I have the Worst problems

OMG, my life.  It's almost as bad as Julia Roberts' in the beginning of Eat, Pray, Love.

For anyone who doesn't know, I'm working full-time and going to school part-time.  It's sweet, because working full-time at school means I get free tuition to this private college.  I don't particularly love my job (it's not remotely in my field, but I like the people I work with), and I'm getting paid peanuts if you don't factor in the tuition.  If you do factor in the tuition, I make a ton.  Sometimes it bothers me, because no one really pays for the tuition, they lose nothing by offering it to me, so shouldn't I get a raise?  Then I think: "What? So my income only matters if someone else is suffering for it?"  Beyond that, the fact that I have a job at all is quite the blessing in this economy, and I've been there for 5 years now.  I started when I was 19, and they've helped me, nurtured me, and let me make mistakes (sometimes bad ones) and haven't fired me.  It was too much responsibility for me at first, and I was too immature for it.  Sometimes I still am.  So it's not the job I wish I had - I am the worst person ever.

I dropped out of this school a while back because I was struggling with depression and found the atmosphere stifling.  I still hold a lot of that resentment, and I still find the atmosphere stifling.  I think, "How much does picking someone off the ground matter if you're the one that pushed them down in the first place?"  This school is great for a certain type of person, and I'm not really that type of person.  Still, I chose to come here, and I also know that my depression (still unmedicated at the time) had a ton to do with it.  So the problem is really mine.  Not that the school doesn't have it's problems, but I've been given an extraordinary chance to go back.  I'm going to graduate (in 7 years, but still, graduate), and I'm not paying for it.  I made a major mistake that could have messed up my life big time, and I've been given the opportunity to fix it.  That's incredible.  It's huge.  I am the worst person ever.

The Great Loves

     So anyway
     ...
     That's probably the best phrase to start with.  Starting strong, you got this.
     ...
     So anyway, I was reading in a book the other day (The Road Less Traveled, by Dr. Peck - It's a book my dad has read like every year and written in, and now he gave it to me to help me with life or understanding him or something)
     ...
     So.  Anyway.  I was reading in a book the other day and came across a statement that the difference between loving someone and being in love with someone is basically sexual (though, not having been Reading, but just paging through, I'm not sure that's what the book was arguing).  I can see where that comes from, I guess.  One falls in love with one's spouse, then has sex with them; one loves one's friends, but one doesn't tend have sex with them.  But then I thought, "No.  People have sex with people they're not in love with all the time.  They might even have sex with a friend, someone they love, but that doesn't mean they're in love with them."  Basically, it doesn't make sense.

Lake Dreams

So, I don't have internet at home right now (moving out soon, then into my mother-in-law's for a bit, then into our New Tiny House!), which makes posting a bit tough. I've got two topics lined up that I want to cover in a bit, but they'll have to wait. In the meantime, here's a thing I wrote when I was around 19 about childhood and growing up. Nobody ever seems to catch that that's what it's about, so I probably did it wrong, but I like it.

George

Here's a story I wrote for my Creative Writing class. We were supposed to write a story based on something that happened to us. I may have taken a few artistic liberties.

Bam! Right in the Gut

So. There was a discussion on the Facebook a while back about how mental health care is one of the programs to be slashed if we go over the "fiscal cliff." One of my friends (who is very nice, and who always means very well, who loves Jesus and her country, but who sometimes comes across as a screaming lunatic) seemed to think that was a great idea and the healthcare system hasn't done much good anyway, since (as I understand her argument) it failed to keep Adam Lanza from shooting up Sandy Hook Elementary.

Now, I realize it's up top in many people's minds right now, but bringing it up there, when no one had mentioned that tragedy, makes it sound like she's saying that this guy is a great example of mental illness, like he is a representative of that group of people. First of all, there's not much evidence supporting the idea of his even having a mental illness. Asperger's is the word that is getting thrown around, but Asperger's has no connection to violence. It's like saying, "Yeah, he was lactose intolerant, that's why he committed that massacre." (Speaking of Asperger's, here's a great article by the Asperger's guru Tony Attwood about the strengths of Aspies. Reading it made me happy.) Still, there is some hope that this shooting will prompt people to think about giving more support to the mental health professions, as USA Today hopes. With 20 to 25% of the homeless population in the United States suffering from some form of severe mental illness, this is something we need. While I'm not happy about the added stigma being attached to these already-stigmatized disorders, perhaps some good can come out of it.

This business about Lanza aside, here's the dreaded comment followed: "I am simply saying that if parents would teach their kids right from wrong like my parents taught me right from wrong, there would be fewer idiots and massacres in the US alone. Oh, I forgot, there is no such thing as absolute truth anymore. Do whatever the hell you want! It's a 'free' country!" See what I mean about "screaming lunatic?" But let's take a moment to cool down. The Bible tells us to be filled with joy and praise (Philippians 4:4; Romans 15:11), right? God tells us that he will provide for us, that he wants what's best for us, and that no hardships in life are beyond his power. So really, being depressed is a sin, right? People should be able to control their emotions, and their parents should teach them how to do this, right?

My Body

I'm pretty ok with it.  I mean, sometimes I have fat days and I hate my body, but everyone does that.  For the most part, though, I love my body.

I've gained some weight, and I'm not where I sometimes think I'd like to be - I weigh more than my boyfriend - but I still have my curves, and I can still look in the mirror and feel sexy.  Usually, I do.  Plus, the thing I would have to do to lose the weight?  Not worth it.  I like me.  I actually like the little paunch under my belly button and I like that I have a thick bottom and thighs.  The thing I take most issue with is my stomach, and you know what?  It's fine.  I'm ok with it.  This is all still a work in progress, I guess.  My thoughts are a bit scattered right now.

I guess this is the same thing I hear trumpeted all over: "Be yourself!"  "Be proud of who you are!"  Sure, easier said than done.  I know a lot of it springs, admittedly, from having the worlds most non-judgmental boyfriend, who really, honestly doesn't care what I do with my appearance, as long as I'm happy.  Paradoxically, it also comes from my forays into feminism - it's only recently I've learned that that's not a dirty word for someone who hates men, but a word for someone who believes women should have equal rights.  I know, I know, SHOCKER.  But the culture I was raised in shrinks back from that word like it's something a bit nasty, that someone shouldn't want to be.  So that's something else I'm taking back, that word.  I am a feminist (if sometimes a very bad one) because I am a woman, and I believe that I have the power and capability to do whatever I want, and I believe that I deserve to be paid equally for it.  This came as a surprise to me.  Like the rest of this whole business, it's a work in progress.

I like my pubic hair.  I've shaved it and not shaved it back and forth my whole life, but right now, I'm keeping it.  I've had it a while, but a bit ago I shaved it again on a whim.  I looked so small and shy!  I didn't like it.  That's not who I want my privates to be, if that makes sense.  They're not small and shy, they're powerful and loud.  So I keep it.  I do trim some, for courtesy's sake, obviously.  No need to get carried away.

Sometimes I'm self-conscious of my crooked back, but I can't fix it, so I have to own it.  It's behind me, so that helps.

So again, it's a work in progress.  My point is, it's up to you to make you beautiful.  Not by changing to accommodate society or men, but by loving yourself and the body you live in.  If you want to fix things for health reasons, more power to you.  But if you want to fix yourself so that you look good for someone else, forget it.  To thine own self be wicked sexy

And again, sometimes I do change for someone else.  I'll fix my hair the way my mom likes, and I'd be willing to shave my bits occasionally for my guy, but it's not something I'm willing to do all the time.  If they expect me to do those things all the time, that's a problem.

I don't wear makeup or pantyhose and I don't put much effort into my hair.  I don't want to go through the time and effort it takes to look "effortless" and "natural," the way I'm told I should.

Amy Farrah Fowler by Sebastian König

I do put some restraints on myself.  If I did what I really wanted with my appearance, I wouldn't have a job. That's the price of being a manager, I guess, though I don't really agree with it.  Given the choice, I'd dye my hair blue or shave my head or possibly a little of both.  I'd have visible tattoos on my wrists and neck.  I'd wear different clothes.  I guess these are things I can't really change, or am not willing to make the lifestyle changes I would need to to accommodate these things, but regardless of what I can't do with my body, there are things I can do, or can refrain from doing, and I do or don't do those things because this is my body.  I do or don't because I like or don't like the result or because I'm willing or not willing to put in the effort.  It's all a work in progress, as one's life always is.  But in a world full of things you can't control, and a world full of people telling you how you should look and what you should do with your body, I'm saying no.  This?  This is mine.  And I'm keeping it.

Sketch

     It’s storming. I’m scared of the thunder, but Daddy, in his big grey sweater, holds me and shouts, “I’m The Thunder King! Have No Fear!” He tickles me until I forget to be scared.

     I know this memory is the oldest because my mom and dad are living together. After that, I can tell how old the memories are by which procedures I have to go through to see him.

     5 hour drive, Mackinaw bridge, birth certificate, 3 hours of tiny grey waiting room, 3 electric doors opened by a guard in a bullet-proof glass box, half hour limit, no touching except the hug at the beginning and end - that’s Hiawatha. We went in my Grama’s no-a/c full-size van and she drank out of her big 64oz gas station thermos.

     2 hour drive, fancy blacklight hand stamp, big white waiting room, all our stuff in the little locker, 2 electric doors, and one time we almost can’t visit because I can’t get my ring off my hand - that’s Ionia. Grama carries a giant bag - $45 in quarters for lunch from the vending machines.

     Later, he got moved to a lower-security place where I could sit on his lap and he read me books off the little cart. That one had a long name, and good vending machines. I got a Payday, Grama got a Butterfingers, and Grampa got a Snickers. I still get weird nostalgia when I use a vending machine.

     I see him once during his parole, kind of in secret. I don’t know it is wrong, and my mom doesn’t know he was there at all until it’s too late. It is my Great-Grama’s birthday party - must be her 80th. It has been almost 2 years since I’ve been to Michigan. Grama looks at me, holds me around my waist and cries and cries. Daddy introduces Hannah to me, and says they’re getting married.