Belonging

I've had a small revelation tonight. Really, on the inside, I'm just back in Jr. High. And really, for all the crap we give Jr. Highers, that's not such a bad thing.
I went to a movie tonight with my mom and her slighlty depressed, very stressed friend. And, oh!, coming back, I feel so down. And I've been trying to figure out why. I got a bit sad, during the movie (Pride and Prejudice, for the third time), and at first I thought it was only about realizing there are some things in life I will never do (i.e., live in England). But then, I thought, Why do I want to live in England so badly??? Why does that seem so ideal and safe, in a little village in the Peak District? To dance and laugh and hardly be well educated or important? (Being well-educated and important being of course the two most important things in life.) And I think maybe I'm beginning to see why it is. I suppose I've never really felt a sense of belonging in my own home. From a very early age, I began to set up sharp distinctions between myself and my parents and the way we do things and view the world. I never felt at home in school, either, because I was always the smart one, the geek, and the one who was far too naive for her own good, the one who didn't have Barbies and couldn't watch Full House. But, in books, there was a world in which I did belong, becuase Everyone belonged, no matter how silly or stupid or bad. In books, I found community.
My favorite books, which I have grown up on from the age of 12 or 13, are the novels by Jane Austen. I know those books backwards and forwards, they are my world of safety, my world of intellectual stimulation, my world that never rejects me or leaves me behind. And everyone in those books Belongs, even if the don't, really, simply by virtue of being in the books. All of her novels are set in England, and thus when I visited England in college, as we descended onto the tarmac among fields of yellow flowers, I felt like I was coming Home in a way I have never felt anywhere else. It was so odd to me, that I should feel that way, but wonderful all the same.
However, I think that's why the fact that I will never live in that uneducated British village is disheartening to me. First, because, of course, if I really went there, it woudln't matter that I can recite Pride and Prejudice backwars and forwards, I would Never be a member of the community, I would be The American. Secondly, tho, I think that uneducated British village represents to me my hopes to Ever feel a sense of belonging, and when I realize I will never live there, I feel as tho my hopes of belonging are dashed for all time. Forever and ever I will be an outsider. Just as I have always been.
Yesterday I visited an old professor of mine for the evening, and it was Wonderful. It was so different (and a bit scary!), relating to her as a friend instead of just a professor, esp. since she seems to want me to call her by her first name!, but for those brief hours we were together, I felt so understood, so supported, so much like I belonged. Which is funny, becuase in some ways she and I are very different. But her unconditional support was wonderful.
Now I'm back at home, surrounded by decidedly conditional support, and by many people with whom I do not have a sense of 'belonging.' Friends are far away, with their own lives to lead, their own happiness which can only partially be mine, or their own struggles which I cannot experience with them. And my family, oh!, I am sad about them. I love them, and feel this tinge of homesickness about leaving them next week, and yet much of the time I Can't Stand Them. But it makes me sad to know pretty much for a fact that I will never again come back to this house as 'home.' Home will always be somewhere else now. Only now, of course, I haven't got one.
Right now, I walk a narrow path, on a high ridge. I have a purpose, a goal, and work to do, and I like both the purpose and the work, but it's very lonely on the ridge. I feel as tho if I slip up, if I lean out too far to the left of to the right, I will fall away, and there will be nothing there to catch me.
Jr. Highers aren't stupid when they want to 'fit in.' As primitive as it is, this is their way of showing their need for community. And we all need it, yes, every last one of us. Please, God, show me mine.

Christmas

Well, so, it happened. It was Christmas. And now it's the day after Christmas. (And this is a really rambly post.) And, for some reason, Christmas felt less Christmassy than usual this year. I don't know why. But Christmas Eve did not feel like Christmas Eve. It felt like some random Saturday on which we suddenly became Catholic and went to anticipatory mass.
When I was little, Christmas Eve was a Big Deal. We would travel across town to Shadyville East Side, near the ocean. I can still remember how to get there, I think. We went to Papa's house, my some-time alcoholic Great-grandfather who could reduce people to tears with his acid tongue until the day he died. I always got a slightly sinking feeling when we walked up the broken-down drive way to the house. But in we went. Gran-gran sat in her rocker, when I was very young, before she died, and Papa sat in his threadbear Easy-chair. One was always required to file in front of them and kiss them appropriately, and, how I hated that part! Papa always smelled of dip, and to kiss him you had to brush past his chewed tobacco-filled spitoon, past his stained lips, to his cheek. His hair was thin, but still brownish. And, oooooh, he was mean. Better watch yourself, better not get on the wrong side of his politics or racism!, or he would yell and scream and cuss until you cried. He would chew you to bits, just like his tobacco, and was known to beat his wife, to boot. Anyway, after the horror of the Kiss, we had Christmas brunch, fixed by the Mexican maid, and then went into the funny-smelling living room and waited to open gifts. And waited. And waited. And waited. The dissapointing thing, of course, was that the presents I got on Christmas Eve were never any good because they were all from my great-aunts who didn't know me, and didn't care either. And you had to wait till Papa opened all of his gifts, too. Before each gift, he would announce in his toothless drawl, "I don't need them damn slippers." People had trouble buying Papa gifts.
Anyway, in spite of certain deficiencies, to me Christmas Eve is really only Christmas Eve if you're required to kiss your toothless great-grandfather and oooh and ahhh politely over gifts you don't like. This Christmas Eve, I slept in and baked brownies. Not quite the same.
Christmas Day was interesting, tho. We went to my Aunt and Uncle's again, just like Thanksgiving, and in addition to Vulgar Brother, we were graced with the precence of Aunt Merme as well. Ahhh, Aunt Merme. The name makes me think of mermaids of the Arial varriety, only old as the hills. Not a pretty picture. She's my aunt's mother's sister, and, mercy me, she should come with a warning! She's from Dallas, you understand; she lives in Highland Park and she knows it. And she wants you to know it, too. She regails everyone with stories of what is and is Not found at Neiman's this year, and throws around her Neiman's shopping sack with style. When she's not insulting her sister, that is. Or playing with her little pet, Vulgar Brother. Oooooh, she seems to like him! Maybe she wants him to whisper to her from behind, bringing his cheek in close like he did to me. Or maybe she just wants someone to boss around, who knows. But when she gave my cousin's butt a much-too-friendly slap, I realized my end of the family is not the only one with problems!

Better Days

Christmas Eve is crazy, tommorrow will be worse. So, here's a little something to think about, a song that's really meant a lot to me this holiday season. I hope you enjoy it too. Just rememeber, tonight's the night the world begins again.
Merry Christmas!

Better Days by the Goo Goo Dolls*

So you ask me what I want this year,
And I try to make this kind and clear,
Just a chance that maybe we'll find better days.
'Cause I don't need boxes wrapped in string,
And designer love and empty things,
Just a chance that maybe we'll find better days.

So take these words,
And sing outloud,
'Cause everyone is forgiven now;
'Cause tonight's the night the world begins again.

I need someplace simple where we can live,
And something only you can give,
And that's faith, and trust, and peace while we're alive.
And the one poor Child who saved this world,
And there's ten million more who probably could (be saved),
If we all just stopped and said a prayer for them.

So take these words,
And sing outloud,
'Cause everyone is forgiven now;
'Cause tonight's the night the world begins again.

I wish everyone was loved tonight,
And some could stop this endless fight,
Just a chance that maybe we'll find better days.

So take these words,
And sing outloud,
'Cause everyone is forgiven now;
'Cause tonight's the night the world begins again.
'Cause tonight's the night the world begins again.

*Revised for theological correctness. ;-)

The Home Front

I realized today for the first time why they called it the 'Home Front' during World War II. I guess they wanted to make the housewives feel important by suggesting that what they did at home was like a battle. (You know, the Russian Front, All Quiet on the Western Front, etc.) Well, what could be a more appropriate metaphor for my home? A Battle. Fabulous.
It really hasn't been that bad, I guess. Sure, my parents pick each other, and then my brother, to shreds by turns, but it doesn't really matter. Sure, they make jokes about all the hurtful things they did to me as a child and then expect me to laugh, but that's fine. (And I'm not the least bit bitter, either.)
Before I left SoCal, Dr. Stacey (my psychologist) and I talked about ways for me to 'nurture myself.' Which sure as heck sounds like just so much psycho-babble to me. But Dr. Stacey's not really the psychobabble type. We've been talking a lot lately about how I felt pretty un-nurtured as a kid, how my mom just wasnt' able to be nurturing to me because of her depression. So, she said, espescially when I'm going back in such a difficult and emotionally-laden environment, I need to 'nurture myself,' because Little Me is in there and needs nurturance so desperately. So, we settled on lighting a nice-smelling candle while I'm here at home. It's not much, but I bought myself a nice one from Bath and Body works that really smells like Christmas trees. And as I sit here and let the tension run out of my body, I feel a little better.
The candle is lit in mourning for the child who didn't always get to be a child, because when she walked in the door from school, she had to figure out what kind of mood her Mommy was in. Could she be herself today? Oh, no, Mommy's too sad and upset for that. Must be someone else today, the person who comforts and helps Mommy with everything. However, it is also lit for a different reason. It is lit as a symbol of hope, a light for a different future.

Why I Do Not Like Altar Calls

So, I was going to write about sex, and how I want to have some, but then I got back home to Texas and interacted with my family, and now I'm feeling vastly cynical and bitter about anything marriage or family related, and am thinking that perhaps we should all go live in caves and no longer procreate or touch each other.
So you'll have to wait for the juicy stuff till some other day.
Instead, I'm going to tell you a little story:

When I was a senior in high school at Horrendous Christian High School (HCHS), we had a 'revival' in January. Oh yes, kids. The full-on, old-fashioned, Baptist kind. (My appologies, Baptists.) For a whole week, we would gather everyday in Cool & Trendy Youth Room for the Horrendous Christian Church that Horrendous Christian High School was attached to. And there was Cal Mason.* He had bleached hair with a cross shaved in the back of his head and proudly called himself a JesusFreak, or some other cutesy name. I remember we were all extremely skeptical, because after four years at HCHS, we were tougher and more deeply bitter than any African Native. We thought nothing could touch us, that we'd heard it all.
Unfortunately, we underestimated the powers of mass hysteria.
Now, you must understand, not everyone at HCHS came from a Good Church Background like mine. But, honestly, I think some of the people with a Good Church Background we're even worse off than those without it, because they were so callous to the Gospel, they could not hear a Thing. But, oh, honey, they knew what to say. They could convince anyone, Anyone, even Dr. Old himself (head of Horrendous Christian Church) that they were the most spiritual, most godly, most squeaky clean teenagers in the world. Oh, they could fool anyone. Except of course their classmates. Thus, as we all filed into the Cool & Trendy Youth Room, we were already pulling out our Worship Hands and Worhship Faces and duely wrapping our hearts in duct tape.
Now, admittedly, I don't remember much about what Cal Mason* said. He went on and on and yelled and screamed appropriately, just like a revival preacher is supposed to. I think he talked about Moses, once. But, oh, I remember the Invitation, the altar call, whatever you want to call it. He had us all put our heads down, in typical Baptist fashion, with eyes closed so that only the preacher could see what was about to happen. We were all supposed to 'do business with God,' making sure our souls were properly stored in the Heaven box.
"Now, how many of you believe you're saved today, I want you to put your hands in the air."
Silence.
"Yes, I see a lot of hands out there. Now, are you sure you're saved? Are you sure you're sure??"
Silence.
"Now, of course, if you're Really saved, I want you to keep you're hand in the air, but I want you to think about this. If Jesus came today, are you 100% sure you'd go to Heaven with Him? Are you truly sure? Are you sure you wouldn't go to Hell? Because if you're not sure, you know the consequences of that. I want you to think about that now, to think about if you're really sure, and if you're not, I want you to put your hand down and pray this prayer with me ..."
For a self-doubting, OCD kid like me, this was torture. I would raise my hand tentatively at first, hoping I really was saved, hoping that all the millions of times I had prayed the sinner's prayer, it had 'counted.' But by the time he got to his third entreaty, I was gone. I was too scared, too horrified to think of my own damnation. I couldn't keep my hand up, because I just couldn't be saved.
I'm not sure how many other kids went through the same agonizing process as I did, but I do know this: almost all the kids, even the meanest and most calloused of all, were scared to Death. Yes, indeed, the Fear of God had been forced into them, and they dutifully went down to the altar calls, and even gave up drinking for a couple of weeks. And, for a couple of weeks, or even longer, I was ecstatic about the Revival and Cal Mason*. After all, if you could scare Ben Wallis into not using dip, you were on to something.
The funny thing about fear as a motivator tho, is that it doesn't last forever. You get used to the fear, you grow accustomed, and then you're not so scared of it anymore. And pretty soon, it stops having so strong a hold over you. So you start drinking, and smoking, and screwing around again, because, after all, the idiot with the cross shaved into the back of his head is gone.
The funniest and most tragic thing of all, of course, is that Christianity isn't about fear. It's about Love. A Love that casts out fear. And when you force a mask of terror over God's face, I don't really see how you can expect people to follow Him, or want anything to do with Him at all. I am slowly learning, the hard way, to remove that mask, and see God as He truly is.
And that is why I do not like Invitations or Revivals.

*Name has been changed to protect the Guilty.

Dreams Come True

The other day, while trying to study for finals, and in the middle of a mixed mood episode (see Saturday Dec. 10 and Monday Dec. 12), I glanced at my lip gloss tube and noted the following phrase: Dreams Come True. Now, my first thought was, "What the heck is a corny phrase like 'dreams come true' doing on my lip gloss? Are they saying their lip gloss is just That Good? Or are they trying to send sublimal, non-suicidal messages to messed-up teenagers, as per 'Reach for the Stars' slogans found in public high schools, etc.?" My second thought was, "Wow, that's aactually kind of true."
I certainly don't tend to look at things this way very much, but, well, many of my dreams for my life Have come true and Are coming true, as we speak. Maybe not always quite the way I've envisioned them, because in my fantasies I'm always skinny, emotionally stable, and blissfully happy. But this is life. And sometimes, Life Sucks. So the fact that I am so lucky (blessed) to have so many of my dreams come true is really a miracle. Here's a few I've thought of:

1. I no longer live at home. Now, that may seem rather heartless to you, but, honestly, my home isn't always the nicest place in the world. In fact, most of the time it's incredibly painful and depressing. And now . . . I'm moving towards independence, living in a room that's all mine, and not at all my parent's. I am not (read: much less) under their thumb. Now that's a dream come true.
2. I'm studying to become a clinical psychologist. Kids, as scary as it is, I will someday have Dr. and the front of my name! I have dreamed of that since I was a little girl. And, oh!, not only will I have Dr. in front of my name, but my doctorate will be in something I Love. I once told my quasi-mollesting youth minister that when I grew up, all I wanted was to make people happy. He laughed hysterically at that and made fun of me, rather cruelly I now realize. Well, guess what, hon? You know what, I'm not trying to make people happy now, I'm doing something even better and more idealistic. I hope happiness will be the end result, but now I'm doing something even more profound: I hope to help people's souls become Healthy, and have the capacity for happiness. I can't think of any other vocation that could top that.
3. I LIVED IN EUROPE. The further I get away from my wondrous undergrad, the University of Dallas, the more I realize how incredibly lucky/blessed/privaledged I am to have studied in Rome for a semester. I learned so much in such a short time! I learned that "America, right or wrong," is not patriotic. I learned to have an openess to different perspectives and different ways of doing things, from national policies to grocery stores. I learned that American chocolate Stinks. I learned to love and appreciate the Catholic Church, particularly our beloved Papa, John Paul II. I learned that, yes, I truly can do things on my own, that I can navigate countries where I don't speak the language, that I can travel All By My Self, that no matter how scary things may seem, I can do it. Yes, there were struggles. But they were all made worth it by walks down the Via del Corso and gelato at Blue Ice. I think I can honestly say that, difficult as they were at times, those were the happiest four months of my life.
4. I have friends. Not just any old friends, either. Friends who really love me and plan to stay by me Forever. Even when I whine and fuss and cry and do stupid things. And, honestly, I never thought I'd have friends like that. But, lo and behold, I do. The dream of having true friends, not just close aquaintainces, has finally come to pass.
And I could go on and on. But I'll stop here, because I've really got to go pack to go back to Texas. However, it's been a good thing to think on. What are you're dreams that are coming true?

On why Roommate is so Wonderful :)

Mmmmm, housemates. Gotta love 'em.
So, I just got through the grueling 'Roommate Dinner' that we have once a week. Stupid me, I was even partial instigator of this. Little did I know! See, um, one of my roommates is, shall we say, special. Honestly, it's really hard to describe her accurately, because 'annoying' just doesn't cover it. Annoying sounds so Normal.
The firs thing to be said about this particular housemate is that she is a Boundary Pusher. She will come as close to you as she can, as near the quick as possible, until you put up a boundary, and then she'll push against that repeatedly, just to make sure you really mean it. It doesn't matter what it relates to, she wants to be in the big fat middle of it, whether it's your recent break-up or your coffee creamer. And she just won't stop! Subtle hints do not work, but obvious hints hurt her oh-so-easily disturbed feelings. And when she is unhappy/disgruntled/ever-so-slightly off, you Hear about it. So, either way, you're stuck.
Secondly, she's paranoid. I won't really go into this, except to tell you that she's currently convinced that the US Postal Service is reading her mail, messing with her cheques, and very possibly stealing her money. She has been to two different Post Offices to tell them so, and refuses to leave the post office until the Postmaster comes out and yells at her. And, no matter how you try to reason with her, how you try to explain that it makes No Sense that the US Postal Service would be out to get her, it doesn't matter. The Postal Service is out to get her, and That's That.
Thirdly, ahem, well, this really is just a re-hash of her need to be in the big fat middle of everything. She just spent the half-hour of dinner grilling me on my oppinions on a former classmate who left our school. She goes up, she goes down, she tries to go in the back door, but, oh!, I will not say very much. Because, unfortunately, I've seen what she does: give her one little dirty piece of gossip, and she'll run a mile, and tell it all over the shool, and then sneer to one of my classmates, "Ohhhh, you're Catholic, aren't you," as though that one piece of information tells her everything she needs to know. And, sadly, it does. The fake smile is almost chilling.
Scariest of all? This girl is going to be a clinical psychologist.

This Week = Suck, Christmas = The Best

So it's finals week. Yuck, gross, the worst. It means staying up late and stress and eating weird things and drinking too much coffee (I always drink too much coffee, but this is waaaaaay too much coffee). Still, I have a secret! Only it got out! And I'm glad! Guess what???
IT'S CHRISTMAS!!!!!!!
Or, more precisely, it's Advent. But, anyway, can I tell you how much I love Christmas? I Love Christmas. In fact, I love almost everything about Christmas! Except these things:
1. Blow-up yard Santas/Snowglobes/Snowmen, etc. - Tacky!
2. Fruitcake. ~Sorry, fruitcake-lovers of the world.
3. Kids finding out Santa isn't real. - A very traumatic experience for me (naturally).
4. The song "Santa Baby" - I'm sorry, but bribing Santa with implied sexual favors is just Wrong.
5. Greedy people. - No explanation necessary.
I'm sure I'll think of some more, but really, it's hard. I like just about everything at Christmas, including:
1. Christmas lights! - There's a reason why college students leave them up all year! They're just so lovely and festive and make the world so magical!
2. Christmas cookies! - One year, Roommate and I had a cookie-decorating party, with homemade sugar cookies and frosting, and it was The Best. We had waaaay too much fun!
3. Christmas songs! - I love them all (nearly, see above). I love the traditional ones, I like new ones, I love sacred ones, I love the 'secular' ones that I was taught to hate. I think my favorite Christmas carol is "O Come All Ye Faithful," but I love everything from that to "Let it Snow" to "Better Days" by the Goo-goo Dolls.
4. Advent Wreaths - Ohmygosh! My absolute favorite! When I was growing up, during every Sunday night during Advent we would light the candles of the Advent wreath, read a Christmas reading from the Bible, and eat desert. My college friends and I tried to continue this, and it was The Best.
5. Christmas trees! - Despite all those scary anti-Christmas tree people (I wish I had a link, they're pretty crazy and pretty funny), I love, love, Love Christmas trees. I love decorating them, I love smelling them, I love sitting by them at night with just the Christmas lights on. However, I do not like killing them. Someday I will have to tell you some funny stories about Christmas trees. ;-)
6. Getting presents! - Come on, admit it, you like getting presents! (Or maybe you don't. Apparently, some people Really Don't Like getting Christmas presents.) I love it! I love the surprise and magic, the wondering and suspense of looking at the boxes under the tree. Oh, and did I mention I love Wrapping presents?? It's like my favorite!
7. Giving Presents! - Honestly, this may be my favorite part. Yes, I love getting presents, it's so much fun! But giving them is just so exciting, I just love to shop, and think about what the person would like, and them imagine the person getting their gift. . . . I think that's one part of having kids I can't wait for, giving them presents. I mean, I'm sure I"m Totally Idealizing this, but it's so magical to give adults presents, I can't imagine how much fun it must be to put out all the toys from Santa and watch them giggle with glee, all the while knowing it was me (and husband) that was causing all their fun.
Now watch me, ten years from now, hate giving Christmans presents to my kids above all things. ;-) Still, I think not. With Christmas, and presents, what's not to love?

Update

In case anyone was worried, do not be worried, I am just fine. Yes, I was quite upset yesterday morning, but I went on to study at a coffee shop in the afternoon and make Christmas presents in the evening. Admitttedly, I couldn't manage to haul my butt out of bed soon enough to make it to church this morning, but I finaly got up, and went to the beach with a classmate and watched the surfers and got more caught-up in my theology reading. Later, I went to a coffeeshop with another classmate and studied Random people from the history of psychology and then went home and did a write-up of a fake psychological intake interview. And, mercy, this girl had like every daignosis in the DSM! (Not really, but it was a lot. ;-))
Yes, it was a crappy weekend, but one of many crappy weekends, all of which I have gotten through before, just like this one.
Now, can I just make it through a Christmas at home? ;-)

Lord Have Mercy

***Warning: Bad Language Ahead***
Taking a shower the morning after a binge is the worst.
Well, actually, that's not true. Getting up out of bed the morning after a binge is the worst. Taking a shower is even worst-er.
I don't know why, but that consistantly seems to be my time to unload on myself. I would attribute it to having to look in the mirrors in the bathroom, and seeing the damage I wreak on myself, but that's not true. I hardly ever look into mirrors if I can help it. What's there is just too painful.
So, I don't know why, but there in the bathroom, as I wash my face and the room fills up with steam, I light into myself:
"Why the fuck are you so fucking disgusting?? Why do you do this to yourself?? Why don't you just Stop Eating, you fucking idiot? Why can't you just do what you're fucking supposed to do and not eat so much fucking food so you won't feel like fucking shit all the time, and you won't Hate yourself for being the disgusting person you are???"
"And why are you such a Selfish Bitch to be carrying on like this?????"
Thankfully, I don't say this outloud, it's just all in my head. But it still hurts, it still grinds me into the ground until I literally sometimes have trouble moving because it's like I have a huge boulder on my back, pinning me, helpless, to the ground.
See, that's the thing. I feel so Helpless in my hate, so unable to do Anything to make things change. Oh God, why don't You just fucking change me!?!? Why??? Can't you see that I Can't Do This By Myself?????
Sometimes, I just want to go to sleep and never wake up. Which is so not true, because I don't want to die. And, let me tell you, that's a new and improved state! There have been many times where I've said, "I want to go to sleep and never wake up," and I Meant It. Ohhh, how I wanted this all to be over. Thank God, that's not me anymore. I want to Live. But I want to live differently, I want to live in a world where I don't eat until I feel sick and then keep on eating, where I don't internally shudder at my appearance becuase it's so disgusting to me, where I one of my classmates doesn't have to call me three times a week, on our 'early class' days to make sure I get out of bed in the morning.
Oh please, God.
And, oh!, what is Wrong with me, I feel like such a selfish bitch, hating myself and carrying on this way, because, after all, nothing really horrible has ever happened to me. My parent's didn't beat me. Yes, I was molested as a child, but so was fucking everyone, and it wasn't by anyone in my family. Not like one of my classmates, who was molested by his Own Mother. Can you imagine??? My parent's aren't divorced. Yes, their marriage sucks, but at least their still together. There was never a long train of boyfriends/girlfriends/step-parents coming through our house. My parents have never used drugs. No one ever shot at me or bodily threatened me.
What the hell is wrong with me?
Oh God, I need Help. I so much wish You would just wave Your magic wand, and everything would be better. But I know you don't work that way. So, this is what I ask: Help is needed, here, Right Here, 123 Fairmaid Rd., Insignificant L.A. Suburb, Ca. I don't know what that help is gonna look like, probably not anything like I would wish it to, but I Need It. NOW.
Kyrie Eleison, Christe Eleison, Kyrie Eleison.

Seven (Six) Sevens

Well, since my last post was rather scary and depressing and dark, I'll stick with something light and breezy today. I thought I'd take part in the Seven Sevens Meme (what the heck is a meme?), as seen at Mel's blog, among others.

1. Seven Things to Do Before I Die

1. Finish my doctorate.
2. Get married.
3. Live in Europe again.
4. Find a good gellato place in L.A.
5. Have a strong relationship with my brother.
6. Have five babies.
7. Be happy.

2. Seven Things I Cannot Do

1. Higher math.
2. Find jeans that fit.
3. Play baseball (or any sport requiring hand-eye coordination.)
4. Carry on a decent conversation with my brother.
5. Play chess.
6. Keep potted plants alive.
7. Play an instrument. (Darn me for quitting piano in fifth grade!)
(Ok, that's like way symbolic that I can't 'play' on 3 out of 7 things. What does that say about me and fun? ;-))

3. Seven Things that Attracted Me to Boyfriend

1. The second time I met him, he offered to help me. (Apparently he did this to everyone, but I didn't know that, and anyway, that makes it almost more endearing.)
2. Pretty blue eyes.
3. Ability to tease me and make me laugh at myself.
4. Goofball sense of humor.
5. Supportiveness of me and my dreams.
6. His love of children. (Memo to guys: If you like/play with kids, it's Super Hot.)
7. He read Pride and Prejudice, before we started dating, because I love it so much.

4. Seven Things I Say Most Often

1. Holy crap!
2. Grascious me!
3. Well, poop.
4. That's completely inappropriate. (My new psycho-babble word for bad).
5. That must be really hard for you.
6. Are you serious??
7. Craziness!

5. Seven Books I Love

1. Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen
2. Persuasion by Jane Austen
3. Crime and Punishment by Fyodor Dostoevesky
4. The Horse and His Boy by C.s. Lewis
5. Traveling Mercies by Anne LaMott
6. The Book of Common Prayer
7. Dante's Divine Comedy

6. Seven Movies I Watch Over and Over Again

1. Pride and Prejudice (1995 BBC Version)
2. Life is Beautiful
3. Schindler's List
4. Return to Me
5. Love Actually
6. Emma (Gwenyth Paltrow)
7. Italian for Beginners

So, I'm supposed to tag seven people here, but since I don't know seven people, I won't. But feel free to tag yourself!!

Somedays

Somedays its hard to like myself.
Wow, that's an incredibly self-centered statement. It's just all about me, isn't it? And when I ruminate about how awful I am, in a way it's really a form of narcissism: staring at myself, all day long, wasting away.
But, unlike Narcissus, I really don't like what I see.
I went to the mall today, looking for some black pants. You see, when you're constantly gaining and losing (but mostly gaining) weight, you never have clothes that fit you. So you have to go buy new ones. And thus, I needed new ones, black pants to be specific. But when you can't fit into anything that most of the stores carry, because you're too dang fat, shopping tends to be a less-than-enjoyable experience. When you're so self-consious about how ugly your body is that you just want to be invisible, just hope no one looks at you, it's not really fun to be out where there are people.
Maybe that's why I spend so much time alone. ;-)
Part of me feels guilty for writing this, part of me ashamed. "Just get over it!" after all. "Lose some weight!" then you won't look and feel like crap. - I can certailnly imagine thoughts like these floating through the heads of those who read this. AFter all, there's nothing more annoying that listening to people go on and on about things they dislike about themselves but refuse to change.
And there's nothing sadder than listening to a person who hates a part of themselves. I know, because I've listened to my own mother countless times tell me how fat and ugly she is, and how right it is that others should think badly of her for it.
Funny how we sound a wee bit similar. ;-)
I don't know what to do with myself, don't know what to do with my life, so I just keep plodding on, hoping for a change, however small, towards something better.

The Boy-Hat

Today marked the illustrious begining of Boy-Hat Season. Due to the freakish nature of weather patterns in Southern California, it has just now become necessary to wear winter apparel The Boy-Hat being my cheif winter accessory, I happily took it off the hook and wore it for the first time today. And, as usual, the Boy-Hat delivered,
For the uninitiated, the Boy-Hat is a news-boy cap I have worn throughout my undergrad years. It has gone through sevearl reincarnations, the current one in black velvet. The Boy-Hat is so named, because, well, boys love the Boy-Hat. It has been known to induce random men off to the street to comment on the adorableness of my hat. (Random, Straight men, I might add.) And today was no exception. Fat and ugly as I am, I received two male compliments on how nice my hat looked, as well as several female ones. And, as stupid as I feel recounting all of this, I must admit there's a (large) part of me that always feels smug and happy when the Boy-Hat generates these comments.
I'm not sure I want to know what this says about me. ;-)
(And, admittedly, it would be nicer if a hat was not required to solicit comments about my all-surpassing beauty from random strangers. ;-))

A Minor Revelation

So, apparently more people read this thing than I thought. Which is fine, but it freaks me out a little, because I'm just so brutally honest here, and I don't want to scare anyone with myself. And I'm not just honest here. Here, everyone can see how mean and bitter I really am. Here I show a side of myself that I don't necessarily normally let others see. And, altho I intended this to be private, not read by anyone I actually knew, turns out, that's not quite happened. Now several people I actually know in real life read this blog. So now comes the big question, the one I alluded to in my last post, that if people who really know you see how mean and messed-up you are inside, will they still be your friend in spite of it all?
I think the answer is yes.
But that doesn't mean it doesn't scare me and make the think twice or three times about what I write here. However, I am determined to forge on, determined to continue in my realness, keep on in the pursuit of truth, even if its a little (a lot) rough around the edges. Just please don't hate me.
(And please, dear grascious!, don't tell me my parents are reading this! ;-))

To My Dearest Girl:

Most darling of Roommates,
I am so, so happy for you! I feel so hackneyed in talking like this, but sometimes, I suppose it's the best you can do.
Soon, I think I will have no right to call you mine, because soon, altho the words have not yet been spoken, it will be time to relinquish claims that have truly belonged to someone else for a long while. And, yes, it makes me sad. And yet, I am so happy for you!!! So happy for you and him! How can I be sad, and yet so, so very happy at the same time?? Honestly, I never thougth I could feel so unequivocably happy for anyone as I do for the two of you now.
I am so proud of you, my brave girl! You are truly facing up to what this impending decision means in your life, in a way I think few people around us have. Most profoud of all, tonight, you talked about how you feared that if you truly stepped out and married him, somehow he would discover the truth about you, and what an awful person you really are, and not love you anymore. That is the great risk in love, my dear, the great fear in relationship, and when you voiced it tonight, you hit the nail on the head. I am so proud of you for looking that fear squarely in the face! I can well imagine the scariness of such a step in faith. But, as I told you this evening, this is your chance to experience Grace. I truly believe the sacrament of marriage will bring you Grace, my darling.
My dear girl, I will be sorry to lose you. But, as I am beginning to realize, altho our relationship may grow and change, I will never lose you, ever. You and Michael are friends I will have Forever, yes, literally, FOREVER. I don't know if I ever believed that could happen to me, but now here it is, and here you are. And it is a privaledged, to love and to be so loved.
Grace and Peace to you, darling girl!

Book Binge

Today I went on a book binge. While less than ideal, I'm rather proud of it because it did not involve calories. My two hour tour of Barnes & Noble ended in the following purchases: Traveling Mercies, by Anne LaMott, Blue Like Jazz by Donald Miller, and Words of Comfort for Everyday, by Rev. Josheph T. Sullivan, in brown fake leather.
The latter is a daily devotional guide whose theme is "I love you, Lord," and has the Nihil Obstat and Imprimatur, as verified by Francis J. McAree, S.T.D. and Patrick J. Sheridan, D.D. Those funny little words give me comfort, first because I know the Catholic Church has checked it out and verified it as not being New Age Crap, or similar. Which is funny, because I think I could identify New Age Crap pretty well, but it comforts me all the same. Second, I'm not real open to Anything from a Protestant author right now, as all I can see is my mother preaching at me through their words, so I'm hoping I'll be able to hear a nice Catholic book somewhat better. On the other hand, I'm not feeling real "I love you, Lord" at the moment, so it will be interesting to see how things go.
The first two have been recommended to many times by many different people, and seem to be appropriate books for those currently, ahem, disgruntled with the classic evangelical/fundamentalist church. I've read excerpts from both, and am loving them because of their willingness to cuss and be real about the crap of life. I've only read two chapters, but already Donald Miller has hit the nail on the head about much of my spiritual life:
That's when I realized that religion might be able to hose things down, get me back to normal so I could have fun without feeling guilty or something. I just didn't want to have to think about this guilt crap anymore. ~Blue Like Jazz, pg. 8
God as the cosmic guilt remover: if you're just good enough/spiritual enough/Bible-saturated enough, you won't feel like crap anymore. And so the quest begins. The thing is, tho, I want that quest to end. I'd like to actually know God for who He is, instead of what He can do for me. Evangelicals are great at emphasizing what God can do for you, all the fringe benefits of being associated with Him. Well, I don't want fringe benefits anymore. I want the Truth.
You know, I used to think the search for truth was all up in your head. You searched for truth when you read Plato and Augustine and Dostoevsky, and magically crystalized it when you wrote papers. I'm beginning to realize, however, that that is only half the deal. The other half is in the nitty gritty, down and dirty, shit that makes up the journey of life. Yes, I can and should search for the Truth in St. Thomas Aquinas and Kierkegaard. But I also need to search for Truth in my everyday life, the Truth of who I really am and who I have become and who I have allowed myself to be molded into. I need to look at the hard facts of how life really is, and somehow, some way accept that I have Failed, and my parents have FAiled, and the church has Failed, and yet I can still go on and lead something of an ok life. I don't know if my search will 'work' or how it will end, but I know that in looking the crap in the face, I am beginning the first step.

Familiar and Familial

It's funny, because going home for Thanksgiving really wasn't that bad. In fact, coming back here was really, Really hard. There's definitely something to be said for the familiar, even if the familiar sometimes sucks. (It also helps that Texas/the South is the Promised Land, and so to be Out of California is always a vast improvement. ;-))
I was really, Really nervous about going home. Knots in my stomach, couldn't sleep, the whole nine yards. I've been going through a lot of crap this fall in therapy, and have realized a lot of not-so-good things about my family, and as a result, it seems like every time I talk to my mother on the phone, we end up fighting, I end up crying, or both. So I expected it to be just like that at home. But it wasn't. Why?
I think part of it has to do with the (not-so-good) way I tend to relate to people: they're either all good or all bad, and shades of gray cannot reside within the same person. [This is also known as splitting, a favorite of those with Border Line Personality Disorder. Woohoo.] Thus, when I go home and my mother is kind to me and my father's a jerk, I box them up in those catagories: mother = good, father = bad. This fall I've been boxing them up in precisely the opposite catagories, mother = bad, father = good, and so I think that's part of why going home was so confusing. Why is it so hard for me to synthesize the good and the bad that's in everyone????
I have no idea. But I keep trying, keep struggling, keep crying in Dr. Stacey's office and making desperate hand movments - that I've become quite famous for - in an effort to bring together two things that it seems to me are impossible to conjoin.
I am trying to pursue truth, the truth about me and my family. However, as SimpleKindofMan says, sometimes the truth is hard to get to.