When Dreams Are Shattered

My life is in what some of my friends call "a season of change." With all due respect, when they tell me this I am just barely restraining myself from smacking them. I hold myself back only by reminding myself that they mean well. They wish only to remind me that things will get better someday, that someday I may feel less in turmoil. I know that they're right. But right now, it doesn't feel that way.

Right now, it feels like all of my dreams are being ripped from my hands and dashed to pieces, as if I am scrambling on the ground, gathering the broken bits to myself but finding only pain on their sharp edges, rather than healing.

This week, I paused in my metaphorical attempt to gather the pieces and put them back together the way they were. "Why," I asked myself, "would I put these things back together the way they were if that likely means they'll just be ripped away again?" Still, I couldn't bear to just throw away all of the pieces. Some, after all, still seemed worthwhile, like my dream of someday teaching.

So, I did the only logical thing: I prayed. And by prayed, I mean I cried, I yelled, I ranted, I let God know exactly how I felt about losing so much. Then, I listened. I was reminded of a high school trip to Spain, and of my favorite place there: Park Güell in Barcelona. Everything in Park Güell is covered in trencadís (Catalan word meaning "brittle"), a mosaic created from broken shards of tile.

Although the entire park is made of  broken tile/pottery, it is the most beautiful man-made thing I have ever seen. I decided then to pray over which pieces of my dreams to salvage and utilize to create new dreams, and which to throw away.

My life is currently somewhere between those two pictures, somewhere between shattered on the ground and pieced into something beautiful. If we were honest, we all spend most of our lives in this "work in progress" space. At times, a piece of the mosaic will come together, but it doesn't take long to realize that there is still more to do.

Panic! At the Airport

My life experiences have left me with many scars, both visible and hidden. Some, like the one on my knee, remind me of fun times (though jumping from the swing to the wood chips isn't recommended). Others, like the ones on my abdomen spark memories of difficult choices. The most painful scars, though, are the ones whose stories I still struggle to tell in person. So, in honor of my one year survival celebration, today's blog tells you a little more about one of my more private struggles: anxiety.

A loud, crowded airport is not the ideal place to discover that you forgot to pack your anxiety medication. To make matters worse, I was traveling alone. No chance to leave luggage with a friend and go collect myself in the relative privacy of a bathroom stall. Nobody with me who could help talk me through it. (Though I will note that an amazing friend helped talk me through it via messaging.)

Nobody around me noticed. I doubt any but my very closest of friends could have seen the change in me. My heart rate increased, breathing grew shallower and more rapid, I felt my muscles tense and begin to shake as waves of nausea rose wet higher in my throat. On the outside, though, I was just a very quiet, shy fellow passenger. At worst, perhaps a touch nervous about flying. None of my airport neighbors would have guessed that I was experiencing a panic attack.

So, how do you know when someone around you is having a panic attack? Here are the common symptoms. If you think you notice any of them, ask. 

(Source: http://www.divineglowinghealth.com/how-do-you-know-its-a-panic-attack/)

Now that you know your friend is having a panic attack...what do you do? Check out this great article on ways to respond. For my part, I'll just say that I like being touched by certain people, encouraged to talk, and even reasoning through the things that are causing me anxiety. But, if you're not sure what to do, ASK!! 

Hope this is helpful. Drop me a line and let me know of any topics you'd like me to cover in the future!

I Will Not Tell My Daughter She is Pretty

Now, before you join the lynch mob, hear me out. And know that I truly believe that my daughter and sons will be beautiful and handsome, respectively.

I will not tell my daughter that she is pretty or my son that he is handsome because I do not want their self-worth to come from their physical appearance. Likewise, I will not tell them that they are fat, slow, too short, too tall, etc. (Something tells me you're okay with that last part.) Instead, I will tell them that they are smart, that they are good at things, that they worked hard, but most importantly that they are loved, forgiven, saved.

See, I firmly believe that my children's sense of identity and worth should come from the fact that they are saved, that Jesus chose to die for them, for me, for all of us. There was a time when I argued against the articles saying that you shouldn't tell your daughter she is pretty because her worth should come from her faith. There was a time that I believed they could coexist. There was a time that I believed that I was successfully drawing my worth from both my faith and my beauty.

Then, my counselor asked me why I had never (with one notable exception) physically fought back any of the numerous times I was sexually assaulted, even though I do not fear pain and have physically defended friends. I was stumped. Why hadn't I punched, scratched, kicked, bit, any of the hundreds of self-defense options I'd been taught in school? In fact, why had I repeatedly allowed myself to be alone with men I did not trust? I couldn't answer. Then, he asked me the most important question I've ever been asked: "Aren't you worth more than what your body can offer?" 

That is why I will not tell my daughter that she is pretty. I want her to know that she is worth more than any boy (or girl) looking at her outward appearance could ever know. Even more, I want her to want people to see past her appearance. Mostly, though, I do not want her to believe so deeply, so innately, that her worth stems from what she can offer physically that she may say no and refuse to consent, but also refuse to physically fight back against sexual assault.

The Importance of Touch

This morning, a friend, Tyler, messaged me. I thought nothing of it, though we hadn't talked in awhile. Then I asked how he was, and his response told me that there was a reason he had reached out to me this morning. Last night, a friend of his committed suicide. I froze as a chill ran through my entire body.

Let me back up here for a minute. I "met" Tyler through my personal blog shortly after attempting suicide. I told Ty the whole story, even though he was essentially a stranger, and his Christian perspective, even from thousands of miles away, was a big step on the road to recovery for me. So, when he lost someone he loved to suicide, I wanted to help.

I have composed several texts. Some simply said "I'm sorry" over and over again. Some attempted to explain that his friend didn't do it to hurt him and likely didn't think Ty would be hurt anyway. Some offered the thought that the suffering of this world was over for his friend, and that heaven is coming for those left to grieve. I haven't sent any of them. Nothing I can say is enough. To be honest, nothing I can find in the Bible is enough. (Yes, I realize how controversial that idea is, particularly on a Christian ministry blog.) Sometimes, pain is just beyond words.

There is something you can do, though. I remember reading somewhere that the average person needs at least eight positive physical touches per day in order to be healthy. Think about it - how often do you give or receive positive physical touch each day? We each have a responsibility: offer positive touch. However, I would also challenge you to ask for positive touch from trusted people in your life.

Today, I pledge to ask for and offer at least one positive touch. It's not much, but it's a start. What will you do? (And I sincerely hope that someone who actually knows Ty in person reads this and offers him a hug.)

Milestone!!

I have a MAJOR milestone to share with y'all. A week and a half ago, my therapist announced that he thought I was ready to begin weaning off of therapy. And I was excited! Not nervous, not depressed, not anything negative, just excited. My last day of therapy is March 26th - one day after the one year anniversary of my suicide attempt. And then, the week from hell began....

Tuesday, I accomplished nothing I needed to thanks to various friend and work emergencies, got lots of extra work dumped on me, and had a panic attack myself in the library over telling my father about my impending divorce.

Wednesday, I started to feel sick, which I just don't have time for right now.

Yesterday, I got a call at work. It was Mom, so I answered. She was crying, and struggled to tell me that a great man, who's been a grandfather figure to me, had passed away. I know we talked after that, but I have no memory of the conversation. I know that one of my students came over to ask a question, but I couldn't tell you what it was for anything. I was simply in shock.

I made plans to go home this weekend to see his family, as well as my own. Today, they were derailed by, you guessed it, snow and ice (seriously, is anyone in the contiguous US not getting this stuff???).

However, this is not a rant post. Because today, I realized that, in spite of everything challenging my mental health, I was still happy, healthy, and positive. I realized that my therapist and my best friend were both right - I was "better." With the help of God and family/friends (really, those words are interchangeable at this point), I can handle absolutely anything thrown my way.

The conversation with my best friend upon telling him that I was weaning off of counseling. He said that what he'd told me last spring was coming full circle:

Happy New Year???

Given the state of my personal life, I've heard more New Year's platitudes this year than ever before.
"New year, new you!"
"Time for a fresh start!"
"Everything can be different this year!"

With all due respect to the people who told me those things, they are bald-faced lies. Now don't get me wrong - I firmly believe in the power of choosing to start over. However, there is nothing magical or inherently more powerful about the new year. You remain the person you were when you entered. My past has not suddenly changed or disappeared.

That being said, I have decided to make some alterations to my life this year. I'll be updating you as we go along, letting you know at least one change per week until I run out of changes. This week, that change is a book.

It's no secret that my faith has been wavering, thanks to my life circumstances. (More on that later.) But when I received The Bible in Rhyme by Kyle Holt from my mother for Christmas, I decided to give it a try. After all, it couldn't hurt, right?

Wrong. I am a poet, by both nature and schooling. The rhyming scheme (and its frequent misses) often grate on my nerves. But it's cute, fun, easy to read. I have consumed more of the Bible in the past three days than I usually achieve with the standard "I'll read at least four chapters a day" kind of resolution.

The Bible in Rhyme has also forced me to think about what I'm reading in a way that reading the standard Bible never has. The author has made a concerted effort to capture a cohesive, overarching story, which ash forced him to omit some details and to explain the relevance of stories that interrupt the overarching narrative.

Should this Bible be your only Bible? Absolutely not. However, if the original text is hard for you to get through, difficult for you to understand, or in some other way prohibitive to your reading it, give this a try. Thus far, at least, it seems to be a great way to get to know the general story without getting bogged down in difficult language, incoherent measurements, or genealogies that do not carry the meaning to modern readers that they would have to the original hearers.

What are you doing to change yourself or your circumstances this year? What do you think of New Year's resolutions?

Blanket Cocoon

Tonight, I write to you from the comfort of my blanket cocoon, long after I should have been asleep. But sleep isn't likely to come tonight. See, today I proofread legal documents that will change my life forever. Tonight, I realized that I've exhausted all other options known to me. And yet I hate it. Yet I fight it. Yet I wonder why I'm not worth fighting for.

But even in the sleeplessness, there's a kind of peace. There is no turn to self injury.

Today, I realized some difficult things about my future. But today I also realized that I won't face it alone. And for that, I'm truly thankful.