Queerly Designations

This being the end of the year, I've come to terms with something about myself: I'm a little queer. No, not in the sexuality sense. I'm strange, there's something off about me, but queer is really the best way to describe it. I do things backwards, I'm clumsy, I say weird things at weird times, the most crazy thoughts gallop through my head on a regular basis, the way I go about somethings makes normal people look at me funny...but I'm going to stop letting myself feel bad about it.

We have a world full of billions of people, and it makes sense to hold every one of them to a single standard? A standard that is only vaguely defined, that makes people feel inadequate if they don't somewhat resemble it? And those few who do manage some sense of it are a minority (that I very much pity) rather than the majority? Normal?

And I thought I was the backwards one.

Normal is too stressful, too mundane. The thought of a "normal" life honestly terrifies me, once I get right down to thinking about it. I'm supposed to jump in this miles-deep rut that makes nobody really happy but is given all the attention of what life is all about? Where's the fun in that?

A happy man and his happy wife, in their happy jobs, with their happy dog and happy children who go to their happy school, and they all live happily together in the happy suburbs with their happy neighbors. Everyone wants that? And look at how very seldom that truly occurs.

Ugh. Reminds me of the song "Little Boxes". If you've never heard it, give it a listen.

Not for me. This queer girl wants life to be an adventure. I'm not going to be the one stuck in the suburbs thinking about all the things she wished she had done but didn't and is now going nowhere. If I'm going to be clumsy and awkward, I might as well be clumsy and awkward in a place I've always wanted to see or doing something I've always wanted to do.

I meant for this post to discuss my complete lack of normal, but I'm glad I always follow the bunny trails to the bigger picture. It's too normal to focus on just myself anyway.

I am queer. And that is just fine.

P.S. Who decided that queer had to mean homosexual all of the sudden? Or even gay? Those two words meant completely different things fifty years ago and we've lost two good, specific descriptions because everyone interprets them to mean homosexual these days. Gay is happy. Queer is strange. Call me old-fashioned but any time I type those two words or you hear them come out of my mouth, I intend them for their original use and strange or happy is what they mean.

Misery. And No Company.

Some contemplations have arisen on this day, as I usually set aside a few minutes to ponder my life and blessings.

I realized that as hard as I've been trying to make myself believe that I'm miserable these past few months, I've got some things in my life that a lot of people wish they had, especially at this time of year. People I used to envy more than anything are still wearing themselves out, desperately grasping at aspects of life that I comfortably hold.

I've got a loving husband and a solid, growing marriage. It isn't perfect and we definitely have our moments. But while some go back home tonight to their lonely old selves, my partner in crime is right here with me and I know he is dedicated to me for life. I am secure in our love and the ring on my finger and warmth his eyes tell me I don't ever have to question it.

We have a roof over our heads and with all the necessities (and a few extra comforts!).

My husband has had a stable, well paying job in the U.S. Army for the past two years (almost three).

His gunshot that has caused us so much grief? Is actually a blessing in disguise, not only bringing us closer together, but assuring that he will have some form of income for the rest of his life.

We have loving families who encourage us and support us.

We're stable financially.

Our puppy is the best creature on which I could bestow my motherly love at this point.

Our cars are paid off and even the older one still runs alright.

...and so many more things.

Why was I ever so silly to envy those people, when none of the happiness I craved was dependent on them anyway? It's even sillier when I have all of these things (and more) and they barely even have one or none at all. I kind of pity them. Some of them can't attribute it to lack of trying, just incorrect timing, I suppose. I'm not looking down my nose at anyone either. I'm just realizing that I have so much in my life, and some of those things are the reason some people cry themselves to sleep every night.

What have I really got to be miserable about?

A Run Around A Tired Mulberry Bush

I'm going to be very real and vulnerable for a few minutes. Aside from all the ranting and ramblings, I feel that as a writer, it's important not to hide behind my writings and show you that I'm a real person. Now is going to be one of those times.

I'm not doing this for attention-I'm not. And if you think so, then you can stop right there and go back to whatever it is you were doing. It's not enjoyable to put my heart out there for someone to go all kinds of judgmental on it.

I can hardly walk by a mirror or reflective surface without glancing at myself-not for vanity's sake, but to see if I'm beautiful yet. Some of these times, I really like what I see and continue walking with my head held a little higher. Most times, I can't stand the face and body staring back and me and want to hide in a hole where no one can see me.

It's been this way since after I hit puberty. For a little while, I didn't even care what I looked like (obviously leading to my major weight gain). Then I wondered why I never got attention from the opposite sex and I realized I was not what most guys were looking for. That's where the depression kicked in.

After a year or two of moping, I figured it out and lost a lot of that weight. I felt more comfortable with myself than I had ever felt, and even though a lot of people complimented me on how I looked, I still felt somewhat fat. I ended up gaining some of that weight back and here I am today.

I guess once you've been fat, you will always feel some kind of fat, even if you're not. That feeling is attributed solely to anorexia today, but to me, that's an incorrect assessment. When you've been overweight and you lose it, you're not used to being the skinny person or the fit person. You're used to beating yourself up all the time; there's still a period of time where you look at your nice body and still think "Okay, those thighs have got to go".

My self image at this point is not the greatest. Somewhere along the road, I learned to compare myself: TO EVERY FEMALE I SEE. I don't mean that to be funny either; it's true and it's scary. If her arms are skinnier than mine, I hate myself all over again. If her belly is more visible than mine, I feel a little better.

But I am never completely happy with myself. And that is a feeling that is constantly haunting my mind, no matter what I am doing. Anytime I go out, it is a battle to find an outfit that I am truly comfortable in and helps salvage a sense of semi-confidence (part of the reason I don't go out often). I try to keep pretty healthy, work out, all that jazz. But for some reason, God chose to bless me with a body that makes it harder to lose all the extra stuff. I'm sure He wanted me to learn my worth, no matter the size of my thighs.

It isn't just my body, either. It's my face. I really don't like it. My whole life, I've been told how "cute" I am. Solely based on my face. And at almost twenty years of age and married, I would trade "cute" for "sexy" at any price. Or even to hear beautiful more than cute. When someone struggles with her self image as much as I do, "cute" is the last thing she wants to hear. If I had anything but a cute face, I could probably get away with being the weight (and the age) that I am.

I daily (sometimes hourly) tick through the list of things that make me unhappy with myself and uselessly wish I could magically become normal. Bah. What the heck is normal. It's a myth. Why I spend so much time wanting it, I don't know. I must be insane.

Normal probably isn't the best word, because I shouldn't base my happiness on numbers on a scale or a clothing size (those are more fickle than anything anyway). I want to me happy with myself, confident in my skin. I want to be able to look at celebrities on TV and not make myself feel like garbage because I don't look like that. I want to stop beating myself up every hour of the day. It is so hard to enjoy the journey of life when you don't love the vehicle you're in.

(As a side note, my husband is a perfect gentleman. He does tell me I'm pretty every day or that my weight doesn't make me less attractive to him. He builds me up as much as a husband should, if not more. But if I can't have mercy on my own self, then it's difficult to take his words to heart, no matter how often or how sweetly he says them. A man can't make you feel like a queen if you won't admit you have a queen inside of you.)

Back On the Web

I'm back, everybody. Not that I was missed, I'm sure. My computer's been MIA because we had to take it in to have some maintenance done on it. Today is the first day I've had it in almost a week, and I've spent most of the afternoon putting everything back in its place since the hard drive had to be wiped. I still have all my writing, pictures, and music, so no worries.

It's so nice to actually be typing on my own keyboard again, let alone a real one. My husband let me do my gaming on his computer, but his keyboard is just so foreign and not comfortable to me at all. I've been using my smart phone to update my social networks and post some on my other blog, and I have realized there is only so long your eyes can take staring at that little screen. And typing on a touch screen just isn't any fun.

I feel home and comfy and not as restricted. You don't know how much you miss technology until you don't have it anymore. I thrive on constant communication on my social networks--being able to talk to anybody, at anytime, about anything. Or having the freedom to starting typing random crap like this if I feel like it.

It's just nice. I'm chemically happy right now, so I can't really think of any great descriptive words. But I prefer this feeling to racking my brain for something that sounds cool. And with that, I shall sign off. Shalom, ya'll.

Nine Months

Nine months. I've been here for nine months. I want to scoff at...well, nobody really. Just the statement itself, I suppose. It sounds ridiculous. Nine months usually feels like a lot of time, but this go-round, it hasn't at all.

When I look back on everything that's gone on since I've been here, ok yeah, it makes sense. Logically. All of that stuff couldn't have happened in a smaller amount of time. And all the holidays we've been through while living here certainly tell the tale. Everything but Christmas, New Year's, and Valentines Day, all which are coming soon enough.

But it doesn't feel like nine months have gone by. When the days run together, they start to blur and few take up significant room in my memory storage. I can remember clear as day the 'official' day of my move. It was a terrifying and uncomfortable day, but I knew if I could push through it, it wouldn't be long before my husband was at my side again.

Nine months also means how long he's been home, and it's the longest consecutive length of time I've had him with me. If not for his injury, it might not have been long before he was shipped back overseas. Now there is no more chance of that, and I am one grateful wife. I don't have to sleep alone while he would go to train in the field for weeks at a time, or hear the news that is never fun to hear: "I got my orders. We're deploying on such and such date for such and such time," and have to figure out what to do with myself with him gone (besides pray and worry). Never again for us.

This will also be our first Christmas (and New Year's) together as a married couple. We were married during those holidays last year, but he wasn't home to celebrate them with me. Having him here for them now is much more than many couples will get this year, so I consider myself blessed.

Nine months of healing.

Nine months of pain.

Nine months of learning.

Nine months of anxiety.

Nine months of hope and positivity.

Nine months of planning for better things.

Nine months of wishing I was home, and nine months I'm grateful I wasn't.

Nine months have I been out on my own, and nine months of experience that I wouldn't trade for anything.

Nine months of fear.

And nine months of faith.

Flee the Self-Destructive

Fingers, jabbing at a keyboard.
Pen, scratching at a page.
The medium doesn't matter
As long as it dispels her rage.

The anger, the tears, the endless quiet
Ever building up in disconsolation.
Seeking a leak, a tear, the tiniest fissure,
Some kind of break to relieve the pressure.

Aha! A rip, a crease, a furrow!
The venom spouts, the acid leaps;
Higher and higher in the atmosphere they climb.
Raining, pouring, enveloping all below.

Not a whisper of love or a touch of tenderness,
Not a hint of regard or buffer.
All the while, the terror keeps coming;
All in its reach shall suffer.

But none are there,
No, not a one.
All who would love and comfort have fled
From the monstrous hurt that she has bled.

Fear, fear, fear!
Estrange the one who hurts,
Before she has the opportunity to turn it on you.
Distance the distraught!
Abandon the stranded!

For there is no fear in love, but no love in fear.

Done. Done With The Bullshit.

If I can assume you aren't self-righteous enough to get offended and stuck on the curse word in the title (do pardon my French, for I am beyond frustrated and it is the only word that really embodies how I feel), I will continue with my ranting.

I've been stuck on this merry-go-round since four-thirty this afternoon and can't seem to get off. Maybe writing it out will help. It seems to most of the time.

Water-locked. Not as fun as being landlocked. One cannot drive anywhere for more than three hours before  being presented with the choice of turning around or driving into the ocean ("drive into the river, Bob, oh drive into the river, Bob!" for anyone who has watched VeggieTales). And it isn't like you can paddle a canoe to the mainland. Oh no, not when you're 2,500 miles away from it. The shortest way there is a six hour plane ride, a trip I hope not to have to make too many more times.

But I would have gladly done it again to be home for Christmas. That was the plan. I was going to make it happen, one way or another. I was not going to sit here with sand in my ass while it was snowing in the Tri-Cities. May be something normal people dream of--not me.

So the ball was rolling, tickets were bought, plans were made, and we were preparing to leave our dog in a kennel for two weeks. I was excited as all get-out, with my longing for snow and Christmas being my favorite season.

Also wanting to get off this freaking island, see my family and some friends for the first time in six months and my grandparents for the first time since our wedding more than a year ago, just enjoying the holidays. But with my luck, I should have known.

It always has to be me. I'm not normally one of those "woe-is-me" folks, but the way the die has been cast lately, I'm starting to think I might not be allotted as many good things in life as everybody else. I've got it pretty solid, having food, clothes, a house, a great husband, and a stable bank account. But other than that, things seem to never go as planned for me. And I like plans. I like knowing what's happening and when it's happening.

Back to my story. Short version is, we got screwed over. Someone failed to tell us that since Zach is still being medically evaluated for the process to get out of the army with disability pay, he isn't allowed to leave the island. He can take the two weeks for Christmas, but he can't go anywhere. He told me I should go by myself, but we both know we would be twice as miserable that way. I would never leave him behind while I went off to enjoy myself, because that isn't enjoyable to me. And I am not abandoning him during the holidays, as big of a struggle this is going to be for both of us. He wanted to go home too.

This was a big deal. When you live in Hawaii, there is only so much you can do before you get bored out of your brain. And everything is twice as expensive here, including entertainment, which limits a person even more on what they can do to stay occupied. Adding my husband's physical limitations into the mix narrows the field even more.

We just wanted to relax and drown ourselves in holiday cheer and much-needed family time, get away from the doctors and the army and Hawaii. Trust me, there is no holiday spirit to be had (at least for me) when the sun is glaring down and it is eighty degrees outside. For me, it has everything to do with the weather and the feel of the air. That feel is not here.

So now I must settle for no Christmas. Sure we will try. We will have a tree, and Christmas music, and presents. But it will not feel like Christmas to me. No family, no chill, no lights, no snow, no fire in the fireplace, no raucous laughter, no holiday traditions.

We tried for Thanksgiving. Made the turkey, watched the parade, cheered for the football, the whole shebang. But it did not feel like Thanksgiving at all. I love my husband, but it's hard to feel merry when you're pretty much exiled to your home and it is just the two of you.

(And as a last remark, I do not blame my husband at all. Because of course, he totalllly planned to get shot, sent home, physically screwed up, live in constant pain and discomfort, then decide to get out of the military, just so we could be told that we aren't allowed to go home for Christmas. Riiiight. I don't think so. I blame this whole, crappy situation that I wish none of which happened. I hate every curveball that has been thrown our way since March. I hate every roadblock and piece of red tape that has kept us from getting home any sooner. I hate the bullet that went into my husband's leg. But my husband? Never. Some say there are no victims. I would tell those people to look at this situation and then say that to my face.)

Why Did We Have To Grow Up?

I will try to keep this short, but I've got to write it out of my head.

I miss my family.

I miss the shopping trips with my mom, the times we would spend a whole day out of the house, even if it was just for groceries. I miss talking with her about anything and everything. She filled the place of a best friend when my own friends were too busy to do things with me. We talk to each other on the phone now, but I don't do well with phone conversations and it isn't the same anyway.

I miss nights out with my dad. He's not the most talkative, but that's okay. It was enough to sit with him in his car, listen to the 80s Christian rock we both love, and know that he cared enough to spend time with me. I miss discussing bass and music with him. I miss seeing him laugh so hard he cried or being the goofy, crazy guy that few but my family have seen. Neither of us do well on the phone, but I do love to tell him, "Hi", "I love you", and "I miss you". As quiet as he is and as shy as he seems, he has been the best, loving, providing, scripturally sound father I could ever ask for.

As for my siblings, even though few of them tolerate me at this moment, I miss them too. I miss the way things used to be:

I miss going to midnight premieres of superhero movies with my brothers, then geeking out over them afterwards.

I miss the Bible quizzes we used to do on Sunday afternoons, where nobody could focus and we all ended up in a giggly mess.

I miss the "wedgie nights" when we were younger and everyone (including my parents) would run around trying to give each other wedgies and had a good time laughing our heads off.

I miss the barbecues in the summer, the movies on Thanksgiving, watching Bill Cosby and eating my mom's crab dip on New Year's Eve.

I miss the trips to my grandparents' house when we still lived in Tennessee.

I miss playing music with my older siblings.

I miss watching football season with my dad and youngest brother.

I miss when everyone was packed into the minivan and my dad drove us around to look at the lights on the houses on Christmas Eve, then coming home and watching a Christmas movie. I miss Christmas mornings, opening stockings, having cranberry almond coffeecake for breakfast, opening gifts, then spending the rest of the day watching movies, and finally, having Christmas dinner.

I miss how things were at the house on Nankatie Lane, when we didn't have a care in the world except to play and have fun.

Now, we're all grown up and have better things to do than be a family. Some of us can't stand to be around each other for one reason or another. Some are all of a sudden "too good" for my parents or anyone else. We've let the world and life harden and embitter us.

And it hurts. It hurts to have four siblings and have none of them talk to me, blaming the distance, their own busy lives, or the fact that they just plain don't care about me anymore. It hurts to have parents that I can only contact through phone or Facebook.

It hurts to know that everything has changed and will probably never be the same again--all I have now are the memories. And it kills me to know that I will eventually move back and have to deal with all of that change face to face. It's hard enough to when I'm almost 3,000 miles away.

Back-Fire

I've decided I'm not going to burden myself with being everyone's conscience. I love my friends and family, so when I see them in need, I try to deliver some kind of help. But it seems my input is seldom appreciated.

I've given and given and given advice, some of which I've earned myself and some of which older, more wiser people have given to me. The feedback I've gotten is that I'm not "old" enough, "mature" enough, or "experienced" enough to try to pass wisdom on, even if it isn't my own. And some just tell me, "Thanks, what you're saying does look better, but I'm going to do whatever I want anyway". It makes me feel like my help isn't worth anything to them. To some, I know it isn't.

I'm not pretentious enough to hand out advice if I haven't experienced it, but I do know several wise adults who have given me tools to handle certain situations, and I'm happy to relate the information to those who need it. But some people just don't want to hear it. Either they know better or think that I don't. And that hurts when you are truly trying to help, and do know some better options.

Admittedly, I have been wrong, and I do attribute that somewhat to youth and inexperience, which has taught me to be careful who I try to advise and with what. I'm well-intentioned, but I am human.

One thing I am absolutely against when asked for advice is passing judgment on someone because of their choices. I am disappointed when someone makes a choice I feel is wrong for them (although one cannot objectively make decisions for others), but I will not judge. I know what that feels like, and it is a nasty feeling.

Too many people pointed and shook their fingers at me when I dated my husband behind my parents' backs. Too many "tsk, tsks" were thrown around whenever it was discovered that I was sixteen and he twenty-one when we met. There were too many assumptions that I was a naive child and he was a gross, internet-stalking pervert. And here we are, increasingly happy after one year of marriage, and all I want to do is laugh in all of those faces.

Judge not, lest ye be judged. Indeed.

That is why I have to be so careful. But if there is an obvious and absolute truth that a person I care about is blind to, I have to say something.

I was recently told by someone that "my truth" didn't necessarily apply to them. I replied, "How very interesting, when you yourself believed at one time that relative truth was bullshit."  Relative truth is a convenient argument for someone who doesn't care to change. I still don't believe in relative truth; truth is going to be truth, no matter which way you spin it.

This was more of a rant than a rambling, and also an admission. I can't be everyone's savior and I'm going to quit trying to be. Some people are going to do what they want to do and continue on destructive paths without a care for what I have to say. And I've decided to let them do that. I'm not going to waste my breath or time on someone who won't give me the time of day.

That, friends, will save you from a lot of trouble and hurt. Don't stop caring for the people you love, but if someone chooses to close their ears and their heart to you, love them from a distance.

Stranger

Sometimes I wonder why God chose to put me here, in the USA, on earth, at this time.

I feel like an alien, like I don't belong. It's never felt right. This whole world feels foreign to me. I'm always wondering if I'm saying or doing the right things, if my behavior is that of a true human or if I stick out like a sore thumb.

There are some concepts that--no matter how many times they are explained to me--I cannot grasp. Things that most people encounter often and deal with pretty easily. The way this world works is sometimes too overwhelming and over-complicated for me to understand. Call me mentally challenged; I just feel like I can't keep up.

It's gotten to the point where I loathe leaving my house, because the moment I walk out the door, I am instantly self-conscious and paranoid, in turn giving me major anxiety. I cannot be in public and calm at the same time. Maybe outwardly, but inside I am a wreck. I'm always nervous that people are watching me, determining if I fit in as a regular human being.

I'm constantly checking myself, worried that my charade will be discovered, that someone will point at me and yell triumphantly, "Aha! The jig is up! I know what you really are!" To which I would frantically reply, "Great! Now if you wouldn't mind sharing that news with me..."

I feel as if I cannot be free, ever breathe, or relax. "Just be yourself!" some would say. Gladly, if I really had a definite self to be.

I can't continue in the mundane normality of it all, this go-with-the-flow, routine, boring life that humans seem to so easily adjust to--I can't. I cannot do sixty-plus more years of this. So I am desperately praying that God has an impacting, life-interrupting purpose for me, and soon.

Because if it is otherwise, I might as well pull the trigger now.

In writing this, I recall a favorite song of mine and my dad's, called "Stranger" by Holy Soldier. It details how Jesus Himself was a stranger to this world, a total freak that nobody understood. And I wonder if maybe He felt a little bit like me. Now, I would never put myself at the level of the Son of God. No, I'm just curious if this constant, out-of-place feeling was normal for Him too. If it was, there may be hope for me yet.

Don't Complain

I'm going to get really self righteous right now. I'm mad. And very hurt. And I may stomp around a bit.

If you have never asked for my help or for me to be a listening ear, I do not want to hear you complain about how no one is there for you!

I know too many people who can only rag about how bad their lives are, how depressing everything is, and how they have no one to talk to or hang out with. Excuse me. I may be in Hawaii, but that doesn't mean I won't help you through whatever is going on!

Thanks to those who never asked for help. Thanks to anyone holding unnecessary and petty grudges against me. Thanks for not trying to sustain any kind of friendship with me. You feel screwed over? How about someone who was here for you the whole time, that you never once approached when you needed someone?

How do you think that makes me feel? Pretty damn unwanted. Like I'm not isolated and excluded enough over here. Like I don't feel like I'm missing out on everything already. You've shut me down before I can even offer my help.

No more mystery in why I don't want to go back home when all this is over. Everything has changed. None of my close friends are even in the general area anymore. Few members of my family talk to me and the rest obviously have a strong dislike for me. Why in hell would I want to be around that crap?

All I can say is "Ouch" and cry, when I would really like to scream everything I just wrote at select people.

Where was I when you were going through turmoil? Right here, waiting to be a shoulder to cry on while hoping someday you might do that for me.

How wrong I was. Thanks for making me feel like absolute shit.

Dookin' Around

I am about to make a dramatic revelation...drum roll, please...

I am a WoW nerd.

For those of you who don't know what that is right off the bat, it is someone who plays World of Warcraft. I'm not an entirely casual player, but I'm not as hardcore as my husband is. He's the one who got me to start playing it a year ago.

It was definitely a great time-killer during the last half of the deployment (which is all you want to do-kill time without really thinking about it). It's not a mindless game, but it's not the most intelligence-heavy either. The more you play, the more you understand the lingo, objectives, and all the little stats that matter.

I used to be pretty against it. The stereotype is an obese person who never eats a decent meal, has greasy hair, acne, and zero social life, all because he is always playing World of Warcraft. I wasn't about to become that person.

And I'm not.

Is it somewhat addictive? At times. Does it totally take over your free will and make you play the game for hours on end? Absolutely not.

Anyone who plays this game is still in control of all of their faculties, including their self-control. Those who fail to use restraint and balance their lives with other activities will undoubtedly become this stereotype. But there is no reason someone cannot be perfectly normal, live a balanced and healthy life, and enjoy a few hours of gaming.

Fantasy is one of my favorite things, whether you are talking about games, movies, or books. I love stories that have nothing to do with real life, that reach out of the box and let my imagination play. That doesn't mean I'm unable to function in or accept reality, but there are those times when everyone needs an escape. Some of the best stories are fantasy.

I used to think anything fantastical or having to do with magic was evil and satanic. And I was wrong; I missed out on enjoying a lot of movies and books because I assumed something without finding out for myself. Most of the time, it isn't evil at all. People don't put magic in their stories to get people to worship Satan. It sounds silly to even write that. For the most part, magic is good, clean fun. And it's pretend. As long as you understand that and the boundaries between fantasy and real satanic witchcraft, there is nothing wrong with magic.

Back to the game. Some people might be disappointed that I have "fallen to the dark side" or whatever, but I truly enjoy playing it. And as long as I remember my daily dose of reality or two, there is no harm. So no judging.

Gag Order

I really wish I could be that kind of girl. The one who says what she wants to when she wants to and not give a damn what anybody thinks. Tip-toeing around everyone and double-checking everything I say so they aren't offended is getting pretty old. I feel like I have to censor myself, or someone will be majorly butt hurt.

I'm tired of being quiet, of not saying exactly what I'm thinking. I'm sick of trying to hang on to the image of me that everyone has burned in their brains. If I depart from it but a little, there is a giant uproar.

It's hard to figure out who you are if you can't even say what you want all the time. I'm always under the impression that my social networking profiles are under surveillance, and everyone is looking for me to bash them.

But sometimes? People annoy me. People piss me off. People make me really uncomfortable and I dislike being around them. And that's apparently not okay to talk about, because some of these people are my friends and relatives.

But what if? What if I'm not that sweet, shy little girl everyone remembers, the one always using manners, that no one can find a single thing wrong with, that is never outspoken or rude? What if I would rather really say what's on my mind, than keep my mouth shut to be nice and let you keep behaving in a way that makes me not want to be around you?

When is silence better than honesty? Does the truth do any good when it's duct-taped inside someone's mouth?

People get offended so easily these days. They want to be talked about badly so they can release the hounds and go ape-shit on them. Is it really so bad for you to realize that certain things you do piss me off? I'd rather tell you in hopes that you would change instead of not saying anything and knowing you won't.

Maybe I don't want to shut up anymore. It doesn't mean I want to be obnoxious, but I think I'm too quiet and allow more than I ought to. I'm a person too!

I don't have to agree with anyone if I don't want to. I don't even believe everything my parents do. For the most part, our beliefs align, but some things I do not agree with them on. It doesn't mean I respect my parents any less; it just means I am a human, I'm an adult, and I make my own decisions about what I believe. You can raise your kids however you want to and that will have some impact on them--but ultimately, they will make their own choices about their lives in the end.

I enjoy having friends who will tell me the truth, no matter how much it hurts. If they see me doing something I shouldn't be doing, they will let me know. If something I do annoys them, they don't let it sit and boil--they will tell me to knock that crap off. And now that I know about it, I can.

Some people have told me to shut up when I'm trying to tell the truth, because "it's better to be kind than right", or something like that. But isn't it kinder to straight up redirect someone when they're walking down the wrong road than to be "nice" and let them walk to disaster with your lips sealed? Or to let someone believe a lie because it makes them feel better about themselves? Is kindness always a better solution than truth? I don't think so.

The truth has to hurt sometimes. It can't be all sugar-coated and lovey dovey; that's not the way it works. Truth is truth, whether you want to hang it by its ankles or cover it in camouflage and greasepaint.

That's why I like having this blog. I can write the things in my head and not be sorry for them one bit. In fact, I'm kind of proud. It's about damn time I spoke my mind.

The Complexity of Love, Part II

I don't know how many installments of this I will write; they may be infinite, knowing that the discourse on such an obviously complex topic as love could go on forever. I will try to keep these organized by relevance, but when I ramble, you never know what will happen.

Romance. It can get a teenage, adult, or middle-aged woman flat on her back if performed with the correct timing, sincerity, and care. Sometimes, it's sad how simple it is. But it isn't some magic button or memorized set of motions a man can activate over and over to get his way; it is brought about by a thoughtful application and expression of love.

Girls are raised to crave it, and boys are raised struggling to grasp the full concept of it. If you ask a female what romance looks like, there's a good chance she'll giggle and say, "It's so obvious!" But it isn't, especially to the male population. In all honesty, while there are some general performances of romance that translate to all women, romance should be tailored to that special lady. What works for some women may not work for others.

Romance is part of the fire and mystery of marriage. (I do mean to say fire. It's referred to often as a spark, but that baby should be roaring. I don't care how old you are or how long you've been married-a "spark" isn't enough to sustain the relationship.)

Romance could pop up at any second, or you may spend your day planning it out. And it isn't only women who desire it--men enjoy loving expressions just as much. Maybe not to the same degree. But as it is with everything in relationship, there must be a give and take for romance as well.

Some women, through rejection or bad relationship experiences, decide they don't need romance anymore. They say they are too good for any hapless attempt from a man, or too strong to need one. There is a myth that strong people don't need anything--but the appearance of strength does not mean you are above basic human needs.

One of those needs built into us from the moment we are born is the need for love, the need to be pursued, the need to be wooed and courted. A main factor of romance is bringing the significant other to the understanding that they are wanted by you, and you desire them enough to make an effort to communicate it.

Romance is an ever-changing, every-growing, always flowing concept. You can't develop a list of concrete tactics to extract affection from your sweetheart for the next fifty years; you've got to try new ideas, new approaches, be creative. It's never a set thing, and it's always fun to surprise the love of your life from a different angle.

For Obadiah

"God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference."

I've been planning on writing Part II of my "Complexity of Love" ramblings, but something more important came up. A friend of my brother's from elementary school passed away last night. A week ago, he collapsed and during his stay in the hospital, suffered multiple cardiac arrests, swelling in his brain, and many other complications. He was even declared brain dead before a final test showed blood flowing through his entire brain. All of this, at just twenty-one years of age.

I don't have exact details of what happened or why, I just know that someone who was very alive and that I have very specific memories of, is not on this planet any longer. It breaks my heart to even type that. Were we close? No. But he was still a friend. He would send requests to me (along with all his other friends) on Facebook to listen to music he had mixed; he called himself DJ Obi. And he was good at it.

He was such a sweet guy and from seeing all the statuses on Facebook asking for prayer for his healing, he made an impact on a lot of people. One of those guys you feel went too soon. I know he wouldn't have gone if he hadn't fulfilled his purpose on earth, but there's this feeling in my gut he would have touched a lot more people.

This whole time, my heart has been aching for Obadiah and his family, and I've been praying my hardest, asking others to believe for his healing as well. This situation has marked me so greatly (though I can't say how exactly) that I know I won't be the same. I don't know why, since we weren't that close. I just knew he was a great guy, who could have done so much, and that he had many friends and family who needed him here.

But sometimes, you have to trust that God knows what He's doing, even though people are left grieving. I know it's been said a thousand times, and I will say it again. God's plan is so much bigger than ours and maybe, He wanted Obi to come home sooner than we did. Maybe that's been where Obi has belonged this whole time.

I can find relief in knowing that Obadiah is no longer in bodily pain or turmoil and that he no longer has to struggle through this messed up world. He is in the one place we should all wish to be; he's a whole lot better off than we are now.

Now is where we say goodbye to Obadiah's earthly form, but know we will one day meet again. I write in memory of him and his family will be on my heart. To you, Obadiah.

The Complexity of Love, Part I

Writing out of a somewhat confused state inspired by several things I've read today, so please bear with me as I throw out random rants and try to make some concrete sense of them.

Divorce. That confuses me a lot. I believe the statistic reporting that around 50% of marriages in the U.S. end in divorce, because I'm seeing it with my own two eyes. Through the past few years, I've personally seen it happen between couples I had weekly interaction with and in the past few months, I'm watching it happen on social networking sites with people I've met who live hundreds and thousands of miles away from me.

Most of the people I know who have gotten divorced, I'm not super close with so I don't pretend to know their reasons for ending their marriage. What confuses me is this: couples who have been dating for two+ years and gotten married, then divorced a year or so later or couples who have been married for ten+ years, then decide it isn't working anymore.

I have seen love professed and love shown over and over between all of these couples, lives shared, children born. I understand that having a child is not proof of love, but these were children born to a mother and father who loved each other more than anything. I see obstacles overcome, I see their beautiful wedding pictures.

Here are the most common reasons I've seen for divorce and I will address each one: "We were doing the right thing for the kid, but we were never meant to be married", "we thought we were in love, but we weren't", a giant falling out, or infidelity.

-I applaud trying to stay together for the child and trying to give them a sense of family. At least they tried. But if you hadn't made the baby before the wedding, you wouldn't have had to make that choice. Some people manage to make this situation work, and I say good for them. But it looks like a pretty quick excuse for divorce.

-Speaking of quick excuses, you "thought" you were in love? Being married myself, I understand the way that you express and define love changes after you are married. It can come as a shock to those still way back in the puppy love stage or caught up in a whirlwind romance. But marriage is one of the biggest, most important, most life-changing choices you will ever make. For starters, it has to be based on way much more than love, or it will fail. The love you had when you were dating will not be the same after you have been married for even a few months. Some people just can't take that change and call the whole thing off before they've even given their marriage a chance to breathe. And to those who have been married years and years, then tell themselves they aren't really in love: what?

-The falling out is the situation I understand the least. You're going to let a fight destroy your marriage? You're going to throw in the towel for something you fought to make happen? You've pushed through the little things to let a bigger thing get the better of you, instead of trying to handle it?

-Divorce caused by infidelity, I get. That's even the only allowance for divorce in the Bible. My hat is off to those who have tried to make the marriage work, even after adultery has occurred. That has got to be rough. But some call it quits after the tiniest indiscretion, not even actual sex. They certainly have the right file those papers, but in my heart of hearts, I really wish couples would try harder to stay together. It seems people are almost looking for reasons to get divorced these days.

Those were the heated and possibly naive rantings of an outsider. I'm not judging anyone who has gotten divorced, but I'm trying to wrap my head around the why of it all. I haven't gone through it either, so maybe my ranting is totally biased and unfounded. Maybe.

I do have to say for myself that from the day I knew I would marry my husband, I told him that divorce would not be an option. We will never discuss it. I knew what I was getting into, and he did as well. We both had plenty of time to change our minds before the wedding if we "didn't really love each other". And  now that the papers are signed and the rings are on our fingers, we are determined to never let anything separate us. I can't say nothing will ever happen, but we are going to fight for our marriage with everything we've got.

I will now speak from having somewhat of an insider's view. My husband's parents were divorced (more than once) and knowing the whole situation, I understand why they made that choice and can actually say that I think it was the right one. I'm not going to air anything personal about it because it isn't anyone else's business but our family's. But I do see that there are situations where divorce is a better option than staying married (especially in cases of abuse or criminal activity). So I am not totally one-sided when it comes to divorce. It's still a concept that boggles my mind sometimes, but I understand that it happens and I do not whatsoever judge those who do get divorced.

Love, Hate, And A Need For Normal

I've been pretty spoiled these past two weeks. My husband took some leave so he could have some time with me for our anniversary and his birthday, recuperation time, and a break from going in to work just to sit around for hours because there's nothing he can physically do. That's a lot to ask when you're on five different medications that barely put a dent in the constant pain affecting you. 

Giving him his military issue haircut last night woke me up to having to return to normal. Cutting his hair is something we have to do every other weekend so he looks sharp for work the following Monday, and we haven't had to do it since he hasn't been working.

It meant going back to waking up alone, trying to keep myself occupied with cleaning and whatnot as he's in and out for appointments or lunch, dealing with the constant frustration from both of us that will recycle itself until he's out of the army (which may not stop even then because of his physical limitations), and finally going to bed and preparing myself to do it all again the next day.

(People who know that as my daily schedule flippantly say, "Well, just get a part-time job". To that I reply, not only can we not leave our dog home alone without a meltdown from him yet, I don't know how much longer we will be here, and I don't want to start something I might have to leave in a few months. I'd rather try to occupy myself at home than add to our stress by looking for a job right now.)

As long as my husband is in the army, he is never fully mine. He has to answer to whatever schedule his higher ups (and ultimately, the government) give him (within the limitations of his injury) and I will always come second. That went into effect the moment he signed that dotted line and will continue until his contract is up or he is medically discharged. I've accepted that, but it doesn't mean I enjoy it.

Even once he's out, one or both of us will be working and I won't have him for much more time than I normally do. But when it comes to being in the army, there's a total sense of restriction. Your man is not his own person, nor is he yours. You aren't even yours, as long as you are married to him and he is in the military. He doesn't have the freedom to "just quit"-- to get out, your contract must be up, you must be medically discharged, or you must badly misbehave and be dishonorably discharged. 

It isn't like any other job. My husband can be called to come in at any time, whether it be 7pm or 2am, and be kept for hours or days until released to go home, They can do that, and it's happened. A person could be "smoked" (forced to do push-ups until told to stop, even to the point of complete exhaustion) by a superior at whim or for screwing up. Things are even getting to the point that the military may start kicking people out for having visible tattoos or giving spouses with body piercings or tattoos a hard time (the service member isn't allowed body piercings other than their ears as it is, but the rumors say the spouses are going to be cracked down on as well).

There are great benefits, but with the condition my husband is in and the direction the army is taking, the cons outweigh the pros and we'd actually rather he became a civilian again as soon as possible. It may just be that he has had some douchy superiors and has been handed the short end of the stick most of the time, but he's had enough and I've had enough. It hasn't been the best experience for both of us, gunshot or no gunshot. He did his part, he's got the stories, and we just want to get some semblance of 'normality' back into our life, whatever that may be.

I for one, just want to see him get better (unlikely as it may be for him to fully recover) and be able to have some kind of control over our lives again.

I will leave you with this thought: in my quiet times with God, I have been led to see that one of the reasons I was 'the one' for my husband is that no one else would have been able to be as strong for him through all of this. I have been through a lot of storms and personally difficult times, but have made it through and put it behind me. I don't live in the past, I don't bring my storms back up. I've already gone through those fires and can draw strength from those times. I've allowed God to mold my character and my heart, to test me, break me down, and mold me again. He has helped me deal with my crap and get my life in order.

I don't say all this to be prideful, but I believe with all my heart that I am here because I don't have to juggle my own insecurities and shortcomings with all the crap that has hit the fan. I am secure in myself, I know who I am, and can therefore reach ahead to deal with whatever comes as a whole person. It doesn't mean I have zero insecurities or that I won't face any more personal storms, but the insecurities have been put in their place and are not allowed to influence my life. As far as the storms go, I will press through them as they come, knowing that God never gives me more than I can handle.

A Blessing

Today (well yesterday, I suppose--we've gotten into the habit of being up a little late) we celebrated twenty-four years of my husband's life. That is a huge deal to me, considering there was a possibility of him not making it to this point (as some of you know). The one thing I am most grateful for is that he is even present to plan festivities for. There was a good chance we could have lost him in March; something I never wanted to consider while he was deployed, but that I must face now that I know the whole story.

Did I know almost three years ago when I met him that I would fall in love with him, wait for him through basic training, five months of being stationed two thousand miles away from me, a year of being deployed in a war-torn country, and finally nurse him through a serious gunshot wound? I couldn't have ever imagined it. Does that give me security for the future? Not if I didn't know that God has higher thoughts than mine and a plan for our life.

In January, it will be three years since we met and since he joined the army. As of now, he's been alive twenty-four years and I have been alive nineteen and a half. We were engaged a year and a half ago; married a year ago. I miscarried what would have been our first child eleven months ago. He was shot seven months ago and I have lived here in Hawaii for the same amount of time.

So much has happened in that long stretch--things I couldn't even begin to tell you about (though I've mentioned more of the high-profile/important things). And you know what? I wouldn't trade any of it for the world, even all the heartache, loneliness, and agony. If given the choice, I would do it all again, because I know it's going to lead to something amazing. God always has a better plan. It looks nothing like mine, and that's probably a good thing.

We have grown, matured, and learned so much in the time we have been together so far. And I have a feeling there's so much more for us to learn. But even in the rough spots, I remember how bad things have been and how much better they have gotten, and known in my heart that God is truly faithful. He is not a man that He should lie and He has promised us a future and a hope. Through whatever else we may face, I will cling to that with all of my being.

God Isn't Shallow

In light of certain events yesterday, I've got a few things to get off my chest.

I should note that yesterday was the anniversary of our first year of marriage. Before you assume that I'm going to write some cheesy, mushy-gushy post about that, I'm not. It's a little too overdone and my readers and friends already know how I feel about my husband. We had a pleasant day together, went out for an amazing dinner at the Top of Waikiki revolving restaurant, and came home to relax. Anyway, we enjoyed ourselves. But this post isn't about all that.

My husband and I agreed we weren't really going to buy each other presents. Maybe on our five-year or ten-year. But for us, it's enough to have a nice night out, reminisce, and talk about the future.

Even though we had both agreed to that, I wanted to surprise my husband with something that was pretty much for both of us, but that he would really appreciate. He's been bugging me ever since we were dating to get my nose pierced, because it would look "cute" or "hot". I staunchly refused, because I considered it too cliche and overused; I also wanted to pierce my lip although he didn't want me to--"no lip, no nose", is what I constantly told him. But I started thinking about it again a few days before our anniversary, how in a lot of cases I'd read about, lip piercings lead to cracked teeth and other problems, and how I actually wouldn't look that bad with a nose stud (or ring, after it heals).

So I decided to get it done. It was painful because of the thickness and shape of my nose (and the fact that the piercer had to take the piercing out to reshape it--excruciating!), but it's in now and I'm going to keep it healthy.

My parents and grandparents always tried to dissuade me from piercing anything but my ears (seeing as they were unsuccessful with my older sister) by saying "it would ruin your lovely face". Now, I've always had this desire to be a model or an actress of some kind, and that phrase was enough to make me leave my face alone. I wanted to be pretty, not edgy. I didn't want to "copycat" my sister.

But the thinking I've been doing the past few days made me realize something: that's never going to be my life. No matter how much I pine for it, it's not going to happen. You may say "you're young, you've got plenty of time". But I don't. If any of that was going to happen, it would have already, or at least started in that direction. That isn't ever going to be me, so I need to do whatever is me.

I've never thought of myself as being really hardcore or edgy or any of that, but I've never seen myself being dainty or prim either. I'm somewhere in the middle.

Including my nose, I have eight piercings (seven in my ears). I may put a few more hoops in my ears or maybe someday be brave enough to pierce my bellybutton. I'm not saying yes and I'm not saying no. I'm saying we'll see. I have one tattoo as of right now; I have three more planned out in my head. Will I get them all done? God only knows. They're all pretty meaningful to me, so I'd say there's a good chance of at least one or two more. Will I always be getting tattoos? Let me put it this way: I'm not putting anything permanently on my body that doesn't mean a crazy lot to me and I'm not going to go wild. I cross the bridges when I come to them.

I grew up in a pretty conservative, very sheltered family, one that was very opinionated on things like modesty, tattoos, and piercings. Ear piercings were okay with them, but I couldn't get them pierced until I was nine or have them pierced again until I was eighteen. After that, they let me do what I wanted with my ears (but seeing the reactions from my sister's industrial and ear-gauging, I thought it best to keep it somewhat conservative).

I appreciate that my parents were trying to look out for me and make sure I was raised right, but that has nothing to do with why my nose is pierced or why I have a tattoo on my wrist. They are there because they are for me and they are part of how I wish to present myself. I'm not going to apologize for it and I certainly do not have to defend myself.

I do not believe getting a tattoo or a piercing in a weird place will send you to hell or put you on God's bad side. I don't think He's that shallow, nor should we be. He cares about your heart and what you're doing with your life, how you're behaving and living. I can have piercings and tattoos and still live for Him, still be a light. Having them doesn't scream "sinner" and having none doesn't say "saved". I know pastors, leaders, and some amazing men and women of God who have tattoos and piercings; if anything, they've made themselves more approachable and expanded their opportunities to reach people.

To me, if what you're putting on your body means something to you, go for it. But don't slap stuff on there just because you can or want to fit in with a certain social group. And if it isn't your thing, don't look down on those who enjoy it. Don't pretend to understand their logic. To each his own. Don't judge those who do and don't judge those who don't. Live and let live. Maybe the world will be a little quieter.

You Matter To Me!

I wanted to write a little note to my readers today. I know you're out there, because I can see how many people read each post! And I love each and every one of you; it's rewarding to know I'm reaching somebody and as a result, I don't feel as insignificant. You encourage me to keep writing and some days, that's the most important thing I can do. This blog helps me to really examine myself and the world around me.

But I want to hear from you! If you have something to say about a particular post, a suggestion of a topic you want me to write about, or even a simple "Hello!", leave a comment or email me at ramblingsandwordvomit@hotmail.com. Tell me about yourself, send me stories or pictures; I may post them if I enjoy them. Your voice does matter and I would love to hear it!

Family Is More

What determines family? Is it blood? Marriage? Or is it simply a matter of love? I am related by blood to some that I cherish and others that I would not be proud to call family. Marriage has made certain people family--some whose company I enjoy and value, others who I would rather not be around for one reason or another. Then there are many friends whom I would gladly address as my brother or sister because of the bond we share.

Legally, two things define family: blood and marriage. To me, those are still superficial means of forming a group of people who love and support you unconditionally. You can be born into a "family" where no one supports, loves, or values you. But society will still call them your family. You can also be adopted into a family not related by blood, and be loved like no other. You can marry a person who thinks the world of you and wants to spend the rest of their life with you, yet not be accepted by the people he was born into. (This is not out of personal experience, just observation of the world around me.)

What I call my family is made up of many different people, some of whom I am not related to by blood or by marriage. Although my father's parents are both dead, I still have two sets of grandparents. I "adopted" a loving and caring older couple from my church as the other pair (or rather, they adopted me). And they have other "extraneous" children and grandchildren, because of their kind and wise nature. I never met my paternal grandparents, but my adopted ones are the definition of good grandparents. They have so influenced my life and are genuinely concerned about me. The impact of their care and love was so great that my husband and I had my adopted grandmother do our pre-marital counseling and officiate our wedding (luckily, she is licensed to do both).

I was born with four siblings, but I have so many more brothers and sisters than that. Blood family does bring a certain unique connection, but friends that you can call family to your heart are so precious. I value every one of them, and every one of them has made a special impact on my life. Schoolmates, co-workers, friends I've met through church, friends I met through other friends--I count each individual one as a positive addition to my life.

Everyone knows there are fathers who don't act like fathers, mothers who are the worst at mothering, brothers and sisters who could care less that you occupied the same uterus as they did at one time. So I don't confine my sense of family to blood or marriage. While I love my blood family, my personal family isn't restricted to just them. I think that gives me a better idea of what love is really all about.

Burden After Burden

Thanks, but no thanks. I don't want to do this anymore. It feels like a sort of cruel game. Just when I think things couldn't get any worse and are actually getting better, the other shoe drops. And we're left without a clue of what we're supposed to do.

Now, I wholly believe that God is a loving God and would never harm me or abandon me. But sometimes, I really want to quit. I want to yell at the sky, "This isn't any fun, God! I don't know if this is a joke on us or what, but I don't want to play anymore!" Some people think they have it bad--honey, no you don't. I'm not one to judge people's situations and say what they're going through isn't as bad as what we are, but things are not looking good over here. It really and truly sucks. And this is coming from a girl who hasn't had a whole lot of bad happen in her life. I don't know, maybe everyone is owed a certain amount of bad circumstances, with some people getting theirs scattered about through life and some happening all at once.

I want to emote, like normal people do when they get bad news. I want to cry like any worried wife should, I want to pout or throw a tantrum like a five year old, I want to be stoic and wise. But I don't have all the answers, and right now, I don't have any. All I can do is hold my husband and let him hold me while we are being strong for each other. That's the only way we'll get through this, and any other bad news we may get. Pulling away isn't going to do any good for anyone.

Those of you who know me understand that I hate feeling helpless. And other than when my husband was shot, I can't think of a time when I've felt more so. I basically have to sit on my hands until we know what's going to happen. I see people post to social networks about how happy they are and how great their lives are; I wish so much that could be me. It hasn't been me for a while, because absolutely nothing has gone right circumstantially.

This is the part where I have to let go of control, seeing as I have none anyway. I can't fix this; it's not within my power. But it is within God's, and He knows what's really going on, after all. Some people believe that bad things happen because it's punishment from God, but that does not apply here, true or untrue. I have stayed within His will, stayed in relationship with Him, following His leading. And I know I can say the same for my husband. I do believe some things happen to cause us to have more faith, and that's exactly what it's doing for me.

(I'm staying purposely vague to the whole situation, because it is on a need-to-know basis. Those who should know, do. And some things, we aren't even sure of yet. I may write about it someday, I may not. It does involve a list of medical issues, and the fact that the list keeps getting added to. If you are the praying type, we could sure use a little extra on our behalf about now.)

From the Night Owl

Up early for the second day in a row. Yesterday didn't have good vibes with it or something, because I just felt tired and grumpy, even though I couldn't really go back to sleep. I have a feeling I'll crash from my faithful  morning coffee and just hightail it back up to bed. I suppose it isn't early for some people. It wasn't early when I was working for the gym and it wasn't early when I was still taking classes. Only early compared to when I have been getting up (due the sleeping pills I was taking). Now that I'm on something a little more natural, I don't have to sleep it off before I'm ready to get out of bed.

But now I'm a little unsure of what to do with myself. Usually I'll clean for an hour or two before my husband gets home for lunch, and then I'll finish whatever I was doing or read for a little while. I did a lot of cleaning over the weekend, but there isn't a whole lot more to be done, excluding a few bigger projects. And I have a feeling, considering the way I clean, I'll get started and then I'll want to clean everything, which tends to leave me overwhelmed. Maybe I'll go back to bed and doze for a half hour, hopefully waking up knowing what I need to do.

On a completely random note, I was going to mention that I'm wearing nail polish on my fingernails for the first time in a while. I don't most of the time because of my bass-playing or the fact that it's pointless to put it on when I'm going to be cleaning and chipping it right back off. Since I already took a good chunk out of the cleaning and needed to feel a little pretty, I thought I'd go ahead and do it. If you know me well, you'd guess it would be a blue, green, or blackish color but oddly enough, I went for peach this time. I like to feel semi-feminine once in a while. And my husband likes it, so what the heck. It makes me more aware of my hands, consequently (fingers crossed!) less clumsy. At least I hope so ;)

Drug of the Ages

Honestly, I'm not pretentious enough to think I'm anything special. People have constantly told me that I'm special over the years--obviously a natural response to children and especially teens with lower self image. But I have a hard enough time trying to figure out what normal means. I'm always thinking to myself, is that what a normal person would say/think? How do people suddenly get these concrete "friends for life" relationships? Why doesn't doing this certain thing I've seen everyone else do have the same successful result for me? And so on.

I really don't care what people wish I would be, or the life they all tell me I'm supposed to have. Nothing in my world has panned out smoothly or with "happy" endings. They just seem to resign themselves to a corner until they are required to become a more pressing and obnoxious matter.  Pleasant little "moments" show up, but before I have a chance to cherish and relax in them, they vanish. I don't sail, I don't fly, I just pretty much make it by. Well-wishers tell me they want me to be happy, but I'm not sure if that's for me.

Not to say I don't have great things in my life: a loving and caring husband who is always there for me and without whom I wouldn't be able to face another day, the sweetest cat/child/dog to care for and love and keep me entertained, a somewhat dysfunctional but endearing family, and friends who care enough to check up on me once in a while. You might ask how I can be a Christian and not be happy. I used to be the girl who would give an arm and a leg to feel this thing that everyone called "happiness". But I know I have a God who accepts me, loves me, and forgives me when I screw up--if anything that gives me a content and satisfied feeling. He made me the way I am, so isn't there a chance that I wasn't wired to experience happiness? And I think I'm okay with that. I know some who aren't so friendly with me would be overjoyed to hear that I'm not happy, but it doesn't mean I'm unhappy.

Confusing, I know. I see happiness like a high. Some people live their entire lives just on a happy high and everyone loves them and wants to be around them, because they make people feel like the sun is always shining. And that is great for them. Awesome. But it isn't me. Sometimes, my smiles are fake. Sometimes, I can't stand people or life or any of it. It doesn't mean I don't have positive times. But cloud nine just isn't for me. I think "happiness" constitutes a sort of blindness. Some people are so busy being happy that they can't see other people's pain. I'm not the person that bounces around you with a goofy grin on my face saying, "It's ok! Be happy!" I'll sit next to you on the curb, not say that cheesy line--I know how you feel--put an arm around you, and tell you that the hurt doesn't last forever. Just because I'm not constantly happy, doesn't mean I don't wish it for others. I don't want them to feel pain like I do, or random sadness, or sleeplessness because they're unsure of where they fit into this world.

I've had a lot of names thrown at me, either things people perceive me as or want me to be. Thief. Rock star. Inattentive. Gold digger. Copycat.  Addict. Not good enough. Genius. Child-bride.  Rebel.  Hopeless. Weird. Adult. Beautiful. Stupid. Happy. Asthmatic. Naive. Awful. Fat. Gifted. Immature. Amazing.  Anorexic. Fun. Untalented. Sweet. Liar. Life-saver. Whore. Christ-like. Hateful. Inexperienced. Dreamer. Schemer. Stalker. Pure. Soulless. Best Friend. Depressed. Teacher. Wanna-be. Faithful.  I haven't made any of these up. So many labels, names, and put-downs, I've honestly lost track. Most hurt, and the rest feel like they should be about another person. It's ridiculous. How could people expect me to keep up with all that when all my energy is focused on being human? After seeing all that, could you possibly understand why I can't afford to care? A person could go mad.

I don't grant myself titles that I can't deserve or just don't desire to don. I simply accept who I am and that sometimes I don't make sense. I don't have to. If you think about it, I don't owe anyone a damn thing except to tell them that they aren't alone and love isn't impossible. And after I do that, I sit down and am thankful for those few people who don't try to change me, tell me who I'm supposed to be, or manipulate me. They are content with me arriving to the party as myself and no one else, and don't require any more of me. The conversations and moments I have shared with those few have been the most positive points in my life and are treasured dearly. That is the closest thing to happiness.

Better or Below

This is just a retyping of a haphazardly jotted note in my phone. I had some thoughts at one-thirty this morning that were too good not to write down. I apologize for the rough nature; my half-asleep thoughts aren’t as organized as my wide-awake thoughts (obviously). Even now, after being awake for an hour, I can’t seem to spell correctly! Anyway, without further ado, here are the jottings:

“No one can make you feel inferior without your consent.”—Eleanor Roosevelt. A wise saying from a wise woman. I’ve probably mentioned it before, but I’m mentioning it again, because it’s a good reminder. But that’s just it, isn’t it? We have a whole society, a way of life, based around human beings making other human beings feel inferior. And are they scolded for this misdeed? Rarely, and only in quiet, less trafficked outskirts of our culture (which unfortunately includes this blog, for now). No, instead they are rewarded with a higher pedestal from which to further idolize themselves. There is no humility, not anymore. Everyone wants to be famous, to be at the top, so they can yell, “Look at me, look at me!” to all the little people they trampled on their way up.

We live in a world where comparisons are an everyday occurrence. You can walk out your front door, lock eyes with a complete stranger, and immediately relive all the flaws that make you "inferior" to them. I myself struggle with comparisons every time I go out in public. Obviously, my self esteem needs a little building up, but I can’t even go to the grocery store without inwardly listing reasons why I am better or below everyone around me. This is one of the reasons I’m more of an introvert (another being that I can survive without being around other people, but that’s another story).

But this post isn’t about me.

There is an empire built on the low self-esteem of the masses. But there is no uprising against such a revolting practice—at best, quiet personal disagreement and at worst, total acceptance. Someone has got to be tired of this. It’s gotten to the point where even children are creating their own little kingdoms, parading the “superior” and degrading the “inferior”.  It doesn’t take much to encourage this behavior, simply turn on the television.  Shows that try to present a “normal” child still have to have something “ultra-special” about them; that’s the only reason that show was made. Show that tell kids that they have to be a rock star to be important, that if life doesn’t look like a Disney show, something is wrong with them and they don’t matter.

The people that create this world lavish in an imaginary (and in all practicality), irrational and unattainable standard of beauty, lording it over everyone who doesn’t meet their criteria. Are we so shallow that they are what we put our faith in, so blind that we would trust them with the definition of beauty? The bar has been set so unrealistically high that few surpass it. Those who don’t are snubbed and looked down upon.

This is not the world I want to bring children into. I want them to feel beautiful for who they are, not for who they are told to be. This is my view: in regards to the “it” factor, it’s not that you don’t have “it” at all; you just have something else that is interpreted differently. What may be “it” for me may not be “it” for you. And that’s why it’s so important to rock what you’ve got and not worry about having to rock what you don’t.

Truth of the Trolls

I'm going to get on my soapbox for a moment. I think I have the right to do so on my own blog, yes? Even though I would love to say this stuff to many, many people on social networking sites I happen to be a part of, I am much too nice (or just polite) to do so. Instead of saying it to their--well, profiles--I will say it to the world, because the world obviously needs it.

Stop flaunting your atrocious, incorrect grammar on the internet. There, I said it. I am nauseated to see, day after day, such irresponsible use of the English language. I understand not everyone can afford a college education, but if you would at least appropriate what you were taught in high school (as far as you made it in high school, anyway), we would all be able to get the general idea you are trying to relate. Posting that you are "g3ttin wurkkkkkk dunnnn" only assures me that you are either immature or an idiot. It's bad enough to see kids in middle school write like that (they should still know better), but it is absolutely revolting to see from someone of graduating age.

I don't care that you think you are a "thug", "cuteeee", or genius. You were forced to sit through hours of English for a reason; no matter how much you  may have hated it, something had to have stuck with you. Typing in ALL CAPITALS, does not make you awesome, extreme, or unique--it just gives a headache to everyone who has to read your writing.

Speaking of "your", something that makes me inwardly cringe the most is the lack of grasp a good percentage of the population seems to have on the usage of this word, or the spelling it gets confused with. Over and over you are corrected by internet grammar Nazis, and still you continue your ridiculous behavior. I'm going to play that old and tired record, just to get things straight. "Your" is strictly a possessive term. One does not say "your uneducated"; this implies that "uneducated" belongs to you (however much that term applies to you, one cannot possess an adjective). The informed reader obviously expects a noun to follow, for example "your uneducated son, your uneducated possum", etc. If a noun is not given, the "sentence" is a train wreck. One also cannot say "you're computer". "You're" is a shortened version of "you are"; once expanded, the statement reads "you are computer". This may make sense to a caveman, but a reader would assume that the writer does not understand English well. "Your" should be used here, because it says that the computer belongs to you.

I have the same issue with the misuse of "there/their/they're" and "write/right" and many more homophones that most people confuse, but that last English lesson wore me out. If you are unfamiliar with the usage of these words, see a dictionary.

I am not so naive to think that heinous spelling on the internet will halt because I write a silly blog post. It does, however, make me feel better to write my irritation out. Some readers (if they are diligent) will realize that is where most of my posts stem from: emotions over certain topics. I'm not sure how normal people deal with these things, but I prefer to write them out.

Yes, I misspell things myself occasionally. To my horror, I've come across things I've written that have been posted on other websites in which I have spelled a word or two incorrectly (or used the wrong word). But whenever I write something, I tend to be very meticulous about my spelling and grammar. I run spell check several times and read over it plenty before I post. That is why I'm surprised when things are missed. It seems to happen more often when I write while I am tired (as is happening now) and I will constantly misspell silly things. I correct them when I catch them, but it desensitizes me to a lot of the errors. I just want the reader to know I am not preaching what I do not practice myself.

I was actually thinking about this post in bed last night, but was almost asleep and didn't want to get up to write it. It was a lot angrier and meaner than this one (and some of the points I thought about were so good, I may include them later if I think of them, mean or not). But name-calling does not a case make, however much certain bad spellers anger me. (I do find it entertaining that when internet trolls are losing an argument, they begin to correct the grammar of the one they are trolling. They usually win.) I'm glad I remembered the main points. (You should also know that a lot of the time when I'm writing blog posts, I think in a British accent. It helps me come up with sentences that sound more intelligent than the original basis of the idea.)

Enough revelations into my sleepy brain. This is your self-proclaimed grammar Nazi, getting off her soapbox. Gute Nacht!

Another Guest Blog

Hey readers! I've written another guest article for the Unveiled Wife blog! If you've ever realized your talent but have been too timid, uncertain, or busy to train in it and start using it, you will find great encouragement in reading this. Never be ashamed of getting stuck in a rut, as long as you get up and put some effort into getting OUT!

Click this lovely link to read my article (and maybe while you're there, read some other posts and give Unveiled Wife some love!):

http://unveiledwife.com/are-we-using-the-gifts-god-gives-us/

My Scars Tell Me I Must Have Been Exciting

Since I end up regaling interested parties with stories of my scars, I thought I would put all those stories in one place.

I'll start with the ones on my face. There's one above my left eyebrow from an accident when I was five. My older brother was cutting off strings left on my sister's bike from a makeshift basket they made with an empty Kudos box. I was sitting behind him on my own bike, patiently waiting until he was done so I could follow him out of the shed. My brother, either unaware of my presence entirely or my proximity to him, made a grand gesture of sweeping the scissors behind his head to attack the very last string. (By the way, these were not safety scissors or child appropriate ones. My brother had snagged the large, adult sewing ones when my mother wasn't looking.) During the journey to the handlebar, the scissors sliced above my eye, leaving me howling. I don't remember much after that except lying on a table in the doctor's office waiting to be stitched up. My mom later told me that I fought so hard, I bent the stitching needle and they had to call in two nurses to hold me down. I don't even remember the pain.

The other one on my face is also near my left eye, also caused by my older brother. I was six and wearing glasses at the time to correct my farsightedness. We were laying on the backyard swings on our stomachs, winding up the chains, then letting go so we would spin very quickly (I'm sure everyone has done this at some point in their childhood). Somehow our trajectories were unstable, and my brother ended up whacking his head into my glasses. I was cut a half inch from my eye. It bled quite a bit, but this one didn't require stitches, only a butterfly bandage. Doctors have told me if it was half an inch further to the right, I would have lost my eye.

There is a scar on my right arm that happened when I was thirteen. I slipped off a ladder and scraped my arm on a wooden fence. It's hardly there anymore but I can still feel it.

An inch long scar on my left ring finger also has to do with my older brother. I was using his skateboard to roll down our hill when I was eleven. I wasn't brave enough to stand, so I laid on my stomach. Not being sure what to do with my hands, I held them just above the ground. The left one slipped under the front wheel, which pinched a piece of skin from my finger.

I have multiple scars on my knees from playing tomboy and falling out of trees every summer. But the largest one (on my right knee) didn't happen from summer, or from falling out of a tree. During my first three years of education, I attended a private school with my elder siblings. It was built on a steep hill and the sidewalk from the entrance to the parking lot was steep as well. Students were told not to run down it all the time. One day, our ride had been waiting a long time for us and our mother's friend was getting antsy. We knew we needed to hurry up but having shorter legs than my siblings, I was still slower. So I allowed the grade of the hill to push me into a jog and before I knew it, I was flat on my face. Upon sitting up, I noticed a giant hole in my uniform-issued tights and blood flowing out of my knee. It didn't hurt at all until I saw that blood. My mom's friend had to carry me to the car. It wasn't a little skin. Everyone who observed it at the time called it a "hole". And it still overrides any other scars that would try to cover it.

Writing about all this, it would seem that I hurt myself on my left side the most. I don't do it on purpose; that side must just be more inclined to pain.

I do have a lot of other little scars on random body parts, but those are all from chicken pox. And even though it isn't a scar, I feel this post would be incomplete without mentioning my birthmark. It's about the size of an adult fist, squarish in shape, and sits on my right thigh directly above my knee. It was much darker when I was younger. I barely notice it's there anymore (except when my leg tans, which is rare). I used to think it looked like a country and would trace it over and over. For a long time, it was a source of insecurity for me. But it's just pigment. It doesn't say anything about me or who I am; it's just a part of a body that I won't have forever. I'm not going to let something so silly define me. Anyways, I usually forget about it unless I'm looking right at it.

There is your multitude of information about me for the day. I do hope you enjoyed yourself.

A Prodigal Returns

Picked up my bass for the first time in a long while today (for those who don't know, I play the electric bass). I've gotten "the itch" to play a few times since I've moved, but not enough to keep my callouses. That's pretty sad when I think about it. It will be six years in November since I started teaching myself to play and I've been pretty obsessed with it since then. A year or so after that, with some tutoring from my dad, I started to play on our church worship team. I played with them for three and a half years, which feels like forever. There are some amazing musicians and vocalists on that team, some of whom I became close enough with to call family. It takes a lot of work to be able to play with other people three times a week, and have it flow cleanly and smoothly. Definitely requires some good chemistry. In that kind of atmosphere, you have to get along with everybody; if you don't, it will be obvious in the quality of the music.

And I was really blessed to be able to have my family on the team. My dad plays guitar currently, but he's also amazing on bass, piano, and trumpet. One of very few on the team who could claim an education in music theory and everybody knew it.Whenever anyone had a musical question (whether it was about the key or the notes we were playing), it was almost always directed to him. I probably wouldn't have done well on the team if not for him. If I was confused during a rehearsal, all I had to to was walk across the stage to him and ask for his help. He always steered me right. It was also nice to have my brother and sister on the team. We played together more at the youth center (as we were the ones who had gotten the team started back up and made up the core of the team), but my sister played guitar with the main team for a few years and my brother jumped on drums from time to time. When it comes to music, it's definitely a family affair.

Having people see me on stage every weekend for years made me somewhat of a celebrity within the church, although I never accepted the role. People would tell me what I good job I did or how nice it was to see me up there. A lot of people would let that fluff up their ego, but I've never been very good at being popular. What was important to me was that lives were being changed as a result of allowing myself to be used by God. That's the only reason I got up there every week. It sounds like false humility, but that's the truth. If I stood on that stage and thought about how many people were watching me, I'd probably freeze up and pee my pants. I wouldn't be any good to anybody. And in past history with the team, if the pastor or the worship team leader saw any rock stars on the stage, they would ask them to step down from the ministry. So if you had any pride or the need to strut your stuff, you'd better get rid of it quick, because that wasn't the point of the team. It was to reach people, to get them into open their hearts to God's presence so He could work.

I say all that to say I was drowned by waves of emotion after listening to songs I used to play with that team. I had seen God do so much and felt His presence so strongly during that time. I have to admit, I'm not as close with Him since moving here. Being apart from my church family is pretty rough and I felt like I was betraying them when I went to the church we found here (it just isn't the same and feels foreign). I think putting the bass down was also part of that drift, because that's one of the ways I get in His presence. Sometimes it isn't enough for me to sing the words; I have to play how I feel, express my love through the music. And while my fingers hurt really bad from my lack of callouses to protect them, my heart feels lighter than it has in a long time. I feel reconnected with not only my talent, but also the One who gave it to me. And that is the purpose of it all, isn't it?

Restless Sleepers

I'm taking a break from posting deep brain things from inside my head and being more laid back today. Last night while in bed, I noticed (for the umpteenth time in the last few months) that even at one in the morning, my bedroom is kind of noisy. The bedclothes are constantly rustling (from my husband turning from his side to his back and vice versa every hour or so) and I hear continuous shifting in the dog's bed on the floor, all accompanied by a snoring dog and deeply-breathing husband. I however, lay still as the dead for fifteen minutes, re-position, freeze, become uncomfortable, and flip over to try to find a comfy spot.

Seems all three of us are restless sleepers. My husband, because of constant discomfort from his wound. Me, from waiting for my cheap sleep aids to kick in (I would probably be diagnosed with insomnia, but I don't like doctors, so I won't get checked out). And my dog...well, he's just a spaz who sleeps on his back with all four paws in the air.

Will any of this change? As far as my husband's situation, it may be a few years, if ever. (I did mention it was going to be a long road.) And next time I go in for a mandatory checkup per the army's instruction (which will be next year), I'll bring up my sleeplessness to whoever's playing my doctor that day (hopefully getting an effective prescription for sleep). But my dog...will never change ;)

For April

It's kind of a funny day for me. My older brother got engaged last night and my best friend (who was also my maid of honor) is getting married today.

I've gotten used to the idea of my brother getting hitched since he's been dating his fiance for three years and they've been talking about getting married for the last year. He was the first of my parents' five kids to begin a serious relationship (I was the second). He even expected to be engaged and married before I was, but he was not as prepared to support two people. But now it's his turn, and there will be a wedding in Texas (where she is from) next year. And I'm very happy for them. While change is always a weird experience (especially when I am directly involved), I want my family to be happy and I think everyone deserves to find lasting love. It just happens for some people sooner than others.

Which brings me to my best friend's story. Even she thought she would be married before me. It was certain three years ago. She was preparing to marry the boy she had dated during and then again after high school. They'd been together four years and she was absolutely sure she was ready to marry him. But a lot of us around her were not so sure. I call him a boy, because that's exactly what he was at that time. He was still so very immature, yet she is one of the most mature women I have ever known. She has always been driven and determined to accomplish her goals. At twenty-four years of age, she already has her Master's in social work. She just seemed decades ahead of her fiance and he couldn't bring himself to treat her like the treasure we all knew she was. It didn't feel right to any of us. Then a few months before the wedding, in the midst of planning, she broke it off. It hurt to see her so heartbroken, but I was happy that she had come to the realization that she deserved someone better, someone who truly loved her with all of his being.

And then she was one of the single girls. For the next few years, we were absolutely inseparable. She was still longing to be married, but knew it wasn't the right season and she should wait. In that season, she became the icon of the single woman to me and the epitome of purity. I just couldn't imagine her with anyone (it isn't as mean as it sounds, it's just where she was in my eyes at the time). As she was one of the older ones of our group, everyone was always anticipating for her to meet a guy (the guy) and start dating again. I think it came as a surprise when I met and began dating my husband (being one of the younger ones, I don't think anyone was expecting that to happen as soon as it did). But she was there for me. And I'm sure it was difficult, with me being younger and her wanting so much to be married and start a family. Yet she helped me above and beyond what I asked of her and watched me be happy while her own happiness was prolonged.

Two months later, she met an amazing guy on the dating website she had joined a while before. And he was truly amazing. He had all of the qualities she was searching for: a genuine and mature Christian, kind, considerate, smart,  had a stable job, lots of common interests, plus a lot more that she knows about him that I don't! The chemistry was strong and her excitement uncontainable. And this continued over the next few months. I was worried something would happen and she would be disappointed, as had occurred before in similar situations. But it never did. They arranged to meet face to face in Seattle in February (since he was from California) and I went with her and her mother (to be protective and make sure he was all he said he was). It was a fun few days and by the time we left for the Tri-Cities, she was sure he was the one (and he was just as sure).

I moved away, knowing that they were already discussing engagement and marriage. But being away, I didn't hear much more than that. She texted me a few months ago saying they discovered his mom had aggressive cancer and was headed to San Francisco to be with him and his mom. When they were told his mom had six months to live, they decided to move forward with the wedding so that she could be there for it and so my friend could help take care of her. It would be a simple, small wedding and they would have a bigger one next year. My friend even asked me to fly to California and be her matron of honor; although I wanted to with all of my heart, my husband couldn't get the time off and we didn't have the finances (because of our recent trip home). So she asked another of our friends to stand with her. The wedding began an hour ago and I couldn't be happier. It was all very sudden but I am so glad she is with the man of her dreams. I wish I could have been there for her, but I definitely will be next year (and for my brother on his day as well).

As an end note, here's some interesting trivia. My best friend, my brother, and I all met our significant others on the internet. My husband is also missing his best friend's wedding this summer. And it seems everyone else's relationships started snowballing after I got engaged to my husband ;)

In Desperate Dependence

If you've never listened to the song "Age of Reptiles" by Showbread, I strongly suggest you do. It's ten minutes long, but worth every second. Whenever I struggle with depression and chaos, with purpose nowhere to be seen, I play this song and find my focus again. I wish I could write with that kind of insight, that kind of poetry, detailing in a few minutes the suffering and fallen condition of the human race while crying out to the only hope we have.


I'm not being paid to plug this band, but I really think they have a handle on things. And when they don't, they admit it. They put things in such a real, honest, in-your-face light. It's refreshing and convicting at the same time. They don't sugarcoat the truth, no matter how much it hurts. I want to be that kind of person, that kind of writer. I don't want to bullshit people. I want to have the kind of confidence that I can have no hesitation and talk to people with straight truth that may, someday, be the turning point for their lives.


Even if you have no interest in listening to the actual song, please read some of these lines from it. This is one of few songs that can make me cry and bring me spiritually to my knees, reminding me of my dependence on my Savior and banishing all pride.


"...I’ve worn to thin to honor You, my every effort fails. So bury me with Israel and cover up my tracks; leave not a trace of what I was, I’m never coming back. And if Your mercy falls upon he whose blood is cold , unearth me with your hands of love and never break your hold...


...Jesus bless the crocodiles, forgive the cobras and all the snakes. Open up Your arms to carry all of our mistakes. Suck the venom from every bite and vomit every drop; some of us may bite Your hand but some of us will not...


...Forgive the basilisk, forgive the moccasins and adders too. Have mercy on each alligator that never lived for You...

...It's true that I'm in love with You and even in my shame, You wipe away the imperfections and take away the pain. You wrap Your loving arms around this wretched thing called me; Your love is all I'll ever need, Your love has set me free....
...The truth is only You...
...Hold me to You as I pray, take every other thing away. My heart is breaking out for You, the scales are out of my eyes..."