You Can Watch Me Cry

   "You can cry if you want. Crying is good. Sometimes it helps," my therapist encourages me.
    It's Friday and I'm confessing all that's happened this week. My grandma, my Mimi, is dying. I'm starting lab and classes and teaching are ongoing, and it's such a maelstrom of wonderful and horrific I'm grappling for any distractions and numbness I can find.
    "I don't like crying where anyone will find me," I reply, avoiding her eyes. There's a box of tissues on the table between us, but I don't want to use them. I don't like using tissues.
     I've told her my history of depression and anxiety and suicide in disturbing depth and I haven't choked up at all. I can get through this.
    "Is there a quiet place you can go here where you can cry?" she presses.
    "A bathroom, I guess," I say hesitantly. "But I'm afraid people will hear me."
    I don't want anyone to see me cry.

    Anyone who knows me knows I'm pretty sensitive.
    I'm easily overwhelmed by crowds, and I cried regularly at my favorite movies and music - in fact, I even cried watching the new trailer for Disney's live-action Cinderella.
    I analyze every word people say - if there's a hint of negatively, I'm scared, and careless comments often hurt. On the flip side, I'm neurotic about whatever words come out of my mouth.
    I've been known to scream and collapse into a sobbing ball every time I see another ISIS killing or school shooting on the news.
    The single sighting of a fluffy animal will change my bad days into good.
    So, yeah, I've always been told I'm sensitive, and it's true. Too sensitive, really.
    But I had to be, didn't I, because I always wanted to keep people from anger? I believed that if I acted a certain way, if I was sensitive to their emotions, I could control the people I loved. I believed that hyper-vigilence and sensitivity would elevate my relationships to the point that no one would ever feel angry at me. Sensitivity would keep me safe.
    But this sensitivity backfired whenever I cried because someone misunderstood me or because someone was reacting with anger greatly disproportionate to the event. I was told my tears were childish, ridiculous.

    Then I went to college and allowed myself to be influenced by the scientific stereotype: the stereotype that tears are emotional, illogical, stupid.
    And then, as is typically the case with stereotypes, I actually met scientists. And the vast majority, well, showed emotion and it was absolutely scary and wonderful.
    But I have to admit, though the fear has greatly lessened, I'm still a bit scared to show my emotions around my scientist friends.
     These things take time, I suppose.

    "I don't want people to think I'm stupid or weak," I confess to the therapist after explaining my confusing relationship with emotion.
    "I don't think that's weak," she replies in surprise. "I think you are tough."
    "I've never heard someone call me tough," I tell her. Never.
    Well, yeah I've been through more depressive bouts than I would care to admit - the dark depths of which I would be scared to show you. I'm alive despite my mental health and I'm not engaging in my eating disorder habits. For some reason I can't give up writing or chemistry despite the fact that they don't always fit, and I want to be a Christian despite all the reservations I feel. I mother two feisty kittens, doggone it.

    We talk some more about my love of mystery and magic (more on that in a later post), and then it's time for me to leave.
    "You are tough," she repeats.
   
   I think maybe, just maybe, we're all a lot tougher than we give each other credit for. And maybe - oh how I hope - the tears I cry alone and occasionally in the hospice with my Mimi are a sign of weakness that is actually strength.
    Maybe strength comes in weakness.
    So here's a hug.

Love you all.
Kelley


P.S. Is anyone else out there thinking the entire universe is probably just a gargantuan, mysterious paradox?

I'm Backkkkk...And So Is My Unwelcome Fiend

    I really didn't mean to pull a vanishing act. My muse just...died.
    Along with my feelings, it seems.
    Because my depression decided midterm season was a fan-tast-ic time to return.
    And I was like: no. Depression can't come back. I'm on medication and I have friends and cats. Please. I'm just a bit down because my grandma is sick and my synthesis exam was the intellectual equivalent of a crucio curse.
    Never ming the familiar dull ache, the lack of interest in pretty much everything slowly spreading throughout my life. Never mind that day-after-day I felt the urge to scream and cry while sitting in my physical organic chemistry class (which I really like, for the record). Never mind the restlessness, the need to flee and find magic far away because there's no more life around or in me.
    Never mind the lie that this blog is crap and I'm going to lose all my friends by blogging terribly.

    Maybe I need to see a counselor again, but it's normal to feel stressed because look at all that's going on. I'm not depressed. I can't be. I'm supposed to wean off these antidepressants soon. I've been doing so well.
    I'm not suicidal this time, not even close, so I'm fine. 
    And yet...I'm not fine. I just want to cry. I'm scared and abnormally tired and sleep just sprays weird dreams across my weary mind. (Not that I altogether mind the dreams, since they're great fodder for stories, but more rest would be welcome).

    Still, I don't want to return to a counselor. Not because it's not helpful - it is. Not because I'm scared of them agreeing that my depression is back. Looking back, I've probably had depressive episodes since I was thirteen.
    I don't want to return because what if the counselor says I'm not depressed? What if she says I'm just a selfish, self-deluded narcissist who blames everything on her mental health because I like excuses and want to feel special?
    Ouch, that hurt to write. I guess my fear, after all this time, remains that I'm a horrible person.

    I guess I could deal with having depression, even though depression is hardly okay. I just want myself, me, to be okay. To be lovable and a good person.
    I just want to feel worthy of love. Maybe that's weak or silly or whiny, but love must be paramountly important, right? Look around us - we all need love. I really believe that.
    So I guess maybe that's why the phrase "God is love" sucks me in.
    I guess that's why I just want to hug all my friends, online and in person, and hope they know I love them, too - I love them fiercely even through the numbness.
    (Actually, I'd be down to hug nearly everyone who ever existed. If that makes me crazy, so be it).

    In working through this not-so-sane post, I see it's a good thing I made that weekly therapist appointment again. And that I found this picture:

LOOK AT THE JOY ON ITS FACE. LOOK AT THE FRIENDSHIP. LOOK AT THE CATS. 

    So, yup. That's what's been going on with me. What's been going on with you? How can I pray for you or listen to you? <3

Love,
Kelley

My Worst Nightmares

Trigger warning for eating disorders and abuse.

    I figured out how to fly in middle school. And to this day, I still use that magic necklace.
    On a thin gold chain hangs a small, rounded rectangular stone encapsulated in crenelated gold. The colors are mystifying, innocent swirls of pink and cream. But when you place your forefinger on it, the stone churns blood red, and as long as your finger stays there, you stay invisible, and you can fly.
    Hey - flying is hard work - you have to tread the air like swimming, but it's worth it, to rise above the trees and see the birds whizz past your face.
    The best part, however, is the invisibility. No one can even feel you. No sword can hurt you, and if you touch someone else, you can bring them under the safety of invisibility.
    This necklace has won wars, certainly, but it's also the necklace I invoke in all my nightmares. Whether I'm chased by a human murderer or an orc, I can invoke the necklace, and I and those I love will be safe.
    I'm not sure how I remember to do this in my nightmares, but I do.
    In my nightmares, hiding is the only safe spot.

 
    Yet the worst nightmares lack stalkers and a hungry Tyrannosaurus Rex. The worst nightmares aren't solved by my necklace, because in my worst nightmares, I would have to hide from myself.

     I've been begging for reassurance about my weight since I was eight. And I've been having nightmares for almost as long.
    Because there's so much safety promised in hiding. The monsters can't get us. People can't judge our love handles and hips. People can't know we're rotting inside.
    But in these nightmares I know I am, and there's no hiding from myself.
    In these nightmares, the fear isn't what the monsters will do to me. There are no monsters, only people. People who see me despite my efforts to hide.
    They see me, and they reject me because I have grown fat.
    They use my weight as an excuse to hurt me.
    In my dreams, my own parents lament what they have done wrong to produce a fat daughter. They're almost as repulsed by me as I am by myself.
    In my dreams, a stranger torments me over my thighs and I retaliate - violently. Then the stranger says it's okay, he or she knows what it's like to be fat like me. But there's no comfort in their words, because I hate myself so much.
    I'm trapped, I'm trapped, I'm trapped - in my dreams I want to shave off my fat with a knife, and I hate myself so much.
    And then I wake up.

    With an unsettled feeling in my stomach.
    And then I realize with relief: It was just a dream.
    No, I am not fat. I am not violent. And even if I were fat, the violence would be the problem. Not my weight. Weight can't add or subtract worth from me.
    But I still can't shake the unsettled feeling.

    There was an incident - I don't know if I was seven or eight or nine - when something very similar to my nightmares did happen. My parents got mad because I was too tired to take a walk after soccer practice. They ranted that I was getting chubby and they forced us to take a walk, and the entire time they berated us for the whole neighborhood to hear. To call the incident humiliating doesn't do it justice.
    For what it's worth, I was a rather thin kid. I think they were just mad about something else and took it out on me and my sister.
    But in my dreams, I am actually fat.

    Maybe that's why I'm writing this here. I don't know if anyone can relate to these nightmares (although probably you can), but maybe by telling you all about them, I can reduce their power.
    Because being what society deems fat or skinny doesn't mean squat in our lives. And health is, as I'm sure you all know, usually found in the middle anyways.
    But I can know and support all this for everyone else, and I do, yet my own feelings say something very different regarding myself. Inside, I feel shame every time I pull on pants.
    And so I will write it out here until the shame disappears.
    I won't be invisible, but maybe I can still fly. Figuratively, at least. :)

    And if you're trapped in nightmarish secrets and shame, I will pray for you and love you right where you are. I'd love to talk further, friends. <3
   
Love,
Kelley

*Please note that my parents are not bad people and I will not tolerate any disparaging comments towards them.

 
 

A Question on Inerrancy and Sex

    *Content note: a scientifically frank discussion of sex and women's bodies. The horror.*
   
     So if you're a girl, chances are you learned at some point you're supposed to bleed the first time you have sex, thanks to a vaginal barrier known as the hymen. (Obviously, I can't say if boys learn this or not).
    I do remember, however, being confused by this. Women shed blood every month, out of the same opening. Like, how is that possible if it's barricaded by a membrane?
    Well: it's not.
    The hymen is not a barrier - it's simply an open scrap of membrane that protects the vagina when women are growing up.
    So all that stuff you hear about maidenheads, about an intact hymen and blood proving virginity?
    It's a load of crap. Cultural hoopla descended from millennia of patriarchy. Some pregnant women have intact hymens, and some women have none at all. The hymen only tears during sex if you are too fast or too violent.

 Language warning for video, but it is quite informative.

    Yet, enter Deuteronomy 20:13-21.
    "If any man takes a wife and goes in to her and then hates her 14 and accuses her of misconduct and brings a bad name upon her, saying, ‘I took this woman, and when I came near her, I did not find in her evidence of virginity,’ 15 then the father of the young woman and her mother shall take and bring out the evidence of her virginity to the elders of the city in the gate. 16 And the father of the young woman shall say to the elders, ‘I gave my daughter to this man to marry, and he hates her; 17 and behold, he has accused her of misconduct, saying, “I did not find in your daughter evidence of virginity.” And yet this is the evidence of my daughter's virginity.’ And they shall spread the cloak before the elders of the city. 18 Then the elders of that city shall take the man and whip[a] him, 19 and they shall fine him a hundred shekels[b] of silver and give them to the father of the young woman, because he has brought a bad name upon a virgin[c] of Israel. And she shall be his wife. He may not divorce her all his days. 20 But if the thing is true, that evidence of virginity was not found in the young woman, 21 then they shall bring out the young woman to the door of her father's house, and the men of her city shall stone her to death with stones, because she has done an outrageous thing in Israel by whoring in her father's house. So you shall purge the evil from your midst." 

    According to the Bible, in these verses God says virginity is proven with blood. God says something demonstrably false.
    I've never seen any Biblical scholar address this issue (possibly because it involves a culturally awkward discussion of vaginas?). One article mentions that lack of bleeding would not necessarily condemn the woman due to the need for at least two witnesses, but the author still acknowledges that it is evidence against her virginity.
    Something scientifically false could witness against a person in a life-or-death situation. I find that extremely troubling.
    Frankly, it seems to me that this verse is incompatible with a literal Bible, unless you want to argue that hymens have evolved over time. Or that God is advocating marital rape, I suppose.
    Um.
    Honestly, it makes more sense to say the Israelites were adopting a cultural misunderstanding/norm into their law, than to say God is a liar.
    Don't get me wrong. I confess that all Scripture is inspired by God, a good God, whether I like it or not. Maybe this passage exists to emphasize the importance of commitment to one person. Maybe, much like Moses' law of divorce, this this was God permitting them their hard hearts - I don't know.
    But I do think Deuteronomy 22:13-21 is evidence that Bible is not flawless. At the very least, I don't see the notion that the Bible is scientifically accurate as tenable.
 
    Inerrantists, if you have another explanation, please let me know. I say that in all sincerity.
    Thanks for listening, friends.

Love,
Kelley

*Update: I love getting answers on Twitter - yes, really. As my friend Peter at The Places You'll Go Music points out, equating the modern body with a body from 4000 years ago is probably not the most accurate comparison.

Abandoning Answerianity

    Am I allowed to ask?
    Am I allowed to say it is ridiculous to bar a gay person from committing to the one they love, just because of a few controversial verses?
    Am I allowed to ask why some people insist that Jesus had to die for our atonement in some sort of child-sacrifice, when that's a very recent opinion?
    Am I allowed to say I think mainstream Calvinism, and definitely genocide, is cruel and wrong?
    Am I allowed to say I love liturgy, I really like Catholic Mass, and I believe evolution is the most realistic origin for life?
    Am I allowed to say I only want God if He is good, and if He is not good, I'd rather be in hell?
    Am I allowed to ask if God exists?
    Now for the age-old question: am I allowed to do this and still be a Christian?

    If you answered "no" to any of these questions, if my questioning is "proof" of me sliding away from faith, then...okay. This post isn't my defense of my orthodoxy or lack thereof.

    But if you're angered by my opinions and you want to know more, then please listen.
    Please, church, please listen. I am begging you.
    Can you hear our tears? Our howls of despair?
    It's the despair of a generation of evangelicals who were told Christianity is so, so much more than loving God and our neighbors.
    We were told Christianity was a culture war, to never listen to our hearts, to keep those legs shut before you ruin yourself. We were told Christianity was the Right means to heaven and the Last Days were upon us and the Earth was damned, so we might as well let it go.
    And when we started searching, we didn't find x amount of questions. We found questions that led to more questions that led to more and more (in math: not Q * x, but Q^x).

    Look at the condemnation heaped upon Gungor for questioning evolution. Look at the smug claims of "heresy" toward Rachel Held Evans for using feminine pronouns for Our God and for questioning if God really wanted Abraham to kill his child. And, of course, all those claims are done in online blog responses that leave me wondering how much you actually care about the person versus asserting how awesomely orthodox you are.
    Look at ten thousand faces abandoned by those who needed to prove their disagreement on LGBTQ issues once more, as if most people don't know how most of the church feels about them.
    Then look at those running out of church.
    If you don't see a correlation, you are very, very wrong, my friend.
    Brothers and sisters, do you know, every time you condemn them in the name of upholding what your think is true, you condemn us, too? We've gone through science classes and seen and loved people so, so different from ourselves. We cannot fit into your bubble without amputating our heads and hearts and we'll die if we do.
    You don't have to agree. I respect your differing options, and you're not evil or antiChrist or stupid for thinking differently.
    But your condemnation, your rush to prove a point over a person, your caution that we're asking the wrong questions just because they involve messy human bodies and/or weird emotions - nothing disgusts me more.
    Hey, we're a generation who's pretty screwed-up in a lot of ways, but for the most part we want justice. We want our neighbors to be loved as ourselves. And we constantly see the church denying that justice far too often.

"I'm locking you out, hooman. Hahahaha." - church and cats.

    I don't think my questions and doubts make me a heretic. I want orthodoxy. I want every. word. in. this. creed.
    I want the messy beauty of a God and Man in One, of three Godheads in One, of dying and love and resurrection and forgiveness and life everlasting.
    I'm willing to be wrong on many things. Correct me if you want. If I am heretical, feel free to email me or something. I'm willing to listen.
    Can you please do the same?
    Because every day, I'm still searching for Jesus. For the most part, I am finding Him present in Christianity, not black-and-white Answerianity.
    Only God alone is good, so only God alone is right.
 
Love,
Kelley