Imperfect Circles: A Letter to a Passing Year

    Hello, 2014.
    Seems you're in your last week, ready to pass.
    I'd mourn but your memories are as close to immortal as we'll ever be.

    And we can't abandon your memories -

    - or the fact that we've lived through you -

    even as we cheer your end. You happened, so I might as well acknowledge your existence.
    Okay, stop. Wait a sec.

    Can I admit - can I just say - that you were kinda mean?
    I think of plane crashes and ISIS and World Vision and Ferguson and Peshawar - a waterfall of misery unleashed its fury inside you. I'm sure no year was much better, but certain individuals were alive in other years that aren't now because of the world being screwy and it's kinda cruel, you know? I wish you could have felt the pain, but you're a year, a chunk of an inanimate dimension I'm personifying, so I guess you can't.
     On a personal level, you're the year I lost my Mimi to a little bitch called vascular dementia. And I ... I really miss her.

    Yet...

    You're also the year I survived graduated college and started a PhD program in the ever intoxicating and intimidating organic chemistry.
    You're the year I experienced abandon and joy and people and dare-I-hope God in the Middle East. The year I started this blog and met some pretty cool people online.

    You're the year I embraced people.

    You're also the year I was blessed with Sushi and Myshkin, saint and sinner kittens, so that counts for more. Ahem.

    I started you so depressed I wanted to die. I'm ending you so depressed I feel as if scorpions are eating me from the inside out. #improvement.
    No, really, it is an improvement. At least I felt the light for eight months before the depression sucked me back.
     Because I experienced the light your year, I can't circle back to where I was. Your ending closes an imperfect circle and I'm thankful.

    You're ending and I think I'm supposed to feel super-hopeful and psyched and I don't.

    I do, however, feel like hanging out on ze Adelaster for a little while longer, however long and however infrequent that while may be.

    Who knows, I might be entering this new year curled up on the floor of a tiny bathroom, but at least I'm entering it.     

    Nothing may feel much different. But I remember the light and there are two kittens by my side.

Happy New Year and I love you all.

Kelley

Don't We See 145 Faces?

    Yesterday happened, guys.
    Yesterday happened, and 132 children died.
    Do you understand that 132 children, and at least 13 adults, are dead? For what - going to a school funded by the military?
     And I'm heartbroken. Pissed, that too (sorry for the language, but "ticked" doesn't work here).
     I'm about to be harsh here. But I am furious and heartbroken, and You said "I am near to the broken hearted," so I will take you up on that offer. I will throw all my words and anguish out because they can never be enough.
     I want to rage and scream and claw at the sky and demand,
     Do you see this, God? Or have You blinded Yourself already?
     Did you hear their prayers, or did the name 'Allah' render You unable to care just like, oh, I don't know, ninety percent of Christians I know.
     I hope and believe You're strong enough to take my doubts and fury, God, so why don't I just lay it on right now:
     Everyone lamented Sandy Hook, but few give a damn when it's Pakistani Muslim children.        
    The media conversation has already turned to 9/11 comparisons, and a review of Pakistani military offensives against the Taliban. No time to grieve.
    They were kids. Whether American or Pakistani or any nationality - which, really, what is a nationality but a name and a border - they were innocent and had their precious, beloved lives stolen from them.
    Are You grieving with their parents and friends? Are You holding the hands of the ones who are left, scared and injured and in pain I cannot imagine?
     Why the bloody freaking hell didn't You stop them?
    And why don't more "progressive" American Christians, so fond of denouncing nationalism and Islamophobia, speak out? Or at least mention grieving with these people? Don't they see 145 faces? 
    Or do they just see Christmas lights and the virgin birth debate that hardly matters when 145 people are slaughtered in a school?
    Look, I get that prayers are quiet and you don't have to shout your grief from the rooftops to be sincere (maybe you often shouldn't). But maybe, just maybe, a show of solidarity and empathy should happen.
    See their faces. Lament, light a candle, say a prayer, cry out - do something, please. In solidarity, in grief, in love and pain for our brothers and sisters of Peshawar who lost 145 lives too many.
   
Love,
Kelley

*Much of this is taken from a previous conversation with the lovely Kate Evelyn Danahy.

I Am the Destructivist

    Hey y'all, hey. I only lost part of my soul to finals, meaning I'm able to write again. So let's start with something fun - like The Face of Evil.
    The Face of Evil? How is that fun?
    It's fun when evil is a cat, that's how.
 
    Given my position as a perpetually insane organic chemistry grad student, if you remember last August I got my little Sushi a brother: Myshkin.
    Secret Identity # 1: The Destructivist.

RAWR!

    Whether it's climbing the wall, swinging from the curtains, ruining each and every decoration I've put out, burrowing under the covers to attack my feet at 3 am, or eating my homework three times, Myshkin loves destruction. In fact, you might say he is in love with destruction. 

    Secret Identity # 2: The Face of Evil.

    Evil has never looked this cute. When I first met him, he was a tiny four month old huddled in a corner of a cage in a rescue home. Shy and sweet. 

    A timid personality, I was told.

    "Purrfect!" said I, naive and innocent.

    Inwardly, I'm sure that's when he started smirking.

    He hasn't stopped since.

"I may be little but Imma clog up your sink, Mommy."

    Secret Identity # 3: Ultron.

    

    I've never seen a cat scream for food louder than this kitten. Every morning when my alarm goes off, he squeals with delight - and pounces on my chest.

    (He's a good masseuse).

     We then proceed to cuddle until he decides to run into the kitchen, and then and only then may I feed the hungry barbarian.

     As he yowls and Sushi jumps up and down, as I scoop kibbles into their bowls, I tease him that he's a classic villain.

     With furs.

What flavor is this, debit or credit? Nomnom.

     But all in all, he's a sweet, attention-craving love. And life would be super boring without him.

I love my brofur, Sushi.

    There are...no strings...on him...

Love,
Kelley

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