Stephanie Says.. Take a walk inside my head

April 1, 2017

From March 31, 2014

Filed under: Glimpses of Me,Uncategorized — srose @ 4:01 pm

Okay, my babies, real talk for a minute…and this may be long.
There are people whom I love.
There are people whom I respect.
There are people whom I admire.
There are people whom I smile and nod at but don’t really listen to.
There are people who can’t really tell me anything because I judge them as hypocrites.
There are people whom I can’t talk to because I know they will only give me pat answers.
There are people who only seem to exist in order to hurt me over over and over.
There are people whom I can’t tell anything real to because they cannot be trusted.
And yet…
There are people
Sometimes there are people
Put into my life
Put into my world
Willing to climb my walls
Swim my moats
Breach my defenses
And see me
The real me
Not the princess
Not the child
not the little girl jumping up and down
spinning around
And clapping her hands

But ME
broken
hurt
scarred
betrayed
Yet longing
to love
to care

To be used
To put her arms
Around the world
And save it

These people
They see ME
The hills I climb
The wounds I bear
And the ways I break myself off
part by part
piece by piece
In order to be loved
Just for a moment

Not everyone can, you know.
Depending on who you are
you might see me as a clown
A cheerleader
A Prima Dona
Someone who does everything to excess
Someone who who wants her own crown

And then
And then
And then
For a moment
There comes someone
Just for a moment
who sees
Who really sees

Past the giggles
And the squeals
and the whispers
And the hair flips

And loves the Me
The real ME
of me

And I listen
Really listen

Because them
I can love
And respect
And admire
and trust

Even when everything else
Is falling apart

October 27, 2016

Pigtails, Date Night, and The Clown Prince of Crime

Filed under: Glimpses of Me — srose @ 1:53 am

Pigtails, Date Night and the Clown Prince of Crime

Wayne and I have a game we play. In between customers, we sometimes decide which movie or TV characters most resemble those of us who work in the office. I pick for him. He picks for me and together we pick for our coworkers.

I’ve been Mary Poppins. I’ve been -Leverage’s- Parker. I’ve been Princesses and Queens and Mothers and Neighbor Girls and Adventurers in Search of Love.
Always the soprano. Always the maiden. Always the sweetheart.

Until her.

See, we’ve been a little Batman crazy lately, so when it came time to cast ourselves into the Dark Knight’s Universe, I thought I knew whom he would select.
I thought I did.
I was wrong.
“You” Wayne told me, with no hint of the surprise that was to come “Are Harley Quinn.”
Harley Quinn?
Doctor turned Doxie?
Crazy Little Sweetheart of the Darkside?
In some ways more insane than the Joker Himself?
THAT Harley Quinn?

Don’t get me wrong.
It’s just a game.
It’s not as if we actually TAKE ON the characteristics of the alters we assign each other.
But HARLEY QUINN??

Batgirl is a librarian
Cat Woman is a…er…cat
Poison Ivy has an accent

Harleen Frances Quinzel has…well…
None of those.

And then the recent movie trailer came out.
A Squad is being assembled to take on a mission from which they might not return. Everyone is in place, solemn or scowling by turns.
Out snaps a hand.
“Harley Quinn, nice ta meetcha” she chirps. Somber and scowling she is not.

“This” Wayne tells me as he sends me the clip. “This is why I chose Harley for you. That and the obsession.”

Ah, yes, the obsession. Harley has her Mistah J, the lunatic that she was supposed to be treating and ended up in thrall to instead.
I? I have my…endless need for love. I have the desperate certainty that I will never truly find a place to belong. I am not Barbara with her books. I am not Selina and her kittens. I’m not even Ivy with her pale skin and green plants.

I am Harley. Chirpy. Twittery. Eager for friendship. Searching for affection.

It was cute. It was fun. It got me a couple of weeks of threatening to wear my hair in pigtails and Wayne threatening to quit if I did.

Until it became real.

Harley had her Joker, her mad love, her injections, her chemicals, her vat of acid.

I have my…misaligned brain.

Clinical Depression, my counselor told me.
PTSD.
And And…
Bipolar Disorder.

Biwhatnow whatnow?
Since adolescence, I’ve been joking about being crazy.
The inability to go anywhere without a book as a security blanket.
The loud bursting into song.
The detailed plans that never actually go anywhere.
The spontaneous hugs and declarations of love.
The days I can’t stop crying.
The slights and disappointments that I seem to hold on to when everyone else has long since walked on.
The childlikeness.
The selfishness.
The obsessions and madnesses and fears that seemed unique to me.
I’m unlike my family.
I’m unlike my friends.
This year, my counselor told me why.

It hurt. At first.
All I knew about that was the hallucinations. The delusions of grandeur.
Jumping off roofs.
Taking on mountains.
The manic.
Then the depressive.
The institutions.
The therapy.
The treatments.
The crying for days.
The loneliness.
The isolation.
The crazy.
The crazy.
The crazy.

It’s not always like that, of course.
I’m no more likely to jump off a rooftop than I am to fly away to the moon.
But it’s still new.
It still hurts.

I didn’t WANT to be crazy.
I’m odd.

I’m eccentric.
I’m quirky.
And unique.
And every other special little unicorn snowflake word you can throw at me.
I jump up and down when excited.
I squeal like a little girl with joy.
I strongly want what I want, even if I know it’s wrong.
But I never WANTED to be a unicorn snowflake sparkling fairy.

Not really.

They stand out too much.
They are TOO unique.
TOO individual.
TOO quirky.
I wanted Ethel Mertz.
I wanted June Cleaver
I wanted
Oh How I Wanted
Laura Petrie.

Normal.
Safe.
With just enough excitement to spice things up.

What I got was misaligned pathways.
What I got were misfired neurons.
What I got were chemicals gone haywire.
What I got was NOT Laura Petrie.
What I got was Harley Quinn.

Wayne says she’s pretty.
And adventurous.
And has never met a stranger.

Wayne doesn’t live in my brain.
Wayne doesn’t hear the music.
Wayne doesn’t have the obsessions.
Wayne doesn’t wander around his room at three in the morning screaming to get out, get away, just gooo.

Wayne says it’s okay.

My counselor says it’s okay too.
Look at all the actresses who are bi polar, she says.
And THEY never jumped off roofs.

My counselor says, though, that it will take time.
The obsessions can become lists.
The lists can become projects.
The pacing will become self soothing and if I don’t sleep, at least I can rest.
My husband, a Sims through and through, will eventually understand.

They say it’s going to be okay.
I want to believe them.
After all,
I don’t hallucinate.
I don’t think I have delusions.
And surely they know what they are talking about.

But it still hurts.
You see,
I never really wanted to be crazy.
Not for real.
And it’s all very new.
And still very raw.
And I don’t think
I’ll wear pigtails to work
After all.

PTSD and Me

Filed under: Glimpses of Me — srose @ 12:58 am

PTSD and Me

Soldiers.
Soldiers. Battlefields.
Unspeakable things.
Untold stories.
Missions completed.
Missions failed.
Combat.
Killing.
Heartbreak.
War.

PTSD.

Soldiers.

Not me.
Church girl. Choir kid. Bookworm. Music lover. Curly hair. Freckle face. Ready Smile.
Not me.

She says yes.

I’d had honest counselors before.
Pull up their chair and look me in the eye
Tell me the truth
Knock down my walls
Call me on my cute little tricks.

But this one?
“What are we going to do about your hair?” She asked me. “It looks bad.”

This one is honest.
And this one says I have Clinical Depression.
(Category: Lifelong.)
This one says I have a mood disorder in my brain.
And this one.
This one says I have PTSD.

Me.
The non violent, non confrontational, non soldier.

Me.
The girl who walks around singing so much that her friends call her a Disney Princess.

Born on Sunday
Cries at Animal Movies
Bubble Gum Chewing
In Love with Love
Pajama Wearing
Me.

Not only that,
She says I’ve had it for years.
Like…decades.

I didn’t know that.
I didn’t know that trauma wasn’t just blood and guts and loud noises and missing limbs and absent friends.

Trauma rips out your heart.
Trauma messes with your mind.

Trauma stops your breathing
and shakes your hands
and makes you see things that aren’t there.

I didn’t know that.
I didn’t know that was why I do double takes when I see men of certain size, shape and hair color.
I didn’t know why that was why it’s hard to hear one song over the other
or walk into a room
or sometimes
Even breathe.

I didn’t know that was why I sometimes recoil when someone comes in for hug.
Or why I scream when I don’t know someone has come up behind me.
Or kick out in my sleep when movies play in my mind.

I didn’t know that that is why I am crying now.
Years and years later
Over things I thought had long passed.

Trauma doesn’t like to hide.
You can push it down with logistics.
You can bury it in concern for other people.
You can tell yourself that it’s been too long.

Trauma’s sneaky. And jealous. And wants attention.
In my case, it wove itself around grief.
The fights that were had were years ago.
The man who touched me has long moved on.
The car that hit me has driven away.
The children I would have taught have grown.
The dreams I would have reaped are dissolved
And
The friendships I would have cultivated have scattered.

But still
Angry words
Unwanted kisses
Caresses unasked for
Broken bones
Tiny hands
Lost identities
Half remembered dreams

I didn’t know there would still be tears.
Twenty years later.
No.
Wait.
More.
Twenty years
And more.

Me
The curly haired
Freckle face
Disney Princess

Decades later
I didn’t know
That trauma would still be in my head.

I didn’t know
That trauma
Would still be in my heart.

I didn’t know.
Until I walked into that office.
And she told me why.

I’m All Right, But I’m Not Okay

Filed under: ah life,Glimpses of Me — srose @ 12:17 am

I’m All Right, But I’m Not Okay

I got hit by a car. It happened long enough ago now that it’s part of my history. I have curly hair. I always carry a book with me. I easily memorize songs. I got hit by a car. I didn’t realize just how MUCH it impacted me until later. Years later. Like, half a decade later.
See, when it happened, I was still teaching Sunday School. Not only that, but I was teaching two and three year olds. The FIRST THING I remember doing after coming back to myself is asking someone to go check on “my kids because they can’t wander around the church all by themselves.” Once that was taken care of, the logistics began. Where was I injured? How badly was I hurt? Whom should be called? Where should I be taken? Once in the hospital, the logistics continued. Who should see me? Where should they see me? When should they see me? Most of my support system at the time had not yet retired so THOSE details had to be worked out. Who should stay? Who should go back home? If work had to be done, who should do it? Some pins, some metal, some X-rays and some surgery later, I was out. Friends had to feed me, bathe me and wash my hair for a while, but I was fine. Wasn’t I?

Nobody told me how much it would still hurt. Nobody told me how shaken and scared it would leave me. Nobody told me I would cry.
*********************************************************************

I was turning a corner when I saw it. A sign. Announcing a class. A class that I loved. A class that I helped teach. A class that brought me joy. A class that was starting again. A class that had someone else’s name on it. Somebody somewhere had given “my babies” into other hands. Hands that weren’t mine.
And no one had told me.
I asked. I was answered. Somebody somewhere had told somebody somewhere else that I wasn’t teaching anymore.
Someone said that I had given up my classes.
Someone gave my kids away.
And nobody told me.
I went to my husband.
He checked with the people in charge.
It was true. Someone had said that I was no longer teaching.
But no one had asked me.
They just reassigned my classes.
I cried.
But there was nothing anyone could do.
Just like that, I wasn’t a teacher anymore.
Just like that, a part of my identity was taken away.
Years ago now, it was.
Nobody told me how much it would still hurt. Nobody told me how sad I would still be. Nobody told me I would cry.
******************************************
I was standing in the kitchen when he said it.
Married a decade and a half.
Finally ready.
Tiny fingers.
Tiny toes.
Black hair like her father.
Glasses like me.
I could see it.
More than that, I could FEEL it.
That tiny girl was real to me.
She moved.
She breathed.
She existed.
Until he said no.
The man I loved said no.
With one sentence, he destroyed my dearest dream.
No babies.
Ever.
Because we’re the wrong kind of people to be parents.
Years ago now.
This one still hurts. This one still burns.
Nobody told me I would still be bleeding. Nobody told me it would still cut so. Nobody told me I would cry.
*************************************
Clouds.
That’s what I call them.
Turning everything overcast.
Coloring everything gray.
I don’t always know when they are coming.
This time I could tell.
“Help me” I wrote.
“They are coming. It’s going to last and it’s going to be bad.”
“Befriend me. Help me. Love me.”
I wrote friends. I wrote acquaintances.
I wrote people from work and play.
I wrote people from church.
It came.
It was bad.
Nobody wrote back.
Months later, I walked into the foyer outside the sanctuary.
One of the women I had written gasped…
“Oh…oh…I forgot you.” she said.
Church is surgery.
Church is healing.
Church is relationship.
Church is family.
Nobody wrote back.
Nobody told me how scared that would make me. Nobody told me how much worse it would get.
Nobody told me I would cry.
************************************************************
Off and on since I was a teenager.
Therapist. Social worker. Counselor.
Call them what you will.
Sometimes I like the attention.
I’m an all about me girl for a while. They listen.
Or they pretend to.
But it was getting bad.
And I was getting scared.
And this time, I was scaring myself.
I told her it was dark up in there.
I told her it hurt.
She told me it was bi-polar.
She scared me.
I knew I was crazy.
I just didn’t wanna be insane.
This time, I could not get anyone to listen.
Second opinions, they said.
Prayer.
Meditation.
Pills.
This time, it wasn’t okay to hurt.
This time, it wasn’t okay to cry.
People scoffed.
Or disbelieved.
Or got angry.
Quirky they can handle.
Scary they cannot.
After all,
I’m not THAT bad.
I’ve never jumped off a roof.
I’ve never run off with a stranger.
I’ve never woken up in someone else’s house or wandered into someone else’s room.
Don’t listen, they said.
Journal.
Talk.
Exercise.
Pray.
This time. It wasn’t okay to hurt.
This time, they didn’t tell me I would cry.

But I do.
Everyone has broken dreams. Everyone.
Everyone hurts.
Everyone cries.
Everyone.
But no one told me there would be pain.
He fixed my legs.
He didn’t tell me it would hurt to walk.
He didn’t tell me I would still be scared.
He didn’t tell me I would gradually shrink so small that leaving the house is a very big deal.
He didn’t tell me that.

They took away my classes.
They didn’t tell me that they were taking away pieces of my identity.
No longer a teacher.
No longer “my kids”.
No classes.
Not anymore.
They didn’t tell me there would be no apology.
They didn’t tell me how much it would hurt.

No one told me that my marriage would involve the love of my life breaking my heart.
No one told me that everything I’d dreamed of would be shattered one night all over the kitchen floor.
No one told me that I’d lose who I am.
Not a teacher.
Not a mother.

No one told me that there is no one I can talk to.
Not about church.
Not about babies.
Not about marriage.
Not anymore.

It’s been too long.
I should be past it.
I should be over it.
I should be someone else by now.

But I’m not.
I’m me.
Non teacher.
Non walker.
Non mother.
Non friend.

“Don’t be afraid. It’s not like you are going to be hit again.”
“Maybe you are being protected from further heartache.”
“Maybe you AREN’T the kind of person who should be raising a child.”
“Now you can travel and live your life.”
“Oh…oh…I forgot about you.”
“Just pray. God will always be there.”

No one calls.
No one writes.
They did…I think.
In the first hazy days of grief, they did.
But no one told me that the grief would come in waves.
The grief hit again.

“Broken arm.”
“Broken leg.”
“No classes.”
“No apologies.”
“No babies.”
“I forgot about you.”
“P.T.S.D.”
“Bi Polar”

“This is something.” she told me “You will be living with for the rest of your life.”
She didn’t tell me that my life would get so dark that I didn’t want to be living.
She didn’t tell me that the crisis line would put me on hold.
She didn’t tell me that there are no identifying signs for when my brain is on fire.
She didn’t tell me.

No one told me that there would be no one to talk to.
No one told me that your husband making up his mind is not like losing a child.
No one told me that the grief would be real.
No one told me that it would hurt.
That it still hurts.
That sometimes that little girl with the black hair still calls to me.
And that with no miscarriage, no failed adoption, no actual pregnancy
There would be nothing I can do.
No one told me that.

No one told me that I would end up in the hospital.
That the drugs meant to help me would only make me worse.
No one told me how scared I would be.
And how few people there are who actually care.

No one told me that church would become enemy territory
That I would be walking into a building full of people who never reached out when written to
Who forgot I even existed.

No one told me about the three o’ clock in the mornings.
No one told me that my brain would hold me hostage.
That I would give anything in the world for an off switch.
No one told me how much I’ll have to fight.

I was hit by a car.
I was walking down a hallway.
I was standing in the kitchen.
I was typing a letter.
I was walking into church.
I was becoming someone else.
I was watching my dreams die.
I was given a diagnosis.

No one told me how much the last five years would hurt.
No one told me how great the pain would be.
No one told me I would have to fight.
No one told me how I would be scared.
No one told me I would cry.

May 7, 2016

From Facebook Fall 2014

Filed under: Glimpses of Me — srose @ 8:10 am

(This is something that’s been rolling through me lately. Just ignore and go on if it doesn’t apply to you. Thank you.)

I’d meet a man
And I’d follow him blindly
He’d snap his fingers
Me? I’d say “sure”.
(Little Shop of Horrors)

So.
Something happened.
Somebody’s hands were on you.
Somebody’s words are in you.
And you think that you have to follow.

Oh my darlings. Oh my darlings.
What you are being told.
What is now in your head
That is not truth.

Those words…
The ones people now call you?
The ones you call yourself?
Those ugly words that you treat as a joke,
As part of your armor,
As part of you?
Those words…
They aren’t who you are.
They aren’t ever who you are.

Listen.
Please listen.
Hands.
Lips.
Breath.
That isn’t who you are.

Someone touched you.
Someone touched you again.
Touches.
Touches aren’t who you are either.
Ever.

Touches don’t mean that you have to follow.
Touches don’t mean that you have to obey.
Touches don’t mean that you have to belong to the names…
The ones they call you
OR
The ones you call yourself.

That’s not
That’s not ever
Who you are.

There are things
Down in your soul
There are things

Books
Music
Dancing
Crayons
Water
Dresses
High Heels
Pencils
Paper
Sewing Machines
Dirt Roads
Backwoods
Puppies
Guitars
and Raindrops

You like to knit
You like to dance
You like to garden

That
The deep down
Inside
Soul Mending
Part of you

That
That
Is who you are

That
Not the things they say
Not the things you’ve done

Not the touches
Not the kisses
Not the words

You don’t have to.
Oh my darling…
You may be hurting
You may be searching
You may be believing

Those words
Ugly
Accusatory
or
Soft
and Honey Flavored

Oh my darling
My darling

It’s not the truth
Not really
Not ever

Those words
Harsh
or Pretty

Sour
or Sweet

They are not you
You don’t have to follow
You don’t ever have to follow

You don’t ever have to listen.

You don’t ever have to believe them.
Ever.

From Facebook May 2014

Filed under: Glimpses of Me — srose @ 7:54 am

I was skimming an article on dealing with troublesome people in one’s life when I came upon this (paraphrased) line “Have you ever considered that YOU are someone’s `difficult person’?”
Gulp.
If that is true, I’m sorry. I truly don’t mean to make your life any harder. I really don’t.
Gulp.

April 9, 2015

Happy Girl

Filed under: ah life,Glimpses of Me,Gratitude — srose @ 4:15 am

Happy Girl

I like to talk. If you know anything at all about me, you probably know that. What you may not know, however, is that while I like to talk, I am not very skilled at it. I have a tendency, as they say, to ramble.

(True story: I once began a conversation with my co worker and chased so many rabbits getting to the end that it was not wrapped up until three days later.)

I’m better at conversing if there is something going on at the time. A dinner, for example, or a movie. Or, as is often the case in my life, a game.
I love them. Oh not the ones that require strategy and cunning and result in some kind of clear victor defeating everyone else. I will never be a Grand Master or anything. No, I like family style games such as Scrabble or Clue (in which I am –always- Miss Scarlet and –always- go first. It’s in the rules. Read the box if you have one.) or Life (in which I make everyone around me name their “spouses” and “children”).

My favorite game, however, particularly online, is Questions. Sometimes my friends and I play Rapid Fire Yes or No No Thinking (“Are you afraid of flying?”, for example, or “Have you ever read –Moby Dick- and made it all the way through?”). SOMETIMES, however, the questions go deeper, especially as we get to know each other better and begin to tell our stories.

Such was the case the other day. My friend and I were bouncing “What clubs did you join in school?” and “Where was your favorite vacation spot?” type inquiries back and forth when he floored me.

“Tell me” he typed “about the happiest time of your life.”

I was stunned. I honestly was. Before I could reply with a string of “Ummmmmmmmmmmmms”, he had to leave and I was spared having to answer.

But he got me thinking. The happiest time of –my- life? Me? The girl who has had one of THOSE lifetimes?

Maybe it was when…no that didn’t end well…
How about the time…nope, heartache there too…
I honestly couldn’t come up with an answer.

And then, all of a sudden, I could.

I don’t, I realized, have a happiest time in my life because my happy comes in TIMES. A kiss here, a smile there, just the slightest hint of a breeze over in that direction.

So, my friend, I can’t answer your question as you asked it, but I can tell you about my moments.

I am happy, for example, when games of questions with new friends turn into getting to know you sessions and real connections are made.

I am happy when a day is warm and a slight wind begins to blow. I am convinced that wind is directly from God.

I am happy when Kenny and I arrive early for an appointment and he suggests we travel down an unknown road or two with Neal Diamond on the radio.

I am happy when someone tells a joke that catches me off guard and I laugh so hard that I begin to sputter.

I’m happy when I’m visiting my parents and my father sits down on the piano bench in order to duet with me on old, old hymns.

I am happy when I am brushing my hair and all the tangles are out and the repetitive motion of going through my tresses soothes me.

I am happy when someone has a problem or question and I can’t provide the answer myself, but I know someone who can and connections are made that last beyond my introduction.

I am happy when I work with preschoolers at church and they concentrate so hard on learning the motions to our songs or praying ALL BY THEMSELVES for the first time with no prompting or help.

I am happy when I open the refrigerator looking for something to drink and discover that Kenny has bought a Black Cherry Water just for me because he knows it is my favorite.

I am happy when I am out to dinner with friends and one of us mentions a musical and the whole table bursts into song without any kind of pre planning.

I am happy when I see a light in the eyes of the people I love indicating that they are where they need to be, doing what brings them joy or with someone who loves them very much.

I am happy when I am in a church service and, right in the middle of a song; I experience absolute, transporting joy that honestly was not there just a moment before.

I am happy when I wake up, stretch and realize that I had an honest to goodness real night’s sleep or restful nap and I don’t have a headache and aren’t grumpy.

I am happy when people seem to like what I post or write.

I am happy when I am in the middle of taking a shower and realize that I’m singing. And, not only am I singing, I’m singing LOUDLY. Coming to myself in the middle of a shower song is a wonderful indicator for me that my clouds of depression are dissipating, at least for a little while.

I am happy when I pick up a book that I am not sure I am going to like, only to find that I really enjoy it.

I am happy when my book club meets and I am exposed to volumes I never would have chosen for pleasure reading but find I like the mix of genres we discuss.

I am happy when I say “Gee, Brain, whatta you wanna do tonight?” and my co worker looks at me and says “The same thing we do every night Pinky. Try to take over the world.” I have wonderful co workers.

I am happy when I use a book series or movie reference (such as “We can’t all come and go by…BUBBLE”) and someone not only understands it but returns in kind.

I am happy when my mother expects me to come over and bakes blueberry muffins just because she knows I like them.

I am happy when I’m at a park and on the swings, not caring how silly I look.

I am happy when my father wraps his arms around me and hugs me in a way that he reserves only for his “baby girl”.

I am happy when I get it into my head that I want to try something hard or challenging only to disregard the fears that are trying to talk me out of it and succeed anyway.

I am happy when I am writing a script and a character or line just POPS and comes together.

I am happy when I am asked to plan lessons for a missions class or Bible Study. I like making up lessons but I tend to be bossy about the way they are taught. I would make a terrible director. Everyone would hate me and my “Work With Me People” attitude.

I am happy when my cat takes time off from her wandering around the house and decides to curl up into me and purr and purr.

I am surprised and happy when I KNOW that I am doing or thinking something straight from heaven. I often feel that I stumble and mess up but occasionally I just unshakably KNOW that whatever I’m about to do is Right, Right, Right.

And I am most happy when I have my room, my music, the love of my close friends and family, my hot water and Irish Spring, my books and my cats.

And my boyfriend. Chocolate is my boyfriend. But it does make me happy to share if you want.

And that, my dear friend, is my list.
Happily yours,
Stephanie

March 17, 2015

What A Girl Believes, Part One

Filed under: Glimpses of Me — srose @ 9:05 am

Have you ever played “Something You May Not Know About Me”? (Probably not, as it is a game I just made up.) If not, you have probably played a variant. “True Confessions”? “True Colors”? “The Un Game”? “Two Truths and a Lie”? “Never Have I Ever”?

Many games are designed to facilitate us getting to know each other. We, as a society, like little facts, little bits of trivia that we can tuck into our mental nests. We even like the occasional shock when we find that something doesn’t fit with our mental image of someone we think we know well.
I, for example, am fascinated by vampires. Dracula, Twilight, True Blood-I’ve read and criticized them all. If you are one of my close friends, this fascination doesn’t shock you one bit. If, however, you just know me as a minister’s daughter or church helper’s wife, you may be taken a bit aback.
We do that, you know. We see different sides of people and think we know them. We even do that of ourselves, sometimes, don’t we? We don’t always look very deeply into our own beliefs until something shakes us loose enough to really examine them.

As most of you know, I’ve been going through my own time of upheaval lately. In addition to much whining (I don’t LIKE change, ya’ll. I don’t like it AT ALL), I’ve been doing some contemplation.

It’s really nothing new. We all question who we are, why we are alive and what it is that we believe from time to time, but firm convictions and solid grounds aren’t exactly hallmarks of mine. I generally listen to the opinions of others and try to figure out what people smarter than I think before I make up my mind about things.

This past year, however, in addition to crying, pouting, whining and pretty much giving self described Princesses a bad name, I’ve been thinking. I’m still not absolute on EVERY issue that comes my way, but I have really nailed down some of what I believe.

Here are some of my thoughts:

-What I believe about God
Well, first of all, I don’t think God can actually be defined in words. Not truly. I believe that we, as people, use words to try and explain or describe what God is, was and is going to be because words are all that we have. I believe, however, that God is bigger than words, bigger than language, bigger than time and space. I believe that the word “bigger” is totally inadequate to say What and Whom God is, but, once again, words are all that we as people have when trying to really convey something, so words will have to do.

Second, I DO believe that God created us. I believe that He created grass and butterflies and the ocean and snow and rubies and…well, just…everything.

Third, I believe that God could have done things so much differently than He did. We could be…oh…we could HAVE no more free will than a zombie or a robot and never even know the beautiful agony of choice and temptation, but we don’t. We HAVE choices. We MAKE decisions. Sometimes we make terrible, terrible decisions, but we were created with brains to make them, nevertheless. God created us the way He did KNOWING that we would be spiteful and hurtful and treacherous and deceitful and a million other things that ruin lives and break hearts. He COULD HAVE created us with no choice, no free will at all. He didn’t.

Fourth, I believe that there are things that happen that we will never understand. I often go off on flights of fancy on this one. In my imagination, I sometimes try and make sense of the bad that is happening by reconfiguring it into a story. Say, for example, something lands someone I love in the hospital. There, they discover that they are either critically injured or gravely ill. I may never know why this happened. In the story I am spinning, however, a volunteer or a nurse or a doctor notices the sad but peaceful and faith filled acceptance my family and I display in the face of such circumstances and is impacted in such a way that they themselves become a person of faith, spreading such peace to the people that THEY meet. This is, of course, pure fantasy. Sometimes things happen that we will never know the answer to. I believe, however, that even when they do, God is still God.

Fifth, I believe that God DOES love us. Once again, I cannot understand this love. It is often compared to the feeling a parent has for a child. Parents, it is said, love their children all the time, even when the child in question is breaking their heart. I don’t know. When it comes to God and love, I often have to regress back to the songs that I teach my preschool classes. “Jesus Loves Me” we sing “For the Bible Tells Me So”. “We love Him (God)”, we read in the Scriptures “because He first loved us”. We don’t REALLY know why. We look around and see people behind bars for horrible things. We see people who SHOULD be behind bars for horrible things. We hear of even children using words as weapons. We don’t know WHY God loves us when we cannot even love ourselves. We just cling to the old songs and believe that He DOES.

HOWEVER, I DO NOT believe that God loves us like…oh, you know…like a stereotypical babysitter does. I don’t believe that the “love” God has for us is the kind that allows humanity to just go off and do whatever they want whenever they please. Seriously? That isn’t really love at all, I don’t think. Not REAL love, anyway.

-What I believe about Sin
Okay, deep breath here. First of all, I believe Sin is anything we do that puts a distance between us and God. Telling a lie, shooting an arrow into someone’s head, taking the last piece of cake on purpose just to hurt the person we are sharing with…sin, sin, sin…as are a million more.

Second, I believe the distance that results between us and God is one that WE make. I don’t think God really moves anywhere. I believe that when we sin, it is US doing the walking away.

Third, I believe that people sin for all kinds of reasons. Life is hard. Like I said before, we are not robots. We are not programmed with every answer in our heads and we have to make choices. Choices can be hard. Choices can be icky. And, sometimes we feel as if we don’t have any kind of choice at all. Or sometimes we feel as if neither of our choices are good. But sometimes we just…well, frankly we want what we want when we want it and…well, frankly we don’t want anyone, even God, telling us what to do.

So, we, um, we do what we want. We do what we want WHEN we want. And step by step we walk away from God and what it is He knows is actually the best for us.

-What I believe about Forgiveness
Depending on how much you listen to country music or watch –American Idol-, the name Kellie Pickler may mean as much to you as Elvis did to parents in the early 1950’s. She has a couple of (in my opinion) beautiful songs to her name, but one deals with reconciliation or the lack thereof.
“Forgiveness”, Kellie sings, “Is such a simple word/But it’s so hard to do when you’ve been hurt.”
Sometimes I play the video just to hear that line.

Forgiveness IS hard. I believe that will all of my heart.

Being hurt makes us forget things, I think.

We forget any good that we had in the relationship and focus on what caused the rupture. Sometimes we nurse the hurt so much that we allow it to grow. And, in my experience, the more a hurt grows, the less we really WANT to forgive. If we ever even wanted to in the first place.

I’ve known many people in many different areas of my life. Some of them have been casually cruel. Some of them have wounded me out of ignorance. Some of them have lied to me KNOWING that doing so would cause me pain. But however hurt I am, however wounded I become, one fact remains: I AM NOT GOD.

See, this is something that blows my mind. In my belief, God desires a relationship with us. Every one of us. Every single person born. And some of us are just…well…mean.

Don’t get me wrong. I believe that every single person who draws breath will eventually make a choice that will take them away from God and toward their own desires. I believe that every one of us sins.

But some of us do so KNOWING that God wants a relationship and WALK AWAY ANYWAY. And you know what? God still loves us.
More than that, HE FORGIVES us. We turn toward whatever it is that we want. We walk down a road that takes us further and further away from God and…He forgives us.

As a person, as someone who gets hurt, this is something I cannot imagine. I know that sometimes I WANT to forgive people, but my heart keeps getting in the way. Forgiveness, for me takes time. Fear gets in the way and a process takes place in which it has to be removed before a relationship can really be restored.

But God?

Well, let’s move on…see, there is a little more we need to cover here.

I believe that we’re not robots. I believe that we have choices. I believe that we all, at some point, make a choice to go a direction that leads us away from God and His plans. I believe that God still loves us when we walk that direction. I believe that God’s love is something we cannot put into human words. I believe that God’s love is something we will never ever understand. Not Really.

I believe that God’s love and God’s forgiveness are intertwined.

But, see, I believe something else. I believe, that, just as we as people make a choice to walk AWAY from God, we have to make a choice to turn around and walk BACK.

And that involves asking.

That asking may be the hardest choice we ever make in our relationship with God. I mean, let’s face it. We often don’t WANT to go back to what it is God is laying out for us. We ALL have egos that flare up in one way or another. And, sad as it is to say, our egos and God’s plans don’t coincide all that much.

It’s HARD to ask for forgiveness.

Wait.
Let me back up.
The asking itself is not hard.
The asking is words. We can do words. We’ve been doing words since before we were a year old.

It’s the SINCERITY that kills us.

Actually turning around and walking back to God starts with WANTING to turn around and walk back to God.

AND TURNING AROUND IS SOMETHING WE DON’T WANT.

Who really WANTS to walk down a road knowing that to do so means that we often won’t get our way?

Walking back to God means sacrifice. Walking back to God means putting somebody else before ourselves. Walking back to God means letting go of whatever put us on the road away from Him in the first place.

We’re people. No matter what we tell ourselves, we do NOT let go easily.

So, like I said, the words we can do. The sincerity is harder. The turning around and asking for God to pardon us is hardest of all.

But here is a mystery. God DOES pardon us. We’re whiny. We kick. We scream. We demand things that we don’t deserve. We walk away, following things that could never be good for us in a million lifetimes.

And when we turn around, when we REALLY turn around and take just that first step, God forgives us. We break His heart. We run away over and over again and He forgives us.

This is the part I’ll never understand.

This is the part I could never do.

Not in a million years.

January 6, 2015

Love Me Anyway?

Filed under: Glimpses of Me — srose @ 1:27 am

I have received much advice this past year. I have received stern advice. I have received funny advice. I have received confidential advice. I have received terrible advice. I have received advice in the form of stories. I have received advice in the form of songs. I have received advice from my girlfriends. I have received advice from my family. I have received advice from my husband. I have received advice from the few men in my life that I trust. I have been ignored, worried about, prayed for, scolded, scorned, played with, lied to, embraced, complimented, surprised, encouraged and brought to tears. I have made and lost friends. I have found and lost love. I have been crushed and lifted. Dreams have died and others have been born. People whom I thought would support me have disappeared and people whom I never thought to call on have stepped up without even being asked. It’s been a horrible horrible season, but it’s also been (in some ways) a blessing. I can’t promise that I’ll be any more active, competent or with it in 2015, but I am ready to make baby steps. I am ready to crawl. I am ready to try. Just please, promise to try and love me. I won’t do what you think I should. I won’t move as fast as you think I ought. I won’t listen to the things you say. I’ll ignore the remarks you make that don’t apply to me AT ALL (seriously people…Hi…my name is Stephanie…have you MET me?). I’ll stumble. I’ll fall. I’ll sleep. I’ll cry. I’ll break my promises and if you care for me very much, I’ll probably break your heart. But I promise. I promise to try. I promise to try to be there more, to listen more, to show up more and to care. Please. Please. Loving me is not mandatory. It is not a requirement. But if you do. If you really do, can you promise to try? I’ll stumble and fumble and fall. I’ll disappoint you over and over again. You’ll shake your head and bite your lip. I’ll do my best but I’ll fail. Please…if you really care…can you promise to love me anyway? Even if…Even WHEN…it hurts?

A plea

Filed under: Glimpses of Me — srose @ 1:14 am

Under…you really don’t have to say anything at all, but if you do say stuff be careful. The heart you would could belong to someone who needs you to provide patches, not more cracks. For example:

A lot of the lot of advice that I’m getting consists of either pray or go to church. I appreciate the support…I really really really do. And, intellectually, I understand the sentiments people are trying to convey. But to someone like me…to someone with issues involving rejection…to someone who has spent their life being told “I don’t have time for you” or “Go ask someone else” or “Just be quiet. If people want you to talk, they will ask you to.”, such advice (unless coming from someone I really really REALLY trust) UNLESS it is coupled with actual time spent with me sounds like more of the same. I have enough people passing me by. So be careful. If you feel you MUST say something, be so careful. People don’t hand out their hearts lightly. Please don’t be the person who casually breaks them. Sometimes we need hands, feet and shoulders so much more than we need empty words. Be careful my darlings. Casually cruel kindness is really, really no kindness at all.

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