My Ghosts Dwell in Church

   I absolutely love churches.
   There's beautiful sculptures on the walls and quiet solitude and loud chatter (depending on denomination), and sometimes it's bright and cheerful, somethings dark and holy, but it's all beautiful. It's like God dwells among us. My heart swells.
   And then my guard leaps into action.
   Because I am haunted in the house of God.

    And your voice still rings out in my mind
    And the thorn still twists down in my side

    My ghosts eke their way out among the self-effacing lyrics in worship, between the emphasis on how wicked we all are, aboard the brief jokes about liberals.
    I didn't understand why I felt their presence here, in church. Sure, the shifting of my beliefs from "fairly fundamentalist" to "fairly liberal" was hard, but why would it traumatize me?
    Really, I was never abused in church. I love my fundamentalist and evangelical friends, and I know they love me. Or do I?
    Here I am, unable to attend a church without panic, without rage, without deep depression. Unable to read the Bible without shriveling up inside, without feeling driven to repeat prayers compulsively until I know I'm a good person.

    Maybe I'm broken, maybe it's the fate
    Maybe it's the moment you said I had changed

    Somehow my survival instincts overtook my life to the point that while I don't need these survival games any longer, I can't turn them off.
    And so I am haunted in church.

    I know all the Bible verses and the (usually evangelical) arguments, oh yes I do.
   "Do not forsake gathering together."
   "If you love God, why wouldn't you want to read His Word?" (Except the Word is actually Jesus, not the Bible, but that's another post).
    I know your arguments, but I can't. do. it.
    I do, however want to do what Jesus said. I want to love others, and I want to love God through learning about his creation and the marvelous people he's made. I want to spend time with people who agree and who disagree with me.
    I think Jesus said loving God and others was the fulfillment of the law, anyways.

    Because I'm moving on, letting go
    Forget the past, I'm giving up the ghost
    All we are is fading stars
    Life's too short to stay where we are

    So instead of experiencing the haunting, lately I've been exposing myself to the radiant sunshine spilling over creation (okay, okay, only in the last week - before that Boston's been a clouded depressing mess of ice). Lately I've been meeting friends of similar and different faiths; lately I've been spending Sunday morning cuddling with the glorious creatures known as cats. Lately I'm trying to make peace with the fact that God is good and that S/He exists despite the change drowning me.
    Lately I've adopted this addicting chorus as my mantra:
    Forgive and let live and move on, tell me that you're gonna make me stronger
    Forgive and let live and move on
    Forgive and let live and move on, tell me that you're gonna make me stronger
    Forgive and let live and move on

    Song below.

Love,
Kelley

This Is About Suicide. This is About People.

*trigger warning for a discussion of suicide*

    According to The Boston Globe, five people (four students and a professor) have committed suicide at my university this year.
    The latest, his name was Matthew. He was a freshman. He was a freshman and he did not deserve to die.
    I didn't know him. I wish I had. I wish I'd been able to give him a hug.
    I wish I could have told him I knew how he felt. And that I'm glad I stayed, even though I don't know why.
    Because, yeah, I've been there. I know.
 
    I honestly don't know why I haven't. I don't know why, after so many plans and fantasies, I am alive. The odds weren't exactly in my favor.
    I suppose I am always afraid of hurting people. I have no desire to cause pain by my death.
    But mostly, in high school I was afraid of hell, where an eating-disorder riddled perfectionist would surely go. And in college, after I embraced God again, I was afraid of making an irreversible decision. I didn't want to call attention to myself.
    That's it. Those two ignoble reasons are mostly why I'm here.

    Why would I consider killing myself?
    I don't know. I don't know.
    I can guess anxiety, depression, and PTSD have all played a role, but the truth is there isn't a straight answer for this.
    I don't know why I am not Matthew. In fact, in a way, I think I am.

    I know the stress and the pain and the worthlessness you feel. I know the rage and bitterness at the systems that prioritize perfection and intelligence like they're somehow moral (and, for the record: they're not). I know the desire to take vengeance against the pain by hurting yourself.
    I know the frantic desperation, the smothering blackness devoid of what the apparent mockers call hope. I know you probably don't want to die, but you want to stop the pain.
    I know people will consider you evil for thinking of going, will say you're selfish and going to hell.
    They're wrong. You're okay.
    It's not okay that you feel this way. Nope. But you yourself: you. are. okay.
    I love you. And Jesus loves you (and if you don't believe in God, he was still a pretty cool person who I'm sure would have loved you).
    And I still dream that there is hope, for us and for those five who've gone. For a resurrection in which we will all be made right, in which those who've damned us will rejoice to see how friggin' wrong they were.

    Can you stay another day? Can you see the sun or a smile and dare to imagine you deserve good, too?
    I want good for you. I imagine God does, too.
    You are loved.
    Take it day by day.
    Dare to tell someone. And if you're that someone, dare to hug, dare to listen, dare to understand.
    Dare to brave the phone and call a therapist. Then dare to tell them everything, even though it's scary, because it actually helps having everything in the open.
    Hug a cat. Or a dog (this is the part where I begrudgingly admit dog people are okay, too).
    Because we - we are not alone.

Love you, dear friend.
Kelley

Sushi, Patron of Loves, will always heart you, too.

I Will Try Again, Or Rambles from Life in Shambles

    I was close to closing this blog down.
    My words were found out, you see, and people were confused, and then it spiraled and I was screaming and crying at noon and so I blamed blogging and myself. (I'm surprised and a bit confused that my neighbors didn't call 911, considering I was all forms of not-quiet).

    And I thought, wouldn't it be easier to let them win and then blame them for their victory?

    And then I thought, who is them but misunderstanding and confusion and chaos? 

    I wound up with a maelstrom of one mega stress-induced nosebleed, surprisingly close friends, and emotions I'm still struggling with. Yeah, writing this hurts.
    (Oh, and a blizzard because Boston apparently wants to bury us alive in cold white crystals, and now I hate snow and I BLAME YOU, BOSTON).
    Anyhow. I am back, semi-wise, since la grad studies are picking up this semester and, well, lab is a thing. So is the story I'm working on, the story from my heart.

    I guess I'll keep challenging myself to be honest. I will try again to post the raw and the ugly and the beautiful, because all I intended was to speak and hope that others know they are not alone.

   Because you are never alone.

   This also means, you guessed it: I'll keep posting cat pictures.

   
  Meow. How're you doing?

Love,
Kelley

Relapse Isn't Failure

It's late and I am tired, wish I could spark a smile
The place is flying high but right now I want to be low
Don't want to move an inch, let alone a million miles
And I don't want to go but I know I gotta go

     Do you know what it's like to grip the counter, staring at your yellow reaction as it stirs round and round, with panic flickering throughout your entire body? People move around you and like lightning you feel their hatred
    - because in that moment, you know they hate you -
    and you know it's irrational but it won't stop. You grip the counter to feel something sturdy, to resist the urge to scream and cry and curl up in a ball under your desk.
    Your cheeks and throat hurt from suppressing the sobs and your muscles ache from resisting the urge to tear up your world.
    The pain pervades through marrow and soul and you wonder if your spirit is dead and is anything real?
    You know this is wrong, that you aren't thinking rationally.
    But even as the panic eases you can't stop feeling the agony. Even as you refocus and find that yes, you can sit at your desk chair. You can stare at your computer as your mind churns for help.

I just want to feel all right.

  "You were doing so well," says my psychiatrist with concern.
   I was supposed to be taking half the pills by now.
   Instead, I will be doubling my dose for at least the remainder of winter.
   As I gulp down the extra milligrams, I see the chemical structure flash before my eyes. I feel a little hopeful. I feel a little disappointed.  
   I don't feel like a failure. 

Seems like the more you grow, the more time you spend alone
Before you know it you end up perfectly on your own
The city's shining bright, but you don't see the light
How come you concentrate on things that don't make you feel right


    "Sometimes I wonder if I'm selfish or narcissistic for thinking about it, for feeling different and isolated because it wasn't normal. " I glance at her eyes, but only for a moment. I never look much into her eyes when I tell her what happened. I'm afraid to, though I don't know why. 
    "That sounds like PTSD; do you know what that is?" asks my therapist. "You feel compelled to keep thinking about it."
    Yes. Yes, I know what PTSD is. And I've long suspected I had it, but something about hearing someone else say it feels...feeling like a helping hand, really.
    There's a name. I'm not to blame. I'm not a failure.

The times you don't wanna wake up
'Cause in your sleep it's never over when you give up

    Most days, I don't want to wake up. I'm exhausted, my bed is warm and comfortable and I've been having glorious dreams, the dreams I turn into stories. 
    They instill energy. Oh God, I feel alive in my dreams.
    I have control and so I know in my dreams I'm not a failure.

The sun is always gonna rise up
You need to get up, gotta keep your head up     
     Real life isn't like my dreams. I have very little control. 
     Still, lab is soothing, chemistry is interesting, and cats always crack a smile. Friends keep me away from total breakdowns. I have a cat-loving roommate for next year. See, good things happen. 
    Yes, real life is frequently full of fear for me. Do I tell that guy I can't stop thinking about him? How much of my internal mess do I share with friends, in person and/or online? What if, say, my boss finds out that sometimes I have panic attacks - would he think less of me? Will my school think I shouldn't be here? 
    I dunno. But for now I know I can wake up tomorrow and crawl into lab. I can filter that darn methylation reaction and kiss my kitties and somehow, I can't shake the hope that there's good in people and God, even at the end. 
    I'm not a failure, and neither is my life. 

 Look at the people all around you
The way you feel is something everybody goes through
Dark out, but you still gotta light upYou need to wake up, gotta keep your face up

   We're all people. I really believe the world could be better off for everyone in it. 
    I have my issues, but I'm not a failure, and if you need to hear this today: neither are you. 

Love,
Kelley

Go With Your Heart

    These are what my doubts look like:

    Do you believe in heaven?

    I think heaven and God are inextricably tied. I'm not sure you can have heaven without a God, and I'm not sure you can have a good God without heaven.
    And yet believing in this good God is excruciating.
    I'm still set on edge by Christian cliches. I'm shocked at Christian Islamophobia and homophobia and biphobia and transphobia and racism and hatred. I'm frustrated at subtle Christian sexism, the kind that says women not being allowed to preach is an acceptable view, the kind that says women want love but men want respect.
    I'm not linking to any articles, because I don't have to. You know it's true.
    I'm sick of rule-driven Christianity.
    Really, I look at American Christianity and I can't - I can't not see a religion driven by rules. Rule one: thou shalt not sex. Rule two: thou shalt be traditional men and women, never mind that God is neither gender and hardly traditional.
    Thou shalt not listen to those who disagree, because they might sway your soul into danger.
    FEAR HELL.
    Hold onto your belief in Jesus dying for your sins until you're white-knuckled and bleeding, dying, bruised and broken. Until you've collapsed on the floor unable to go on because the pain overwhelms you BECAUSE OTHERWISE YOU APOSTATE WILL BURN IN HOPELESS HELL.
    Because God is good.

    Do you believe in heaven?
    I don't believe in hell, unless perhaps a C.S. Lewis or Eastern Orthodox sense.
    I think traditional gender roles are disturbing at best. Sure, when people form a relationship, they complement each other, but I find the claim that males must always lead and females must always submit in order to complement each other grossly simplistic.

    Do you believe in heaven?
    I support LGBTQ rights whole-heartedly. I just had to say that. According to some, that means I'm hell-bound, and I hope you're wrong.

    Do you believe in heaven?
    I want to believe in God. I don't know if I do.
    Sure, there's been weird experiences I can't explain, but what if they were just intense emotion? What if the day my eighth grade math teacher spoke to my tormented thoughts completely randomly and completely specifically, was actually a coincidence or some unexplained phenomena we just don't know yet?
    I mean, why believe? You can be a good person whatever you believe - and if you deny that, you don't know enough people. If God simply sends you to hell for not believing, well, then I'll take hell because hell would be the moral choice.
    I know, maybe God is right and everything else is just twisted because I'm a human. Maybe. They said my heart is deceitful beyond all things. But since conscience is so important in Christianity, I don't think so.
    Christians are so cruel. God seems so absent.
    I challenge you to redeem yourself, God.*
    Why bother being Christian?

    Do you believe in heaven?
    I hope heaven is personal. I firmly believe it must be. And God - and - and Jesus came down to be personal with people. With the people He created.

    Do you believe in heaven?

    I have to, friends. I have to believe in a happy ending. Maybe it's immature or crutch-worthy, fine, say what you wish. To me, heaven is an acknowledgement that everyone can be whole and fulfilled and themselves, the intricate stories they are supposed to be, and everyone can love each other. That's an ideal I'm not willing to give up.

    I asked that question. Do you believe in heaven?
    My friend said yes. Then she observed that I'm in a profession where religion and idealism are hardly glorified.
    Always go with your heart.
    I thought my heart was deceitful beyond measure. Yet, ironically, it's my heart and my heart alone that points me back to God through the murky doubt.
    My heart says Jesus is God.
    So right now I will follow the hope in my heart.


Love,
Kelley

 

*Inspired by conversation with my sister, Kate Danahy.