fearfully and wonderfully

My mom told me once, and I didn't like it, that what you are made to do, you just do. You don't think about it, it comes out of you and can't be stopped. Now I do take issue with the last bit, that it can't be stopped. Just about anything can be lost, forgotten, or suppressed. That wasn't a very illuminating bit of advice when I came again to her asking what I should do in life. Read: job. Should I become a journalist? No matter that I hadn't written a thing. No matter that I didn't daily sit down and journal. I guess I believed in the think method*, only applying it to words, not to music.

You can't stop what you're made to do... The complicating factor here was, I was seeking a way to make money and this wisdom didn't directly translate to a pay check. Not that I was looking for much money, necessarily, but I wanted a path.
Since you can't help but ________ you should pursue _________ in school and do ______with it. A life-sized MadLib game. (As a side note, I never learned grammar till college, so MadLibs have never been fun. I didn't know what a preposition was. Isn't that strange for an English major to not know till Junior year what a preposition is?)

So I ended college. Didn't know what to do. Liked to read. Cannot edit to save my life. My options seemed limited. But I got into grad school, did well, and then got a job. And it's here that things got broken.

It's here I learned some of what I was made to do and it was suppressed. I am a writer of sorts. I wrote letters growing up, and collected daily doings writing them to my cousins. And it was fun and funny. How can someone go to the grocery store and not be on an adventure?

So, I started a blog. Had one really before going to Nebraska, but continued it.
Until it was found out by someone at school. And I was told to take it down. And apologize for my words. Words that were gracious and true and not poorly reflecting anything except maybe my vocabulary. I cannot understand still what happened to me in those 9 months. But all of the "you do what you are" shrank away. The more I was the more I was ostracized.

I stopped writing. I stopped laughing. I stopped talking. I stopped eating. I could not do the right thing without criticism and I was a shell inside and a blank screen to reflect incorrect images onto. It's strange what you believe when you are told who you are for long enough when you are alone.
Lazy. Inept. Hurtful. Stupid.
You'd believe it. Don't tell me you wouldn't.

It's taken years to undo. No, not undo. Label. Untangle. And like a chain, it's crimped in a way that won't hang the same again. It is so easy to relearn those lies, to get retangled to only see the snags. God sheltered me in those times. In such small ways. I was empty but was protected.

I am what I do. And since I stopped doing absolutely everything that was not necessary for waking hours: feed, bathe, exercise,laundry, sleep, what I do now has been basic.

It's similar I guess to the sensation of a phantom limb. I haven't had a phantom limb, but I have slept on my arm and had it go so numb I was surprised it ever had feeling again.

Now, nearly 5 years later, I am becoming aware of who I was. Feeling a tug, or a pressure, an itch or a tingle.

Start to write.
Start to read.
Start to be.
Laugh.
Talk.
Test the waters.
You are safe.

*The Music Man, watch it

Fight or Flight

Fight or flight. Cleverly similar words with such appropriately different meanings. I believe everyone experiences the fight of flight response to situations all of the time. But I don't hear much about the after effects of this adrenal response or specifically about the mental reaction that must follow. To me it doesn't seem like a simple chemical reaction at all, nor do most of my fight of flight occurrences happen in the wild when bodily harm is truly on the line. Rather, it is as simple or complex as a social interaction or inaction

Lately, I've been put in or happened upon quite a few situations where I did not know how to respond. There seems to be a gulf between my first response in how I want to react (run, be silent, have harsh words) and what I do, which tends to be polite or understanding and is certainly not indicative of the thoughts within. When what I want to do, to avoid being hurtful, is run or hide, or both.

Of course I haven't hid. I shouldn't say of course, because I have spent many minutes escaping into bathroom stalls in my adulthood just to get away. It's why my first book, if I were ever to write one, would be titled: Hiding in Bathrooms. (It's always good to have a title on hand in case a book presents itself.) But I've stopped hiding, I suppose since I have hid I never developed the, how to stay put response well.

I grew up criticizing those girls who in a moment of stress or make-believe drama would circle up her posse and go gossip in a corner about whatever it was. Someone wearing the same shirt or some verbal exchange and its meaning. I never understood this need exactly nor approved since it seemed to create more havoc than good.
But I am gaining understanding and have the urge now.

When I am in one of these social, I need to get away moments, I long for someone else far enough removed, but intuitive and close enough to me to see and understand what is unfolding. The proximics, the syntax, the tone, the vocabulary, the non-verbals. How the surface is not all of the story and that I need a swift exit. I need to go and talk of "shoes and ships and sailing wax" to laugh, because laughter will shed light return it to where it needs to be.

All of those cards seemed to be in place today. I was with my faithful, observant, and best friend of a brother at church. And yet when I needed to cut out due to an uncomfortable situation, we didn't. I got the opportunity to be an adult but not run, but desired to not linger. Instead, we were 30 minutes later, still socializing, him in some unknown location, and not answering his phone. And certainly not taking hints even when I asked directly for us to please leave. But by the time we did it seemed too late. My thoughts and feelings were strewn about in such a way that I couldn't catch them, fold them up nicely, or put them back away.

And once removed, once the need to fight or flee is gone, what then? The trigger is gone, but the feelings aren't. Where do they go? They don't have receptors like adrenaline and get absorbed back into the body or mind. Where should they go?

Do something each day that scares you, Lent 2011

It is my understanding that during Lent a person is to give up something reminding them of their devotion to God. Last year, I attempted to give up soda. I only ended up cutting back, but still the exercise was somewhat fruitful.

This year, a week into the Lent season, I'd like to observe it in a different way.
I am taking creative license, and believe I can since I am protestant and the entire Lent idea is still quite foreign.

This year, I would like to challenge my sense of comfort. Comfort comes in all shapes and sizes. It can be coffee, curling up with my security blanket (true), staying silent. So recognizing that comfort is comforting and therefore often easier and pleasanter, I will try to activily do something that scares me daily.
I'm not talking sky diving scare or hitch hike with a stranger scare (since I have already done that). But make a conscious decision to challenge my comforts each day be it something that will be fun and I simply don't want to put myself out there or something that won't be enjoyable in the least.
I will try to update the list daily so as to be conscious of what I'm about and that it will hopefully make me grateful to have comforts but more grateful that I have a Comforter, Author, and Protector.

I am starting now, but can remember things I have done in the last week that were challenging to do.



March 15: Participate in focus group. Mend a relationship. Take a spinning class.
March 14: Ask for help at help desk in airport.
March 13: Eat things I can't pronounce at an Asian Market.
March 12: Fly to New England area. See a friend. Explore new things.
March 11: Write performance eval. Use strong "I statements" and explain my strengths.
March 10: Directly ask boss about my job next year and my position.
Ash Wednesday: state an idea in department meeting and defend its relevancy.

south of towers and east of kings

Home. After the last post of looking for a new living situation one appeared.
And so now I am in a new apartment, with new furniture, and new roommates, and a new part of the city. It is a good fit. Much like Dundee in Omaha: close enough to busy streets to hear them buzz and people laugh but removed enough to feel tucked in.
During the looking process I realized looking for a home is much like looking for a friend. A good friend. And I entered each space asking: can I laugh here? can I rest here? can I cry here? Much the same with finding the people who matter, the people you invest in and feel safe with. Not that other people don't matter. Certainly there is a significance to each person, but there is resonance with some that just doesn't exist in others. Tangent.
My home has had its inaugural moments after the boxes were in place and the bed was sheeted. First breakfast and coffee. First stubbed toe. First load of laundry. First walk around the block. First run around the park. First cooking attempt. First cry. First time remembering address. First bill finding me. First neighbor encounter.
And finally after a month of consistently sleeping (lightly sensing a geographic change in head position, facing east no longer south) in the same new spot, it feels like home. It took tramping around the blocks a few times. Finding the grocery store, the nearest Walgreens, the Wendy's. Staying put one Saturday. Falling to sleep to distant music from a bar and waking to the birds. Seeing the same faces at the library and the post office.
Yes. Home is where you live.

red flags include home envy

I don't think of myself as an envious person. I don't think I covet other people's things. Thoughts like I want your _____ (husband, baby, car, sweater set, or salad spinner) don't pop into my head. There are a few instances where I might covet, but this is typically in a restaurant while I am walking by plates of food, and the thought, "I want that" is not really harmful because I fully realize I can have it. And I typically do.
But today I have discovered another instance. Housing. As soon as I located a great neighborhood I started looking beyond my means. Here's the one bedroom studio in my range, oh but look at that old brick bungalow with the glass doorknobs. Or even when trying to stay on task, with the craigslist items do I stray and call the unknown leaser hoping for a surprise. This is just how Anne Shirley in Anne of the Island found her dream living situation. But I am not Anne, there have been no fortuitous surprises, the surprise is that mostly apartments are not priced for me, but rather for someone needing a 3 bedroom home with hardwood floors, granite counter tops, stainless steel appliances, and a central vac.
David Sedaris wrote something about home envy and Ann Frank's house. "[O]pen the curtains and the first words that come to mind are not "I still believe all people are really good at heart" but "who do I have to knock off in order to get this apartment?" I'm not quite there, but I did feel pangs of why isn't my budget bigger?

Also, while being confronted and grappling with my envious side, I am gathering a list of red flags while hunting that mean: don't do it.
These include:
Seeing water damage in the bedroom and being told that will be cleaned up soon. When the reason for looking for a new situation is...water damage.

Calling a landlord at 10:45 am and hearing
Him: (GROOOOAN) Hello?
Me: Hello, I am standing outside of your rental and I was wondering how many bedrooms it had and the price?
Him: Ummmm Can you call me back after one? uhhhhhh
Me: Oh. Um. I guess so.

An owner returns your call with information, and then the conversation stalls.
Me: I would like to set up a time to look at the apartment. Are you available tomorrow?
Her: I am, but it would have to be after 10am, I'm retired and I live in the building, so I take awhile to get up.
Me: Would 10:30 be far enough after 10am for you?
Her: How about you call me tomorrow and we can set up a time.
Me: Oh....okay.

After being asked about safety in the neighborhood, it took a informative turn.
Well, I think it's pretty safe. Most of the crime is just with the cars on the street. Smash and grabs. Especially Chrysler. Apparently they are easy to break into. It's there turn now. A while back it was GM's turn, and Fords, and now Chrysler. But as far as crimes against individuals....About 70% of the tenants are women and we haven't had any personal attacks. Assailants following them or being inside the apartments. Of course there is probably some domestic abuse going on, but that would be under the radar and I don't know about those. It must happen though. It is everywhere.

But all these make it necessary for a day 3 tomorrow.

newsies tip

New York Times magazine writers:
When writing, keep references more relevant. On more than one occasion you have referenced Peyton Place. I didn't understand the allusion and therefore the point was lost. Now I know it was a TV show that aired in the 60s, because I first asked my parents (who either scoffed at my ignorance or balked at my youth)and then looked it up myself.
Since Nick at Night show sitcoms from the 90s, I suggest keeping things from this decade to present as references to help promote a generation of new dedicated readers.
Since Peyton Place seems to have been an apartment complex where many people lived and shared secrets, more modern day allusions could be: Jersey Shore, Gossip Girl, The Hills, Keeping up with the Kardashians, and even Hannah Montana.
Not that readers should know what your talking about if you cite these shows, but they will.

turn of the odometer

I
I am not a car person. I frequently confuse makes and models of cars. I understand nothing of engines. I can drive a stick shift. Also on occasion, when no one is there to see, I can parallel park. And so I would consider my ignorance about cars unacceptable.
Typically, when I was in college and grad school, I would find multiple summer jobs. The criterion for said job was simple: something that was of interest to me and that it wasn't Taco Bell (because I wanted to continue eating there).
So for one summer I applied at Valvoline Instant Oil Change. I thought I would be hired, learn about cars, be able to change my own oil, save money on oil changes in the future, and live a rich and full life as a girl with a grease monkey past. They never called. I might have applied more than once but I don't remember if I did.
All that to say, when I go to get my oil changed, I take notice.

II
This week I went to my Lube place. Rodney is still there, but he didn't help me this time. It was Paul. I've never met Paul before. And my new car hasn't been there, so we exchanged introductions: me with Paul, Paul with my car, my car with Jiffy Lube, etc.
And very quickly Paul asked what sort of oil I wanted, wanted some particulars on the car engine(which I did not know), and then read off my oil choices.
I was looking at him and the screen not knowing where to look. I like to look at people when they speak to me, but he was avoiding my eyes, so I turned to the screen.
Then Paul inverted the numbers he was reading to me. Switched the second and the first and got the third correct. Then he corrected himself. He seemed a little flustered.

So I said, "Oh I do that too. A lot." It was true. I don't just say things like that.

He labeled himself as severely dyslexic at this point. I took it as fact, though oddly placed in the conversation. I okayed the new oil, told Paul where I was headed, and went back outside to read on the sidewalk.

I waited awhile. My car was done quickly enough and driven out of the building, but neither Rodney or Paul was in a position to check me out. I stood reading at the counter to remind them I was still there. In the course of paying Paul started talking again. This time about a screw in the bottom of one of the waiting room chairs.

"I'm dyslexic and OCD" he said, "run your card through the machine when the screen goes blue." Here was a new fact put forward and not asking for comment.

"Oh." I said.

"Yeah. That screw is driving me crazy. It gets caught on the mop each night. And I have to mop every night. I have to have everything clean. Here and at home."

He then asked Rodney to take out the screw because it was bothering him.

"Well, it's sticking out because there is a missing pad there," I said.
Because it was missing. It was the only chair missing a part. Paul told me it had arrived missing the piece, and still was missing the piece, so he asked Rodney get a screw driver to fix it. And by fix it, he meant take said screw out and call it fixed. He continued to talk about the screw and the orderliness he needed to keep as he had me sign the bill.

III
Far be it from me to say the screw didn't bother Paul. Nor would I say he doesn't have OCD tendencies or have dyslexia. As he stated, he had both.

But really?

The chairs at Jiffy Lube have been there for about a year, if not longer. I know because I noticed how cushy and pleathery they were on my first visit. It was warm and the backs of my legs had gotten stuck to them. And from what I understand of OCD and it's many expressions, being bothered by a screw day after day as it catches on a mop (as I'm sure it did) doesn't fall into that category. To quote Dan J. Stein, OCD is "characterized by intrusive thoughts or images (obsessions) which increase anxiety and by repetitive or ritualistic actions (compulsions) which decrease anxiety." (The Lancet volume 360 Aug. 2002, Seminar). Paul probably would have removed the screw promptly had he had OCD. I would think he'd have done it himself to ease the anxiety.

I looked up a full description after coming home because it made me wonder about our (Paul's, my, mankind's) tendency to label ourselves with maladies and syndromes. How we bill ourselves and make ourselves known to others.

Certainly over-medication is occurring today. But also we as a people are becoming more medically savvy and, I am beginning to believe, we are over-labeling ourselves and others in medical terms.

Can't finish a thought? Flippantly explain that you have ADD. Feel compelled to do things? Obviously it's OCD.

How often do I write off a behavior using a medical term, when I am under qualified and uninformed? And how does that shape my thoughts and actions? Is it a cop-out, blaming nature and not owning responsibility for my actions and tendencies, when that could just be what it is, and not a disordered thought process.

OCD, ADD, PDD. These are not passive things. They can be crippling. And I'm certainly not calling out Paul on this issue after I rack up another 3,000 miles. But he brought it to mind. Like the protruding screw that bothered him, his matter-of-fact labels for himself, stuck out, drew my attention, and kept it.