about the conversation I had yesterday that blew me away to a very negative space, and has caused me pain ever since, I realized some things that I couldn’t see before when the truth was blind to my eyes. This person who no longer wanted to be my friend, and who I realized struggled (at least he somewhat tried) to empathize, had about the coldest heart toward me. I felt, in some ways, that he was angry at me for caring. But one particular part of our conversation really stuck out to me.

Ex-friend: “You know, I’m just an asshole right now. I hit my breaking point two years ago...”

Me: “Ya, well me too.”

Ex-friend: “Your breaking point is now.”

Me: “NO! My breaking point was two years ago. I’ve been kinda crazy since then.”

The above blip from our conversation speaks a lot to me about what this person was expecting and how he viewed himself in comparison to others. I know for a fact that I had talked to this person about my painful experiences that were still weighing on me. It occurs to me now that he was expecting that he would be the primary cause of my pain, and it’s true that he personally caused me a lot of pain. But his words, “Your breaking point is now,” seemed to suggest that he didn’t believe the pain I had gone through before. That anything I had experienced before could not compare to the pain he caused me. It seemed to surprise him that I had experienced such intense feelings before or something. He seemed a little confused that I had lived at all before becoming close to him. And through that, I know that I was dealing with an incredibly narcissistic person.

It just so happens that we had two completely separate experiences when we weren’t even friends that broke each of us separately at the same time of life. And these experiences were affecting the way we acted toward each other now. I am angry at the world. He is angry at the world. In that particular way, we are very similar. There was something very precious within each of our hearts individually; a similar dream that really had nothing to do with each other, that was shattered through our own separate experiences. Both of us lived our lives in our ruins. And it was like both of us had a photo negative of that breaking point held up to our eyes at all times, and we were looking through them at each other, and at the rest of the world. Like a destructive pair of sunglasses, shielding the sun from our lives and distorting our perceptions. And he couldn’t help me. And I couldn’t help him.

So then I reflected on how I’ve responded to different relationships since the time two years ago that I would consider the time my heart just died, and I haven’t fully gotten it back. What do I see in these two years? I see friendships come and go. I see anger. I see abandonment. I see immense, unbearable loneliness. I see desperation. I see depression. I see anxiety. I see forced strength, like working at a couple jobs for the first time. I see lack of strength at being able to continue. I see me forcing myself to ignore suicidal thoughts. I see myself at least at one point giving into them. I see me forcing myself to have self-control in my choices with people. I see other times when self-control, in certain ways, was totally abandoned. I see an immense effort to try to understand my situation. To try to love the people who hurt me and still love myself while being fair to both sides. I see a failure to do so. I see an effort to fight for life which was something I had to believe was worth it, because I just didn’t feel it was anymore. But I didn’t believe it. And I confess, even now is a struggle. So I see myself clinging to life for the love of God and others in my life.

And one particularly interesting thing I see is me devoting my energies to fighting the things I thought contributed to my pain that were external, that were evil. I had anger. I needed to attack something, so I attacked the injustices of the world rather than the people who had hurt me who needed grace, and didn’t completely deserve such rage. I started reading articles about these injustices. And I started aggressively sharing them through what I felt was my only social outlet, Facebook. I started a blog and shared my opinions about what I perceived about some of these injustices. I directed my energies toward trying to justify myself through making other things the underlying cause of the agony I felt. And I think the principles behind these evils I was fighting did contribute to the actions that left me dead inside. They were a part of it. And though I never managed to let go of my anger, I think I found a decent outlet for it.

And this makes me think about the different ways that people cope with their pain. I know that the person who I thought was my friend eventually acted as if I had no right to be broken. I finally realized that he expected me to be just fine. That apparently, I hadn’t experienced enough pain to warrant the disaster zone that I tried to relate to him I was in. He would pretend to care, but now I know that he didn’t. He resented my pain. I think to him, if I had been in as much pain, I would have been driven to do the things that he had done in response to his grief, not the things that I chose to do. I think he regrets a lot, and he uses his pain, in some ways, to justify it, which is why he can’t believe the idea that I would be in so much pain without choosing the same cliff to jump off of as he did. But you know, you really can’t compare.

I think sometimes the things you hate in others the most are the things that you can’t stand in yourself. Or maybe sometimes they are the things that you fight desperately against within yourself that you can’t seem to conquer. And despite our different experiences, I think this ex-friend of mine and I were looking through very similar photo negatives. We were mirroring each other.

And this is where I recognize a difference in character. I noticed it and wanted to work through it. He noticed it, and bailed. He bailed.

He doesn’t make me angry right now for bailing, though he did. He makes me sad that I couldn’t do anything for him. He makes me want to reach to comfort him and I can’t. He makes me hurt, because I so desperately wanted to fix his heart and I couldn’t. It was like we had a fire and ice friendship. We were trying to fix each other. I was trying to melt the ice of his heart with fire, but I needed that fire for myself, because there is ice in my heart too. He was trying to prove to me that ice was the answer. He didn’t want to approach the fire.

But ice isn’t the answer. And I sincerely hope that one day he recognizes that. Because underneath that ice is a treasure that I miss. The world needs that treasure. I can’t stand to see it buried. And I think maybe one day, the warmth of his heart will melt the ice. And though I likely won’t be there to see it, it’ll be beautiful. Like the mysterious calm of mist over water. Wispy and light. Weightless, but deep. 

Betrayal

As I write this, my heart hurts. I feel all alone. I fight feelings of shame. I fight feeling stupid. I fight feeling like there must be something wrong with me.

Because yet again, a person that I was friends with, a person who I believed in, who I decided to trust… that person betrayed me. They lied to me. Rejection sucks. But when the friendship becomes pretend for a bit before the rejection comes, and you realize you were “taken in”, you were fooled, and that the person was too afraid to say the truth sooner…I think that hurts more.

Because on my end, it wasn’t pretend for me. I loved this person as a friend within the time that I knew them. I trusted that their words and actions, spoken near the end of our relationship, and that in retrospect I see as hints, were just words of an imperfect person handling whatever situation they were in, but they weren’t. As I said, they were hints of a person too cowardly to speak the truth. Even if this person was just too afraid to admit that they didn't care about me the way that I did them, and that they didn't care for or admire me as much as I did them. It was passive aggressive, indirect communication. There were hints, but I trust that people will be honest, and I obviously didn’t get the hints, especially when along with the hints were mixed messages. Ignoring me, then giving some sort of explanation outside of the truth, then avoiding questions is enough to show me that something is wrong, but not enough for me to "get the hint!". I believed in this person. I wanted our friendship to grow. I wanted to give them what they needed. I wanted to be able to trust them, and for them to be able to trust me. I cared enough for this person to invest in them, and they invested in me, and wanted to see them grow and grow from them.

It hurts in itself to be rejected. To know that the other person feels you don’t have anything positive enough to offer them for them to stick around. Sometimes that happens. And to me, it happens a lot. But for that to be coupled with lies is crushing. To have to suddenly cut someone completely out of your life who you thought was there for you is confusing.

But I just spent the last little bit talking to a wonderful woman who I’ve known all my life, and whom I would consider a second mother to me, who encouraged me and let me cry. She wrote me a list of things that I need to continue to tell myself regardless of how rejection makes me feel inside. She reminded me that I need to believe the following truths about me even when others don’t see them.

• ·         I am a strong woman.
• ·         I am beautiful.
• ·         I am intelligent.
• ·         I am talented.
• ·         I am honest.
• ·         I am loyal.
• ·         Anyone would be lucky to be my friend, but not just anyone is worthy enough to be my friend.
• ·         I hurt deeply because I care deeply, and I do not want to be a hard and shallow person, so I will continue to care, knowing there will be pain.
• ·         I know these things are true and I choose to believe in these Truths—even in my pain!!

Believing these things is hard. But I will fight to let them dominate. It’s true that I believe in people and care for them. And I'm learning that if they choose to betray me or lie to me, it's not my fault. And the fault didn't lie in me believing in them. I think people at least deserve a chance. That’s what I give and that’s what’s taken advantage of, and then rejected. And it's not my fault. And it’s nothing to be ashamed of. The shame does not lie with me. It lies with the lies.

Public Nudity and The Victorian Period

 Warning: This post may be a little rated R in my country of America. Continue at your own risk.

It’s funny. Yesterday, I was all wishing I lived during the Victorian period when women were judged based on their paintings, instrument playing, singing, etc. Because I’m good at those things, and if I’m going to be judged based on my performance on certain criteria, it might as well be criteria that I’m naturally good at. None of this money-making, entrepreneurship, political business that I feel forced into these days, but don’t feel a natural at. I could wear fancy dresses and take many a “turn about the room” with my head held high with ease.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m definitely a Feminist. I believe in equal rights for women and men. I believe that each gender has the right to choose to follow their gifts whatever they may be. But let’s face it. I’d probably be pretty popular back in the day. I’d have many, many suitors. It just seems ideal that I would have been born in that period of time. At least I thought that until I remembered my adventure the day before…

I was camping with my family and decided to take one of my parents’ kayaks out on the lake. I thought it would be a little chilly but I didn’t want to get my pants wet. So I changed into my swim suit bottoms and wore a black t-shirt with a very oversized sweatshirt over top of that, and I took to the water.

The water was fairly calm that morning as there were only a few motor boats speeding through yet. That made it easy to direct the kayak where I wanted it to go. My parents’ kayak had leg pedals like a bike which was pretty nifty. So I switched back and forth between using the leg pedals and rowing with the double-sided oar. It was much needed quiet alone time in nature. The sound of the waves and the slight rocking in the water was calming to my anxious spirit.

And then I felt the heat of the sun start to seep through my sweatshirt, so that came off. I continued to row past the houses up on the hill to my right, as a worry crease crept to my forehead. I had no more layers to take off but my one and only t-shirt. And it was black. And it just kept getting hotter. What was I to do? I kept paddling.

I paddled until I was far enough between houses and boats that I hoped no one could see me. Then I took a quick look all around me and whipped off my t-shirt, dunked it in the water and put it back on. That did nothing but make me incredibly uncomfortable, as if the air was sticky and humid. So I continued to paddle.

Finally I could take it no more. I asked myself if God would care if I took off my shirt. I had no idea. I mean, God gave me my breasts. And there was no one close by that I could see. Someone would either have to be hiding or own binoculars to see me. Which, of course, was a possibility, but…

And off came the shirt. Just me in my bikini bottoms and flip flops oaring my way on the lake. At first I was nervous. So nervous that I decided to take the kayak to shore and find a place to sit where I felt it would be even less likely that someone would see me. I pulled the boat up the very small section of sand I could find and stepped out. My feet sunk in the sand and I panicked a bit as it was difficult to pull my foot back out. It appeared there was a bunch of tan colored clay underneath a few inches of sand. I stumbled to rockier ground and pulled the kayak further up the sand.

My little shore was still out in the open. A boat could wiz by at any moment and see me, but I took my chances and sat down on the rocks. I felt very pleased with myself. Ecstatic. Daring. A rebel. What I was doing was definitely illegal. No public bearing of the breasts is the law of the land in Washington State. I cared not, for the feeling of the sun on my chest, which had never in my life seen the light of day, and the breeze drying my sweat both just felt so heavenly that I just couldn’t handle it! I mean, how is it that men are really just allowed to whip off their shirt whenever they’re hot like I was doing? Until then, I didn’t fully realize what I was missing out on. But now I do. I laughed out loud to myself, partially in nervousness, but mostly in glee.

I saw a boat approaching in the distance and jumped to my feet. I walked a little closer to the kayak in case of an emergency. I waited it out as I grabbed a stick and knocked down spider webs that were all over a big toppled down remains of a tree among many other logs next to the kayak. The boat thankfully stayed on the other side of the water and I continued to walk around with the walkie talkie my mom had handed me before I set out.

And then I felt something rumble within my bowls. Oh, $#!+…I mean poop. So what I did next was daring. It was just a little gross. Okay, maybe a little bit more than gross. It was definitely not “proper” or “lady-like”. It was something I had never done before and I was curious to experiment. I had never pooped squatting in the water before. So I did. I did my business, squatting fully nude on the banks of Lake Roosevelt. It was a big area. It wasn’t likely anyone would come. There was nowhere to park their boat. They would have to have a kayak or something...

I was thankful for the natural bidet (I’ve never really used a bidet before), and I stood up to examine my poop which had sunk to the sandy earthen floor. It was the color of the clay I had stepped in previously. No one would know the difference...if they ever discovered it. I hoped they wouldn’t. I'm sure they did too. I covered my poop with sand with my foot like a cat. Look at me being a wild beast.

I walked away from the area laughing out loud. I was just having so much fun. Slightly scandalized at myself for doing things like this kinda out in the open-like. Risky business, this was. But it had to be done.

I grabbed the walkie talkie I had set down against the cliff wall and walked back to the kayak. I sat back down in the kayak and paddled around back and forth in a small area, afraid to push around the corner for fear there would be a boat there or something. Oh I could have sat in that kayak forever. The smile would not leave my face and I felt freer than ever with my shirt off. I checked my white chest and saw no redness or tan, only a massive tan line. Typical of my skin. It took a lot for the sun to make an impression. But I mean, this skin on my chest had NEVER seen the sun. Must’ve been my Cuban blood preparing me for warm temperatures.

Finally, my mom called me on the walkie talkie and told me they were about ready to pack up camp. So I headed on back, putting my shirt back on just as two boats started speeding in my direction in the distance. Perfect timing.

Honestly, my adventure that morning was the best adventure I’ve had in a while. And remembering that adventure while fantasizing about being an elegant Victorian lady, I realized that just wasn’t possible. I got far too much satisfaction from having adventures, at doing manual labor for fun like kayaking, at doing rebellious things like pooping in nature and tearing off my shirt, at being spontaneous and expressive in general. No, Victorian England would not do well for me as that one rebel part of my nature would just not allow it to. I’d be hanged for arguing with all the men around me who tried to boss me around and make me their property. My many challenging opinions would make me far too outspoken and undesirable. Submission for the sake of traditional rules? Etiquette? Ha! I struggled with that all of my life.

So what does that means in terms of what I should be doing with my life? If adventure just makes me high and leaves me ecstatic and self-satisfied, what should I do with my life? There aren’t a lot of good, honorable jobs that I can think of that involve stripping my shirt off. This is why I still don’t have a career path. It’s too dangerous.

And to conclude, I have to say that though I did do things that even these days are not considered acceptable or legal, and could have landed me in jail or fined a bunch of money, I’m so glad that these days I could even go out on a kayak without an escort. That I could even kayak at all. I’m glad for the freedom I’m given now in comparison to the restrictions that were in Victorian times. Even if people think I’m a freak, at least I’m free to be a freak.

So I guess that’s it. I’m fine with my freakery. Thank you Feminism. We’ve come a long way.

What People Don't Want Me To Want

I sat on the boat dock floating in the lake, and I thought and thought. I prayed. I listened to music. I cried a little. And then I realized I do know what I want. It’s just not what people want to hear.

I’m tired of people expecting me to know what I want after I was brought up to give up what I want.

I’m tired of people asking me what I want after they tell me that I can’t have what I want.

I’m tired of people waiting for me to say what I want, when I just don’t know what I want.

I’m tired of people waiting for me to find something that I want rather than helping find what I want.

I’m tired of finally saying what I want and people saying that I can’t have it or shouldn’t even be thinking about that right now.

The fact is, I’m not picky. I just need to know that my commitments aren’t for forever, won’t take too much time if I hate it, and that I have a way out without massive amounts of debts of any kind.

I’ll tell you what I want where commitment doesn’t bother me, and where I could be inspired to handle a job I hated.

I want a home. A home where I am accepted and chosen. A home where I would have been chosen out of a crowd if that’s how homes are put together. I want to belong. I have never belonged. And I’m tired of feeling guilty for that. For not belonging. Cause it’s just not my fault. A home where I have a husband who is my one and only. I want a home where I am loved and understood and safe! I want a home. Apparently, I have to earn a home.

And I guess I just don’t have what it takes to earn it. Because to have what it takes means I need to know what I want. And as I’ve said, other than a home, I don’t know what I want. Because nothing else is inspiring at all.

I’m tired of being told to prioritize. So I do. I want a husband. That is my priority. Relationships above all else. Wait what? That’s backwards? I have to have my whole life planned out first? I have to want things above relationships? Lame. I know what I want. I just don’t know how to get there, and I can’t make someone magically appear. And for some reason, me stating a relationship as my highest priority is not accepted. I have to want something more than a commitment like marriage. Not that I’m looking for a husband. I don’t scope out every man I meet in hopes he might be the one. People have let me down far too much and I don’t even know where to begin looking for decent, eligible men. No one wants someone who doesn’t know what they want.

Does that make me immature? You don’t know. Because maturity is not for humanity to judge. It’s far too complicated of a thing to have a pass or fail test. All I know is I’m lost. Very, very lost in the fact that I know very much what I want, and I can’t have it. Not only is it something that I want, I know that it’s something that I need. It is. That’s the thing I need to ground me and motivate me. But some people do a lot in life without something that they need. I just can’t seem to. Does that make me weak? Only if weak means I’m human and that’s how I was created. Only if that means I’m not invincible and can only take so much disappointment.

P.S. I like this song: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=w_LOOKssMpA

Loving Egocentric People

What I thought about this afternoon, but what I don’t like to accept is that the people who rejected me that hurt me the most, who all struggled to or didn’t even try to find value in me, were mostly people who were popular and incredibly egocentric. But what I also realized about those people is that to others, it appears like they aren’t incredibly selfish, because the way that they define themselves doesn’t actually value the core parts of them. They define themselves by the shallow things that the world tells them they should value. So when it comes to those deep parts of themselves that they have to sacrifice in order to flatter others or make it look like they are outwardly focused, it’s easy for them to sacrifice. And of course, everyone loves someone who makes them feel good.

And what I realized about myself is, I don’t feel safe in a world that operates like that. So I look for reassurance from these people who have power, but who will never give it up for me. And I realized that the world is dangerous to me, because the world gives power to the selfish, and I will never receive safety or reassurance from these people. Because when I come along and challenge the foundation that the egocentric, powerful people stand on with my values, that puts them in a tough position. So, of course, why would they love me when their perception is that I’m trying to take away their safety net? But if they’re selfish enough to value their own safety above anyone else's, why would I even care about their judgement of me? Well, because maybe, in some odd sense, I empathize with them on a human level. Because I have a healer heart that comes from Christ that wishes to change things for them. But I guess I can’t force people to change or see things differently.

And also because the situation is just not just in any way. Because I am not validated. Because “right” is not rewarded. Because when I want more than anything to not be alone, but I also want more than anything to be myself, not a shallow copy of the culture in which I live, I am stuck. I do what is right, and in the end, do not gain approval and love. But I guess those who are loved for who they aren’t, aren’t loved either. My experience has told me that being loved is impossible in this world, no matter how deeply I love egocentric people and others, but I will not give what is shallow. Not even if that’s what people want. But that doesn’t mean my walls won’t go up sometimes. Because that’s just a healthy response to danger. I’m sorry, but I’m not sorry. 

Cherry Picking

I’ve been going through a phase recently. An odd one. Where I’m tired of thinking. I’m just bored by it. Or maybe I’m just bored by explaining my thinking. I feel somewhat like I’m reverting back to my childhood days when I didn’t like thinking about anything…usually. Except for moments when I had some sort of otherworldly moment and questioned my existence.

Okay really, though, I’ve been having a lot of “nothing matters” moments. Those moments where I’m tired of trying, tired of forcing myself to think morally and consistently with the values that I stand for. Like today, I just want to be awesome, and amazing, and worshipped, like a god. Is that so wrong?

And then I went outside and started picking cherries in the orchard behind my parents’ house. I started asking “why” in between spurts of mental haze. Back and forth in my mind between “who gives a crap?” and “why?!” My thought processes are anything but linear. So to describe my thoughts in a coherent, easy to understand manner is a bit of a challenge. But what else is new? I’m gonna be honest, that’s part of my boredom phase right now. I’m just too bored to really explain it all.

But it just so happens that my desire to be “worshipped” comes from a desire to get attention, and I realized that what I want is attention from people. And what better way to be assured that I will always get attention than to be exceptional somehow and wow people. It also just so happens that my desire to get attention comes from a desire to be chosen and wanted because I want to have something that makes me special. Which means that it’s also tied into wanting a purpose and security in knowing who I am and what I’m meant to do. Which is tied into me wanting to make sure I’m not wasting my time on Earth. Which is tied into wanting to make the right choices and know I’m doing the right thing. Which is tied into my perfectionism. Which is tied into my paralysis of not being able to make any long-term choices for fear of making the wrong choice. Which is tied into whether or not I believe in freewill and whether I think freewill is an ideal state. Which is tied into wondering what God even wants from me. Which is tied into whether or not He even cares about me individually if I’m not much of an individual with any exceptional defining factor to set me apart. Which is tied into a fairness problem if some people are exceptional and others are not. Which is tied into whether or not people are actually inherently more exceptional or if their circumstances made them so or whether they had to choose to be exceptional.

Which made me think of how my sister is good at everything I’m good at and everything I’m not. Next to her I feel unexceptional. And then I thought about how she has been given so many more opportunities than I was. How my parent’s parented my sister way better than they ever parented me. How they were really strict with me and much more lenient on her. How I was very good at piano, but I had a crappy piano, and when I moved out of the house, they bought her a baby grand piano. How in school, she was given the opportunity to still be in public school for the social aspect while still doing advanced work that she brought with her. How she was able to be involved with advanced programs in school and I remember begging my second grade teacher for harder work and she wouldn’t give it to me. How I had next no social life from age 10-15 and even beyond that because I was homeschooled and my parents were stricter with me than my other siblings. How I wasn’t able to experience the sciences, math, and very little art within a classroom setting until I was in college and by that point, it was a little late to be trying to figure out what I actually liked and what I was good at because I hadn’t been given a real opportunity. Etc. How she had three siblings way older than her to teach her a bunch of stuff, like having five parents. Basically when it comes to reaching full potential, she has been given far greater of an opportunity.

And all of this made me proud of my sister, but also resentful. Because when people applaud her success, none of these factors are taken into consideration. People choose who they choose to applaud based on performance, and they assign value based on performance. But no two people experience the same things in life. And no experience is equally beneficial for every individual at all times. So how do you measure whether someone was actually put into an ideal situation at all times from the time of their birth? How do you measure one’s effort within a situation?

And without being able to properly compare people, how do you find out what you are actually good at in comparison to many? How do you know where your rightful place is? How do you know who you are and what your purpose is? And if you’re not going to be better than anyone at anything, or if being better than anyone at anything is worthless since we are all equally valuable under God, what is the point anyway? What’s the point of me even existing? If there are already others who are as equally valuable? What made me worth creating? Just because? That’s not a good enough reason for me. I need to feel I’m important, and that I’m needed.

I don’t want to give God all the credit for everything, and rely on Him to decide whether I’m worth it. I chose what I think should make me worth it, and I expect others to think it’s worth it too. But I guess I can’t. But maybe God thinks it’s worth it. Or maybe He doesn’t. So I guess my lack of individual uniqueness and specialness makes me pretty ordinary and unimportant. Which makes me one of many…

…like a cherry. One of a bowl-full. Of an orchard full. It’s not likely that as a cherry, I’d be the first to be picked out of the whole orchard. Not even if I was the juiciest and yummiest because it would be ridiculous to search through the entire orchard for one juicy cherry. So it’s not likely that the juiciest would be picked first. Just the juiciest in the closest proximity. But then again, the juiciest get eaten first. So is it really better to be the juicy cherry? Or is it better to live a longer life shriveling and dying. What does that even mean?

Which reminds me that life is short. And how do I choose the right thing to do in a short time? And does what I do even matter? The fate of a cherry is the same no matter what. Death. It’s bones (the pit) left behind.

And that’s all people see is the pit in the end. Hard as rock. Which reminds me of myself at age 13 or 14 when I was camping and decided to pretend to be a preacher with a massive lisp using objects to randomly tell life lessons in a humorous manner. Cherries represented those people in life that appeared attractive on the outside, but were not attractive on the inside. In fact, “theyw heawts wew hawd as a wock!” as I stated it then.

But what does that have to do with anything? Forget cherries.

I don’t know what I want. What’s the point anyway? I need to be validated. I need to be recognized and known and noticeable. Inherently. I know I sound like a broken record. Like I never seem to get the “right” answer through to my head. But it’s just not enough to have my genius siblings overshadow me and then be told that my value doesn’t diminish because of that. Not that I ever get told that. I just get told that we’re ALL intelligent. That we’re all exceptional in comparison to others. The truth is, I’m not as intelligent. Is that so unacceptable? I guess I’ve been taught it’s unacceptable.

Boredom has returned and I just don’t care. I don’t care if I’m special. I don’t care if I amount to anything. I don’t care if I accomplish anything. It doesn’t matter anyway. I don’t care about what’s right. And nothing will ever be right so what’s the point. Just get me out of here. Just trash the old that will never become new and get to the new. I’m done with this world. Why is God not done with this world? I’m not okay with it. So obviously I’m trapped here and I can’t do anything about it and God does nothing. He expects me to ask for forgiveness all the time. He expects me not to seek revenge. But it feels like he’s seeking revenge on me. He should be asking me for forgiveness.

                                                  

Blind to the "L" Boxes

“Hello there! How are you?” inquired my optometrist.

“Good,” I replied and courtesy smiled.

“Anything new?”

“Meh, not really,” I automatically stated like a robot, then questioned it. When was the last time I saw him? Three years ago? I mean, something new had probably happened since then, but whatever.

We got down to business.

“Which looks a little better? One? Or two?” he asked.

“Uh…”

“One? Or two?”

“Two?” I answered. But it was just a guess. I stared through the optometrist’s equipment at the slightly blurred letters reflecting in the mirror on the wall in front of me. I tried hard to focus.

“Three? Or four? Three? Or four?” the Optometrist continued to question me. He continued asking as the numbers got higher and I tried to answer them. Sometimes it was obvious that some of the rows of letters were blurrier than others. But sometimes the comparisons were not strong enough to really see a difference, yet he still expected me to give an answer.

Finally I spurted out, “The only real difference is that one is wuuurrrp and the other isn’t. The blurriness isn’t different.” As I spoke I lifted my hands to express myself and show what I meant by “wuuurrrp”, and I accidentally whacked the eye doctor in the arm. “Sorry,” I said, and shifted nervously in my seat again.

“Yes, one is wonkier than the other. But which is blurrier?” he replied calmly. Too calmly. How was he always so calm? This was dang stressful. He had to be annoyed with me and my inability to give straight answers. Canadian border guards hated me for that. Medical doctors hated me for that. Everyone hated me for that…almost…at least I hope it’s only almost. I finally just chose a number even though they looked the same.

We moved on to the next tests. I squirmed nervously in my chair as I was expected to guess at the blurred letters in the bottom line. Sometimes I guessed letters with my intuition and got them right. Did that count? I tried to keep things strictly to vision as this was a vision test, but I was just so afraid of looking like an idiot by guessing the wrong letters. It felt out of control. He replied, “Yup, good.” Which confused me because I was pretty sure I was wrong. I had read out two D’s in the bottom line. It wasn’t likely there were two D’s. That made me nervous. Was this false encouragement? How did they judge “good”?

“So what are you doing with yourself these days?” he continued. Oh that accursed question. Why?! He continued, “Are you in school? Working?...”

“Um, well, I’m not really doing anything right now. I mean, I quit school a couple years ago, and have been working off and on since then. I’m trying to figure out what to do.” It seemed like the best way to put it without sounding totally lame, but it still sounded totally lame.

“Oh. You’re up in Canada right?”

“Ya…”

“Cool. Cool. You like it there? Enjoying your working? Or not working?...”

“Ya, I do lots of hiking. It’s beautiful up there,” I stuttered.

“Ah. I used to do lots of hiking until I got a job…”

Ouch.

“And before I hurt my Achilles tendon…”

I looked down at the cast on his foot. He told me he’d hopefully be hiking by the end of the summer. As the assistant came in to cruelly numb and dilate my pupils, the optometrist got on his little “knee scooter” (for lack of a proper name) and rolled his way out of the room calling, “I’ll see you again shortly.”

After the assistant had done her horrid duty, she told me to wait for about five minutes, and she left the room. I internally groaned. The appointment had already been long enough. Five minutes seemed like forever with nothing to do. I sat there alone attempting to keep my numb eyes open and failing as I picked gooey yellow eye-boogers out of the corners of my eyes. What had she put in my eyes?!

When the optometrist returned, he started asking me questions about my family.

“So you’re the baby of the family, right?”

“No, second oldest,” I courtesy chuckled.

“Oh, of three?”

“Four.”

“Your little sister’s name is Rachel, right?”

He was wrong. I corrected him.

“Oh, well she’s all graduated from high school now isn’t she?”

“Actually, no, she’s only twelve years old,” I smiled. The assistant gave a smirk in our direction.

The optometrist chuckled at himself and said, “Sorry, I have a lot of patients. I’m getting your family all confused.”

“So your older brother…?”

“He’s working towards his doctorate…”

“On the East coast, right?” He’d gotten that one right at least.

“Yep.”

“And your other brother?”

“He’s getting his, uh, what’s it called?...Oh! Construction Management.” I cringed. After I had just been talking about my bum-ish unemployment.

“Oh okay.” He commenced to shine a light about the brightness of the sun into my eyeballs. “Look to the left. Down. Right. Left-down. Right-down. Up…” At that point, I couldn’t keep my numbed, dilated eyeballs open any longer, and I gave a short laugh as I tried to follow his instructions. He used his fingers to prop my lids open. Thanks?

“You feeling a little funny?” he asked.

“Yeah,” I said. Duh, I thought.

Finally, we finished and the assistant put a pair of those frame-less, plastic, disposable sunglasses on my face. As I was eating a York Peppermint Pattie from the front desk bowl and wondering if only weird people took the front desk chocolate, I saw someone who I thought I recognized from my old high school walk around the corner. Shoot! I used the blank check my mom had given me earlier to pay, stuffed my wallet in my fanny pack, and walked out the door with a gangster strut, carrying my load of contacts demos into the blaring sun and summer heat. I was so cool. But hey with those “glasses” I’m sure the former peer didn’t recognize me. Not that she would have remembered me anyway. I didn’t know her. I gave a sigh of relief…

…And I lived to tell the tale. In retrospect, I’ve been thinking a lot about how nervous I was the entire time. Nervous about looking stupid, immature, a moocher, or whatever other judgments people might make about me. I was on edge, just wanting to get out of there, and the optometrist was the nicest guy ever. I’ve been thinking back to the different lenses he made me look through, and then made me choose between options, and give him an answer even when I didn’t have one to give within the realm of what he wanted to hear. I’m sure it was just part of his job, but it seemed very symbolic of the way we deal with a lot of things in life.

We’re trained in our culture to view things through a certain lens, then make decisions through that lens. Labeled and put in boxes that aren’t really the true answer to the question, “Who am I? Who are you? What should we do?” Kinda like when I was answering ethnic questions about myself on a form online. It only let me choose one ethnicity. I could have chosen “Hispanic” or “White (non-Hispanic)” or whatever other options there were. Being of mixed ethnicities, I felt forced to lie in my response. There weren’t enough options for those outside the strict options provided. No room for exceptions. It was either/or. Black or white. No room for an equal sign. 

I’ve also found the same kind of thinking to occur when people debate about things like gay marriage. I feel told that I either I have to be marching down the streets with signs saying that I know for absolutely sure that being gay is a natural, healthy, and innate quality that deserves to be treated as something to be 100% celebrated without any proof, or instead be condemning gays to hell as a Bible thumper. Is there no in between? Is there no place for those who acknowledge that they may never have enough information to give a real, firm answer and so they just choose to let people live their lives?

It occurred to me that I’ve had lenses of ones and twos and threes and fours shoved onto my eyes. And I realized we all live our lives like that. I judge myself that way. Either I have a job, or I’m a moocher of a lazy bum who doesn't want to be responsible. Well, maybe my true self is not defined by either of those statements. Maybe I’m an oddball, a late bloomer, a sensitive person who is seeking the firm ground to continue on with my life. Maybe this is just where I am right now. It's like either I have a “success story” and give the right answer that the chosen lenses made me see, or the lenses show me that I see the wrong answer. I could live my life like that. I could see myself through the culture. I could let others’ expectations define me. Or I can think outside of it and see myself as I am. I can choose to wear the culture contacts, or I can choose to be blind to the boxes. The suffocating boxes. I think God was a little more creative than to use too many boxes when He created humans. And I think he supplied me with a bit of that creativity. I like the idea of wearing creative God contacts better. I'd rather be blind than wear culture contacts and see all the massive L's that were stamped on certain peoples' foreheads.