From the archives: November 17, 2004

RIP Kierkegaard

Of course, it would be the vegetarian in the apartment who accidentally drops the pet fish down the disposal.
Oh, the paralyzing guilt....

A post about Dating or, allow me to bitch at you for a few hundred words.

Today is February 18th. For those of you who really live in the moment, four days ago was Valentine's Day. I have never been a huge fan of said holiday, even as a kid, especially not since Spencer Bolton put a Valentine in my fourth grade mailbox that said, "You're stupid." I tattled on him, so I got my vengeance. But still. Not cool.

Don't worry, this post isn't about that overwrought fictional holiday. It's about what I did that night. And a decision I've made that I may or may not stick to.

So seeing as V-Day (or VD for even shorter) fell on a Monday eve this year, church folks put together a massive all-Seattle-metro Family Home Evening, so that all the sad single Mormons between 18 and 35ish could get together and flirt and potentially heal themselves of their tragic, crippling loneliness. It was to be a potluck/open mike night, which is a totally awesome idea. And the food, to get my positive thoughts out of the way from the start, was delicious.

Although large-scale activities are not always my thing, I was excited about this one. Lots and lots of people, and because Seattle attracts awesome people, a majority of them were bound to be cool, right?

If you are attempting to predict what I am about to say, you're probably wrong. I'm not going to complain that I felt too old to be there (silly you, that was the Sweet Meet). I am not going to complain that there were no cute guys there (there were lots). And I am not going to complain that there were lots of cute guys there but none of them paid attention to me (eh, not really applicable).

So what was my problem, then? It was threefold. All of them fall under the general umbrella of "actually, even in Seattle, a lot of Mormons my age are assholes."

Grievance the first. The first act at the open mike was a sweet girl from my ward who dressed up and did a monologue. It was ADORABLE. And she was GOOD. Also, she has balls the size of watermelons (figuratively) because doing a monologue in front of a couple hundred people is SCARY. Unfortunately, the thing about insecure people is that they like to undermine people who do things they are too puss to do. So, not only did approximately three quarters of the people keep talking while this girl was performing, a whole lot of them made snarky comments about it.

What's worse, for the rest of the open mike event, hardly anyone shut their damn mouth-hole. That pissed me off, maybe more than it should have. But seriously, if someone took the time to prepare something for an FHE, the least you can do is shut up and listen to it. That is literally the least you can do. Anything else is dehumanizing and disrespectful.

Grievance the second, and yeah, they are all this petty. After this extremely well-attended event was over, there were still lots of people milling around. There was also a TON of trash everywhere. Lots and lots of disposable dishes and empty soda cans and spilled food etc. My poor friend Erin was spinning off her rocker with stress, so a couple of other girls and maybe two guys started helping her clean up. There was lots and lots to stuff to do and it was pouring rain outside. Meanwhile, there were easily fifty or sixty dudes just hanging out, hands in pockets, talking to each other, not doing anything.

They kept standing there for another hour. Nobody offered to help clean up, nobody offered to take out some of the overflowing garbage bags outside to the dumpster. I could say something about chivalry being dead, but we all know that it's been dead for decades. Helping to clean up is just basic human decency. By this point, I was livid.

The last grievance is that when another friend cut her finger and got a little sick to her stomach at the sight of blood, none of the guys who noticed offered to help with that, either.

Seriously? SERIOUSLY? Anyone who knows my history of relationships knows that my standards are not exactly sky-high, but I could not believe what insensitive jerks those boys were. I was so upset I may or may nor have walked by one group of them and hissed "I can't believe nobody is helping. No wonder no woman wants you." Sadly, I think only one of them heard me, and he had the class to actually look guilty.

I would rather be alone for the rest of my life than bother with any boy who would be that rude and inconsiderate. Even thinking about it right now makes me want to punch someone. Because what I just complained about is NOT too much to ask. It's not like I'm upset because nobody played the guitar for me outside my window. Really, it has nothing to do with me. Nobody helped me, which is fine because I am not that cute, but nobody helped any of the cute girls who were cleaning up, either. Except for Laird. And some tall Asian guy.

It blows my mind sometimes how unsympathetic Mormons can be. No empathy for others, only boo-hoo I'm twenty-eight and I've never been laid woe-is-me. It's psychopathic. It's immoral.

In short, Mormon guys can suck it until they learn how to be kind, because they suck. Did you see how I used suck in one sentence, but with two difference meanings? That means I'm too mad to care about potential semantic confusion. That's really mad.

Also, if anyone wants to protest that THEIR super classy Mormon husband is the exception to the rule, or you, yourself, are the exception to the rule: save it. I don't believe you. It's a numbers game, and everyone in this city is a loser.

THE END

Note: after reading this through, I get how ironic is it that I am responding with such unsympathetic vitriol to people I see as unsympathetic. It's like how I judge people for being judgmental. I get that I'm a hypocrite. But you wanted to know why I was pissed off on Monday, and now you do. Purged. XOXO

I Can't Believe I Haven't Blogged About X, Day 4: My Villanelle

The first image result from the search term "writer's block."

I used to write poetry. I haven't in years, but some of it was pretty good. Even after I switched my major from English to Linguistics, I took all the poetry classes I could weasel my way into.

SEEMINGLY UNRELATED TANGENT!

The summer I was 20, I was crazy in love with this 29-turning-30 dude in my ward/condo complex named ... for privacy's sake, let's call him Dan Blatt. He looked like a potato and was severely mentally ill, but I liked him because he was "interesting." Terrible idea. But let's not waste time revisiting my bad taste in men.

Anyway, that Fall semester, I enrolled in my first poetry class, which I was really excited about. Our professor was a really quirky cowboy-type guy who insisted we could only write form poetry--"No free verse until you've earned it!" Our first assignment was to write a villanelle, and we had almost three weeks to do it.

I kept trying to write love poems to the aforementioned boy, but nothing came. A fortnight passed and I started to get really, really frustrated, and even doubted that I had any future as a writer at all.

Then, on September 11th, he dumped me. I came home from eating ice cream with my best friend and this poem came pouring out of me, just like butter. Go figure.

Until now, the only people who have seen this poem are my 319 class (which was like ten people), Cori and Brooke.

Ode to Dan Blatt (September 11, 2005)

"You won't be needing THIS."

Dan Blatt, I hate your stinking guts.
How could you be this cruel to me?
Dan, you are such a freaking putz.

It's not like I'm one of your sluts!
I know there's nothing wrong with me ...
Dan Blatt, I hate your stupid guts.

Your apartment stinks like cold cuts.
I wouldn't stay if you paid me.
Dan, you are such a filthy putz.

To think I liked you, I must be nuts.
I'm taking back my heart's key.
Dan Blatt, I hate your lying guts.

To think that I was such a klutz
to love the way you called me "E."
Dan, you are such a two-faced putz.

Before I kick you in the nuts
I have something to tell you--see,
Dan Blatt, I hate your stinking guts.
You are such a big fat freaking putz.

You blew up my car. I LOVED that car.

Once upon a time I was working full-time as a nanny. I had just gotten back from my mission and I was deeply unhappy. My days were spent commuting in the snow, taking care of children and sitting in my room. I had no friends. This is starting to sound a lot more pathetic than it actually was, for although I was lonely and sad most of the time, that kind of solitude only makes one more appreciative of all the things one can do alone. I started working in the temple. I went for runs. Nobody pulled me out of that darkness. I pulled myself out. Then, fortunately, I made some of the best friends I have ever had, and that was incredible.

During the course of my pulling-myself-from-abyss time, I decided I wanted to buy a car. This is harder than it sounds when one is working off the books and lived in a foreign country without employment for the previous year or so. I talked to some people and they were sympathetic but ultimately unhelpful. I remember the following evening well. It was a weekday and I decided to pray about buying a car, which probably sounds ridiculous. Whatever. I totally did it anyway.

The prayer went a little something like this. It will sound quite casual and perhaps irreverent to your ears, but that's just how I pray.

"Hey, God. So I've been thinking I want to buy a car. I'm working now and I definitely think I can afford it. My commute is currently an hour and a half both ways and if I were to get a car it would probably only be about ten minutes. That would save me a lot of time and I have better things to do. At least, I'm pretty sure I do. Also, I promise if I had a car I would use it to serve others. I think people other than just me would benefit. And I could drive to church when the rest of my house is ready to leave and I am not instead of just staying home. Essentially, we would all win if I had a car. I have no idea how this could possibly happen since apparently I don't qualify for like a loan or anything because of my mission--thanks a lot for that, by the way ... just kidding!!! Anyway, I feel this would be a good thing but I can't make it happen on my own. Thanks for listening."

I kid you not, the NEXT DAY my father called me and said that my godmother was looking to sell her old car, and would I be interested in buying her old Kia?

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

This solidified my belief that God listens to my prayers even though the things I say are often kind of stupid. This probably also explains why I frequently offered to lend my car to friends in need. It was part of the bargain.

My godmother smokes several packs a day, and I don't think my car ever REALLY stopped smelling like cigarettes. My friends claimed that they didn't notice, but I think they were just being kind. Also, another previous owner was a pothead who had driven the car into the ocean (true story) and so the engine had some pretty bizarre salt-water damage, which is worse than regular water damage. I spilled a big thing of grape juice on the passenger seat when I was trying to drive to a party for the kids in my Middle English class with the dog in the car (bad idea). And I scraped the passenger door pretty badly when I tried to back into the narrow driveway at my first house. I was out of practice, having not driven in several years + being blind in one eye has always made me a poor judge of distance.

However, this car was paid off by me. I OWNED it. It was the first grown-up thing of value that I actually owned. Which was a crazy feeling. I assumed that I would drive it until it died, or until I decided to move somewhere where owning a car would be practical, such as New York City, or anywhere abroad. Although it was a depreciating asset, I had an ASSET, for crying out loud. So even though it was kinda musty and full of dog hair and such, I did love that car.

And I suppose, technically, one could argue that I did in fact drive it until it died.

Poor baby car.

I don't remember exactly what happened. What I can remember is that I was driving my car on northbound I-5, and I looked down for a split second, then I looked up again, and there was a car right in front of me that appeared to be stopped. I later learned that it wasn't stopped, but that's physics for you. Anyway, there was a loud crash and then I heard nothing, and then through the smoke I saw the car in front of me drive away (in my shock, I thought that was because his car was completely undamaged, which of course wasn't true). I sat there for a minute and stared at my smoking hood, realizing that there was no way I would be able to drive my car even to the side of the road. So I reached for my phone and dialed 9-1-1.

Apparently, it's a big unusual to report your own accident, presumably because most people are either too injured or too disoriented to call anyone. Or they can't locate their phones. I thought about calling my dad after I got off the phone with the 911 operator, but that's a phone call nobody wants to make. "Hey, parents? I just crashed my car on the highway and I'm waiting for the ambulance to take me to the ER. There's not really anything you do at this point, though. Bye!" So I just sat there and waited and thought to myself, shit. My car is broken. And I crashed my car like a stupid teenager. This is so humiliating. And then I cried.

I did not cry because I was grateful to be alive. I want to make that perfectly clear. I cried because I had owned something that made me an adult and then ruined it in a very un-adult fashion. And because I was embarrassed. I really don't think I have ever felt so stupid. I should note, though, one thing I did that was not stupid was turn on my emergency flashers. Even though they were on, it is an absolute miracle that nobody hit me from behind while I was waiting for the ambulance to come.

An ambulance came. The EMT was about my age and asked if I knew what year it was. Then she asked who the president was. I laughed. A state trooper opened my passenger side door and asked me some more questions. Someone else strapped a neckbrace to my head. A firefighter asked if I had any allergies, seizures, blackouts, did I use drugs, was I on any medication. No, no, no. Just an idiot. They wouldn't let me walk to the ambulance. I had to be carried on one of those board things. Another firefighter taped my hair to the board.

In the back of the ambulance it was just me and the EMT who arrived first and asked me what year it was. A state trooper stepped in and informed me they would be issuing me a ticket. I almost said something rude but I held my tongue. We drove to Harborview without any sirens. While we were in route to the hospital, I started laughing hysterically, then crying again. It must have been kind of unnerving. The EMT kept telling me to take deep breaths, which was a bummer for her because I almost always hyperventilate when I cry. She put me on oxygen.

Triage at Harborview is always really crazy. I lay on the stretcher in the waiting room and signed consent forms. One of them asked about what religion I was. Then the rolled me into another room with some other people who also looked like they had been in car accidents. Lots of doctors. They kept poking me and asking me to evaluate my pain level on a scale of one to ten. Apparently, if I had exaggerated just a tiny bit, I could have gotten some cool narcotics. Oh well.

By this time I had figured out that I probably wasn't hurt very badly and I just wanted to go home. Oh yeah, and I called my dad from the bed. I had always thought that cell phone usage was forbidden inside hospitals. Not true! Anyway, they put me on an IV and did a bunch of CAT scans and X-rays. It wasn't painful except (TMI) after the IV was in for a while I had to pee really badly and learned how to use a bedpan. That was cool. Also, (MAJOR TOTAL TMI) did you know that one of the ways they determine whether there is any paralysis in the lower back is through a rectal exam? It's true.

They put some morphine into my IV and suddenly, I was very very grateful to be alive. I realized that had there just been a few more inches of intrusion into the car or if my airbag hadn't deployed properly, or if someone behind me had been as spacey as I had been, I would almost certainly be dead. What would have happened if I had died? I ruminated. It would have been sort of anticlimactic, I think. I haven't even done anything cool. But maybe the Dead Girl's Blog would have been published. That would be neat. But my parents would have cleaned out my room and found a lot of embarrassing things. These were my actual thoughts.

I don't think I need to be the one to tell you that the damage is irreparable. The damage to my car, that is. My body is surprisingly fine. Some bruises and soreness, but overall alive, well, un-paralyzed. Apparently I am some degree of invincible, because I got into a serious car accident on the highway and I DIDN'T DIE. Of course, one never knows when one has fulfilled all of one's destiny and can safely die in a fiery car crash, so I won't be pushing the "Invincible Elisa" thing too far, I promise you.

In case you were wondering, I talked to the guy I hit on Friday, and he is fine. He didn't even have to go to the hospital. His car is totaled as well, though his damage wasn't nearly as bad (it was an SUV, but an older one). He was gracious and understanding and my insurance seems to be taking pretty good care of him. Additionally, I am very grateful that his kids weren't in the back of the car on Thursday. I would never have forgiven myself for that.

I hate to reference specific companies on my blog because I don't receive revenue from anyone, but indulge me in saying that the people at Geico have been extremely kind, helpful and understanding. They are covering my medical expenses and giving me a small amount of money for a new crappy car. Bless their corporate hearts.

It's great to be alive, you guys.

This song is only sort of related. I just really like it.

For you.

The "you" is someone who needs to hear this, not a "you" who broke my heart. Nobody who has ever broken my heart reads this blog, I don't think. If you are: Hey. You broke my heart and I resent that, because my heart is kinda defective to begin with. Go screw yourself. Bye.

Ways To Cowboy Up and Heal Oneself of a Broken Heart

(in semi-chronological order)

1. Cry. A lot. Even if it makes the other people in the bathroom or movie theater or ethnic grocery store (true story!) uncomfortable. Cry as much as you like. Try to believe that one day you will be able to experience a trigger memory that will not make you cry again. Even if it seems unlikely.

2. Spend time alone. Go on walks, read scriptures, all that introspective stuff you see broken-hearted characters do in movies. DO NOT read old emails or journal entries initially. Build up to that gradually, starting with easy stuff like looking up his name in the phone book.

3. Spend time with people who love you. People who will either listen to you without being too pushy, or who will find other interesting things to discuss. Go shopping with someone who walks at a slow pace. Discuss movies with people who have the same taste as you. If you absolutely have to go to some sort of wedding, do not go alone. Take someone who will crack jokes the entire time and maybe help you steal some centerpieces.

4. Write stuff down. You might want to destroy it afterwards. Makes lists of his physical and personality-related flaws. Write him hateful letters. G-chat with your ever-patient friends and ask them if they had any inkling your relationship was a ticking time bomb of misery and despair. If they did feel that way and just didn't tell you, write them angry, confrontational letters, and destroy those too. Write about things you may have learned or may not have learned. Write until you feel like writing about something unrelated. That's a good sign.

5. Take everything that reminds you of him and put it in a box. Then write a date for at least a few months (I like six) in the future for the box to be re-opened. Hide the box. Open it later, and then decide what you want to get rid of, and what you want to keep around. Do not get rid of your phone, car, bedsheets (except maybe the pillowcase), infant child, or can opener (another true story). No seriously, don't.

6. Do a Google Image Search for "brown recluse spider bite." Say this out loud to yourself while staring at the aforementioned images: "It could be worse." Say it thirty times or until you believe it, whichever comes first.

7. Read the Song of Solomon in the Bible. If anyone tries to convince you it's not worth reading, tell them to shut up. Picture in your mind someone existing who sincerely believes your breasts are like two young roes that are twins. Then picture that handsome person beating up your previous paramour. Repeat as many times as necessary.

8. Research weird stuff. Whatever makes you feel human again. Cheap flights to London. Turkish food. I like to look at online memorials of people who died in the September 11th terrorist attacks. Don't attempt to explain why you are interested in the weird things you are interested in. I never do.

9. This last one is Choose Your Own Adventure! First, pick how you are feeling right now. Are you filled with rage? This is usually me. Or are you moping about your lost love despite all the bad stuff he did?

Rage is A. Moping is B.

A.

You are right to be angry. Even if you contributed in some way to the end of the relationship, and you almost certainly did, it is perfectly normal to feel angry when someone hurts you. However, an unnamed (because I can't remember) Holocaust survivor once wrote something along the lines of:

"I choose to forgive Hitler for what he has done to me and my family, because I do not wish to bring Hitler with me to America."

If you spend too much time being angry and plotting revenge, and going over every interaction you ever had and poisoning it with your newfound poor opinion of your ex-lover ("That time he was texting while we watched X-Men? I'll bet he was texting HER!!! Also, who texts during the greatest movie of the year 2000? What a douche.") one or more of several things will happen.

1. You will become so boring and scary that no one who loves you will want to spend time with you anymore.
2. You will become a vengeance-crazed vigilante and potentially end up in prison.
3. You will go on a date with someone great and ruin your chances with him/her by unloading about your past failed relationships. Carrie Bradshaw from Sex and the City refers to it as being "emotionally slutty," and it's not cute.

So, let go of your anger. Pray. Snuggle with a puppy. Give it some time. However, because I brought Hitler into the argument, this entire paragraph has become, in a small but important way, completely unreliable, so you must now proceed to item B, anyway. Ha!

B.

First of all, you are a better person than I am, or at least a more forgiving one. I'm going to stick with better. A lot of blog articles, magazine quizzes, etc. focus on the idea of STOPPING your love for someone as part of the healing process, as if continuing to love someone who has hurt you is somehow neurotic. It's not. In fact, I would say that the ultimate goal in life is to love everyone despite--perhaps even because of--how they have mistreated you.

I know this sounds like talk-show infused Buddhism, and maybe a little stupid, but hear me out.

First of all, without suffering there can be no compassion, so when push comes to shove, we can be grateful for all those who have caused us suffering, because it provides us with the incomparable gift of sympathy for others and compassion for ourselves.

Secondly, if you can love someone for all the good experiences you had together without allowing other events to render them inconsequential, that is very, very good. Also, I would love to hear your secret.

Lastly, recognize that perhaps you will always love the person who hurt you, and that's OK, and you care still able to move on with your life without purging yourself of that emotion. You probably shouldn't hang out with him on a regular basis, but concern for his welfare and a genuine hope for his well-being in the future is exactly what Jesus would want for both of you.

10. Consider moving to another city, or at least another neighborhood. Even if starting over isn't in fact the best idea for you, realizing that it is POSSIBLE is good for your soul.

So that's a foolproof , extremely original untested (at least on a clinical scale) and potentially totally useless list for you. Feel free to switch up the pronouns as you see fit.

Good luck.

Parasymbology

I want a job, but I still haven't found one. In order to add to my piddling, hideously inadequate paragraph of qualifications, today I spent eight hours learning CPR and first aid by practicing on Red Cross manikins of varying sizes. The course covered infant, child and adult methods, so we got to practice pressing on little baby Claire's (apparently that was her name, according to my instructor) chest and creating a seal over her tiny nose and mouth in order to fill her minute lungs with air. It took only the slightest puff of air from my grown up lungs. The video instructor kept reiterating, ludicrously, I thought, to always keep in mind that "babies are very small." Yeah, duh, I thought smugly as we watched the video. But then when I really had to practice resuscitating an infant, it hit me--holy majoly, babies are really, REALLY small.

Also--and this is so pathetic I hesitate to write it, but it's important--I have forgotten how easy it is to let my mind and body assume that a plastic doll is an actual infant. I loved dolls as a kid, and played with my baby dolls in secret long after my friends had ditched them for make-up. While we were listening to Judy's instructions on infant CPR, I was unconsciously holding the manikin the same way I would hold a normal baby of about four months--back resting against the crook of my elbow, head leaning forward on my breast, my other arm circling the opposite way supporting her legs. Next to me, the cute nineteen year-old boy who had come with his father, twice stricken with heart attacks, started absently bouncing the baby doll on his knee. I looked around the room and everyone else was also holding his or her baby doll as if it were real--the burly mid-forties swim teacher, the mother of four who is hoping to start an in-home daycare, the woman about my age, perhaps younger, who is going to adopt a child. The only one who didn't seem to get in the spirit of holding Baby Claire was the security guard immediately to my left, who I think might have been mildly handicapped.

The really bizarre thing, even more bizarre than a room of reasonably educated adults playing with dolls on a Thursday afternoon, was how much I (consciously or unconsciously) enjoyed holding that manikin. I tried to send a text to Brooke explaining the scene and how it made me feel, but I couldn't whittle it down to 160 characters so I gave up. She is accustomed to me unloading my broodiness on her more often than I unload on anyone else I know, for she is one of the few people on this earth who doesn't think I'm freaky or obsessive or sad or pathetic or demented for liking children, for wanting children. Actually, she might think I am all those things and just hide it very well.

Here is the truth. I love babies. And not the way I love giraffes or penguins, although God knows I like those too. I have no illusions about how exhausting infants can be, and how terrifying and dangerous it is to be responsible for eight pounds of organs and nerves and skin that could go limp at any moment when you might have to use two fingers to pump oxygenated blood through their lilliputian body while trying not to break their little ribs. However, there are only two things I am good at. At least, good enough to be able to admit in public that I am good at them. Good enough to be able to say yes, I think this is one of my gifts. These two things are writing and taking care of children. This is a poorly written piece so please ignore the former, for now the latter is my matter of subject.

From the time I was about eight years old, when people asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up, I never had any fast opinions about it. Because, to be honest, the only thing in my head was who cares? I just want babies. Even amongst Mormons, it is not considered hip to like babies too much or talk too much about wanting children. Not because it's not expected, but rather because it's not really under your control, when or if it happens. Assuming too much about when you will get married and have children, or whether you will get married at all is dangerous. I have recently, in my old age (psh), come to the conclusion that in many ways, it is better to plan for the worst, a life of spinsterhood, and then be surprised when you somehow end up fulfilling your duty to the universe along the way. Better that than to sit on your hope chest all your life. Also, to tell others about how much I have disappointed myself in the past quarter century of life, how far my life is from what I had expected and hoped for, always sounds too sad to explain to others, especially when it connotes being somehow unwanted.

How did this end up being a post about being angry at God? It always comes down to that, though. I know God, and I know that He can deal with my anger just fine, so there are times when I just can't help throwing a little bitterness His way. I have never literally shaken my fists at the sky (that I can recall) but always my reaction, when I see a picture of another friend's baby or read another article from a parenting blog I still follow even though I am no longer a nanny (Embarrassing true confessions galore!). Sometimes I'm even jealous of my acquaintances who are stuck in miserable marriages because hey, at least they have kids. It's times like that when I can really let God have it, with words (in all caps) along the lines of HEY BUSTER HAVE I OFFENDED YOU IN SOME WAY? I MEAN REALLY? HOW IN THE HELL IS SHE MORE DESERVING OF CHILDREN THAN I AM? And so it goes. Of course, I am able to recognize the many ways in which I have been blessed. But that doesn't make it any easier when people I know, especially people I don't particularly like, kvetch about the difficulties of parenting small children. That's when I look up at the sky and say (again in all caps) SO THAT'S A CURSE HUH? WELL, SMITE ME, B*TCH!!!! Also, when people I know with children try to comfort me with words like Hey, it's not all fun and games. That's when I say OH WOW I KNOW THAT OKAY? Usually though, I just sort of grimace in response.

I can throw platitudes about patience and the Lord's time and all that jazz at myself even faster than other people can throw them at me, but the fact is, reassuring myself that someday MAYBE I will have children feels about as effective as telling a sick person about Heaven. Soothing in theory, but in the thick of the moment more frustrating than anything. It's much preferable to be cool--and oh! I really want to be cool!--and pretend that it doesn't bother me. That I have better things to do even though I am not sure what they are. One more shaken fist at Heaven for that, if you'll permit me.

If this is starting to sound like thousands upon thousands words worth of bitching, that's because it is. However, I don't think I have laid out my feelings on the matter in such an honest way before. It feels good. Still pathetic, but good.

You know what I was intending to write about tonight? This movie. I saw it at the Admiral and it was pretty good. Not what I expected, and I little absurd for my taste, but definitely enjoyable. Here is a quote from tonight's film that struck me, patched together from my memory and the internet:

“Your life is like a river. If you’re aiming for a goal that isn't your destiny, you will always be swimming against the current. Young Gandhi wants to be a stock car racer? Not gonna happen. Little Anne Frank wants to be a high school teacher? Tough titty Anne. That's not your destiny. But you will go on to move the hearts and minds of millions. Find out what your destiny is and the river will carry you. Sometimes events in life give an individual clues as to where their destiny lies."

It would, given everything I have just written and my mindset and the line about Anne Frank, who I assume wanted to grow up and have adventures and die in her sleep as much as I do, be easy for me to remember that quote and think to myself: OH SHIT*. Perhaps being a mother is not in the cards and I should just buy a tract of land and raise dalmatians.

I choose not to interpret the quote this way. Rather, that there are missions for each of us to fulfill in life, and sometimes things work out differently or not at all, and it all turns out OK. You recall my botched trip to Thailand. There was also the time in high school when I tried out for the school dance team and I was good, really good. Good enough, I thought, to make the team. Then I botched the audition and got rejected and hated myself. But a few weeks later while I was in Hawaii, I went swimming during a thunderstorm and busted my knee when a wave threw me onto a rock. So I wouldn't have been able to dance, anyway.

I still get notices from that hospital in Hawaii every once in a while informing me that my bill is paid in full.

I am currently choosing to believe that everything that has happened to me so far will eventually lead to all the things I have wanted all my life, but perhaps will be better or (certainly) more appreciated because of all the time I spent anticipating them. Like getting to eat ice cream for a week after getting your wisdom teeth out!

My mother made terrible analogies, my children will say.

*I know I've been working on the cussing thing. It's a process. Allow me this one indulgence, will you? Thanks. Also, please note that I starred the other cuss because I only wanted to do eight minutes of abs tomorrow. I have a busy day planned.

I'm not a feminist because I love animals, I'm a feminist because I hate plants.

Several happenings contribute to my general feelings of impotence and despondency today. One, no response from the folks I wrote to yesterday re: getting some non-Mormon support for keeping the WRI open. I knew it was a long shot, but I guess they can't get involved with Mormons in any way, shape or form. Our respective missions are too disparate.

Two. Why does it have to be this way? Why do so many people believe that feminism and the gospel cannot possibly co-exist? I wrote this little guy (which is quite similar to the letter I wrote to Amplify, with a Mormon twist) for a blog I really love, one intended for Mormon feminists, which got some positive and some negative responses. A few accused me of not believing in or trusting the Prophet and Apostles, because they are the executive board of BYU, which logic I have always found completely ridiculous. I believe that Church leaders are inspired, but they don't fast and pray about whether or not to sell mint brownies in the Wilk, for crying out loud. Nor do most decisions about programs at BYU make it all the way up the freeway to Salt Lake. That's not how any university is run. The overarching board, especially if they're also preoccupied with running a worldwide church, hasn't the time to micromanage. This was the administration's decision alone. From what I understand, even the man Cecil himself didn't have much to do with the decision to close the WRI. It stemmed from an internal review board, and from what it sounds like, ended there as well.

Because of this post, I was quoted (As "Elise"--seriously, if you're going to go to the trouble of writing about something I said, double-check my name, yeah? Not that hard.) on this blog. The post wasn't too hard on me, but said a few things that hurt my feelings. Maybe I was being a little sensitive, but check this action out:

"What Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints does she belong to that believes in gender equality? The only Mormon church I am aware of makes it clear that women are not equal with men (unless you believe that two groups can be separate but equal, and that by denying women rights given to men, you are actually protecting them)."

Ouch. Not on my behalf, really, but on the Church's. And then it goes further:

"Here is the problem with her [my] analysis: the higher-ups in the bureaucracy that she [me] is railing against here are the General Authorities and the Quorum of the Twelve. You can’t say that when something of this magnitude is being done at 'The Lord’s University' (or less tongue-in-cheek, 'The University of the CoJCoLDS') [Note: I have no idea what that is referencing] that it isn’t reflective of the opinion of the Church as a whole towards women, women’s issues, and feminism. I remain baffled by women who can endure this sort of obvious second-class treatment at the Church authorities hands, while simultaneously arguing that they Church itself is not misogynist.

Although I understand that the author (and others like her) is trying to avoid cog dis, at some point these issues will be more than just academic.

Perhaps she will go to graduate school, and be questioned by her bishop – the authorized 'servant of God' for her salvation – about her 'intentions' with regards to having a family and fulfilling her divine calling of motherhood.

Perhaps she will desire to go on a mission, and her Stake President will restrict her, saying that because she has a (pseudo) boyfriend, that she should be thinking of getting married.

Perhaps she will consider getting a job at BYU, only to discover that her department of choice does not hire women of child-bearing age.

Perhaps she will realize that it is demeaning to women when her 12-year-old son (who still wets the bed) has more 'authority' to act in God’s name than she, as a 50 year old woman, will ever have."

Wh-oa (two syllables). First of all, see my above comments with regard to criticizing BYU = criticizing the Church leadership. If they can't be given credit for every little decision at this university, they can't be blamed for them either. I don't thank God every day for inspiring His servants on earth to build a glass building that looks exactly like a fishbowl, and I don't rail at God in my nightly prayers for not selling Diet Coke on campus either. BYU is owned by the Church, but it's its own institution, with its own unique rules and prerogatives. These, I have found, tend to stem from Mormon culture and not the gospel I know to be true.

I had a very interesting discussion with Brooke about this very topic earlier tonight. But before I get into that, I want to make one thing crystal clear.

Feminism is personal for me. My own mother was terrified at the prospect of me joining this Church because of the prevailing sexist attitudes she had noticed were held by many members of it. My father said that Mormons initially reminded him of a paramilitary group. My mother truly, honestly believed that I would be oppressed and mistreated by men in this institution, and so now, years later, I actually don't blame her for refusing to let me get baptized initially. It's a scary thing to lose your child to another religion, especially one that has such a huge affect on one's lifestyle. However, my mother told me, while I was on my mission, that to her great relief, everything she had taught me about feminism and being a strong, independent, intelligent woman did not get swallowed up in my new faith, but rather integrated into it.

Dang straight. Mormon culture may try to tell me what to do with my life, and possibly even how to do my hair, and members of this Church are as fallible as they were when it first started, but the gospel of Jesus Christ has done NOTHING but make me a better, stronger, happier woman and person. I have a testimony of this gospel. My testimony of this wacky Mormon culture is weak, but that doesn't matter because I don't need one! I deeply resent the assertion that feminism isn't personal for me.

To respond to the four hypotheticals:

"Perhaps she will go to graduate school, and be questioned by her bishop – the authorized 'servant of God' for her salvation – about her 'intentions' with regards to having a family and fulfilling her divine calling of motherhood."

You will recall me saying that sometimes my bishopric has a less than ideal attitude about how women (in my opinion) ought to behave. However, when I announced in Relief Society that I had been chosen for an internship with a linguistics company in Paris, the first counselor in the the Bishopric came up to me and congratulated me. I have never felt discouraged by any of my church leaders when it comes to my education. And particularly not by the higher-ups, who have taught for years that women need to be smart. And not just because stupid women are bad mothers, either, although that's true. Because intelligence is eternal, and so am I.

Additionally, it seems completely illogical to me to conclude that because sometimes a Bishop will say something old-fashioned or insensitive, that therefore the Church he represents cannot possibly be true. Mormons are humans, and humans can be idiots. Let's not hearken back to 14th-century Catholicism, shall we? (Just kidding, Mom!)

"Perhaps she will desire to go on a mission, and her Stake President will restrict her, saying that because she has a (pseudo) boyfriend, that she should be thinking of getting married."

As a matter of fact, I did serve a mission, and dumped a pseudo-boyfriend in order to do so. When I met with my bishop and told him about my desire to serve, he said to me (I will never forget this), "Now, some guys seem to not want to date female returned missionaries. But don't worry about that, because those guys are idiots." Well played, Bishop Sterling, well played. Granted, Church leaders do teach that a mission should not be used to escape from the obligation of finding a spouse. I served with some chicks were were there out of boredom, and it wasn't pretty. But if God tells me to serve a mission, who am I to argue? If he had told me to get married instead, believe me I would have listened.

And again, if imperfect people have no chance for salvation, I am screwed, and so are you. One stake president does not invalidate thousands of years of revelation. That's the beautiful thing about the Atonement: sometimes people make mistakes, and that's OK. The Church is still true.

"Perhaps she will consider getting a job at BYU, only to discover that her department of choice does not hire women of child-bearing age."

Two words should silence you here: Wendy Baker. Check out that CV! And if you're looking for women who aren't single, the WRI faculty has some choice gems for you. According to everyone, all those women will be moving departments rather than losing their jobs. Thanks, hiring freeze!

Perhaps she will realize that it is demeaning to women when her 12-year-old son (who still wets the bed) has more 'authority' to act in God’s name than she, as a 50 year old woman, will ever have.

My senior year of college, my parents and I went out for Indian food on my 18th birthday. I distinctly remember telling my parents about my decision to apply to BYU, which I had previously not even considered. My mother asked me if it would bother me to go to a "patriarchal university where I would have no power." I don't remember how I worded my response exactly, but the summary is this: Not having the Priesthood does not make me feel powerless. Being told that I should feel oppressed by my religion, however, does. The gospel is not demeaning to women, although some ignorant, short-sighted people can be. However, those people are recognizably departing from the truth when they exercise unrighteous dominion over anyone, male or female. The organization of the Church is demeaning to no one unless they choose to see all humans as automatons for whom God has the exact same plan. His desire for all His children is the same, but the way He brings about each child's life is wholly unique and individualized.

I'm not sure if I can articulate this properly. But here goes: it's not that I don't want the Priesthood. Some women say that, and I think it's a little disrespectful. The Priesthood is neat. I like helping people, which is what the Priesthood is all about. I imagine that theoretically, if the Priesthood did one day become available to women, it wouldn't bother me to participate in it. However, I don't need the Priesthood to feel powerful. I feel empowered for plenty of other reasons, many of them related to the potential I feel I have because of being a women, because of my body and my future, as-of-yet unrealized calling as a mother. I feel empowered because I know God made me female for a reason. I do not feel slighted because a twelve year-old boy can pass the Sacrament and I cannot. "Separate but equal" is a crude way of putting it, but to be honest, the notion doesn't bother me, in the same way that some people are ordained to be born in Peru and some are ordained to be born in Hungary. Nobody's challenges or responsibilities are better, they are all just different. I feel that saying that all human beings should have all the same experiences and callings is oversimplistic.

To return to my original point, I see no actual contradiction between feminism and the teachings of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Yes, Mormon culture leans toward the conservative, and Mormon women do have a reputation of being a little bit ... plastic. But I am neither conservative nor plastic, and this is my Church too. I did my time as a missionary, I love Jesus Christ, and I live the teachings of this Church with every fiber of my being (little joke).

I don't see why Mormon women can't be everything feminism says women can be.

I love this talk. Joss Whedon is brilliant. And I want to be all of those adjectives he used to describe his mother and his wife. I long to be extraordinary, inspirational, tough, cool, sexy, and funny. I also choose to spend my time with men who, like his father and stepfather, "prize wit and resolve above all things in the women they [are] with." I can be strong and educated and interesting and still sustain President Monson with all my heart. I see no contradiction there. And so many women on both sides can't seem to get their heads around that. Some think I can't possibly be a faithful Latter-day Saint because of some of the opinions I hold. Others see no way of reconciling these aforementioned opinions with LDS dogma. But bless their hearts, Jesus was the ultimate champion of womanhood. His gospel is the greatest honor I can ascribe to. And if some jerk in my future ward thinks I'm a bad wife for not changing my name, that's his problem, not mine. And certainly not God's.

When Brooke and I talked, I asked her, "Would Jesus tell a woman not to get an education, because intelligence drives men away? Would He discourage women from serving missions? Would He call anyone inferior? No, of course He wouldn't."

The gospel of Jesus Christ, in its pure form, when you strip away the Republican party and the culturally ingrained misogyny practiced by some fringe idiots and the jello, is the best thing that could ever happen to any woman. Because of the gospel of Jesus Christ, I know what I'm capable of, and it's a lot. I feel an even stronger desire to learn and improve and teach and fix everything bad in the world. I feel connected with everyone on the planet. I will never leave this church. It is the greatest thing that has ever happened to me, and I fought to be a part of it. I will fight to stay a part of it. I believe that the best women in the world are acting on Christ's behalf, whether they realize it or not. I believe in a religion that teaches the incredible potential of men and women, not just men with their wives hanging on their coattails.

And I would love to know with an absolute certainty that I am not the only woman who feels this way.

Oh please don't go! We'll eat you up, we love you so!

Note: This my super biased, slightly smug review of the new film Where the Wild Things Are. If you don't like reviews that give away the plot, do not read this, because I give away pretty much everything. Don't say I didn't warn you.

I don't like Spike Jonze. To be fair, I don't hate him either: I have seen one of his skate movies, as a matter of fact (Thank you, skater brothers) and I like the work he's done with the Beastie Boys. However, this is mostly because in my view, the Beastie Boys can do no wrong. But that's neither here nor there. Especially since I've changed my tune in the past twenty four hours.

Anyway, when I heard that Spike Jonze was slated to direct a film adaptation of Where the Wild Things Are, a brilliant book with a strikingly relevant yet minimalist plot, I along with the rest of humanity knew that this film could go one of two ways: beauty and heart wrenching, or unadulterated suckiness.

Sleep well, dear children. It's an awesome movie.

The movie starts out with some tidy backstory, and this may well be the first time mere exposition in a film has made me cry. Max (Played by the seriously-is-that-a-pseudonym-or-what Max Records) is an imaginative, rowdy kid who chases the family dog around in the first scene, and is then shown building a snow fort in a generic New England-ish cul-de-sac. Most of the film is shot at Max's eye level, using hand-held cameras, which helps you see Max's universe the way he sees it: the entrance to the snow fort isn't just a hole in a pile of snow, it's a sanctuary. The fence is a row of disobedient soldiers. The actor who plays Max was apparently only nine years old at the time, and he is so beautiful I actually did want to eat him up, a little bit. He has dark, intuitive eyes, and in general broke my heart.

The part that made me cry initially was when Max tries to get his older sister to play in the snow fort with him, and she completely ignores him. Max is meant to be sort of an everykid, and the film manages to evoke the way everyone has felt at one time or another: wanting someone to imagine with. Claire, who has maybe seven minutes of screen time, if that, isn't a villainous older sister, as portrayed in many movies about sibling relationships. She doesn't sneer at or abuse Max, she just ignores him, and it evoked in my mind every single time I ignored my brothers, and when I saw the look at Max's face of longing and disappointment when she rejects him, that's when I lost it. In the end, this movie isn't about a kid who travels to a monster island and wreaks havoc with animatronic robots from the Creature Shop to the strains of indie music. It's about the universally felt need to be appreciated.

Tonight I said to Brooke while walking: "I should never love anything ever."

This post has nothing to do with yesterday's post, for the record.

So I love our neighborhood because it has a really nice mix of families and college students (Being, you know, a whole six blocks from campus). And the families are nice and chill, not the uptight ones you see on Hot Mom Day at Costco. It's also pretty diverse. For Utah. There is a small apartment complex down the street from us that houses mostly Hispanic families. Fairly recent imports from Mexico, with Dads that bike to work (Awesome!) and kids that speak Spanish to each other, English to me. They love our house because we have two dogs.

Some of the kids in the aforementioned complex come by every once in a while and ask if they can take Sego for a walk. They used to come over and just play with him in the front yard, but because I know them and they are ten or eleven and have proved themselves to be responsible, I now let them take him out for a while when they ask. They usually go to the park and then bring him back. Such a nice little slice of real community life.

Anyway, today the little sister of one of the kids came by with one of her friends and asked if she could take Sego for a walk. She was younger than the kids that usually take him, but I figured it would be fine. This is a really safe neighborhood. I remember asking as they left, "Are you two going to be OK on your own?" She said yes. Two hours went by.

It was eight now and starting to get dark, and I got a little worried. The kids never keep Sego out after dark. So I walked down to their apartment complex. They weren't there. So I walked to the park. They weren't there either. I went back to the apartment complex and asked some of the older kids if they knew where they were. They said they had no idea. More walking around the neighborhood. Panic ensued. Luckily at that precise moment I ran into Brooke, who went back with me to the complex to see if we could talk to their parents. Tangent: I really really need to learn Spanish.

We found out which apartment the girls lived in and knocked. No one was home. So there were several possibilities at this point.

1. The girls were out somewhere with Sego at nine at night by themselves. What parent lets a kid that young run around any neighborhood after dark? I don't care if it is Provo.
2. The kids were out with their parents somewhere and had taken Sego with them. What kind of parent lets their kids take a strange dog in the car to another person's house on a Friday night? That also does not make any sense.
3. The girls had lost Sego or something bad had happened and they were afraid to tell me.

Because 1 and 2 seemed so illogical and I was already in a panicky mindset, my mind immediately jumped to number 3. My panic changed to near hysteria, but luckily Brooke was with me for support. A couple of nice boys from next door heard me crying and asked if I needed help. They actually rode their bikes around the neighborhood for about twenty minutes and looked for him to no avail. That was so nice of them and I was too preoccupied to get their names. I salute you, Bicycling Knights.

Anyway, obviously this story has a happy ending, but chronologically, it didn't happen for a while. The truth is we walked around the neighborhood for another hour and a half asking everyone we saw if they had seen two little girls running around with a black dog. Most people assumed we were looking for the kids, and I didn't correct them.

Here are the emotions I was feeling during this ordeal, if you care:

1. Guilt. I felt guilty for letting my dog into the hands of incompetent six year-olds where he had surely met some awful harm. I chided myself for not telling them what time to bring Sego back. I also felt terrible because a few months ago Sego lost his tag with my phone number on it and I hadn't bothered to buy him a new one.
2. Paralyzing fear. Every time we saw a lump on the side of the road (Remember, I don't have the best vision) my stomach lurched with the possibility that it might be Sego's body.
3. Rage. I wanted to kill those girls for letting something happen to my baby.
4. Embarrassment. I felt a little stupid about getting this worked up about a dog. If you've never had pets and/or aren't an animal person, I'm sure my reaction sounds completely irrational. That's cool. I understand. But I say unto you, I was NOT acting upset because I wanted attention. I was truly, genuinely hysterical--the exact same kind of hysterical I was when my little brother went missing for a few hours when he was three. Maybe even a little MORE hysterical, actually (No offense, David) because Sego is my responsibility alone.

To make a long story short, we returned home and Sego was there. The girls had brought him back and, finding no one home, left him inside. I have never been so happy to see a dog in my life.

In conclusion:
1. You know how sometimes people say they don't want to love anything because the possibility of getting hurt is too great? They're right. I seriously considered never loving anything or anyone ever again during this ordeal.
2. However, when Sego and I were reunited, I forgot about all that and remembered why I love that darn dog in the first place. Why I love him more than a lot of things. Possibly you. Just kidding! Maybe.
3. This experience made me remember that someday Sego is going to die and I am going to be completely devastated.
4. However, likely as not he will die old, safe and surrounded by people who love him, including the children I hope to have ten or twelve years from now.
5. Maternal instinct? That shiz is LEGIT.
6. Something about eternity.

Happy birthday tomorrow, Sego. You better know I love you.

Ontology/Repentance/Poetry

Today is one of those days in which I feel more human at the end of the day than I did when I began it. An ontological day. I am reading A Circle of Quiet for what may well be the one hundredth time, and L'Engle, my hero, uses that word a lot: ontology, the study of being. Today was absolutely an ontological day. This could partially be related to the fact that this weekend was General Conference, but I don't think so. I had various questions running circles in my mind, but the fact that General Conference addressed them was incidental. Conference addressed them, but Li-Young Lee answered them.

Don't try to interpret the above paragraph as meaning I did not get a great deal out of Conference. I most certainly did. The prevalent themes all related to me in some way: adversity, the Atonement, strengthening families, missionary work. Each one quite excellent. However, the one line from Conference that is running through my head even now is one I've been thinking about for quite some time.

In every arena of life there is a playing field, for better or for worse. Don't bother arguing with me about this because I have already made up my mind. The fact that there is a playing field does not by definition mean that those on said field are competing against each other, rather that they are all there, participating in a certain activity. Let's now imagine that Mormondom is a playing field.

For reasons I am still trying to figure out, I am in a giant hole in the middle of this playing field. I have always felt that while most everyone else on the field is running around, kicking balls or whatever, I must spend most of my time digging myself out of said hole, and filling it with dirt that so that one day, I will be on the same level as everyone else. This had yet to happen. Moving to Utah didn't do it. Serving a mission didn't do it. I like to think that getting married will even out the playing field for me, but something tells me that is wishful thinking.

I am unsure as to how I got in this hole in the first place. I used to feel it was because I had not been a member of the church for very long, which is no longer true. It could be because my family is unusual, or because something about me is strange, or because of choices I made in the past. I have honestly never figured it out. It bothers me, but obviously not the point where I am going to give up and stop trying. I even get some sick pleasure out of busting my butt trying to fit in and be good when everyone else seems to fit in so seamlessly. Well, they fit in or they get out. And then there's me, digging, ever digging. Always trying to make up for/punish myself for the bad things I've done, while keeping myself from doing more bad things, while remembering to do good things. It's exhausting and often feels like a losing battle.

At the same time, though, I don't know who I would be if I were not in this hole. Part of me feels that I wouldn't exist at all. That being on a different level than anyone else somehow defines me. So then, why do I keep digging? Am I going to be one of those characters in Dante's Inferno who keeps continuously striving for something without ever reaching it?

Anyway, today one of the apostles gave a talk which included this very line: "Those of you who feel that you have missed out on something because you have not been a member of the Church long enough, do not despair! The Church has need of you." The text of these talks is not yet available online, so I may be paraphrasing a bit. But that was the main gist. This brought me some comfort, but like I said, herein lies my main problem: I don't know who I am without that part of myself. The part of me that's a hopeless misfit. I can't say if it's nature or nurture, but I do know for sure that nothing I do seems to change it. I always thought that eventually I would fit into the Church without any effort, but if it hasn't happened by now, I don't think it ever will.

To name a minor, unrelated-to-salvation example, I try not to eat coffee-flavored ice cream, because I am afraid of how much I like it. Same thing with alcohol: I love it, and that terrifies me. I try to stay as far away from it because I am convinced it wouldn't take much to make me into yet another Koler alcoholic. Trust me, more of those we don't need. No one else seems to fear how far they could fall like I do. Everyone obviously has dark aspects to their personality, but not in the same way I do. Maybe they do and I just don't know. But being good and normal seems to come easier to others than it does to me.

It terrifies me, this infinite capacity for darkness. Yet at the same time, I feel drawn to it in others. Sylvia Plath's poetry is a good example. Tonight I was with some friends and we were sharing poetry that we liked. I shared "Daddy" and realized too late that this was a bad choice. The subject matter and language was too dark, too angry. They were filled with hatred and despair, which I why I love that poem and identify with it. But as soon as my friend was finished reading it, there was a long pause indicating no one else knew what to say. The subject was quickly, mercifully changed. To Li-Young Lee, in fact, which provided my answer to this dilemma. I am convinced that this man saved my life a few hours ago.

Li-Young Lee gave a forum address when I was a freshman in college, which I remember only vaguely. I remember enjoying the forum, but this speech did not have any crucial impact on me until I listened to it again with my friends earlier tonight.

Li-Young Lee talks of how breathing in, acquiring oxygen, relaxes our bodies, and exhaling ultimately leads to physical stress. He says that poets want to put as much meaning and depth as possible into every exhalation they make, which is why they write poetry in the first place. Packing meaning into every word, like Emily Dickinson (another person I identify with ... uh-oh). Nothing I heard in Conference today made as much sense as that one line, right there. Then he read one of his poems and I felt myself quietly crying. Because Li-young Lee manages to be sad and deep and ever digging out of some dark hole ... and yet beautiful, which is exactly how I want to be. He acknowledges that sadness without succumbing to it.

"Living With Her"

She opens her eyes

and I see.

She counts the birds and I hear

the names of the months and days.

A girl, one of her names

is Change. And my childhood

lasted all of an evening.

Called light, she breathes, my living share

of every moment emerging.

Called life, she is a pomegranate

pecked clean by birds to entirely

become a part of their flying.

Do you love me? she asks.

I love you,

she answers, and the world keeps beginning.

This poem made me believe that I can not only be forgiven continually, but that I can be good without losing who I am. That being familiar with darkness does not mean one has to submit to it, like Sylvia Plath did. That even those of us who are picked to death by birds actually become more than the results of what others have done to us. Maybe even that someone could have need of me because of (rather than in spite of) who I am.

This poem saved my life. That's all.

Tackling My Issues. Talking, Most Inanely. Totally Monumentally Introspective.

“Have you ever been in love? Horrible, isn’t it? It makes you so vulnerable. It opens your chest and it opens your heart and it means someone can get inside you and mess you up. You build up all these defenses. You build up this whole armor, for years, so nothing can hurt you, then one stupid person, no different from any other stupid person, wanders into your stupid life…You give them a piece of you. They don’t ask for it. They do something dumb one day like kiss you, or smile at you, and then your life isn’t your own anymore. Love takes hostages. It gets inside you. It eats you out and leaves you crying in the darkness, so a simple phrase like ‘maybe we should just be friends’ or ‘how very perceptive’ turns into a glass splinter working its way into your heart. It hurts. Not just in the imagination. Not just in the mind. It’s a soul-hurt, a body-hurt, a real gets-inside-you-and-rips-you-apart pain. I hate love.”

-Neil Gaiman

I have a mental list, about six bullets long, of sentences that I have vowed I will never, ever say. Some of these include, "In ___ days, I will officially be Mrs. _____!!!!" There's also, "The gospel is like ______," unless, of course, one is speaking facetiously. "I love you but _____" is on there, although it's possible that I've screwed up and said that once. I can't remember. Is that bad? Two are too personal to share here. And finally, there's "I was talking to my therapist the other day, and ________." Totally awkward. Totally embarrassing.

So I was talking to my therapist the other day, and darned if we weren't talking about love. Well, indirectly. I was telling her about some things that have happened to me, a long time ago, and how I was ANGRY at the people who did those things to me. We have been talking for several weeks now about how to avoid catastrophizing and other such irrational thought patterns, but how do you get rid of anger? This I asked her. She looked at me sort of strangely, then said, "Is it unreasonable to be angry about what has happened to you?"

Well, no. I guess not.

"So why do you feel you aren't allowed to be angry?"

Well, because being angry doesn't feel good. I really don't get angry very often and when I do, it really bothers me. Also, if I'm angry, I haven't forgiven them, right? It's like carrying all those people who have hurt me around in my head. And it's getting crowded in there.

Then she said a bunch of stuff. Here's a summary: A lot of times we push away negative emotions because dealing with them is bothersome. Nobody likes to be angry. Well, that's a lie. Some people do. But I don't. But if you ride them out, it's easier to get over them, and quicker. Holy cow. Sign me up.

Chronicle of a fortnight

“People are afraid of themselves, of their own reality; their feelings most of all. People talk about how great love is, but that’s bullshit. Love hurts. Feelings are disturbing. People are taught that pain is evil and dangerous. How can they deal with love if they’re afraid to feel?”

- Jim Morrison

Today I wore one of those cheap sequin-y tank tops that you buy in high school because you imagine it's what the cool college kids wear clubbing (they don't). All day, I keep shedding sequins, like little lizard scales, all over the place. One ended up on my notes about L1/L2 fMRI experimentation. One ended up my wallet somehow ... I guess I did buy some food today. And I kept taking out my ID card to print stuff. One ended up on the inside of my left wrist, and I'm trying to see how long it will stay there. It's been about six hours so far.

I feel like that. Like a snake. Like the things I'm getting rid of aren't ugly or bad, just not for me anymore. Because I'm really not a sequins person at all. At the end of the (figurative) day, will I notice that I've replaced my entire outer covering with something else entirely? Or will I still look like me, only a different color and size?

I am trying really hard to keep myself sane. Vilja took me shopping this evening (or rather, she went shopping and dragged me along) and it was nice to just stare blankly at clothes for a few hours. I like being with Vilja because she makes me feel calm, no matter what is going through my head. When I'm with her I start thinking of cheerful things, like what we're going to be for Halloween in eight months. I even bought a red tank top. It makes me happy.

For Halloween we're going to be X-men. I'm going to be Jubilee. She can shoot lightning bolts from her fingers. Or something like that. I bought pleather leggings a few weeks ago and they are going to be perfect.

I've been doing some really great things lately. I've been reading a lot, and going for walks. I send loving text messages to my brothers and roommates while I'm walking to school. I don't listen to much music. My goal this week is to be able to walk all the way to school silently, with no distractions, and not be afraid of what goes on in my head.

I can never tell what, precisely, is going to send me reeling. I keep seeing pictures or images or hearing specific sounds that send me into a tailspin of emotion. Usually rage. It makes me wish I were in the grocery store so I could sit in the beer/chips aisle and cry. No one ever bothers you there.

I am applying to be a lighthouse keeper in Michigan this summer. Just for a fortnight. it's something I always envisioned doing when I was old. But why not now, right? I need light. Literal light. And all the other kinds too.

Making up for the last two: A serious post about trust.

"Trust is tough to muster these days, since its perils have never been more obvious: Trust the government and end up in some Godforsaken desert across the seas, launching heavy munitions at sleeping innocents based on bad intelligence. Trust in the institution of marriage and find yourself penniless with three hungry mouths to feed after that dreamy tall-talking bastard skips town for the last time. Trust the stock market and watch your life savings evaporate in a few days, reappear and evaporate again, defying the common wisdom of every investment guru on the planet. Trust in your family and feed on a daily diet of small disappointments as they fail to live up to your enormous expectations of them. Trust your friends and struggle in vain to free them from their favorite bad habits, year after year, until you're all too old and insufferable to tolerate one another's company anyway." --Heather Havrilesky.

I have been thinking a lot about trust lately. Specifically, for the last two months or so. Even more specifically, since 8:05 PM 2 October 2008, when I met someone whom I want to trust more than I have ever wanted anything. No, really. A-ny-thing.

But it's tough, trusting people. Well, tough for me. I can't speak for all of humanity here. But I would wager that most people would agree with me on this. Those that don't must have had very boring, predictable lives. Or have never been dumped on their birthday. Via a four-sentence email. I'm just saying.

Seriously, you guys know what I'm talking about, right? Trust equals vulnerability, and that is really, really scary. You never know when someone is going to turn on you suddenly, like a pit bull from the pound. It seems simple enough at first. Lesson learned: avoid dogs with locking jaws.* But then somehow, after one bad encounter and a few close calls, every dog starts to remind you of that damn pit bull that tried to rip your face off, and almost succeeded. You look at the scar on your leg and remember the hospital and the five stitches and you think to yourself, what if this happens again? Am I ever going to be able to have a dog sit at my feet and know, with absolute certainty, that this creature would never, not in a million years, hurt me? You keep thinking that you will reach that point, but maybe the dog will flinch while he's sleeping and it all comes rushing back to you, and you end up cowering on the other side of the room.

So you get a cat. Not really. I'm divorcing myself from this analogy and returning to the subject at hand.

A lot of bad things have happened to me. I don't care to enumerate them, but know that there are plenty, some worse than others. People, and institutions, and ideals have failed me when they shouldn't have, and made me into the badly adjusted person I am today. I feel a lot like the quote at the top sometimes. How can anyone really let go of their fear and paranoia long enough to have a happy life? Is it possible to not live in constant fear that you're going to lose what you have and never get it back? On the other hand though, if you're too afraid to let something (or someone) into your life in the first place, your chances for happiness are clearly zero. So what is there to do?

I know the answer to that. It wasn't a rhetorical question. The answer is: Let those things (and people) into your life even though there is a distinct possibility that you will end up hurt. Give them a real chance to flourish, not just a half-hearted one (see my post on Alma 32). Learn to ride it out if (Not when? Look at me go...) you do end up hurt. And then keep moving forward.

It sounds so simple when you put it that way, doesn't it?

*Addendum: The "Locking jaw" thing with regard to pit bulls is a myth. I know that. I was just using hyperbole, for emphasis.

WOE, Woe, woe

So once upon a time there was this boy I really liked, and we were very close and I kinda wanted to marry him. Then we didn't get married, yet remained friends. Yesterday this boy informed me (and this was the classy thing to do, in my opinion) that he is engaged. He has only known the girl for a few months.

Describing how I feel about this is pointless because you can probably guess anyway. I am very SURPRISED that things are happening so suddenly. I am HAPPY for him because he is my friend, but I am SAD that he told me so many times that he had no interest in getting married, when clearly what he meant to say is that he had no interest in marrying me. I am JEALOUS not so much of the girl he is marrying, but just of the fact that another friend is getting married and leaving me behind. I am also a little ANGRY at Providence for being so ironic, for it really does seem that the best thing to do in order to get married is to have no desire to get married.

Anyway, you would think that going to the temple would make me feel better, right? Being in the Lord's house, a place of comfort and serenity, yada yada. However, possibly because I am so wicked, this was not at all the case. Because the temple belongs to the Lord, but all its primary shareholders are couples who are maddeningly, sickeningly in love.

I was in charge of seating people in the chapel tonight. Every few minutes, a couple would walk in holding hands, gazing at each other. My, isn't it grand to be in love, they said to me with their body language. We are our own happy little world of love. It made me sick.

Then, every so often, a handsome young man would walk in alone. Every so often a lovely young woman, but we all know women take longer to get dressed so it was usually a man. He would sit down alone for a few moments, and then a young woman would walk in. His little face would light up. They would join the Zombies of the Living in Love people.

I love to watch couples, normally. Pairs are a fascinating part of nature, and it usually does me good to see how many unremarkable people find true love. But tonight it made me angry. Why do so many unremarkable people find love whereas I, who am considered legitimately remarkable by some, have yet to do so? It's not fair. And then Satan came into my head (I know! At the temple, no less! How does he do that? He sucks.)

Satan (who looked a lot like Elizabeth Hurley in tonight's manifestation): You go home every night and drink your chocolate soy milk and write in your little blog. And you go to bed and wonder why you are alone and no one loves you. And you cry.
Me: Not every night ...

And so I cried in the temple. Well, teared up. It's a good thing I didn't full-out cry, because when I really get going I have an asthma attack, and that's just embarrassing. But I have never felt so alone in a room full of people in my entire life. And I have had a lot of opportunities in my life to feel that way.

The thing is, I'm not picky. Really I'm not. I think I could make it work with almost anyone. I don't even want romance. Romance is for sissies who are offended by X-Men. What I want is companionship. Loyalty. Someone to go grocery shopping with. And for someone's face to light up when I walk in the room. That's not too much to ask, is it?

I love this poem and wish I had written it.

Hate Poem

Julie Sheehan

I hate you truly. Truly I do.
Everything about me hates everything about you.
The flick of my wrist hates you.
The way I hold my pencil hates you.
The sound made by my tiniest bones were they trapped
in the jaws of a moray eel hates you.
Each corpuscle singing in its capillary hates you.

Look out! Fore! I hate you.

The blue-green jewel of sock lint I’m digging
from under by third toenail, left foot, hates you.
The history of this keychain hates you.
My sigh in the background as you explain relational databases
hates you.
The goldfish of my genius hates you.
My aorta hates you. Also my ancestors.

A closed window is both a closed window and an obvious
symbol of how I hate you.

My voice curt as a hairshirt: hate.
My hesitation when you invite me for a drive: hate.
My pleasant “good morning”: hate.
You know how when I’m sleepy I nuzzle my head
under your arm? Hate.
The whites of my target-eyes articulate hate. My wit
practices it.
My breasts relaxing in their holster from morning
to night hate you.
Layers of hate, a parfait.
Hours after our latest row, brandishing the sharp glee of hate,
I dissect you cell by cell, so that I might hate each one
individually and at leisure.
My lungs, duplicitous twins, expand with the utter validity
of my hate, which can never have enough of you,
Breathlessly, like two idealists in a broken submarine.

Better Bitch than Sorry

I feel guilty for not writing in this thing as much as I should. As if I needed even one more thing to feel guilty about.

Anyway, I realized today that I have been back from my mission for six months, which lines up nicely with the fact that 2008 is approximately halfway over. Which made me think some sort of commemorative blog post was in order.

Let me just say, so far its been a banner effin year. I'm not dwelling on the negative here, I just stating the hard bloody facts. Quite a few positive things have happened: I found a job that I'm good at, I bought a car that runs year-round, I magically fell into a cheap apartment, I met and reunited with numerous dear friends, I reconciled with Vegetarianism, and I became a Temple Worker. Happy happy happy. The Lord is good to me. I'm not being sarcastic here, I know that if He has supported me this far there isn't much else he can do to faze me. And there is nothing He can do that will destroy my faith. Not to say the Forces on the Other Side (should I even capitalize that?) haven't tried. But I digress.

Conversely, my parents divorced after 27 years of misery. I was diagnosed with tuberculosis. David lost his job. Aaron died. Carlos' hepatitis treatments are starting to lose their momentum. My dad is unemployed and homeless and lives with his best friend. My heart got broken. Twice. By roommates in the same house. Cori almost lost her son. I spent my first few months in Utah shell-shocked, more often than not sitting in my room in my underwear, sometimes crying, sometimes near-catatonic. Lucky for me my roommate wasn't home much or she would have had me committed. I never imagined that coming home from a mission would have been like that.

Nevertheless, not my will but Thine be done, behold the handmaid of the Lord, and all that jazz. My family has fallen apart, but I've learned a truckload about marriage from the gradual realization the the only marriage I have an insider view of is trash. You can learn a lot from the screw-ups of others. Which brings me to Friend X.

I won't use her name because 1. that's too personal even for the internet, and 2. she reads this blog with more regularity than bran muffins. However, I am immensely grateful for X, not only because she is my nearest friend at the moment (Cori will always be my Best Friend but she's a little caught up with raising a son and dealing with a terminal illness ... we all understand) but because of what I have learned from her. She lived through an experience that would have been mine, and possibly should have been; partially, I believe, so I could see the consequences.

Fresh off my mission, I fell madly in love with a guy who mentally ill, unstable, mean, unpredictable, and yet sadly, hypnotic. We were close friends, and that led to us opening up to each other, and trying to help one another deal with mounting personal problems (see the list above). I really don't know how I get myself into these predicaments. I talked to X about this boy often, and she warned me that the wisest course of action would be to withhold a relationship until he was Temple Worthy and had his life in order. Although I tried to help him with his laundry list of problems, because of my affection for him I was more of an enabler than anything else.

X warned me. And for once in my life, I listened. I can't remember if this was before or after I found out that he was messing around with another girl, but the point remains, I stopped contacting him. He was lazy and self-centered enough to not care much, and thus ended that aspect of our relationship. Remarkably, I still consider him a friend. Although no amount of begging would make me try again. Ever.

Around this same time, X got involved with a boy who was unsuitable in a similar way, although much, much worse. He also had another girl that he slept with and lied to, not to mention he was manipulative, perverted, and in every manner a sucky, abusive boyfriend. A horrible relationship ensued. Personal standards were sacrificed. Church discipline, an ugly break-up, and at least three broken hearts resulted. An all-around miserable experience, and I had season tickets to the carnage.

As I talked X through her complex and varied emotions, it hit me, time and time again, that I was watching my life play out as it would have if I had stayed with that boy as long as she had stayed with hers. My heartbreak lasted only a few months. Hers was drawn out over a year. Women all over the world do things they would never in a thousand lifetimes do normally, to keep a man around. And when the men that would take advantage of an opportunity like that meet up with women who "see the good" in them and make excuses for their rotten choices, tragedy is born. I don't normally use melodramatic language like this, but to say anything less would be disrespectful to my friend's experience. And mine.

I blame society, on a small level. I blame the culture--not just in the Church, but everywhere I've ever been--that tells women they need to be one hundred percent nice, one hundred percent of the time. That our role as nurturers equals lying down for orders, even ones we don't feel good about. That men are deep-down sex-crazed passion addicts, and to give them anything less than what they ask of our bodies is unfair. As if sex were something like oxygen, or insulin. And finally, that politeness is so inseparably connected with femininity that to be rude is to be somehow masculine. Even though rudeness can save lives.

I wish someone had sat me down when I was a young girl and told me that if I ever felt afraid with a man, no matter how unfounded or unrealistic my fear seemed, even if I had no evidence, the best thing to do is listen to my instinct and GET THE HELL OUT. Not after six months of intertwining our lives. On the first date. I wish someone had told me to be as rude as I needed to be to get out of that situation the first time something went wrong. That even if he called me a bitch, I had a right to demand whatever would make me feel safe. Better bitch than sorry.

You had better bet that my daughters and sons are going to be hearing that from me. A thousand times over. With feeling. If I can save my anyone from what X went through, I will do it.

ANGER

There's no way to ease into these topic so I might as well just say it: my parents are getting a divorce. I have read extensively about the concept of divorce, and its adverse effects on even grown children, but now I am living it, and it's much more and much worse than I ever could have imagined.

I have read (and even experienced) that the end of a significant relationship carries one through the same grieving process as death, and I have also read about the five stage of grief:
1. Denial
2. Anger
3. Bargaining
4. Depression
5. Acceptance

At approximately 10 PM tonight I was lying in bed trying to sleep, and I felt myself smoothly transition from denial into anger. My mindset changed from attempting to to get my mind around the very concept of having two people to coordinate Christmas schedules with, to fantasizing about yelling obscenities at my dad in front of the rest of the family, so everyone would finally know what a lousy husband he was.

I can't take sides here, but most of my anger is directed towards the party who served the divorce papers without the other party's knowledge or consent. I won't say which party that was, but know that since I'm speaking English, I will of necessity be using the male pronoun. If only I could be writing this in Hungarian.

He has treated me mom like shit for as long as I can remember. I don't like to use that word, but there is no other word for it. He treated her like shit. He made her cry, embarrassed her in public, undermined her in front of us and everyone, disregarded or ignored her opinions, mocked everything she believed in, and told her, verbally and non-verbally, that she was worthless: physically and in every other way.

The really disgusting thing is that he doesn't treat all women like that. Misogyny is an ugly thing, and my heart goes out to those who are married to men who treat all women like chattel. I wonder what thought process led those women to marry their spouses. But to treat all women with respect and courtesy, except for your wife ... that is the most repulsive thing I can think of. That is the ultimate betrayal.

I am just now coming to terms to what this means for me. All I have observed my entire life is this marriage, and now that it's over, I can know with even greater assurance that it's nothing to build on. Nothing to admire. Nothing to emulate.

The married couples I really admire have one thing in common: they are all best friends. They have no need to go on fancy dates because because they have just as much fun going grocery shopping together. They don't need to plan time to talk because they just do, naturally. They face problems as a team instead of blaming the other for what could have been done to prevent it. They face the world together. Their relationship is built on respect, which stems from friendship; instead of romance, which, let's face it, stems from penises and vaginae.

Yes, that is an accepted plural of vagina. I looked it up.

Anyway, I used to think that I didn't want to grow up to be my mother, nor did I want to marry my father. The problem, I am just now realizing, is that my thinking was off. Both of my parents are fabulous, intelligent, fun, kind individuals. Unequivocally people to emulate. Individually. But them together is peanut butter and soy sauce. Chocolate and asparagus. Raisins and gravy. Any other disgusting combination you can think of.

They should never have gotten married. They were older and lonely and hadn't dated for very long. And unlike me, they were older in the real world too, not just according to the Mormon timeline. They never became friends. Never developed mutual respect. Never looked at each other objectively and decided that they would still love each other even after they got fat and gray and faced unemployment and childbirth and every kind of misery together.

A mentor of mine told me a few months ago: marry someone who will cherish the promises he makes to you. Who would never dream of hurting you. Don't just marry any guy that wants to marry you. Sound advice from a sane man. And a happily married one to boot.

I would add to that promise I make to myself: I will marry a friend, who loves me because I am fun to be with, not because I have huge breasts. Guilty as charged, but someday those same breasts will be hanging around my knees and hell if I'm getting plastic surgery to keep a husband around. That's not what women are made for, and I'm not going to do it.

I am going to marry someone who has all the qualities I want (a surprisingly short list) and who will listen to me cry on the phone for an hour even if all he can think of to say is: I'm sorry.

And the fabulous thing is, I might have already found him. Stay tuned.