Love Thursday

My brother, my only sibling, was born when I was eleven years old. I'll never forget being taken out to a fancy restaurant to be told The News. And I nearly lost my fancy-schmancy supper because I couldn't believe that My Parents were having a baby. A baby! Was the Apocalypse upon us, because, as a fifth grader with no other siblings, the thought hadn't entered my head in years. But there they were, telling me, and I had to "take like a man."
I spent a lot of my childhood "taking it like a man."
I don't think I've ever quite forgiven myself for my raging sibling jealousy. Oooooh, how I Hated that baby! How I hated my parents for allowing his conception! How I hated their excitement, their giggles, their delight. I Did Not Want this Baby, and that was that. And hatred and rage boiled inside me, carefully hidden from everyone else. I, of course, appeared to be just Thrilled to have another child Take My Place and Be Loved More Than Me. (The one time I ever became upset about this in front of my mother, she became so upset with me that I never let it happen again.) I was just So Mad.
Then a funny thing happened. My brother almost didn't get born. He came six weeks early, and the birth had so many complications, we weren't sure he was going to make it. But he did. And then he came home. And I fell in love. I fell in love with his sweet kissable face, his chubby legs, his blond girls, his radiant smile. And I could not hate him anymore, not as I rocked him to sleep or held him while he cried. Not when I picked him up and swung him around and made up songs just for him. He was, and is, My Baby, and no one can take that away.
That was 12 years ago. A lot of things have happened in that length of time. The craziness of our family has taken a toll on him, and he is now an adolescent, somewhat angry, somewhat cynical, very hurt. He rarely smiles anymore. It makes my heart ache to see him, to see what he has to live with, to see the way he shoots himself in the foot. He reminds me so much of myself at 12 and a half years old, only he doesn't even have a little baby to love. That I think was part of my saving grace. But, I remind myself, we are Survivors. I was a survivor, and he will be one too. Only six more years, and he will be out of this house, out and free and able to be who he truly is. We are strong, and we can make it. I hope he will let me help him.
I love you, my darling little brother, and I always will. Let's survive together!

101

Seriously, we're not even commenting on my posting infrequency. But here's a "101," just to be cool like everybody else.

1. I wish I blogged regularly.
2. I am in a doctoral psychology program.
3. #2 pretty much makes #1 impossible.
4. In my psychology program, I am getting a PsyD. (Doctorate of Psychology) rather than a PhD.
5. I am insecure about this.
6. The smell of oranges makes me nasceous.
7. So does the smell of coca-cola.
8. My favorite book is Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen.
9. I first read it when I was just turned 13.
10. I've been in love with it ever since.
11. I am Horrible at keeping up with friends I do not see frequently.
12. I feel very guilty about this.
13. I Love coffee yogurt.
14. I love coffee.
15. My favorite colors are purple and green.
16. I would never, ever want a room decorated in purple.
17. I do not wear pants when I sleep, only undies and a shirt.
18. I hate it when I share a room with someone and thus have to wear pants.
19. I have backpacked through the Rocky Mountians in Colorado twice.
20. The first time I was anorexic.
21. I have been both anorexic and a binge eater.
22. I have never been bulimic, thank God.
23. I can trace the disordered eating in my family back through five generations of women.
24. I'm hoping my kids will be free of this.
25. I spent the second semester of my sophomore year of college studying abroad in Rome.
26. It's one of the best things I ever did.
27. I desperately wish I could live there again.
28. I also really want to live in England.
29. I don't think either of those things are going to happen.
30. I really love history.
31. One of my proudest moments was when I received the "Gold Medal" for history my junior year in high school.
32. I also had a huge crush on my history teacher at that time.
33. I am the least musical person in my family.
34. I am obsessed with the Holocaust.
35. I am always looking for new books about it.
36. Someday I hope to figure out why I am so obsessed with the holocaust, and genocide in general.
37. I think Middle Eastern men are hot.
38. I would love to visit the Middle East, but I'm not all that interested in the "Holy Land."
39. Don't tell that to my mother, she'd freak.
40. When I was in high school, I was flashed once by some greasy guy outside a cloth store.
41. Don't tell that to my mother, either.
42. I am very anti-abortion.
43. I am very anti-death penalty.
44. I am not Catholic.
45. Sometimes I wish I was.
46. I was blonde when I was a little girl.
47. Now I am most decidedly brunette.
48. My only sibling was born when I was eleven years old.
49. I can still close my eyes and feel the weight of carrying him in my hands like I picked him up five minutes ago.
50. I wish we were closer now.
51. I have wanted to go to Greece ever since I did a project on it in sixth grade.
52. For the project, I dressed up in a chiton, the outfit ancient Greek women wore. I thought I was super sexy. But I obviously didn't tell anyone that.
53. My ancestors owned slaves on a plantation.
54. I feel like I should somehow make restitution for that, but I'm not sure how.
55. I also really love the South, but feel guilty for all it represents.
56. I have never dyed my hair.
57. I secretly wish to have a nose ring.
58. I love dogs.
59. No, seriously people, I Love dogs. Like, almost pathologically. (Still trying to figure that one out, too.)
60. When I was little, I had a best friend with the same name as me.
61. Now she lives in Florida and I haven't talked to her in years. I wonder about her sometimes.
62. I had another close friend in college with the same name.
63. I do not have a common name.
64. I want to have five children.
65. I often worry I won't be able to have any.
66. I am convinced I am going to die of Alzheimer's.
67. Seeing my grandma die of it convinced me it is Not a good way to go.
68. I'm pretty sure my grandpa cheated on my grandma while she was dying.
69. I hate sandwiches.
70. I love squash.
71. When I was a little girl, I wanted to be a mountain climber and I chemist when I grew up.
72. Now, I am afraid of heights and in high school, I hated chemistry with a passion.
73. I used to have dreams where I showed up places with no clothes on all the time. It was awful!
74. I still have weird dreams, but usually I am fully clothed.
75. I am very cynical about politicians and politics in general.
76. I do not claim any particular political party, and may not even vote in the next election.
77. This feels quite blasphemous to me, considering my patriotic upbringing.
78. You couldn't pay me any amount of money to teach school, at least not above kindergarten or below the univeristy level.
79. People who manage to be good teachers utterly amaze me.
80. I am very suspiscious of police officers in real life.
81. However, I love watching them on CSI and Law and Order.
82. I Love the movies - seriously, take me to the movies, and I'm happy. Espescially independent films.
83. And not horror.
84. My mother labeled my first radio with the two stations I was allowed to listen to: classical and Christian.
85. My mother and I have still not discussed my disobeidiance of listening to 'secular' music when I began driving.
86. I am 23 years old and I have only been to one New Years party in my whole life.
87. I have never been drunk.
88. This year, I hope to remedy the former, but keep the latter.
89. I am also very suspiscious of milatry personel and do not always have very good oppinions of them. I feel very guilty about this.
90. While men in uniforms are attractive, I would not want to marry one.
91. Peonies are my favorite flower, but I almost never get them.
92. Actually, I almost never get flowers at all; I certainly can't afford them.
93. One year my best friend got me flowers, along with something else, for my birthday. I think that was the best birthday present I ever got.
94. She also gave me a perfume bottle she painted herself. She was a wonderful best friend.
95. I think she's in med school now. I haven't talked to her in a year and a half.
96. I feel very guilty about that too.
97. I do not really want to be famous or write books.
98. I do want to be a good therapist who helps her clients.
99. I cannot think of a greater honor or privilege than that.
100. I also want to be a good mother and grandmother.
101. I want to die happy.

A Good Time and a Brief Beef

Today was my church's Fiftieth Anniversary, and we had a fantastic celebration. The day began with a Ceremonious High Mass (i.e. really fancy church service), using the same liturgy and Bible readings that were used for the first Sunday service 50 years ago. A parishoner even wrote a whole new set of service music for the occasion! Then, in the afternoon was a carnival for the kids, as well as singing, dancing, and karate demonstrations (our pastor wrote his own Christian karate curriculum - woah, alliteration - so karate is v. important). Then, in the evening we had a spaghetti dinner, a silent auction, and a live auction.
I guess there's nothing particularly remarkable in the events - typical church-picnic-style activities. But, as with anything else, it is the People and their faithfulness that made today wonderful. And, I have to say this for the people of my church, they have Joy. - I think that was something that was very often missing from my church growing up. Oh, we were faithful, allright, faithful, and dutiful, and rigid, and almost dead. There was rarely joy or life in our giving. - But today, the wine flowed, and the babies cooed, and everyone laughed as our (slightly tipsy?) auctioneer/parishoner and his wife paraded around the auction items, giving their all to make today a success. I love the spontaneous laughter, the hilarious comments, the warm embrace of Community that I recieve when I'm there.
Happy Birthday, Blessed Sacrament!

(ok, now the beef:
So, there's this couple that's newly engaged at church. Oh how nice for them! We're all very happy, I'm sure. However, oh dear God, can you please STOP KISSING EACH OTHER IN CHURCH???? Ok, granted, I might just be a prude. But this ain't no peck on the cheek, people. This is a long, drawn out, smuckering smooch two feet from my face. ummm, ick. Because, seriously, can we not get creative? Can we not employ the strategies that other young couples have discovered throughout the millenia? - The touch on the cheek, the caress of the hair, the air kiss, or even holding hands! (Ok, here's where I might be a prude: holding hands in front of me in public kind of makes me uncomfortable too. Like, not some people walking down the street or anything, but if we're trying to have a conversation and you're holding hands and making eyes at your significant other - no thanks!) For gosh sakes, go make out in the car if you have to, but don't make out at the table with all of us sitting around, while the speaker is talking! Because that's just wrong. - Please, oh, please, may they get married soon, so that hopefully this will be taken care of in the bedroom, and Not in the pew.)

Saints Go Marching In

This summer I worked as a volunteer social worker for disaster victims in Southeast Louisiana. And, lemme tell you, if I wasn't already a fan N'awlins before, I surely love it now.
In my volunteer work, I met all different kinds of people, many walks, but one road 'through the waters' when Katrina hit. These were the people who starved in the Superdome, who left the bodies of their loved ones' by the side of the road. These were the ones who told stories of hanging on to the roofs of their houses, cycling their babies through their laps as the water came ever-upward, because they had to hold on to the roof with one hand, and the child with the other, and thus couldn't hold on to all their children at once. These were the people of the 9th Ward, of St Bernard parish, whose lives were literally obliterated. These were the people who Survived, even in the midst of so much chaos and death. As I said, I met many people, both good and bad. But the overwhelming impression I had from them was Dignity. These people had lost everything, and yet in their pain-etched faces I could see that they were trying to go on, one step at a time.
So, when I heard the beneift concert by U2 and Greenday on the radio today, it brought back all my memories of these people's suffering, and all of my hopes for their continued hoping. U2 and Greenday opened the first Saints game back in the Superdome, and they adapted some of their own songs to the situation, and it was beautiful. (Specifically, if you go here you can buy the mp3 of the performance, proceeds of which to go buy musical equipment for New Olreans schools.) Most beautiful of all was the song, Beautiful Day, adapted particularly to the floods of New Olreans. It was wonderful.
So, New Olreans, and all of Louisiana affected by Katrina, I hope you continue to heal and continue to grow in hope. And I hope that, for you, today was indeed a Beautiful Day.

Seventeen

Tonight, I had to drive me (non-crazy!) roommate to pick up her car at the shop, and on the way back I was alone, just me and the music and the breeze.
I have a little confession to make: I just Love the song "Stacy's Mom." I know, I know, how terribly juvenile. But, as I listened to that song, and drove, and felt the breeze, I realized that this breif moment of blissful freedom is something that is so often missing from my life.

"Stacy's mom has got it goin' on." - Ummm, who doesn't remember being in high school and finding some unavailable adult unspeakably attractive. There's something so freeing in the acknowledgment of this fact, espescially as the wind whips through the opened window and I sing into my water bottle - turned - microphonen.
"She's all I want, and I've waited for So Long." The perpetual plea of adolescence, and yet, in so many ways, that's still the way I feel. Do you know how long I"ve waited for independence, for sex, for doing things My Way, for not feeling so incredibly bound to my family? Do you know how long - a long frickin' time. And yet, as I do crazy-car-dance moves that I would never, EVER do anywhere else, it feels like somehow, some way, I might get what I want - even if I have waited.
"And I know that you think it's just a fantasy - but since your dad walked out, your mom could use a guy like me." Mmmm, yes, the fantasy. I have so many of them, and they all feel so far away, so very far from any truth that could ever be. And also, there's the responsibility I feel, a responsibility that I think a lot of adolescents feel for ways in which parent's have failed them. I point my finger and sing so loud, almost to the point of yelling.
"I know it might be wrong, but I'm in love with Stacy's mom." I think this is the part I love most. I've spent so much of my life taking on that responsibiltiy that my parents didn't take - I was responsible for my infant brother, responsible for making perfect grades, responsible for my mother's emotions. And yet, damn it!, there are things I want that have nothing to do with these responsibilities that are not really mine and as I sing this line, they seem to melt away, seem to fly off into the music, into the breeze, into the cool, smoggy, California air. They are gone, and I sing with exhiliration, at the top of my lungs, just for a moment realizing that this is probably the way I was Supposed to feel at 17.
And then the moment ends, and I am brought back to reality by the wave of another driver. - Apparently he liked my dance moves. I freeze in embarassment for a moment, but then think, darn it, I want to dance!
And so I do.

A Small Religious Ranting

Today's religious angst is brought to you by Random New Clergyman at church yesterday, whom I'd never seen preach and didn't even know who he was. But he was definitely preachin' it yesterday morning. Good grief! Among other things, the sermon claimed that sending your kids to public school is basically morally wrong, and that homosexuality is inherently "compulsive" and "addictive." AHEM. While I do not think that homosexuality is God's plan for anyone and I do believe that homosexual behavior is morally reprehensible, homosexual relationships are no more "compulsive" or "addictive" than any other sexual relationship. In other words, yes, some homosexual relationships are undoubtedly "complusive and addictive," but so are many heterosexual relationships, while others are not. (What brings further irony to this is that the sermon was about the importance of Truth-with-a-capitol-T. - How about we get our facts straight before preaching, hmmm?)
I guess what pisses me off the most, though, is that the God he protrayed is so similar to the picture of God my mother gave me: hard, angry, arrogant, and completely unconcerned with my feelings. Now hold on. I'm supposed to want to have a relationship with a God like that?!? - Part of me is very angry that people have fed me this image of God for so long, and that I've bought it hook, line, and sinker. And yet, there's this other part of me that whispers, "But what if they'r right? What if God really is like that?" Because somehow to just seems too good to be true, and too far outside my experience to be believed that God actually is loving and actually does care about my feeligns. It seems too risky to hope because, well, "What if He's not?" And, like so many other things, it seems that if I dare to hope, then I must be disapointed.

Yes, I'm still alive! (And other exciting news)

Hello, dear readers (all three of you), yes, I am back. For real. I hope to go back to blogging w/ some regularity, and maybe even blog more frequently (wouldn't that be amazing). Meanwhile, lemme give you the quick overview: last spring, the crazy roommates messed w/ the internet stuff, and I was too lazy (i.e. to scared of conflict) to put up a fight, so I didn't have internet at school. Then, I went on an extensive roadtrip w/ Best Roommate Ever (BRE, her new name, since I have so many roommates at this point) and we were in a wedding, etc. I ended up in Louisiana, where I lived w/ BRE for the summer and her fiancee' -sp?- came and visited us. Intermittently I traveled to various places, including back home to Texas, up to Boston, all culminating in the Family Vacation from Hell up to Maine (which, btw, is a beautiful place - it's not the state's fault that my family is Awful.)
Ok, so, umm, since it's been like four months since I've posted (woohoo), I obviously can't fill you in on every teeny, disgusting detail between then and now. So, here's a list of 11 New/Sort of New things about me:

1. I now live in a new house with fabuloso, non-crazy roommates. Yay!!
2. I now have my own bathroom. (The luxury of this is indescribable.)
3. Oh yes, I'm back here in SoCal for my second (of five!) years of psych grad school.
3. I got in a car wreck this summer and had to have my radiator and other Important Components of my car replaced. (Oh God.)
4. I got back together and then broke up with the Boy (Oh God, oh God, oh God.)
5. I put together, refinished, and painted my new nightstand/file cabinet - can I tell you how proud of myself I am?!?!
6. Honey, the miracle-dog, is still alive and smilin', despite kidney cancer, benign (but humongous) tumors in her leg, colitis, and gosh only knows what eles.
7. I want a doggy so bad I can Taste it (and I'm trying desperately to NOT LOOK AT THIS SITE.)
8. I now attend yoga class (don't tell my mother, she'll send me straight to the Deliverance Ministers to have those Eastern religion demons cast out). I'm now learning to "Lift from the chest!" and "Extend your spine!"
9. I worked as a volunteer caseworker for disaster victims in Louisiana this summer and have now become a self-appointed Katrina Awareness Promoter. (Can I tell you how much it pisses me off that the media spends so little time on Katrina? Or the way people dismiss Katrina victims as stupid and 'deserving' of their plight because they're still not on their feet a year after the storm. - Ummnm, excuse me, have you seen New Orleans??? Have you actually talked to these people??? Because, lemme tell you, it's awful, and it's Not just because people are stupid or bad.)
(Whew, ok, tirade over.)
10. I have actually seen a dog Surfing! Yes, surfing! This was the highlight of my week. I was going for a walk on the beach, I glanced up, and there was a dog, riding a surf board, just as non-challant as you please! It was fabulous, and the funniest thing Ever. The best part is how the dog just stood there, as calm as anything, while all the people trying to surf were struggling and making faces and genearlly looking like they were about to die.
11. I now have a name plate, a mailbox, and a voice mail at the X(name of univiersity) Counseling Center. - People, I am officially a therapist. (Are you scared, or what??)

It's good to be back!

Identity Crisis

Can I tell you one of my deepest, darkest fears, the one thing upon which I make my fate hang on a daily basis?

Kids, I'm terrified that I will fail at school. Because this would mean that I was, in fact, a failure.
First of all, let's define our terms. For me, failing is pretty much getting anything below an A-. That's the cut. And last semester, I made four Bs and one A.
See the problem?
Let's review some ancient history.
I grew up in a home where the intellect was prized above all things. To this day, my father shouts things like "Nerd power!" when I or my brother does something smart. And I was born with nerdy genes: my mother graduated from Welsley, my father got his doctorate at MIT. It's always been an unwritten rule that I Will Do Well in School.
I first remember being conscious of grades at age six. This was first grade, and we got real grades this year, not just checks or minuses. When we got our report cards, we were all marched down the hall to have them signed by the principal. And there, I noticed an important fact: some kids got Blue and Gold stickers and some kids' stickers were only red. - Didn't take me long to figure out what that meant.
In the third grade, I remember my first bout of grade-induced anxiety. I was sitting at my table, waiting to be called up to the teacher's desk to learn my grade in math. I twitched. I figeted. Finally, she called my name and I flew up to the desk, learned my grade, and sank back into my chair, murmuring, "Thank God it's not a B." For me to take The Lord's Name in Vain in the third grade meant things were pretty serious.
In fourth grade, I transferred to a priavate school because I "wasn't challenged enough" in public school and there I quickly established my place in my class of 12 students as 'the Smart One.' I may have been pudgy and socially awkward, and worst of all completely incapable of hitting a softball when lobbed slowly over the center of homeplate, but by golly, could I read! I read constantly, pretty much anything my mother would let me (we had v. strict book rules), during lunch, at recess, and any spare moment, because I had no friends, but I did have a brain. As time went on, things improved somewhat, and I at one point I even had friends, but my role as the Smart One never changed. It was the only thing I had to offer.
And then came high school. I went to a (somewhat) prestigious private "Christian" school that was supposed to offer a good education, altho that claim remains dubious at best. They weren't really interested in educating you so much as puffing up their own reputation, and thus they kept a few kids around to boost their test scores and left the rest of the school to be planned by a group of socialite parents who had waaaaay too much money and time on their hands. However, among the test score-boosting kids I met my nemesis: my dear, darling friend Anne. Anne is one of those amazing (disgusting) people who is good at Everything. And I mean everything. She sketches beautifully, plays the classical guitar, dances (on the drill team, in high school) AND managed to score over a 1400 on the SAT in the eighth grade.
When I took the SAT in seventh grade, I didn't even break 1000. And thus, the moment I met her my world, my role as the Smart One was shattered. She was now the smart one, and I was just me, the . . . ?

I've been struggling to figure that out, ever since. And even though my role as the Smart One has been shattered, I still cling desperately to the broken pieces, trying somehow to find signficance through school. In college I was surrounded by smart friends who got 'smart' grades and even now I struggle with feeling inferior to them. Because, at the end of the day, I have discovered that in my heart of hearts I believe that if I can't be the best at something, then I have nothing to contribute.
Which brings us back to my four Bs. Clearly, if one makes four Bs, one is not the best. And if I am not the best, what am I?

Drama Rama

So today, my Uber-Conservative Evangelical College was visited by Some People, whom I'm sure some of you have heard of, the Equality Bus Trip People. (Can I share with you that I am not paranoid At All. Nope, not one bit. I just like to give people really, really vague names.) Now, I have to tell you, I was a wee bit scared. First, I was scared, because, well, said people are contending for an 'end to religious and political oppression' to 'LGTB' people (sometimes there is a Q or an I in there, and i'm not quite sure what the I stands for, but anyway, basically non-heterosexual people), and, well, sometimes on TV, people that protest for things like this are a wee bit rabid. So I was scared about that. Then, I was scared because I wasn't sure we could guarantee the civility of all my classmates. Let's just say I was afraid they might be a wee bit rabid, too, only on the other side. Finally, let's be perfectly blunt, I was scared because I've never had a great deal of contact w/ 'LGTB' people, and, call me a homophobe, but I had no idea waht to expect. (Except, of course, just people, but a lot of 'just pleople' scare me, so that doesn't help.)
Anyway, hurrah, it went just fine. Like, it was a little awkward, I'm not gonna lie, espescially b/c they were pretty much coming in saying our school was wrong, and our school was pretty much saying, no, you're wrong. But, we were all very civil, and we had some decent discussions, and things were all fine until Russian Orthodox boy started describing his understanding of salvation, and then one of the students about hit the ceiling with a cry of "That's not what the Bible says!!" Thankfully, however, several other people stepped in, and crisis was averted. Ahhhh.
By contrast, my own home is a battle ground. Gotta love the roommates. ;-) Currently, both the Crazy Roommate and the Happy Roommate feel utterly and horrifically Wronged by the other. Clearly, the other person is Out To Get Them, and, moreover, a horrible person. Apparently, unbeknownst to me, this all started on Sunday, when Happy Roommate (who is currently Not Happy) left a note with a List of Greivances for Crazy Roommate. I might add that these greivances are mostly about the house as a whole, but the note was addressed only to Crazy Roommate and no one else. Yay. So, the house has been on edge every since, with Sane Roommie and I tiptoeing around the house, hopeing to avoid the other two, who wish to bemoan the unfairness of it all to us.
Kids, this sucks.
We're set to have a 'house meeting' soon. In which, honestly, I hope Crazy Roommate and Happy Roommate have a knock-down, drag-out fight, so at least we can all stop pretending that 'everything's fine.' (Like, not that we actually pretend that completely, but we try to.) Maybe if they just have a fight, soemthing will get resolved.
And there I am, the pot calling the kettle black.
In any case, if things get really bad, Sane Roommie and I can just be like, "Y'all are crazy," and run away and live happily ever after.

The Fat Lady Shops

(**N.B.** I am a wee bit hesitant to write this post, for three main reasons. First, after again realizing the number of people who read (i.e. Lurk at ;-)) this blog, I am again made cognizant of the fact that I am not the only person effected by what I write here. Thus, I am a little hestitant to refer to myself as 'fat,' for fear of backlash in my real life. However, regardless of lurkers, I write this blog for me and about my experience, and I defintely experience myself as 'fat.' And, well, if that word offends others, so be it. Secondly, due to reasons already mentioned, I fear this post may seem like a bid for pity, as tho I just feel sorry for myself and want other people to feel sorry for me, too. Well, I suppose that might be true, but I'm not so sure. Again, this blog is for me, written to help me as I experience life. Yes, this particular post may be pitiable, but I don't write to be pitied. Finally, well, let's face it, it's pretty darn embarassing to write about this. I Hate being fat, as everyone already knows ;-), and calling people's attention to this fact is not usually my aim. But this was my life today. And it was embarassing, and hard, and funny, and thus, I'm going to write it down, because I need to.
And, wow, I hope that didn't sound really deffensive.)

Apparently, fat people do not wear dresses. (Let me re-phrase that. Fat women do not wear dresses. Fat men can not wear dresses all they like.) Today's mission was cute sundress/attractive spring attire for upcoming showers, weddings, and Easter. Except, they don't make dresses for fat ladies. Now, I ask you, who thought up this brilliant idea?? Why can fat ladies not where dresses?? Believe me, I realize there are some things that fat people Should Not Wear. For example, tops showing any kind of belly. Or skirts too far above the knee. Both of these reveal excessive amounts of Fat Roll, and who on earth wants to see that? However, I do not see how dresses fall into this catagory. Dresses almost inherently do not reveal belly, and can be made appropriately long. So why does the regular-lady department have racks and racks of dresses in pretty spring colors, whereas you're lucky if the fat-lady department has even two. It's descrimination, I tell you!
Needless to say, today's search was not-so-successful. I arrived at Robinson's-May and made the embarassing trudge towards the escalator, because the Women's department is tucked away upstairs between Kids and Housewares, I guess so everyone can momentarily forget that fat people need to be clothed, too. (However, I'd think we'd all notice, and not in a good way, if they stopped making fat-people clothes! ;-)) By the way, why do they call it the 'Women's' department?? Admittedly, it's rather preferrable to 'Missy', the name of the normal-sized clothing department. It makes it sound like normal-sized people are slightly androgynous adolescents, and only when you become fat do you become fully in touch with your femininity. Anyway, there I was, but not for long, because there were, like three racks of dresses, and two were displays of the Old Matron Horror, which, clearly, I refuse to wear. (And who thinks it's a good idea to dress fat old women like that, either? I know Fat Old Women aren't exactly anyone's dream to design for, but have some compassion!) At least here there was something, because at Macy's there were no dresses at all. Again, equal rights for Women's!
I did finally find something, but my mother would not be pleased with it, and I'm not entirely, either. A bit too much cleavage, if you know what I mean, espescially for Easter Sunday. Plus, it's so much white fabric that I feel rather Moby Dick-esque, lumbering about like a whale out of water. (Lot's of blubber, too. ;-)) Anyway, we shall see. Come Easter, I must be wearing something, so hopefully I'll find something nice between now and then.
In the mean time, maybe us Plus-Size Girls should start picketing.

Mommy and Me

Well kids, I'm back among the living once again. Mama came, and then she went. That's the nice thing about visits, they come to an end. And yet it's sad, because here's the real deal, kids: I really love my mother. I love her so much! And we are quite alike, she and I. We both love good books, cozy little animals, good art, and safety. (Altho her definition of good art and my definition of good art are a wee bit different.) I enjoy talking to my mother and even enjoy hearing what she has to say (at least some of the time). But, aye, here's the rub: she has also hurt me, down to the very depths of my being, where I cannot even begin to fathom. And to hold that love, and yet that hate of her all in the same place, at the same time, is hard to do. It's espescially hard, considering Good Christian Girls aren't supposed to feel hatred in the first place, much less for their mothers! (And I hope I haven't offended anyone's sensibilities.) I want so badly to think and feel just one thing, to pick one, and go with it! I could hate her, oh so easily! I could say, "F- you," only say it aloud, instead of saying it silently in angry thoughts and gestures, as when I 'eat at' my mother (as tho eating a cookie can really communicate my anger to her). Or, I could take what seems now the easiest way of all, the way I'm used to, the way where I run towards her, and after her, and every which way, always yearning for her approval. Because msot days, I would do anything for it.
For some reason, on her visit, my mother decided to bring up When I Was Depressed In Seventh Grade. I'm not quite sure why this was so necessary, but apparently it was, and so we discussed that horrible time, opening many, Many cans of worms. I even revealed to her, for the first time, that even then, I wanted very much to die. She had thought I was only suicidal when I was older. And, of course, I cried, and, of course, she tried to comfort me, but as she and I sat there, her arms around my shoulders as I sat on the floor, sobbing, I realized that my dearest fantasy could never come true. For some years now, I have fantasized about crawling up into my mother's lap and just sobbing, completely accepted and completely loved. Well, that will never happen. Because, as much as part of me wants to fuse back into my mother, and simply become a little part of her, I can't do it. I'm not her, I'm me. And to 'fuse' with her means giving up myself, means acting like she never hurt me, and I Can't Do That. I just can't.
So instead, I'll try very hard to see and accept my mother just as she is, very flawed, but beautiful.
(P.S. No, I just could not bring myself to use 'fuck' in a sentence about my mother. It just seems so Wrong. So we'll go with 'f-you' instead. ;-))
(P.P.S. I know this is a lot of psychobabble crap. But bear with me. I needed to write this out for my own sake.)

We Who Are About to Die, Salute You

Well folks, tomorrow is M-Day, the day when Mama comes. And, oh lord, I should be flipping out, and part of me is very anxious indeed. However, there's another part of me, a small part, but a strong part that doesn't care, because, miracle of miracles, that part of me is Happy.
Yes, happy, I know you just about fell off your chair. I did too, and all day, I have hardly known what to do with myself. But, my understanding of myself and my mistakes with Boy, and all of my relationships, has given me this amazing sense of relief, and freedom, and Hope. And, good grascious, it's been a long time since we've seen much hope around here.
Today was a crazy day of even more 'clicking' in therapy. I explained all about The Revelation (see below) to Dr. Stacey, which was a crazy whirlwind, and then we took it even further. Why can I not light a scented candle, get my PhD, or date Boy? Well, dear readers, it is simply because I want to do those things. And somehow, deep inside of me, every time I want or need something, a voice inside of me, the voice of my mother, the voice of the 'Moral Monitor,' tells me that I Cannot have it, that because I want it, it must be Bad, and moreover, because I want it, I am Greedy, Selfish, Stupid, a Bad Christian, a Whore, etc., generally a piece of shit. Thus, everything I want, from a graduate education to cute panties, is inherently bad. If I let myself have it, I don't enjoy it, because the Mean Voices spoil it, telling me I"m a whore, etc. If I don't let myself have it, then I am deprived, my needs go unmet, and I run around, ever insatiable. This even fits in with my bingeing, because there I am desperately trying to fill myself, desperately trying to give myself what I need, only food isn't it. So, I go around, "Always hungry, but always full."
Now, kids, I realize that this may seem rather basic and obvious. Or it may seem like my excuse to go buy a Mercedes (because after all, I want it.) That is Not what this means. It simply means that I understand better why I ALWAYS FEEL GUILTY ABOUT EVERYTHING. (And I mean everything, people.)
And maybe, since I understand, maybe I can start on the road to change. Maybe I can someday get what I want, and let it fill my needs, as well. Maybe there is a little hope, a little reason to feel happy.
My heart tells me so, as I feel a little corner of it, a tiny part, opening up slowly to the sunlight, like a butterfly spreading it's wings for the first time.
Please oh please, Fly free!

A Revelation

So, these past couple of days have been my whirl-wind tour through the mysteries of my own attachment, or lack thereof, to the significant people in my life. This may get a wee bit technical, but I'll do my best to explain. Attachment theory simply deals with the infant's attachment to mother in the first two years of life, and posits that later relationships are seriously affected by these early infant/mother interactions. If your mother did not or was unable to care for your needs as a child, the idea is that later in life you will continue to seek after relationships to get those needs met in some way. In seeking this out, people's whose attachments didn't go so well the first time around tend to act in specific ways in their relationships because of past hurt or unmet needs.
So that's the general overview.
This all started yesterday when I was free-associating (ie., day-dreaming) in Dr. Porter's class. (Actually, all this started long before that, but this seems to me to be the best place to begin.) I was goign along, half-heartedly listening to the lecture, trying to stay awake, when I had this sudden fantasy of Dr. Porter taking me in his arms, holding me, and then taking me home to his wife and baby. (I know, this is really weird, bare with me.) Only, the thing of it was, it was Not Sexual. So, being the good little psychologist I am, I was like, what the hell is this about? (Psychologists must use swear words.) I mean, Dr. Porter's a nice guy and all, but why him and why that?
And then for the rest of the evening, it was this massive 'clicking' in my brain, with things all fitting together like crazy.
Why did I want to be held by Dr. Porter? Because I never felt emotionally held as a child. My mother was too depressed, too off in her own little world to handle my emotions; instead, I had to handle hers. From a very young age, I learned that my emotions were 'too much,' that one must not be sad or unhappy, because two people being that depressed was just too much to deal with. So, make sure everything's 'fine,' make sure it's ok, make sure you don't show too much of what's really going on! No one can really handle you, you're too much. So, please hold me, Dr. Porter, please be able to contain me, don't let me be too much for you!
Oh!, but there's more!
Why must it be a man to hold me? Because women are fundamentally unsafe. First, my mother was too fragile to deal with me, and thus when I was sad or angry around her, things quickly became much too frightening for me to handle, because she freaked out and I had to parent her and make her feel better. However, even more importantly, I was molested by a woman, and thus touch from women frightens me to the core, and my whole being screams, "Get away!" That's why it takes me Years to be comfortable with a friend giving me a hug. Add to all this mix that my father was completely unavailable to me when I was little, and you have some crazy emotional crap!
So where does Boy enter into all of this? Oh so easily.
When I found you, you were my first 'secure attachment,' the first person who ever came even remotely close to meeting all these unmet needs, screaming from inside me. The problem of it is, that once your safety and grace overcame my barriers, my needs came out like a flood which no one, or at least no person, could ever fill. I was (and am) insatiable, looking desperately again and again and again for unconditional love, acceptance, and delight. You delighted in me in a way my mother never had. And I ate it up. And I wanted more. The problem being that you couldn't give me more, because it wasn't yours to give.
And then I became bonded to you out of fear. I was desperate to keep you, so desperately afraid of rejection and abandonment. And I began to use you as well. Oooooh, I am very ashamed of that, but it's true. I couldn't make myself feel happy, so I used you as my upper, fishing for compliments, fishing for kisses. I am so sorry. I hope you can forgive me. I was so desperate, and I sucked the life out of you, sucked every bit of love and affection I could find. But my needs don't make it right.
I could never understand why I was so jealous of every girl you talked to, and why it made me so angry when you went out with your friends. Oh!, I was so bitchy in my heart! I mean, a boy needs some friends, after all! But, oh!, I felt so hurt and rejected by it because I wanted All Of You. Just the parts you should and could give me were never enough, because I was asking you to be all the love and affection and joy I had missed.
And then I worried, because I realized you couldn't meet my every need, and so I thought, oh no!, something's wrong, because I didn't realize I was trying to make you meet needs that weren't yours to fill. And so my desperate fear that I would loose you grew and grew. So I held on harder, held on more desperately, and hid many parts of myself, because I so much feared that if you saw them, you would reject me. And so in spite of my desperate desire to be close to you, I pushed you away as well because it was too frightening to have you near. (As one of my articles says, "The closer we get, the scarier it gets, so I have to avoid the closeness or the father away we get, the scarier it gets, so I have to manipulate closeness.") Push and pull, back and forth, close and near. I cant' stand to loose you, but I can't stand to have you close.
And for heaven's sake, I definitely couldn't be myself, because you'd surely reject me then.
So, things got scarier and scarier, and I needed you more, and pushed you away more, and then a scary monster reared it's ugly head: Commitment. Was I going to marry you, or not? And while the thought of losing you terrified me, the thought of getting closer terrified me more, because our relationship wasn't 'perfect,' and for heaven's sake, you weren't meeting all my needs!, all those needs that weren't yours to meet anyway. And so, finally, in a last act of desperation, I rejected you, to beat you to the punch, so that you couldn't out-and-out reject me. I did the rejecting for you.
And that, my friends, is why all that mother/infant bonding crap is so important.
And that is why you shouldn't try to get a boyfriend to meet every attachment need you've ever had in your life.
And that is why I am very sorry for how I hurt you.

A Visit

When your mother announces she's coming to visit you two weeks before she arrives, you tend to do crazy things. Like plan the right outfits, pray your pimples go away, and purge your vocabulary of "Holy Crap!" and other unacceptable phrases. And clean out your car. Which is what I did today.
Now, this may not sound like that big of a project, but you must understand that I haven't really cleaned out my car at all since I got it a year and a half ago. And I haven't removed excess paperwork/crap since basically last spring, or at least last August. So, ummm, there was a lot of stuff. And a lot of grime (L.A. SMOG, people - the dashboard was coated with this disgusting black layer) and a lot of coffee stains. So I got the vacuum cleaner and hooked up the attachments and vacuumed the whole dadgum thing, and scrubbed with the carpet cleaner, and used Windex, and . . . went through all the Stuff. Old tupperware (ewww), empty waterbottles, and paperwork galore. Receipts from my old therapist, confidentiality documents from my new therapist, maps of the Grand Canyon, maps of LA, worksheets, notices from school, wedding catalogs, you name it, it was there. (The kitchen sink was happily absent.)
The little compartment over the radio, where the tape player would go, if I had one, was espescially full. Full of stuff, and full of memories. There was a receipt from Steak and Shake in Texas, two shakes and one order of fries - we often went there late at night. A receipt from a Smoothie King in Picayune, Mississippi for a mocha - you always put up with my coffee cravings so patiently, giving into my whims and driving us all over to find me a Starbucks! And the little 'growing dinosaurs', the little capsules that when you put them in water, it grows into a sponge in the shape of some wild animal. Remember how we used to bring those home from the grocery store and pop them in warm water, waiting to see what they were? Some special fortunes from special fortune cookies, from a special night. Do you remember your fortune, baby? Do you remember that night? You always had such funny rules about opening fortune cookies! And, in the backseat, a grocery list. Which seems so simple, but I nearly started crying. We went to the grocery store together, every week. I loved so much to shop with you, even something so mundane was fun with you. We went up and down the aisles together, you hiding from me, or telling jokes, or stealing a kiss - in the middle of the freaking grocery store. ;-) I miss that simple weekly ritual, I miss the joking smile, I miss you and I love you.
Just in case either of us had forgotten.

Something New

Yesterday, I did three new things! And (I think) they were all good, altho not equally so. Here they are:

1. I went to a jazz club! It was so much fun! The singer was so fabulous, she was so into music, interacting with the songs, dancing, twirling like a little girl, she was great! Her dreadlocks were great, too. ;-) The place was really fun, until we realized that there was a two order minimum per person. Poop on them! Anyway, still lots of fun, lots of giggling, lots of good times, but I missed you . . .

2.I mopped the kitchem floor witha 'real mop' and a real bucket of water w/ Pine-sol, just like the lady on TV! No more Swiffer for me (that's the only way I've ever mopped the floor)! And actually, it wasn't that bad. I scrubbed, and mopped, and lo and behold, the floor was shiny clean! I was awfully proud of that floor, the ladies at LAF would be so proud. ;-) (Scary, Scary women, btw.)

3.Finally, yesterday, I inaugurated my career as Baby Therapist. Yes, yes, I know, pretty scary that I, The Messed Up One, am trying to help someone else. But, nonetheless, such is the nature of therapy. If we had to be completely healthy to be therapists, there woudln't be any therapists at all. In any case, I was So Scared, and about choked while I was trying to explain the paperwork because my breath was coming so fast, it felt like no words could come out. But then, when things got underway, I started to calm down, and for a moment, I had this feeling of exhiliration: this is it, people, this is what I've been working so long to be able to do, this is what I've dreamed of for so many years. And now? Here I am, I have Arrived.

On Why I love Uncle Joey

So, let me begin by telling you that I'm slightly (a lot) obssessed with the movie Cinderella Man. I love the story, I love the kids, I love Renee Zellweger, and, naturally, I love Russell Crowe, seeing how he is an Extremely Attractive Man. (Actually, I don't like the boxing part of this boxing movie, it's a little graphic, but never mind. ;-)) I espescially love the message it gives about family, about sticking together, about the very positive and important role of women in marriage, even if the woman is not the "Big-shot" in the marriage. I love what it has to say about love. Jim and Mae have a beautiful relationship.
But you know what I love most of all?
I dunno, maybe it's just because I have a soft-spot for guys with poke-able tummies, but the thing I love best about Cinderella Man is Joe Gould. Sexy as Russell Crowe may be, Uncle Joey steals the show for me. Honestly, I have trouble exactly putting my finger on what it is I like so much about him. Maybe it's his self-deprecating sense of humor. Maybe it's the way he sufffers all alone, and is so meek about it once it all comes to light. Maybe it's the special look and wink he has for his wife, as he steals a moment from the tummult to look at her. Maybe it's his love and compassion for his friend and fighter, Jim. Maybe it's the way he stands by his friend, no matter what, no matter what defeats come, no matter what anyone says, and would gladly fight for him any day. I think perhaps that's what I like best. Maybe it's just my mother issues, and feeling unnurtured and uncared for, but the fact that Joe Gould, who is like 5"4' and tubby, would stand up to some huge boxing champ all for the sake of love is intensely admirable to me. Perhaps it's simply that I want to be protected, taken care of, and I rarely look for those qualities in anyone, espescially not men, because my father wasn't a particularly nurturing protector.
Or maybe it's just his "Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!" speech that I like best. ;-)
Watch the movie, see for yourself!

So, here it is, I'm rather pleased. 

The Haircut

So . . . I got my haircut. Which, is, like, so not that big of a deal. But it was a little-bit big deal for me because it's a bit shorter than I originally planned. But oh-so-cute! I really like it! But . . . short!
Lemme explain. When I was about 4, my mom took me to a new hair-cutter-lady who promised to make my hair look So Cute. Well, don't ask me where my mom was in the middle of all this to stop the Butchering, but suffice it to say, I came out with The Haircut of Horror. Ya'll, my ears kinda stick out, and the haircut was basically a bowl-cut, with the hair cutting off just above my ears . . . . I looked like a Boy with ears the size of elephants'. It was AWFUL. I felt soooo ugly. At the age of four. Anyway, in response to this trauma, I have had my hair long ever since, except briefly in college when I cut it all off for Locks of Love.
Anyway, so I went to Paul Mitchell The School yesterday, where they give haircuts cheap b/c the people are just students, so for $15 I got a massage, a haircut, styling, and a little more personal contact with my stylist than I would have liked. Admittedly, the massage part was a bit of a surprise. When he started running his hands through my nasty, dirty hair I almost freaked. But that pales in comparison to the part where he Massaged My Face, folding a hot washclothe over my face, with a little hole for my nose, and then rubbing my jaw. I think I would have liked it better if I had known this was going to happen . . .
Overall, a two thumbs up experience! (Except I wish he would learn to cut people's hair without pressing his groin against their arms. But he's only a student, so maybe they haven't covered that part of the syllabus yet.) Now the question is, should I post the pictures of my haircut . . . ?

Homicidal Ideations

I'm gonna kill 'em . . . I Swear, I'm gonna Kill my roommates. (Ok, not really. But still.)
It all began at our 'Sunday Meeting' when New Roommate informed us with her tone of voice that we were all five years old and mentally retarded and moreover not Christian enough for her. She explained to us that because we're women, God created us to be more 'orderly' than 'guys,' as it says in Proverbs 31, and so we need to become more 'godly women' and clean up after ourselves better. Personally, I'd love to read her Bible and find this verse about how you're a manly, butch sinner if you don't clean your dishes immediately after use .... But I digress. The point is that now we have Two Control Freaks in the house, with me and Sane Roommate trying our best to not be mercilessly tossed about by their stormy winds of frustrated manipulation. (I'm not bitter At All.)
But it gets better.
Just now I got to listen through a pornographic panegyric by Scary Roommate on the newest member of her Lifegroup (Bible Study thingy) who happens to be male. Now, here's why I'm against any kind of 'singles' groups at church: she spent what seemed like ForEver describing to me the way it felt when he touched her (on the shoulder), the way she could see his thigh muscles through his jeans (yes, his Thigh Muscles, people. Soooo Sexy, lemme tell ya), and how when they were holding hands to 'pray,' she simply stood there and repeated to herself over and over again, "Think about how this feels...Feel it!"
Ahem. She met this guy today and she's already talking like their having sex. Fabulous.
Too bad I dont' know anyone in the Mafia ...

Quickie

So, woohoo, my internet is working once again! (ComCast, you are evil.) Which is still a shoddy excuse for posting so infrequently, and no excuse for the fact that this post will simply be a quick smattering of thoughts, feelings, and observations.
First of all, I'm trying to ward off the Valentine's Day angst. In fact, I'm even relunctant to talk about it, because I've been doing such a good job of forgetting about it, and I don't want to jinx myself. So, I'll try to make this as innocuous as possible. When I was a little girl, my Mama was Great about Valentine's Day. We baked, we decorated, we got each other little presents, it was a Very Serious Holiday all about love! Of course, there was no such thing as romantic or sexual love in my house as a child, but this worked out rather well because then Valentine's could be about a more general love for friends and family. And it was so much fun! When the Christmas decoration went down on January 6 (Epiphany), the Valentine's Day decorations went up as a kind of consolation. Roommate and I used to decorate for Valentine's as well, but this year, due to unfortunate amounts of Housemate Drama, I decided Not decorating would be better. However, a word to the wise: don't loose all your Valentine's cards and thus have to go out and re-purchase them the night before, because, lemme tell you, all that's left are the ones that Suck.
Oooooh, Roommate Drama. I won't go into this too fully, except to say New Roommmate and Scary Roommate got into a fight about The Path Through The Crap in the Garage. Oh y'all . . .
I have just completed my second week Binge Free. I'm proud, and yet so scared, and feeling very ominously that there's No Way I can ever keep this up, that I can ever be really healthy and well, etc. I feel like I'm walking on thin ice, and if I step the wrong way, down I'll go.
Finally, a little upset, and little change in my summer plans. Nothing big, mind you, but for whatever reason it has hit me like a ton of bricks. I'm feeling a bit bummed, and feeling even more bummed because of why I am bummed: a lot of my emotion is simply about the root issue that when people get engaged, get married, etc., nothing is the same again. And nor should it be. The friendships must change because the couple must come together. But, to get hyper-dramatic and quote Galadriel "I must diminish and go into the West." Literally. I must accept the West as my home, at least for now, and I must slowly retreat, ever so slightly, from things I hold so dear.
And yes, I am speaking cryptically for a reason.
And yes, I think I am done.
And yes, I know this is all a bit crazy.

The Year in Review

Today was Preview Day at school, meaning that prospective students come and look at the school, go to classes, have interviews, etc. All the prospective students filed into class today, some in suits, others in jeans, and I was brought back to this time a year ago, which seems at once such a short and yet such a long time ago.
This time last year I was in a serious relationship, getting ready for a happy, laid-back, love-filled Valentines' Day. I had finished the mad rush of grad school applications (y'all, it Sucks) and was now waiting to hear back from schools. I was topsy-turvy in that respect, a bit unsure where to go, and these schools in SoCal were my first schools for interviewing, so I didn't know what to expect. I was lonely and scared, binging like crazy on my trip because I felt so incredibly alone in this bright, crazy Los Angeles world. I couldn't wait to get back to the warm comfort of Roommate and our sweet, cozy little appartment, all decorated for Valentine's Day.
A year brings a lot of change.
I now live here in SoCal, however relunctantly. (Which, btw, the city is currently coverd in Ash from fires in the desert. It's like a volcano is erupting. Huge black clouds roll across the sky and the sun is red.) I rent my own little room, tiny as a closet, and it's Definitely not decorated for Valentine's day. (In fact, it's just burried in crap.) I am now groaning under the felt-prison of four and a half more years of school. I never thought they could feel so oppressive. I am now planning a Valentine's Day get-together (are we sensing a Valentine's theme, here?) for all the single people in my class so we won't feel quite so sad next Tuesday. I keep my quiet dreams of romance (mostly) to myself. Roommate lives in another state now, in another part of the country. We talk every week, but it's just not the same. How could it be? Now two of my closest friends are engaged, bringing with it very different concerns than mine. They are now literally planning the stuff of life, their weddings, their careers, their kids. I mean, I know you can't exactly plan that stuff, but to even Think of planning it boggles my mind. My plan is, can I make it till May? And then the next May, and then the next?
I am more fragile now, more exposed, more open and bleeding. I can't keep it in anymore, all the things I think and feel, can't keep lying to myself. I am more honest now, and I suppose there is a strength in honesty. I am alone, very, very alone, alone in a way I have never been before.
I am here now, a little root, small, but firm and strong. I am quiet, waiting, waiting for God only knows what. Waiting for the sunlight, waiting for the rain, waiting for my cue to blosom. But know that I am growing, quiet and small as I am.

What Food Does for Me that I Cannot Do for Myself

So, in case you didn't notice the weird-sounding title, this isn't a subject I came up with. Nope, Fancy-Schmancy Nutritionist (with her other office in Beverly Hills) asked me to blog about this subject, so here we go:

*Disclaimer: I realize that at some point I will not need food to do these things for me. I am merely stating what I get food to do for me right now.*

1. Distraction! There's this Alanis Morisette song that talks about being 'petrified of silence,' and then the cd goes blank. For a few seconds, you have to face your fear of silence. Well, food's great because there's never a silent, empty moment! You can fill it up while you fill your stomach. Are you sad, scared, angry, or alone? Food is always there for you. Which leads to my next point:
2.Pushing Down the Pain: If an undesirable emotion should dare to raise it's ugly head, you can eat sometimg, and then immediately have something nice and comforting before you. It doesn't matter if you don't have any friends, because food, espescially sweets, are good for what ails you.
3. Rewards! Done anything good or difficult? Clearly, you deserve something sweet! This was instilled in me from a young age: according to Daddy, if you exercised, then you 'deserved' to have a cookie. Well, sometimes you do things that are a lot harder than exercising, and so, clearly, you need more than One cookie. Are you staying up late? Studying for exams? Are you having a really rough week? Here, have some ice cream, you deserve it.
4. Self-esteem boost: If I don't eat, then I am being a 'good little girl.' Ooooh, aren't I just so virtuous??? All I had for breakfast was a cup of coffee? Fabulous! Better that I had had nothing at all, of course, but still, doing pretty good. A Lean Cuisine for lunch? Excellent! I'm doing great. The problem, of course, is that I can't not-eat forever. Eventually I will have dinner, and then binge, and then feel like shit. But, for those daylight hours, I really am a good person because I am not eating food.
Allright, that's all for now, folks. This is a bit painful. But rest assured there's more to come.

Quality Time

Can I tell you a little secret?
Sometimes I Really don't like my roommates (read: Scary Roommate). Like, ooooooh, I just shiver with anger and my vision gets all blurry because, ooooooh, I just can't Stand her!
Tonight was one of those evenings.
Now, the question is, why do I hate her so much? Why???? She is nothing but nice to me. I mean, yes, she is a bit manipulative, but that's nothing new. Mostly, I'm just struck by her neediness, her desperation for relationships, her dire need for A Man. And, normally, or at least under some circumstances, I think I would have compassion for such desperation. In fact, as I write this, I do feel rather sorry for her. But, oh!, in the moment, forget it! I wonder what it is about her, and what it is about me, that makes her so infuriating to me. Perhaps because in her I see a part of myself I don't like? I don't know.
Anyway, this evening she had me firmly trapped. She caught me off guard the other day and made me promise to hang out with her tonight, and at the time I could not think of an excuse. (Aren't I horrible?) So, we hung out accordingly, making dinner and eventually watching a movie, but not without her first wringing information from me about the Fancy-Schmancy Nutritionist (more on that later) than I ever wanted to tell anybody.
And then we saw the movie. Oh y'all, what a movie! The Notebook is about chick-flickiest chick-flick I've ever seen. Ohmyheavens, everything a girl could want. And so about me, as well. Somethings about it so apply to my life, and make me ask myself a lot of questions. Which I would post, only too many people read this blog. ;-) So, instead, I'll just contemplate them on my own, and hope I can come with an excuse faster next time she asks.

The Beginning

And so another semester begins. Only 9 more to go until I actually have soemthing to show for all this crap. New courses, new school supplies, a new housemate. And, oh grascious, y'all, what a housemate! She's been living in Beverly Hills, but has now been 'called out' by God to live among the less-affluent. I guess that's us. ;-) And while, yes, we do technically live below the poverty line, it's only because we're currently racking up over $100,000 worth of debt to become certifiably over-educated. Also, she had to leave her last living situation becuase 'they weren't Real Christians.' Ohmygrascious. Heaven only Knows if we're 'Real Christians' or not. Still, Scary Roommate (see post: Why Roommate is so Wonderful) thinks New Housemate is the best thing since sliced bread. Maybe it's becuase she says things like "That's so rad!" and "She's so dope!" You never know, I guess some people like those phrases. ;-)
It's funny, because sometimes I'll start asking myself, is this really worth it? Is it really worth all this crap, all this schooling, all these housemates, all this therapy, for four measly letters, Psy.D., after my name? Is it really worth all the pain and suffering of living in ugly and unbreathable SoCal? So many times, all I want to do is run back to Texas, run back Home, back to where my friends are close by, where the things I know and love are. Sometimes I can almost taste it. But then I have moments like the one I had in class today: I grumble along, thinking about how much I hate school, I hate class, I hate SoCal, and then Dr. Porter says, "And this semester we'll be talking about the problem of Evil, the nature of human persons, and the existance of the Soul." (And yes, he really does say "Human Persons." It's like his favorite phrase.) And then I realize, there's (almost) no where else I'd rather be. Yes, I am so much of a nerd that discussing the existance of the soul actually sounds exciting to me, actually sparks something within me that makes me want to sit up and Listen! Sit up, and think, and feel, and do. So guess what, all you crap??? You can't get me down! Because, goshdarn it, I'm gonna be a psychologist, and I'm gonna be the best one I can be, and what's more, I'm gonna like it!
Because this is my call, and you can't mess with that.

You might be a Redneck if ...

So, Uncle Rico lives across the street. Admittedly, Uncle Rico is a little older, a little wiser, a little richer, but, hey!, it's been a couple years since he and Napoleon sold cheap tupperware, so he's moved up in the world. He finally gave up on football, gave up on that VW van, and moved himself on down to SoCal. Where he met other people just like him.
Uncle Rico has no need for the van. Now he has his own run down house, complete with a yard strewn with trash and old car parts, with plenty of space to fullfill his dreams: RV racing. Oh yes. His yard holds not one, but two vehicles up on cinder blocks (one of them being the RV), in addition to his four other vehicles, parked haphazardly on the lawn. When he gets home from work everday, complete with mechanic's uniform and embroidered name badge, Uncle Rico brushes his toupee-like hair, pulls off his shirt, and goes to work 'renovating' that RV, which he can't wait to go race in the desert with his buddies. Uncle Rico has no need to throw the football to get attention from the ladies, or anyone else. He just grabs a beer, shows off his (sagging) muscles, sends a lecherous glance towards the house full of hotties across the street, and works it on that RV. After all, what woman could resist that 70s hair style, or the hotness of an RV on cinderblocks? So, yes, Uncle Rico may still be a little "stuck in '82," but, make no mistake, all his wildest dreams are coming true, just like Pedro said.

It's funny because I go about my life, thinking I'm, well, somewhat ok, thinking that at least things will Be ok, someday. And then, something happens, and I am reminded all over again that the wound is still fresh, that the blood has scarcely dried. The reminder came this time out of the blue, completely unexpected, like a smog-free day in Southern California. Quick and heavy, straight for the gut, knocking me nearly breathless. I begin to ache again, like before, only now I have both an ache and a smarting, as though I have been slapped.
The blow is not something new. It is only a new manifestation of an old pain, a pain I should probably be embracing, but instead am running from as much as possible. And, worst of all, I really have no right to feel this pain. But, now that I feel it, everything is different. For a moment my world is changed, and every sight is different, from my car to my bed to the books beside it. Everything is now full of fresh pain, a fresh reminder.
It's times like these where I would love to escape, love to run far away from my life. Somewhere where, yes, there may be pain, but it is not mine.

New Orleans Holiday

So, I went and saw Last Holiday last night, which I was not particularly filled with desire to see. However, when somewhat suicidal friend e-mails and tell you she wants to see X movie (as long as it's not too depressing), well, that's what you see. I wasn't expecting much, and that's probably a good thing, but it really wasn't half bad. Of course, it was cheese, cheese, cheese, but not a bad kind of cheese, and, randomly, the main character's relationship with God was very well-portrayed, and, dare I say, rather nice and refreshing? For the most part, that part was h appily expempt from cheese. And, of course, Queen Latifah (sp?) movies are always nice b/c she's not exactly skinny, but you get to see her look so beautiful and happy, just the way she is. (Is she really that beautiful and happy in real life? I guess we'll never know.)
Anyway!, so, the other reason I really liked the movie was b/c it took place in New Olreans. Ok, it was so sad how excited I was when I finally figured this out. I almost leaned over and excitedly hissed, "It's in New Olreans!!!!" but then I thought better of it b/c I realized she has no reason to be excited about it taking place in New Olreans, and it would require a long explanation while something important was happening, and . . . not worth it. So, I was just quietly excited. And why, pray tell, did this make me so happy? Well, you see, Boy is from there. Boy is currently gutting and rebuilding a house that was flooded by Katrina there. N'awlins is Boy's home. (Btw, it made me really mad b/c no one in the movie even Bothered to Try to fake a New Olreanian accent, which, let me tell you, is something to hear. One of them said New OlrlEANS like they were taking about the Leaning Tower of Pisa, it LEANS. Ugh!)
Anyway, did I mention to you how much I love that city? This of course is simply becuase he loves that city more than anyone should ever love a city. ;-) But still he loves it, and still to me it is a magic place, a place where everything has a story, one for the city, and one for my baby. It is a place beautiful and run-down and charming, where you can feel the history steep into your bones, and laugh as he takes you down Scary and Immoral Bourbon street and tells you funny stories about the Houses of Sin. It is a place with beautiful old mansions, full of mystery, to gaze at while he takes you, for the hundreth time, down St. Charles so you can see them again. It is a place where people have welcomed me with open arms, always so happy to see me, always warm and accepting, even in the middle of difficulty. Which certainly makes me wonder why I ever thought it was a good idea to give up my opportunity to live in that magical place. ;-)
Yes, it was just a movie. Yes, if I lived there, it wouldn't hold the same mythical power. But I love that city nonetheless, the city that is his home.

Voices

Mmmm, a wee bit stressed right now! My head is full of voices (no, not those kind of voices!), voices and sounds that tell me what to do, and what not to do, and who I am in the first place. Here's a small sampling:
~"Fifty five pounds! Fifty five pounds!" This is the voice, coming from gosh-knows where, taunting me with the fact that I am now 55 pounds over weight. (Well, 54, if you must know, but then, you weren't asking, were you?) The weight hisess at me from my encumbered arms, cackles at me from my rolly middle, and openly gufaws from my enormous back-side. "Fifty five pounds!" it taunts. Next Monday, I'm going to see a fancy-schmancy nutritionist (whose other office is in Beverly Hills, which makes me laugh), because I'm at my wits end about the whole thing. Which is why I'm going to let her charge me (my parents) an obscenely large amount of moeny. Dear God, I need help.
~"Cha-ching!" That's what Sally Mae is saying. (I'm not really sure if Sally Mae actually makes a whole lot of money off of student loans, but at this rate, it sure feels that way!) Kids, at the end of all this crap, I'll be more than $100,000 in debt. That thought makes me almost want to fall over. How will I ever repay it?? Espescially if I keep buying this much coffee at Starbucks??? (Ok, I'm so proud, tho, in the last weeka and a half, I've only been to Starbucks once, and out for coffee like three times total. Considering I used to go once a day, I"m Way Proud.) So, basically, I'm screwed.
~"Ten New Voicemails!" My cell is positiviely over-run with calls. This might not happen if I would actually answer the phone. But, here's the thing. Here's the thing I just hate about myself right now, that I just can't stand: I long So Much for connection with others, a nd yet I'm too afraid to answer the damn phone. So, the anxiety builds and builds and so do the voice messages, and peoeple get madder and madder and more and more frustrated b/c I havne't returned their calls, and, still!, I stare at the phone! I hate it!!! But I think I hate myself more for not answering it. Eleven new voicemails!
~"Tick-tock, Tick-tock." I know, I know, I know. I'm much, Much, MUCH too young to be even Thinking Tick-tock. Here's the thing: when you come from a conservative Christian circle that values marriage and motherhood above all else; when your closest friends are getting married sometime soon; when all you really want is a family; when you've never flipping ever had sex: TICK-TOCK. I'm so happy for my friends, and this is nothing against them, but sometimes its hard to think about weddings and bridesmaids and showers because, well, I want that right now, and it ain't happnin'. Or at least part of wants it. And, ummm, yeah, Tick-Tock.
~And finally, that small, cold, creeping voice inside me that whispers, so subtly, and yet so loudly I feel like everyone must know: "Anna, you are utterly and radically alone. Alone, alone, alone. And it will always be this way."

Ummm, maybe it's time I go see my therapist, whadya think? ;-)

Mountain High

So, sorry for not posting much, it's been kind of a downer week, and sometimes, when I"m down, it's hard to post. What with being alone in SoCal, going back to school, and a hard therapy session, I was down for the count. But I"m better now. ;-)
I could write about my limited journey as a Baby-Therapist, but I'm not feeling that so much right now, so instead I'll tell you about my experience of beauty yesterday.
I got out of class and then went to lunch w/ some classmates (woohoo, go me for begin social!), took my walk, and then . . . I had the itch to Go Somewhere. The smog had accumulated in SoCal once again, so I could barely see the next ridge over, much less the mountains to the north, but a few days before there had been No Smog and so I could see these Gorgeous mountains reaching towards the sky, one even with snow on top. So . . . I went. I got out my map of LA and drove north, towards the mountains, towards the light brown sections of the map where no streets or highways marred the landscape.
I never even made it all the way to the mountains. But my journey towards them was so full of beauty, gazing at the mountains as they became clearer and more distinct through the smog and filled more and more of my windshield. I just made it to the foot of the mountains before I had to turn around and go back, but being at the foot, gazing up at them, gave me such a sense of peace, and beauty, and relaxation, such as I have not felt for quite some time.
When Roommate was here, she and I went to the sea, and it was utterly beautiful, but the sea does not fill me with peace the way the mountains do. As I drove, I considered this, and, surpise surprise, I came up with an interesting psychological interpretation:
When I stand by the ocean, beuatiful as it is, I am filled with a deep and fundamental anxiety. There is a cold, creeping finger inside my chest that whispers it's not safe, whispers that if I'm not careful, the ocean will overtake me, will consume me, and I'll drown. By contrast, when I look at the mountains, I am filled with a deep and fundamental peace. Yes, the mountains are big and scary, and yes scary animals live there, like mountain lions and things. Yes, they go up and up and up. But then, they stop. The mountains have a clear, distinct border against the smoggy sky. Yes, they are large and powerful, but they have clear boundaries, I know where they begin and end, I can be certain that they will stop. They're rich brown dirt, warmed by the sun, is firm and steady. I can place my foot upon it and it will not move, but instead will bear me up; there is no danger it will rise around me and engulf me over my head.
Perhaps this says something about the kind of people and relationships I need in my life. I know I often feel like, if I'm not careful, I will be engulfed by my mother and our family in general, and that, if I put down my guard, I will soon be drowned and I myself will no longer exist. I do not mind strong people in my life, on the contrary, I would welcome some. But I need them to have firm boundaries, firm places where they begin and I end. I need to come to a place where I can have firm boundaries with everyone, like a rocky, tree-studded ridge. It is safe to be with mountain people, becuase I am me, and they are them, and there is no danger of the two of us mingling together until I cease to exist.

Duty

I'm feeling very smug and dutiful right now. Today, I completed one, two, three, four, five tasks, not all of which I was looking forward to, and made my own coffee instead of going out, to boot! I went to church (yeah, yeah, I know, it shouldn't feel like a duty, but still, it does), called my mother, went for a walk, mended fences with a classmate, and called Roommate's Finacee. Not that I Mind doing all these things, in fact, while doing them, they were all a pleasure, but getting up the umph was a bit hard, and now that I've done them, I feel like a very good girl indeed.
And I don't think this is a very good thing. I feel horrible, feeling like God and my friends are duties. But really, without a sense of duty, I don't think I'd have any relationships. It takes that dutiful sense to get over the stomach-turning hump of dialing the phone. (Yes, I really do hate it that much, my stomach really does turn.) In fact, there is probably only one person in the world I would call right now without some sense of duty, but I don't call him, because I'm not sure he really wants me to call. So, I sit here, not calling, imagining conversations in my head in which I am brilliant and witty, telling him all the little jokes and details of my life that I always forget or feel too stupid to say when I'm actually on the phone.
It's funny because, while a sense of duty does help me maintain friendships, no matter how dutiful I am, I can do nothing to help or change the things that really need helping and changing. I can pray until my knees are red, so dutiful!, but it seems to be of no avail for my father, who hasn't had a real job in Six Years. I can talk about marriage counseling till I'm blue in the face, but it doesn't mean my parents' marriage will get any better. I can nod in silent commiseration when a friend tells me she's been contemplating suicide, but no ammount of sympathy can keep her from actually going through with it.
So, I'll just do my duty, pray like hell, and hope someday, something finally happens.

Stark and Still

Well, here I am, back from my short hiatus in which Roommate came to visit and we drove up and down the Southern California coast twice. (Point Lomas is beuatiful, but be careful when driving around San Diego: once you accidentally get off the freeway, you're screwed, as there are no entrance ramps but lots of strip clubs with creative names like "Les Girls.") We also went wedding dress shopping (don't tell her mother) and I have been named Official Maid of Honor! Yay!!
We had a very good visit, but I'm already feeling a little down, a little lonely, a little everything. In the spirit of Mel's recent moodswing, I think I shall write a Random Post, featuring Random Reflections on school, the holidays, and life.
~ Parents, parents, parents. - What's a girl to do? I love them very much, truly, I do. So how is this love compatible with the anger and frustration I feel being around them? I suppose the better question would be, how is it not, since one is supposed to be able to handle people being good and bad at the same time.
I have a lot of trouble with this.
And I must assign blame for everything in their marriage. This is not boding well.
~ God, what is up with my father not having a job? What is this???? He hasnt' had a real job in almost six years. Six Years! That's a long time!!! And so the family finances spiral downwards, and he grows more and more depressed. And his alcohol consumption increases. Why, why, why??? I know it's not my place to know why, but, God, you're making it really hard to believe in your Provident goodness at the moment!!
~ Shall we talk about how fat I am? I don't think so. We all know how bad it is, anyway.
~ The worst kind of being alone is being alone with someone else. You talk with them, laugh with them, debate with them, tell funny stories, feel the brush of their sleeve on your arm, and Still, you are utterly alone. When you feel lonely by yourself, you can fool yourself into thinking that you are not a lonely person at all, and if someone else was there, then you would feel perfectly happy. But when you are with another and still feel as tho you are the only person, standing stark and still on a deserted planet, then you know what lonliness is.
~I am in between two worlds right now, in so many capacities. I do not belong anywhere. I am still thinking of being at home, still missing them, still missing my sweet puppy and all my familiar places, but here I am, sitting in the library in California because the internet at my house doesn't work. My heart is at my undergrad, all it's important questions and concerns, the horrors of departmental politics and ugly architecture. But here I am, again, in this brand spankin' new library, with smoggy California sunshine outside. Many of my friends are getting married, starting some new happiness, crossing over into a different world. But now I sit here, quiet and alone, with all the drudge of four and a half more years of schooling before me. It seems as tho I will Never graduate, Never be part of the 'real world,' but, really, why should it matter? It is not as tho I will magically no longer be alone when I have Dr. in frong of my name.
Believe me, ambition is no substitute for relationship.

A Little Down (But trying not to be)

So, after all the fuss I always make about going home, and how I'm scared,etc., the irony is that now, of course, I don't want to leave. I'm kinda sad about leaving, and not really looking forward to SoCal either. Blech.
When I leave tomorrow, we [the family] will all be sad. I Can't Stand Them, but we will all be sad, my dog espescially. She'll look at me with her big, brown eyes, and then look mournfully at my suitcases, and then gaze back sadly at me again. Often times when I leave, she tries to climb up in the trunk of the car, or into my seat, even tho she hates car rides with every fiber of her being. My doggy is sick again, and, so I feel extra sad leaving her. The vet thinks we may have to put her down, our sweet little miracle-dog who beat cancer already. Hasn't she already had her share of suffering? Hasn't she, God??? And now this, a benign tumor that's all through her back leg, and cutting off her circulation, so that it must be removed, but the vet doesn't see how, even if they amputated her leg. I'm pretty sad about it. She's my prescious girl, you know.
Then, you know, there's the usual self-centered complaints: I'm wretchedly, disgustingly fat, etc. I could go on and on, but I think you've heard enough of that already.
Admittedly, it doesn't help that Roommate was going to visit me in SoCal starting tomorrow afternoon; it would soften the blow of going back. However, and it's totally not her fault, she can't come till Tuesday night, and I'm inordinatedly bummed about it. It's not long to wait! And I'm spending the whole summer with her! But I miss her, and as it stands now, I have to face 24 hours of SoCal by myself.
Finally, it's been hard without Boyfriend during the holidays. I miss him terribly. I miss his laugh, his smile that seems just for me, to share a private joke. I miss the way he helps me to see good in a situation, and to laugh at myself. I could use a joke right about now. I miss shopping for him at Christmas, and opening the huge package full of Christmas gifts he sent me every year. I just miss him. A Lot. And I want to see him soooooooo much . . . . And, altho I hope to see him this summer, well, that's a long way away.
So I'll just sit here now, and wish I could cry, and hope I fall asleep on the plane tommorrow.