on stalking: a worst, for today.

You know what I think is the worst thing? aside from not being able to find words anymore to get to the bottom of what might be the worst thing today, as opposed to yesterday's worst, or what might be tomorrow's...

I'm grateful for pinpricks of grief in mercifully small doses, as time passes and resolute denial softens little by little.

But I think the worst thing (today, and most days) is this:

We're wired for connection. While strolling through the grocery store amid a sea of unfamiliar faces, our most instant and natural reaction to a familiar face is to consider it familiar in the unpredictable, nondaily lights, sounds, paths - our instinct is to connect. We don't even realize we're doing it, really, or what it means to us, but we anchor ourselves to the process and the faces, and in some small way, the light shines from us, even if only long enough for a passing hello, perhaps moving our carts to the side and chatting about weather, or parents, or reports due, or clients, or car troubles. Each familiar face we see is, in some small way, a mirror in which we see ourselves constantly scanning for connectedness, and that drive -  to join, to relate to, to belong with - is practically inherent, even (perhaps more) in the most introverted souls.

The worst thing is the way this drive dies.

It dies constantly. Daily.

I can't put into words for you what it does to you, while you're walking through the grocery store and you realize if you see this person's face, it is solely because this person has shown up to to kill you. No other reason.

No words for knowing that, if you see That Person's Face, you'll have to kill first (not strike, but kill; how does a normal person even wrap a mind around this?), because if you don't, that person will. And if they don't kill you then, they'll try again. They'll never stop. There are no words for the feeling of a nonviolent person forcing him/herself to imagine That Person's Face around every grocery-store corner, in every parking lot, lest they ever be caught off-guard; there are no words for the times when you make yourself roll over in bed and look at the dim corner of your bedroom, imagine them standing there, walk yourself through the quickfire motions of physical defense.

It may seem like fixation, but it's not: there's no other way for the nonviolent person to ever be ready for a violent person's attack, other than to force him/herself to operate in the mindset of a violent person. There's no way to deal with a stalker, other than to seemingly fixate, to try to stay one step ahead of a crazy person in a dance that makes no sense whatsoever.

No words for the way the human drive to extend oneself and belong becomes the human drive to connect in order to dominate and survive anything necessary. No words for the way our drive to connect morphs into something dark and snarling. No map back to the way things were before.

There are no words to express how this set of realities upends everything you know about the world, and everyone therein; no words for how this particular brand of evil makes you realize that, though you'd previously brushed against it, you've never before been in the thick of its menace, never once shriveled in agony, until now. I don't know what to do with this evil in which I was forced to participate. I can't shake it; can't get clean.

And I know I got "lucky," according to some standards; I'm lucky to be alive, and I know I'm lucky that, as far as I know, my stalker has moved on. And I know that, hey, it's not like you spent time in a war zone or something, or it's not like they ever tied you to a chair for days.

I know.

But I still feel ruined. Absolutely ruined. Dead to myself before all this. Helpless to explain it in any way that makes sense to anyone outside myself. Helpless before words, at all.

sexism-itis, and "What We All Do When Nobody's Home."

[this is written with no one in particular in mind; it's a response to a composite of events that have happened in general. so relax.]

____________

Things are a little messy right now. To the point where we can all kinda laugh at it (I hope). 

Lately, I'm not prone to discussion or graceful acceptance. If you know me well, you know (hopefully) that this is not my norm; I hate feeling so volatile, and so guilty for it. I'm told it'll pass, and good god, it'd better, because more often than not, lately, I really can't stand myself, and I hardly blame you if you can't, either. I miss my objectivity; I miss the parts of me that invested in making sure everyone felt heard, not as much for the sake of kum-ba-ya as for the fact that safety, openness, and vulnerability are the foundation of real, honest communication, and within that framework is where real dialogue, real connection, real bonds occur, when people really challenge each other, and really learn from each other, all within a context that values safety and respect. All coffee-table talk of world-changing ideas aside: this place is where the world changes. 

Admittedly, I'm dealing with the after-effects of a lot of trauma right now, and it informs the way I interact with most things. I am apparently a poster child for post-traumatic stress; when, on the advice of a therapist, I read the following description, I actually laughed out loud in half delight/half relief/half horror (it's math, you see): 

they should edit this to add "extremely scattered writing"

So, yeah, when we're discussing a topic that can be as touchy as sexism, I'm coming at it from a disadvantage right now, because lately, if I am nothing else, I am touchy, if by touchy, I actually mean irrationally, explosively murderous. Something to work on. 

________

I know there will always be people who consider a feminist resistance to sexism overreacting; there's always going to be someone who will call me a dyke for offering my name and saying you can call me Lisa, not 'sweetheart.' Always be guys who, upon first meeting a well-spoken woman with a strong personality, will immediately think I bet she's a great lay and will value her solely at that level. Always be that guy who decides to ratchet up his rage because you dared loudly call him out for being grabby. Always be rapists.  Yeah, the lines between all these behaviors are thinner, and more blurred, than you'd think. And maybe it's defeatist, but I honestly don't see these things changing.

And I really don't get bent out of shape over it often (and, just so we're all on the same page: calling it out when it happens is not the same thing as getting bent out of shape). I'm a freakin chef working in the freakin food industry; if every person needling me with sexist humor truly got under my skin, I'd have track marks from here to you. 

When it comes to sexism, I find that I've somehow shifted from think what you like, and please feel free to tell me about it, so we can dialogue and learn from each other to think what you like, and keep it to your damn self. 

Because a lot has happened to me. Some recent, some not; some of it is your business, and some of it isn't. I don't bring it up, because I'm not fit to discuss it right now. So that's on me. 

But my instantly-angry reaction when someone attempts to shame me (that's what you get) for being angry with jokes at a system of treatment that makes things like dyke and groping and rape and denied opportunities okay, a system that necessitates I demand to be called by my own name and not whatever sexy nickname someone else dreams up for me: 

What I would say to The Universal You is: Think what you want, but keep it to yourself, for the foreseeable future. 

Because whether you want to believe it or not: Depending on your background (everyone's is different), there's a lot of complication in being born a girl, and there's a lot of conflict in being raised in a tradition that constantly tells you you're inferior.

Can you imagine it? Being born to a father who penalizes you for how you operate as a person - he sees it as in spite of your gender, while you see it as the skin you live in. To this day, you're penalized for complicating his life, his sense of order, his hard-held ideas; you're penalized for being the face of his fascinated hatred for women; although there are no "good" women in his world, you, in particular, just won't behave.

Can you imagine it? Being born to a mother with narrow ideas of femininity, who rejects. 

Can you imagine it? Growing up in a culture that prizes your compliance, while despising and/or sexualizing your power. Your niceness, while despising the way your point of view complicates the big picture. Your virginity while despising your sexuality. Your beauty, while vilifying or penalizing you for it.

Joke at me about it. Go ahead. I'll wait right here. Every time, Universal You, you resent me and want me to bear the burden for your discomfort when I don't laugh. Every time it's just emotionally, physically easier to force a chuckle and don't make a thing, just let it pass. 

Would you ask a Black person to laugh at a "nigger" joke?

Would you chide him or her to "lighten up" at references about separate drinking fountains or monkey jokes?

Would you expect him or her to laugh at your joking about a Latino person's unsuitability for a particular job, by virtue of ethnicity?

Would you expect them to grant you a courtesy chuckle, for your own sake, so you can absolve yourself of knowing that you're behaving like a person who makes light of generations of oppression and torment?

Would you dismiss their disdain with geez, so touchy; that's just how They are?

This has nothing to do with anything; it just makes me laugh.

You're not making a joke, Universal You. You're making light of some of the most painful, and most formative, themes of my life; you're making light of the work it takes to shed those themes and become who I really am. Those themes don't mean the same to you, and that's fine. But The crux of it is: It doesn't matter if I know you don't mean it. It's not about you. It's about what you're saying, and what it means to me. And you don't get to decide what things mean to me; you don't get to bank on your reputation as a "nice person" mitigating the horror what you're joking about. Most important advice, for anything, anywhere: Consider your audience. 

And, like so many things that have happened in my recent life, this is all I ask: If you can't understand, then believe me when I tell you. 

My days of welcoming dialogue on this subject are done, or, at least, suspended. Because while part of me knows that there's still so much talking to be done, and really, that's where my heart is - most of me is just plain damn NOT TALKING ABOUT THIS ANYMORE IN TWO THOUSAND FREAKING THIRTEEN. 

That is all. 

And if you've read this, and are now shaking your head at my overreactions to things that are harmless: don't ever tell me so. 

chef coats, corn, catalina, and cheese: the bright lights of the publix.

Sometimes, you have to go to the grocery store, and, if you're anything like my mother, it's a huge chore that you bear because you'd rather not listen to husbands complain about things like stomach growling or eggs for supper? or I want a coffee cake or I ate all the cashews or did Lisa take that fresh mozzarella with her? (yup.)

But, if you're like me, you don't always mind wandering through the store, although, lately, since I'm not in a kitchen of my own, I don't have much time or space to plan projects like I once did - I can't drench the air with ghee-toasted garam masala, ginger, garlic, and I can't really take up half the kitchen with a complete feast of Indian food because why only make chicken tikka masala (which I know, yes, it's British) when you could also make naan and raita and palak paneer and mango chutney and gulab jamun because don't be a pansy, if you're gonna do it, then doooo iiiiiiiiiit, and I can't really monopolize the entire counter with a series of sourdough projects, carefully monitoring their yeasty progress, imagining they offer up little yeep yeep yeeps every time I peek under the plastic and press their supple little fat rolls, but it's okay, because someday, hopefully soon. I've spent the past few years couch-surfing; I'm not sure what I'll do, when I stand in a quiet, empty kitchen which looks back at me expectantly.

But anyway. Even if I can't lose myself in a million inane little projects, I can wander around the grocery store and imagine.

And bump into those people who stop in the middle of the aisle with their carts, to mentally weigh each brand of catalina dressing against the other, because, you know, there might be one Holy Grail kind of bright orange goo, superior to all others. Maybe.

And see that guy stride past the end of the aisle, stout and gruff-looking, probably my age, carrying a bouquet of soft yellow flowers and a card, and he stops his quick-step stride before an endcap of cookies, considers for a bit, picks up a bag, and smiles a little as he resumes.

And listen to the chatty little toddler in the cart pushed by his dark, petite mom - she places a wedge of some cream-colored aged cheese beside him, and his little lips come together in a silent ooooh of delight, dark eyes light up, he chirps mama, is this cheese? and she chirps back, yes, it is, baby, and then, instantly, her voice drops twelve decibels: don't you bite it. 

And ask the sweet-looking employee do you happen to know, off the top of your head, if you guys carry freeze-dried corn? and his soft face, so young-looking that the stark black stubble on his chin has nowhere to hide, draws inward a little, his brow furrows over round brown eyes, and then the clouds lift as he replies oh, yeah, we do! we totally do! I think it's - pretty sure it's in the freezer section. That would be aisle twelve, and he's so pleased with his having helped me, and I almost start to explain no, freeze-dried, it would be in the dry goods, it's not a froz - but shut up, Alton Brown, so I smile and thank him.

And the teenage girl in the throes of The Awkward, dressed in schoolgirl uniform skirt, polo, cardigan, trudging along, shooting daggers at the floor, behind a mother briskly pushing a cart, a mother who reminds me of my own. I swear, if I could just choose life activities by the day, I would like to make a day of cradling the faces of awkward teenage girls in my hands and invoking the immovable way I have, sometimes, when I'm almost impossible to disbelieve, because I simply will not hear otherwise: You are incredible, in all the ways you think you aren't. It's obvious how intelligent you are. I bet you're great at math. People would kill for your hair. Your hands are beautiful. Stop apologizing for yourself. Own your space. It's all yours, rightfully so.

And the guy in the chef coat. Who knows if he's a chef. But he had dark hair, and dark eyes, and wore really nice jeans, and he wore that coat, and I don't even care why, because yes, Chef. We kept walking past each other in the aisles, and it was almost a little awkward - probably from me, because chef coat!! and have I mentioned that I'm a sucker for anything that accentuates a man's shoulders? A suit jacket; a nice button-down; a fitted chef coat, and I forfeit social graces. Occasionally, I notice that I avoid eye contact with attractive men; I'll reject you before you reject or hurt me. It's a stupid habit.

And then, I'm repeatedly almost mowed down by the guy in the produce department, wearing fleshy elastic shorts and a torn Riverbend T-shirt, smelling of body odor, with greasy hair, who kept asking me where the bell peppers were. And then I think sometimes stupid habits come in real handy as I stare at the floor and stride toward the bakery to make pointed conversation with the lady behind the counter about unsliced Italian bread until he goes away.

And the really attractive older woman - maybe late 50s? - dressed impeccably, simply, classily, in perfect-fitting jeans, a black V-neck T-shirt, small black flats, blond hair (too perfect to be natural) in a perfect, smooth bob, with simple, classy silver earrings and bracelet. And I can't help but think if you pay so much attention to successfully looking so beautiful, how can you be so oblivious to the fact that I have almost mowed you down, like, five times because you keep stopping in the middle of the aisle to compare catalinas? Maybe she thought I was looking for the bell peppers.

People-watching: the only acceptable stalking.

pen/sword

It's common:

When you walk away from the casket - after
steeling yourself against the unnatural waxen stillness
of a face you knew in emotion, after noting, from
some morbid need to confirm, the lack of twitching
behind the eyes, after searching for the lipsticked lip-stitches muting the departed eternity
of an empty shell - we imagine the cold-wash terror, morbid
that we are, were were to catch a single flutter; we, ourselves, evoke
the feeling of frigid fluid in our bones, and we breathe it away as we
turn back to the faces of the living, make our solemn processional
through the fragrance of a thousand slain gardens, dead thorns clutched in hand.

It's common: We don't cry for those who have left. We cry
for the survivors. We cry for the supple momentum
of those who collapse a little into the void
left by someone whose existence was, in some way,
pressed side-to-side with our own,
until they weren't.

_________

It is a numbing thing, to give up
when you have to defend everything you say,
or when everyone's words
serve as fodder, as springboards for rebuttal,
for responses or open letters or rebukes.

As a writer, I feel like I'm dying. And it's so much easier
to die a slow death, continue determined dogged
one-foot-in-front-of-the-other, and not offer
a word along the way, as funeral-stitched lips lie still
while I shrink, while I hide myself
in smaller and smaller clothes
and offer nothing
where words
serve as fodder for, or springboards for, or rebuttal against,
or "responses" or "open letters" or rebukes.
It's tiring to read; it's tiring to abstain. The board is tired
against your toes
when what I have
is what broke my heart.

and anymore, it hardly seems worth 

the trouble

when we don't listen much anymore, 

when every word is a weapon, 

when someone out there is, right now, evaluating

these words 

as simplistic stupid whiny ugly childish mumbo jumbo hissy fit

and I'm breathless.

when I say "I feel as though
everything I was before
is dead; I am barely in this body anymore," and
the dreaded emo is thrown out, and
isn't that just the bitch of Pinterest, that
what was, at one time, soul-deep expressions
of genuine devastation
have been turned commonplace, into filtered pictures
of pretty girls lying in groups
in large fields, or roads.

when I say I really don't know
what to call God anymore, and it scares me and
my own instincts clamor with large, leather-bound books
open to pages interpreted to accuse:

postmodern,

individualism,

spiritual-not-religious, 
unchurched. 
not real. not good. not enough. 

I've always had an intact core, always, and
any attack or defense was peripheral in nature. But my core, thirty-odd
years in the making, is beginning to die
of the embryonic words suckling at me, demanding me, refusing to take form, refusing
to emerge and infuse my action with purpose; dying of the rage
that inflames me to boiling, collecting me
like steam on a window, stitched lips
bulging against the strain of everything unintelligible. I have no defense.

Any of it is hardly worth writing anymore, bad poetry aside.

give it a rest...

... in short. 

It's easy to get caught up in the work of The Rebuild, after horror. Change. Healing. I want it now; I want to be over this; I don't want to be the pathetic figure any longer; I want myself back - the parts that loved people without reservation, welcomed them into my life, bore their hurts and fed their faces in my kitchen with mismatched chairs. Recovering from a stalker is like surviving a Mafia hit: the cement shoes didn't drag me to the depths, but chipping them off feels as though it's taking forever. And walking in them feels even slower.

But even when I don't feel as though I am, I'm still moving forward. It happens to all of us, even when we don't realize it. In the words of the great Dolly Parton as Truvy Jones: Time marches on, and, eventually, you realize it's marchin' across yo' face. 

(This is not that clip; I just figure that some banter between Ouiser and Clairee is appropriate in any situation. Have I mentioned that one of my many talents is that I could probably perform every part in this entire movie by myself? Yeah. Proud of that one.)

I get caught up in criticizing my reactions - the rage at injustice, the exhaustion of suppression, the bone-deep guilt of feeling wounded at peoples' terrible reactions - it's all overwhelming, and I try to fast-forward the process. Vacillate between submerging myself in it to hurry it along and completely withdrawing it, to test whether or not I can "be normal" again, with my pre-2012 self as the litmus. 

But you can't reclaim a life by beating yourself with all the ways in which your life will never be the same. 

Things change. I changed. 

Okay. 

The struggle is real, but it's not my identity. 

Because if I'd never experienced the horrible 2012 - things I talk about, things I don't, things I won't - I'd still be searching for meaning. My life would still be different than it was two years ago. Because that's what happens. Things change. You've changed. Me, too. And while it's true that surviving violent crime raises the stakes a bit, exchanging one life-consuming goal - staying alive - for another one - the quest for The Meaning Of It All - isn't healthy. Even the quest for goodness can get myopic. 

And so, the moments of goodness that don't need to be ferreted out:

Accompanied my mother to St. Pete for her birthday lunch; we drank prosecco and ate little bits of chicken marsala and lobster roll and meatball sub and caprese panini, and pignoli cookies. I am grateful for the sensory memories of basil, pine nuts, fresh mozzarella, amaretto that ground me to a history which, though fraught with its own obstacles, will always exist completely outside the events of the past two years. The irony, that this moment of immunity occurred two blocks from the house where the madness began (and, I presume, continues to occur). 

Plotting the next six weeks' worth of baking for work. Brainstorming ideas. Preparing to whittle them down from Ooooh That Would Be Gorgeous And Delicious to Let's Be Reasonable to Stop It; That Is Not Cost-Effective. I am grateful for a beautiful work environment, grateful to be part of a team of very real, very human people who provide informed input and facilitate creative freedom.  

A perfect afternoon: cool weather, rain falls, my window is open, my room smells like sky-damp trees. I lie in my bed and marvel that I am lying in a bed, beside an open window, totally without fear. I recall one year ago, the nausea of inwardly preparing myself for physical defense, should the need arise; I am grateful for peace in my life (and a home with an alarm system). 

Friends and I texting and messaging simultaneously. While I should be driving. While I should be baking. While I should be reading that novel on which I frivolously dropped $25. I am grateful for friends who know me just as I am, who don't think of me in terms of I wish she were more or less; I am grateful for bursts of companionship with people who bear no agendas. 

I am grateful for the warm presence of good men, and the unexpected, unique peace it provides. 

Acknowledging this hopeful moment: My life repaired, in part. It’s a very different life, with huge lingering questions. But right now, there is peace. Laughter. Room to breathe. Room to store the big questions, for now. Without worrying about safety, or reputation, or unearned consequence. 

Life is much, much better than it could be. 

And now: enough of this crap; where's the rest of my meatball sub. That is all. 

diving dread, and the intoxication of "why."

[reposted]

Have you ever felt dread?

I’m not talking about fear. Fear is immediate; fear kicks in when you’re faced with imminent danger. A mugger with a gun; a stranger in your house. I’m talking about dread. Dread is persistent. It gnaws at you. It consumes feelings with its irrational sense of doom. You can’t ignore it. It just won’t go away. Dread has a long game. I think dread is, in its simplest form, worrying about the outcomes of that which you can’t possibly control.

And I think that’s the thing of it.

Every home-invasion victim… every wide-eyed, fear-gripped man on the wrong end of a gun… every rape victim pressed facedown against a floor… every person who has ever felt their world shrink under the widening menace of a stalker… every mother who has watched in horror as floodwaters washed away her babies… every driver of every car which has skidded off of any number of steep embankments….

One could argue that lives lived in specific debauchery can invite specific consequences – violence as a byproduct of criminal life, illness and bankruptcy as a result of heroin addiction, that sort of thing. But no matter how they lived their lives, I can’t ever believe that a single one of those aforementioned people deserve, invite, or otherwise attract the kind of blitzkrieg decimation that seems to fall out of the sky on the criminal or the soccer moms, the students or the strung-out dealers.

Every one of those aforementioned people, in their own ways, in their own dialects – all of them uttered the same bargaining chips in the heat of the moment. Every single one of them considered themselves, in the moment, worthy of begging for the sudden, crushing weight of chaos to be lifted off of them. Every single one of them thought that their moment of trauma – that moment when your body goes numb, when it seems everything lifts and dulls except for the shrill hold of a single note, the summation of everything you know of life, balanced on the tip of a knife, the pen-pointed scrawlings of a crazy person, shoved under your windshield wiper, the sour breath in your ear, the blind craze in wide eyes – was dire enough that, in those moments, there was nothing but the blade, and the God who hears the frenzied pleas of those whose lives pivot on an edge.

Every one of those people considered themselves strong or capable enough to alter the ending. The mother who tries to swim out into the floodwaters; the mugging victim who grabs for the gun; the father sidling around dark hallways corners wielding a baseball bat at 2 am. They can change the outcome. They’re strong. They’re good people. They can abort evil. God’s on their side. God gives them strength.

Sometimes, they prove themselves right. And sometimes, their world falls into blinding change. Sometimes, they’re shot, instead. Or drowned. Or raped. Or their screams of God, help me! turn unintelligible as their car somersaults toward the bottom of the ravine.

There is nothing so special or extraordinary about any one of us that we should expect anything other than what's waiting for us on that edge. There is no strength of character, or level of determination, or amount of personal insight, that matters. And I cannot help but find God's intent in tragedy totally capricious.

God's not against you, but when your number comes up, nothing will save you.

Blasphemous words? I don't know. I never thought I'd write them. But no matter what you believe, they're true. I don't say them flippantly. I say them hesitantly, with the reverence they deserve. I'm aware of what I'm tiptoeing around. I don't like being here, either. So don't jump my case.

I just want to know: Why is the question of why such a totally different question this time around?

I used to think that dread comes unannounced. And now, I think it’s the predictable, surmountable part of an unannounced terror. Dread is the hope, somehow. Because dread is anticipation, and anticipation is the first spark of a game plan. And because hope, like dread, often comes unannounced, and innoculates our darkness with a bit of irrational optimism.

Somehow, unexpectedly, dread is a small comfort.

donkeys, rope-burn, and crazy, stupid grace.

When I was around 25 years old, someone told me that I live a life of struggle, and that it wasn't normal or necessary. 

They framed it as a question, which quickly snowballed into a series of sharper, more irritated questions: why do you live a life of such struggle when it's not normal, and it's not necessary? why do you always have such terrible things on your mind? why do you always seem to be dealing with such awful things? more than any other person I know. do you enjoy it, or something? 

On one hand: Reminiscing upon my 25-year-old self, I can't really disagree. I had a lot of baggage to deal with; some of it, from my childhood, was beyond my control, while some of it, accumulated in my young adulthood, was due to my own choices. I didn't have a great sense of forward regarding processing painful experiences; my personality is bulldog-stubborn and controlling in that, once I realized that I had some power over the painful experiences, I became a little obsessive in delving to the depths and trying to understand them fully from the bottom up. I want to have a handle on it. I want to beat it. I will beat it. And beat it, and beat it, and beat it, if I have to. I will kill this thing. 

This isn't necessarily unhealthy, but it can be. Some of my reasons for obsessively exploring my pain were guilt-born: Surely there's a lesson here. I have to find it. I have to find the meaning. This has to mean something. God must be trying to tell me something. I'm not hearing it. What am I doing wrong. Must work harder; most probe more deeply; must listen harder. 

The fact is: Painful experiences can never really be laid to rest. They'll always be painful. Always. Continuing to poke at the bruises, in the sincere interest of healing, exploration, and even inspiration, can creep toward anchoring one's identity in one's previous victimhood, which is, at times, a line I occasionally crossed without realizing it. The line's different for everyone, and I've thankfully backed away from mine.

On the other hand. 

The center of those words was good, but there were too many words, and the meaning became a little of what it shouldn't. The words were offered briefly, and not in a full context. They spoke to my immediate coping habits, but my entire history also heard them, and every little girl I was, at every age, at the hands of every indignity, flinched to hear those words as an indictment. And the adult me flinched to hear those words in light of the very real difficulties I bore on behalf of those girls - the concrete facts of personal responsibility for problems that I had worked to fully own, that I might fully outgrow them. 

Those words hurt. They shamed, and catted, and invalidated. They came from the heart of a person intending good, but whose personal frustrations sullied their attempts to speak truth into what they viewed as my shortcomings. They lumped everything of mine in one ugly clump of inappropriate. They spoke from the perspective of a person whose experiences with and definition of "hardship" were valid, but differed from mine. 

I actually forgot all about them, until recently, as the stress of the past few weeks wore down my ability to be normal, do what's necessary, shut the terrible things out of my mind, not deal with the awful things. Just be. Just do, and as I slid toward the end of my rapidly-fraying rope, hands burning, I thought to myself, why am I doing this? why do I feel so horribly, horribly guilty for the past two years? why am I dealing with such terrible th - and then, I remembered. Oh. That. 

Huh. 

_____

Don't you just feel better when you operate out of a sense of grace? when you hear the words that are spoken to you through what you know of the person's intent, rather than through the clamor of your own bustling, chipped bravado? 

The person who said those words to me: I know their intent. That person loved me. They wanted good things for me. They also didn't particularly like me, felt insecure around me; maybe it felt good for them to stick it to me a little, for reasons that will always be their own. But it doesn't matter how the bruise got there: all that matters, now, is that those words have become one of those bruises that I have to stop poking. They're the first words to fly up behind my eyelids every time I breathe deeply to process some new thing which, really, I'd rather not find myself needing to process, thank you very much. They silence me. And that's stupid. 

Many of the worst things that people have said to me over the past eighteen months have sincere origins. You can probably remember times when the same has been true of what people have said to you. Recognizing that the state of your heart can affect your hearing isn't excusing the wrong in what people say; I guess, maybe, it's choosing to humble yourself enough to recognize that you're not above bearing the offense inflicted by a fellow human being; it's choosing to assign greater value the right in what they say. It's hand-in-hand with evaluating the truth of the message before considering the source and intent. Even a donkey can say cool things. [I feel like I've read that somewhere.]

I guess it's an equal-responsibility thing: Be careful with your words; and, maybe even more importantly, be careful, little ears, how you hear. And may grace abound on both sides. Because, as exhausting as it may sound to purposefully administer grace to the people in your life who have hurt you, it's even more exhausting to withhold it. 

If you're asking me why so much struggle? - believe me, I don't know. I know others whose lives have also included lots of personal struggles, and they don't know why, either. If you don't understand it, consider yourself lucky, and keep the judgy-judgy to a minimum. And maybe throw calzones at me (good ones, or I'm throwing them back). 

As I find myself in a completely different wilderness - one in which I feel as though my entire foundation has crumbled, and the path forward holds none of the hope and innate optimism I've had the energy to conjure previously - it's like being sucked under salt water, surfacing long enough for one quick, ineffective gulp of air before crashing beneath again. It is, amusingly, like an incredibly busy meal service - the thirty seconds or so when the board is clear, and you have just enough time to restock three-quarters of your empties, gulp some water, and maybe change one bandaid before the onslaught begins again. [and crap, did I throw away the old bandaid? yes. whew.]

All I know is that grace, in ridiculous, torrid, nonsensical abundance, for others, and for myself, is the surest way out. 

seven pictures.

1. My grandmother and I are sitting at the church piano. I am six, she is age unknown. My grandmother's hawkish Italian nose is squinched upward, hoisting her bifocals level with her pupils. Her upper teeth remain exposed to the air as she pounds out songs to Jesus, head lurching up and down between music and keyboard as though a misplaced note will cause Earth's atmosphere to suck her directly off the stage and into the wall. The dry clickety click of her nails against the ivory reminds me of Berlioz's Symphonie Fantastique, in which skeletons dance to a juxtaposition of sacred Dies Irae and pagan witch song. My pigtails are festooned with ribbons, one pink, one lavender, and my head is tilted to the side, soft chin forward, eyes caught wide in a moment of unselfconscious amusement, and I'm smiling at the thought that her teeth may actually fall out of her mouth, which is not something I'd ever witnessed, but I knew they were fake. We are buddies, we are pizza pals, we are needful friends.

2. 1982, according to the scrawl on the back of the picture; I am not two years old. My father and I lie on the floor under a blanket. Our customary position is an arrangement on the couch wherein he lays on his side, legs bent at the knee, and I burrow between the knees and couch with blankets in order to create an environment known as "The Nest." In this picture, though, we are on the floor, and the story goes that we are both sick with the flu, which is no reason to nest on the floor, but anyway. His arm is under my head and he whispers to me. His eyes are alight with a dark-haired, puppy-eyed baby girl in pajamas. My face is upturned with the attentiveness of a person formulating a good response, even then. He is thirty-two, I am not two, and for now we are in love.

3. It is Christmas morning circa 1994. Gifts are opened, exhausted bodies puddle in chairs, and Wiggy the cockapoo takes center floor beside the horrible glass and goldtone coffee table, which is no less tacky than our mint-green house in a neighborhood awash in beige. We begged, we all pleaded with my mother, beige? cream? ecru? maybe a nice brown mustard with brick trim? to no avail and our neighbors declined to bring us welcome baskets. Currently a Puerto Rican family owns the house and they've chosen a bright melon hue while having kept my mother's kelly-green shutters. But this picture is Christmas morning circa 1994, and Wiggy pants in crinkled-paper excitement. She is adorned with green collar bells, red nail polish, and a gold crepe paper hat. Her humans are together, the atmosphere is relaxed, the air smells of hot meat and fruit, there are things which squeak and smell like newness, and she's just happy to smile at the human holding the small flashing thing in front of her face.

4. It is the year 2000. My brother's wedding. My parents are posing for a picture in front of a huge landscaped oak. They have been rawly divorced for nearly two years. My mother stands unyielding, one arm stiffly around my father's back as she looks straight at the camera without smiling, eager to pull away from this man who follows her and sorts through her trash. He, for his part, is every inch the pastor, The Authority Of God Rests With Me, feet planted wide, arm snugly around my mother's waist (you are still my wife), the assertive yes! great! yes! hallelujah! smile. This is a happy occasion and we are happy! In this photo my mother is dying from the inside out while my father's blank eyes shine because they have to, and it's painful to view.

5. It is March 1981, and an infant with a full head of shiny dark hair is slouched in an infant chair on the couch. Overnight, a huge purple welt has appeared between Baby's upper lip and nose. It's fine, just a birthmark, the pediatrician assures the hyperventilating mother. One year later, Baby will drop a huge can of corn on her toe and this rich purple will appear beneath the right big toenail, the mother will hyperventilate, the pediatrician will reassure as she aspirates the trapped blood with a big honkin needle. The purple toenail will remain for the next six months. For six months Baby will violently refuse the removal of her right sock under any circumstances; her foot swishing back and forth in the bathtub and the strange, congested feeling of water seeping through thick sock material. There will be times when she will wish to wear a sock over her upper lip.

6. The young family, circa 1984. The mother, pale and soft-looking, pretty. The father, the commercial artist, rough-handed, half-smiling, moustache and hair in workaday disarray. Memories of my father are always clad in denim and plaid flannel, rough whiskers pushing, and I remember the smell of my father's return from work, solvents and sweat and musty basement. I imagine that my brother is awash in this smell as he leans against my father's shoulder. Little girl in the mother's lap, little boy in the father's, children in mid-fidget, a perfect candid capture on film. My father has mailed me this photo during my first year in college and has scrawled on the back, "Simpler times. Remember them." These are not simple times for everyone in this photo; he just doesn't know it.

7. 1997, I think. The music department of the Lois Cowles Harrison Center for the Performing Arts and Music have been loaded onto three charter buses and are making our way to a week-long stay in New York City. We are en route to or from in this picture, and the window behind me is dark. I am turned in my seat to face the friends with cameras. A small stuffed Elmo doll in my right hand serves as microphone and I am belting out Mariah Carey's "Hero" at the top of my lungs as my friends cackle and snap photos. Chorus teacher Mrs. McLaurin bellows "THERE IS TO BE NO SINGING ON THIS BUS" and we laugh hysterically, because we are teenagers on a cross-country bus in the middle of the night and everything, everything is hilarious. There are later pictures of me sucking on Elmo's eyeball, others of fifteen people piled into two seats, and still more of me with a strange configuration of Bugle crackers taped to my nose.

'self-indulgent emo kids with lentils' - not a larry david-produced sitcom.

Sometimes - and it's not, like, this big thing - but sometimes, you just need a week to fall apart. When the house is empty, and the huge, looming, beautiful stress-ball of a best friend's wedding has passed, and you take a couple of deep breaths, and everything that you've been straining to exhaustion to keep out of your brain for the past few months comes crashing in from the moment you walk in the door after your trip. And you just go for it. You let it come. You poke at it like a bruise, and pick at it like a scab, and questions that have been chewing on your brainstem for months, you grab them by the shoulders and let them scream into your face, scream right back, wrestling broken-hipped with realities like it's so much harder to be back in Florida than I ever thought it would be, and where is God, what do I really think, should I say it out loud, I lose if I don't, and I lose if I do, and I am so tired of losing people, and for as many times as you've heard the phrase "stalking can affect every aspect of your life for years down the road, emotionally/mentally, socially, professionally, financially, even parts of your life that you never thought would be affected" - it is so fetal-position true. Oh, my god, is it true. 

This has nothing to do with lentils and everything to do with pear upside-down cake, the recipe for which I cannot give you. I'm horrible for teasing you, I know.

But here I am. And the script goes like this: 

I'm actually doing so much better than I could be. 

And this situation, to my knowledge, has resolved so much better than it could have. 

I'm doing a little worse than I want to be. 

I'm probably right where I should be. 

I'm so very grateful. And so lucky. 

I just wish I could get a grip on it. Wish I could distill it down to a two-sentence disclaimer for whenever it has to be addressed - smooth enough so as not to make the listener feel your angst, and succinct enough so as to not invite further discussion. Just part of life. 

I hate it. 

And yet, here I sit, writing about it, for you poor, fine folks who are shifting uncomfortably in your chairs because you're just here for the food. 

Have some lentils, emo kid. 

This is probably my favorite lentil dish in the entire world. There's nothing fancy about it at all; it's just a good, solid, full, warm, comforting dish, for the weeks when you fall apart a little. You don't have to dice your stuff as finely; sometimes, I just feel the need to chop things into tiny, tiny pieces, just because I can. Even though I don't do it nearly as well as I once did. 

Creamy Lentils with Greens
(I think I adapted this from a school recipe, but I can't really remember. Probably did.)

1 cup French lentils (pick through them to be sure there are no stones)

2 slices bacon, chopped

1/3 cup EACH diced carrot, celery, onion, and leek

2 cloves garlic, minced

1 1/2 cups stock (I've used chicken and vegetable, with good results)

1/2 cup cream

1 bay leaf

3 whole cloves

2 tbsp. red wine vinegar

2 tbsp. honey

Salt and pepper

Greens (arugula + spinach is my favorite with this)

Tomatoes, as desired

Place the bacon in a cold, medium-sized pot, and place over medium heat. Cook slowly, stirring occasionally, until bacon has released most of its fat and is crispy, about 20 minutes. 

Add your lentils and veggies and cook 3-4 minutes, stirring occasionally. 

Add stock, cream, cloves, and bay leaves. Bring to a simmer, reduce heat to low, cover, and cook until lentils are tender, about 45 minutes. (Start checking them for tenderness around the 30-minute mark, and add more stock or some water if necessary.)

Remove from heat, and remove cloves and bay leaf. Stir in vinegar, honey, salt, and pepper. Serve over greens with tomatoes. 

Don't use spring mix with these lentils. It was gross.  

a prayer of those who have been changed.

I seek to utter

a prayer of those who have been changed,

those who hold themselves to chairs, stained with sweat 

as great drops of blood, 

and seek to enter some holy of holies, 

but every single one of my thoughts becomes mired 

in a web of tangled overwhelm and rage, and I can't meditate

on pretty language to pretty it up for prettiness' sake, because it is, as I feel,

brutal; at least, I suspect it is, because

I can never get close enough to name its Origin.

I don't know You anymore, as I might have. Some might say

this is normal or healthy, that my view of You might evolve

as my life or personality does. Others say

that You are the ultimate constant. Or, that You should be.
Or, that you shouldn't be. 

My greatest clarity is found in what some might decry as sacrilege, 

which I cannot put down: 

I don't know who You are. 

Sometimes, I think I never really did. 

Sometimes, I think I imagined Your voice. Sometimes, I think

that I just wanted You to be there so badly, that

I imagined You were. 

Sometimes, I think You're breathtakingly cruel. 

That You set us up 

in a system we can never understand, 

playing a game, the big picture of which we cannot see, 

the trajectory of which carries us to eternal consequences that, once seen, can never be remedied, 

and that the only Way Out

is to believe in something that is, 

as You designed us, 

impossible for us to believe. 

and I cannot imagine, for the life of me, 

that this set-for-failure logic is that

of a loving parent; and, not for lack of trying, 

I cannot imagine that this is something

that can feel like a snug fit 

to anyone. 

This has never made sense to me, in years of smoothing it over; this

will never be resolved, for me. I can't do it. 

I am tired of trying to understand you. 

I am tired of guilt in the face of it's not meant for us to understand. 

I am tired of silence in the face of trust and obey.
I am tired of confusion in the face of though the (God-made) heart deceives. 

I am tired of seeing myself shrink in the distant, labored patience 

of those who believe

when I cannot. 

The word tired does not even approach how I feel

about faith

and despair

and responsibility 

and questions like at what point

do your actions invite those actions? at what point

did you, are you, will you, should you, shouldn't you? 

They're coming from inside me, 

but I thought You were there. So 

who is asking? The better question is: 

Anymore, who isn't asking? Of Your children, me included,

who isn't asking? And who dismisses this prayer 

as a curse? 

I wish, God, that I could give you up. 

I really, really do. I am done with you 

in my heart, and the idea of it

is the only thing, God help me (the irony), 

that brings any peace. 

Because it would be so much easier

to bear the weight of things

if I could only truly believe 

in the arbitrary, if I could see them

separate

from You, and what You allow. 

o god, my god, if only you had never expected me to believe

that you hold my life secure

in the palm

of a hand

with a hole in it. 

watching weddings, and wanting more chicken.

On Saturday, after months of planning (read: obsessing in spurts), my best friend, Elizabeth, married her boy, John. 

And I loved this wedding, perhaps more than any other shared moment of my life so far. 

Although John's family has been deeply, actively involved in every step of this wedding as well, for the purposes of this entry, I can really only describe my impressions of Elizabeth's family, having known them longer. And I loved watching this family love their daughter and sister, my best friend. Months of stress and planning have frayed nerves and depleted reserves, but when plans and supplies and people converged in one place, and as stresses were, one by one, set up into beautiful displays of ketubahs and bouquets, cookies and cakes, beautiful music and an atmosphere swelling with supportive presence - I loved to watch Elizabeth's family, and John's family, gather up all of the tasks in the last few days, streamline them into a beautiful path forward, and place Elizabeth facing the sun to walk down the aisle. I loved watching Elizabeth's family members, particularly mother and brother, love her forward in all the ways of their jumble of strong personalities - ranging from brusquely whipping plans into shape, to the quiet, smooth execution of invulnerable timelines half-hibernating for weeks, neither willing to betray the soft spots from which it all flowed, but both undone by their love for their grownup baby girl in a repeated shrug/slight-smile mantra: it's what Elizabeth wants.  

I loved to surreptitiously watch the flower girl, as the bridal party gathered in that cramped, freezing cabin to ready the bride for her groom. I loved watching her stand off toward a corner, then catching her eye, smiling, patting the bed next to me, helping her navigate the jumble of makeup and fabric tape strewn across the quilt, gently teasing out her delight in her daisy-crowned ringlets and fancy dress. I loved her questions, and gauging how vulnerable they made her feel, gauging my own answers to match, and lightheartedly and completely answering questions about strapless bras, eyeliner, bouquets, the duties of a bridesmaid, brushing a light swish of petal-pink blush across her small cheeks and silently praying, with slight, sudden tears, as she watched it all unfold for the first time, that she would always claim her place in the company of strong and joyful women, and that her own romantic future will bring her bright, empowering peace, and joy unspeakable. 

Mommy and Daddy of the bride.

I loved the frenzy, the jumble, the controlled chaos, the teamwork. I loved the lack of sleep, and (most of) the stress. I love that my feet are still killing me from my heels sinking into the dirt (my "thirty-minute shoes"); I love that, as I wore them, I was tipsy enough (at the time) to bear them just fine, briefly aided by the arm of a handsome boy; even more, I loved exchanging them for flip-flops (because I left my cute flats in Florida); I loved that I did not completely break my neck every time my flip-flops slipped in the kitchen. And, in the kitchen, I loved fixing the "ELIZABETH IS HUNGRY RIGHT NOW" meal, the afternoon before her wedding; I chuckled to realize I was filling two plates with cold peach-tea chicken*, pulled pork, hardboiled eggs, baked peans, grapes, apples, vegetables, cheddar - Lisa. Dial it back. That dress has a corset, honey. 

I loved, in a darker, somber fashion, meditating on what I hope for John and Elizabeth after the giddy joy of their wedding has mellowed. I think that, if I were to have offered a toast, it would have been this: It's almost cliche, or trite, to offer a toast to your happiness. I do wish for your happiness, but more than that, I hope that the bigger picture of determined happiness is always in front of you. I hope that, when happiness flows easily and brightly, you lean back and bask in the gentleness of your life together. And I hope that, when you encounter struggle, or loss, or illness, or conflict - I hope, for you, for stamina, and courage, and vulnerability, and, more than anything, a commitment to individual personal inventory, so that, even when you can't find it, you might always know yourselves deeply enough that you can navigate your way to happiness together. I hope, and pray, and believe, that, no matter what, you can always find your way back to that spot near where my heels were sinking into the dirt.   

Photo by Deb Sweeney Wick 

I loved watching my radiant best friend - fellow Booh-Bah hater, fellow years-long Nabucco Dinosaur singer, fellow survivor, fellow food obsessor, my kindred in meaningful things and in everything ridiculous, my sister in every single way that matters - I loved that my life included standing for her as she walked toward her love in a reverent, emotional pagentry of sunlight. I remembered brushing the swish of petal-pink blush across her cheeks an hour earlier, breathing back tears, and silently praying flower-girl prayers of brightness, empowering peace, and joy unspeakable. 

I would not have missed these moments for anything. I would have fought bees? for them. Or even Newt Gingrich in a monkey suit.*

*dude... I'd kill for more of that chicken. Right now. I'd kill you for it. Not really, but I'd consider it. 

**and if you've never played a game called Cards Against Humanity, you should.