Struggles in a new city

Here, time flies by. I take each day as I can, swallowing the occasional sadness that comes from a deep homesickness. I do not know where this comes from. I know the memories I am about to make are probably far greater than the fistful of laughter I remember from my home city. And yet parts of me ache for things I never had, which is weird. I guess this feeling hasn’t exactly been foreign to me. Yet, I still believe I am clinging on to the imagined scenarios of myself I wish I had experienced. The acceptance, and the welcoming, mostly. In being different, I somehow always seemed to find myself feeling left out. Left out of the conversations and the understandings. Like I had never managed to grow up past the age of ten, and I was foolish for expecting that other adults would see that, I, too, had become one as well, and deserved to be told how they felt about me. It’s not like I wanted in on the gossip, but just the understanding and the knowledge that comes with being part of one unit, of an entity greater than myself. 

I’m still struggling to find a job. And it’s okay for now. I keep knowing that whatever is supposed to happen, will. And it’s not the fear that my God won’t come through at just the right moment (I know that He doesn’t show up a moment too late or a second too early in our struggles), but I fear that I myself might not be doing enough for Him to work with. I know that I believe that He does not help those who help themselves, but I believe that we have to do something for him to be able to develop. I can’t sit on my ass and hope that He magically creates some beautiful future for me. I have to fight through the fear, push into faith, and struggle through each aspect of my faith. He knows this. 

It’s human nature for many of us to want to do what we can to right the world, to fight for the future WE believe we deserve, and to put into works what we want. But sometimes we just plain don’t know what we want. We couldn’t know what we want because these truths have not been revealed to us. So we sit and wait and press our palms together hoping that we will be able to find the treasure hidden for us on the end of the path that has been carved into the forest just for us. A path that has our names on it. You see, we each were given a path. We all have a future mapped out, a destiny, per say. And gifts–things we are so very good at–that we are supposed to use to change the world in some way. It may be simple. Maybe our gift is our compassion and our need to help those around us. Our path may be slow steps to being a light in someone else’s life. But we would not be able to see this path without the help of some divine spirit. 

So I believe that I must do my part to find my path, to push through the forest for the trees, and to fight, to always fight, for the use of the gifts I have been given. That’s my duty. And I worry, that right now I’m not doing enough. I’m trying to apply for jobs when I can, but as far as resumes go, I don’t exactly know what I’m doing. Having worked entry level positions my whole life, it’s different for me to not simply fill out an application online, but to formulate a complicated process of words and letters to explain just what I learned and did at my old jobs. I had put down what I felt were challenges to me at my old jobs–what I had learned and fought through–because I thought that it would give others a good sense of the type of person I am. Until my husband told me that while he completely understood the point of view I had been trying to display, to others it might look like I was complaining about the challenges I had faced. I’ve decided to keep those to myself until I interview. I guess that might stay off any confusion on their part. 

The other challenge I have faced is not knowing exactly why I am here. I know I was sent here so I could use my gifts. Meet people. Start reaching towards my dreams. 

A few weeks ago I was lying in bed, honestly overwhelmed and scared for the future, and for the things that we ahead. Often, He talks to me in the quiet times, in the pauses when my heart beats fear and confused. Suddenly, I heard Him say, “Remember when you felt weak and hopeless? I will use you to speak to thousands. Be bold in the faithfulness of my promises.” And I smiled, because He has shown me this in a vision. Because I have held tight to this promise, this small glimpse into my future, and have remained strong in the face of all adversaries. 

I’m so tired of being weak. Of finding myself drowning beneath humanity and the expectations I have of my future. I don’t know what to expect. Who or where I am supposed to be meeting others. And this is why I feel like maybe I’m not doing enough for Him. That I’m not getting out enough. Maybe I’m not pushing myself when I feel exhausted from the newness of a different way of life. 

I don’t really know how else to explain it. To express the tumult of thoughts that threaten to assault me daily. I sometimes lie in the quiet and hear my heart beating a symphony of fears and expressions of unknowns I haven’t accounted for. I over-analyze everything. Feel myself sometimes gasping for air in an empty room, like the expectations I have placed around my neck are too tight, and all I need, all I fucking need is one moment to breathe. Just a moment to breathe. 

I find myself in a torrent. The teetering of finding myself on the brink of change and staring into the light that is my future, clouded by a myriad of questions. Of unknowns. How do I navigate? 



Life as a Highly Sensitive Person

I’m warning you, this will be kind of a long post.:

Most of my life I have seen and felt things I have been unable to explain to people I know. I have generally refrained from sharing these moments with others for fear of being considered insane and then quickly recommended to attend the office of a clinical psychologist who will do nothing by smile as she leans back in her comfy office chair. Last week, however, began a very honest conversation with someone I know, and it opened the doors to us discussing how she is a sensitive. I didn’t know what that means, but last night I went out for coffee with a good friend and I brought the topic up. I then went over a handful of reasons why my previous conversations clicked with me, and why I felt open to the possibility that I might be one as well. I know that this is going to be a different type of post, and that some people might not agree with that I am saying. I am not, however, asking for agreement, but rather I feel the importance of sharing these experiences so that I might come to terms with an identity I never considered before. It’s an interesting aspect that I am now taking a look at, and I want to be able to share these moments with you as an audience so that I can properly mull them over in my head, so that I can hear feedback from others who may have previously felt uncomfortable coming out of the woodwork, and so that I may make further discoveries of myself.

If you are curious as to what a highly sensitive person is, read this article here, please.

My entire life I have always felt extremely sensitive, but the definition of sensitive in this context meaning that I have been easily bothered by sadness, and I distinctly remember moments when my empathy for another person was overwhelming in every way. It’s kind of hard to explain. So let me share a few vivid moments that are currently all clicking together like puzzle pieces for me.

1. I can’t remember exactly how old I was, but I want to say that I was probably eleven or twelve. (The years on these events will most likely be sketchy unless they are more current. I can never remember any numbers for my youth). I’ve always lived a few hours away from Chicago, but the majority of the time when we visited the city it would be to visit family who lived in the suburbs surrounding it as well, or we would go shopping and wander around Michigan Ave. My reason for saying this is because although we were in a city with a large homeless population, I do not remember exactly being exposed to those horrors until this specific moment. My family and I had decided to take a road trip to Boston, and we took one day to drive around NYC. Somehow, after we were done visiting the places we wanted to see, my parents were attempting to leave the city in our car, but they got turned around, and we ended up circling a pretty rough area. They became paranoid and made us put our heads down in the car, but I was determined to look out and see how bad it could be. I saw homelessness everywhere and this was the first time I ever remember realizing what was going on. The realization that those people pushing around carts full of their only belongings weighed so heavy on my heart I went into a full on attack of tears, and my mom did everything she could to calm me down. I remember her telling me that there were homeless people everywhere, it happens, and I felt at that moment that the empathy rising up inside of me could not be explained to her in a way that would make her understand. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to understand so much as I felt a disconnect on the way I felt and the way she saw things. I felt hopeless. I can still see the unbathed, aching, barely clothed people pushing empty carts around streets with blowing garbage.

2. This incident also happens to do with homelessness, and I have shared this with people on several occasions. I know this event happened after the NYC one, but again, I don’t know the year. My mom and my brother and I were walking around the city of Chicago and there were people everywhere. It was like streams of people on their cell phones, with their briefcases, taxis, people who don’t have to worry necessarily where their next meal was going to come from, and who were so tied up in their bubbles they did not comprehend the brokenness I saw. The light turned green, and this hunched over person around the age of fifty, with dark skin and tattered clothes attempted to shuffle across the crosswalk with nothing on their feet but boxes tied on by string. BOXES. I’ll take a moment to let that sink in while I take a moment to quietly cry. If I had been any older and had the ability to do so there are a few things I would have done in that instant. The light turned red. Taxis in their hurried self began honking as the person was struggling to cross the street fast enough. No one cared. It felt like someone was tearing the inside of my heart out. If I had been capable, there is no doubt in my mind that I would have ran up to that person, carried them over to the other side of the street, then asked their size shoe and ran straight over to Payless. I would have found a bucket and carefully washed their dirty feet and then placed new, comfortable shoes on their beautiful, broken body. There are few moments in my life that have so broken me, and this is one of the moments that stands out the boldest in a myriad of colors. This moment has been hard to write about.

3. In my teen years, I remember lying in bed and feeling a demon in my room. To the right of my bed was my window, and to the left, in the back of my room, was a closet entrance. The light cast from the moon allowed me to see a slight shadow around the being, but there were no eyes, and it was floating towards the ceiling right in front of my bed and next to the closet. More than seeing it, I felt it. The presence it emitted was powerful, and I was paralyzed in fear. All I could do was stare at it, and pray in my mind for it to go away. It didn’t. A week or so passed. Eventually I got enough courage to start singing hymns and repeating a botched version of a Bible verse I know my mother had shared with me and told me to use when I was afraid. Nothing happened. Finally, one night, after days of not being able to handle the fear, I ran to my parent’s room bawling and explaining everything. My mother said something evil must have been in my closet. I wasn’t that old, so I don’t know what could have lived off of the journal scratchings of a girl who only wanted to be saved by a prince charming, or several small dolls. But when I cleaned out my closet, the demon was gone, and I never really felt it in my room again.

4. I know there are ghosts where I live now. Nice ones. I hear them sometimes creaking around in the upper level of this house, but they have never bothered me. I only get scared when I’m home alone and I want to go upstairs, because I’m afraid that they might suddenly show their face, and I’m not quite sure how I would handle that.

5. I see things. A few years ago I had been writing before bed. I had an idea for a poem and I began writing it my notebook. I took a reprieve and lay my head on my notebook and fell asleep. When my husband was done reading, he gently prodded me to put the notebook down and go to bed. I did. When I woke up in the morning for work, I saw the character I had been writing about, sitting at the end of my bed. She was homeless, and I saw every curve of her skin and bones, her tattered clothing, the way she wore shame and sadness like cigarette smoke. I think I may have asked her to talk to me, to tell me her story. I jumped in the shower and the whole poem was there. I kept repeating it out loud, afraid it would go away, but I still to this day see every detail of that incident, the plot of her story, where she lived, her home in a box, her mom and dad and they way they loved drugs more than they could ever love her. She was the first to come to me. Her name is Suzie, and I felt like she was telling me a story that she wanted me to know because she had lived once, and her story needed to be told.

Another time, after someone had requested that I write a poem about human trafficking, I did some research. I came up with a name for my character, Moon, and asked her to show me her story, and it unfolded before my eyes. Each character and aspect. It has been this way off and on. I see characters, talk to them, ask them to share in their heartache. Not all of them have been written about, but they have all been witnessed by me.

6. A few months ago I was having trouble writing. I had been in the middle of a major drought of writer’s block, and it was suffocating. All I wanted to do was write, but nothing was coming to me, and I felt like I could stare at pages and computer screens until my eyes were blood shot and it would not happen. One night I had a lucid dream. A demon came to me and asked me to do something. I do not remember what his request was, but I do remember that he threatened to go into my right hand (which is the one I write with), if I did not comply. Obviously I denied his demands, and I saw and felt him twirl around and disappear into my hand in a mass of anger. I bolted awake and rubbed my hand. There was an awful sinking feeling accompanied by a great darkness that folded in around me. I know that writing is my gift, and that evil was at that moment trying to take it away from me. But I believe in better things, and I turned my cell phone light on until I could fall asleep. Since then, I have been writing a lot more. The block dissipated.

7. The other week I was playing a game on my phone, about to doze off, when suddenly I felt an enormous weight on my heart. It hit so heard I wanted to sob. I had been listening to music I use to write and to sleep, and felt this need to pray. Now. And desperately. Eventually the feeling faded, and I was overwhelmed by exhaustion and complete confusion. I fell asleep. I still have not been able to figure this moment out, but I know that what I felt called to pray for will all click in the future.

8. I see people wearing their despair. Like clothing they do not want, I see rejection and abuse clinging to their skin in ways they wish it didn’t. I sometimes see people and feel like I can sense their past. I have yet to sense a future, but I have seen the lines and the wrinkles and the way people’s eyes shine and felt a story lining up in my bones. I have seen their struggles weighing them down figuratively and that translates into those invisible clothes I see hanging on their ragged bones. It’s very hard to describe, but I feel that I sense things others don’t when they are around them.

9. There have been times I have pulled up next to someone while driving and feel an immense energy that I cannot explain. It has happened when people enter rooms, or in other instances as well. The energy is so strong and scary and deep, that I feel pressed into the need to pray. I feel overwhelmed and it can be draining. I try to focus on bringing positive energy to those situations, and am thankful they don’t happen very often, because when they do they are extremely draining.

So that’s it. Those are the nine things I felt the need to share with you today. If you have questions, comment below. I’d love to hear from you. I’m new to this idea, so I want to be able to discuss this with you if you are willing.

Powerful, unforgiving–my soul as a work of art

I am a woman. A strong, powerful woman with a heart full of honey and a mind as strong as a steel trap. Who wants to change the world by using her fingertips on the keyboard to mold the clay of the world into a beautiful piece of pottery.  That even though the clay hurts when thrown on the wheel, it is twisted and turned into a work of art. The sad part is, that art can be misinterpreted, and so many people in this world like to take the way I look at things and twist them into the way some people look at nude drawings. Offensive. But all I want is for others to see that there is a mass full of people out there who only want to go another day without having to worry if their wings are going to be clipped, so they can no longer feel the wind on their face and the breeze in their soul. Or feel the sunshine on their back. The way sunrises and sunsets are always too short. Always a beautiful flicker that reminds us of rebirth, and of endings in whispers. So many lives are like that—powerful rays licking the earth hoping to taste the saltiness of the rocks and the mustiness of the dirt. Longing to feel anything besides the nagging sense of debt to the American dream they feel every morning when they fill their briefcase with another stack of propaganda, stomping off to work in pumps that cost more to place on their delicately manicured feet than it would relatively cost to feed an entire village or two of dying children here in own country.

And while my heart may be full of honey, I cannot make the world a sweeter place if no one is willing to get stung a little. I may watch a sea full of people, whose hearts beat to the drum of abuse and suffering in sizes my hands cannot hold, but this does not mean that my shattering in pieces that could put the sand on the ocean to shame makes me weak. I am only stronger because of it. Stronger because I vicariously have felt the pounding of a thousand nails along my heartstrings. And while I will never be like Jesus was, I can only hope that by filing my tongue every morning with an outpouring of holy words will make me understand how it feels to be uplifted.

Too many people are satisfied being the bulldozer in the city, when the graffiti is always much, much prettier. We would much rather stigmatize tagging as vandalism, instead see the beauty in the pain sprawled across walls like blood oozing from paint cans. Fall short of understanding the art that comes from the street. Girls splayed around street lights hoping their butterfly wings aren’t too crushed beneath their corsets and red lipstick. Men who know no other way to provide for their family than to peddle a little metal, just between their hips so that the world knows they mean business when they are thrown up against a wall, with nowhere to go but through the bullets.  But let me tell you, it’s so much easier to do the judging when you aren’t the one whose life is crumbling around you. So go ahead, keep the blinders on. But you are missing out on a world full of beauty. And while I see an ocean of problems we need to fix, and people who need more than a fistful of stitches, I will always try to bring roses to every sunrise, and lilies to every sunset.

I may be a woman. But that does not make me an object. Unless you count my soul as a work of art. I will only allow you objectify me if I ask


Sometimes I wonder if people think I’m schizophrenic

…when I tell people about my writing process.

About two years ago or so I began hearing and seeing the people I write about. Obviously they aren’t real, but if I’m patient they start to visit me. I know they aren’t real, so I guess that doesn’t technically count as schizophrenia, but I do talk to them.

I remember doing a little writing before bed one night. I had lain down in bed with my pen and paper. I started a few ideas, a couple really good lines to a beginning of a poem, but nothing that really was set in stone. I had a feeling that one day this poem would be completed, but when I woke up the next morning, it was already finished. I started whispering to myself out loud as my husband was still sleeping, and the words just started coming. In the matter of an hour, the whole thing was written in my head. I kept repeating the same lines over and over to make sure I wouldn’t forget them, and at the end of the day, there was a whole poem there.

What I remember is the thoughts of the night before still lingering in my brain. I woke up and at the end of the bed there she was. She told me her name was “Suzie” and I could see her story written all over her. Not literally, but I could see her just the way I described her in the poem. Her tattered clothes hanging on her. Ribs poking out. I remember deciding maybe I should ask her to tell me her story. And I did. When she told me about her past, what she was going through, I could see everything as though I had lived it out myself. Her  mother not wanting her, but wanting more money from welfare so she kept her. Living in a box. Her father on drugs. Everything. It was a vivid as if I was watching a movie. I know it all happened in my head, but all I can say was that it had to have been divine help. And I loved it.

When I took the time to write my poem about child trafficking, I came up with the character name and remember attempting to talk to her. Moon’s story came to me as well. It was nearly as vivid, not as distinct though. I had to coax her’s out. Beg her to share it with me. But eventually she did, and it was beautiful.

Lately, I have been desperate to see my characters. It hasn’t happened. I’ve been in this horrible poetic writer’s block, and all I want is to feel, to see the characters like I saw Suzie. I have a notebook with a bunch of beginnings in them. Characters that I have seen at one point or another in my mind’s eye. Their beginnings are there. But I need to see their stories and I haven’t.

I figure, when they are finally ready to share, they will open up their hearts and minds, and I will see their past surely as I see my surroundings right now. Until then, I’m going to blog until my fingers bleed.

Stop shaming our daughters into believing their worth lies in their sexuality

I’m going to apologize in advance that this post is quite lengthy. I do not feel like making several posts to make up all of my thoughts on this topic, so if this is a problem I am sorry. I just have a lot to say. If the title of this blog post is offensive, maybe you should back away from the computer now before I start throwing out pages of information and beliefs your way.

The other day I had managed to find myself sucked into the vortex that is YouTubeland, once again. I was enjoying myself watching strange documentaries about people who have interesting medical problems, until I stumbled upon this documentary:

After the first three minutes I felt sick. But I couldn’t stop watching because I wanted to understand, to try to comprehend such indoctrination. I, too, was raised in a home that strongly believed in the value of saving yourself before marriage. The point of this post is not to bash those who have made the personal decision to wait until their wedding day (or those who have successfully waited). I find them to be admirable to be so committed to a choice they personally have made. What bothers me most about this documentary is the disturbing fact that the highest age of girls interviewed were in their early twenties. And the choice of abstinence and virginity until marriage does not feel like the decision of those interviewed, but rather the choice their parents forced them to make, pressing them into the act of confessing their purity to the father of the house every year.

In my opinion, I had hoped that society had evolved enough to not require the force of parents to determine their child’s entire life. I guess I had forgotten that every where I look I see travesties like this one happening all around. As the media has altered perceptions all around, parents have begun working on over time to prevent their children from becoming corrupted. As Christians, we are called to be different from the world. There is nothing wrong with setting some boundaries on what our children are exposed to, ensuring that they are aware of the problems around them. However, at a certain point, as adults, we need to simply allow our children to experience the consequences of their actions first hand.

I firmly believe that my role as a parent (or adult) is to set my children up to live life to the fullest. To show them the hurting world around them and give them the tools to not only grow themselves amidst the turmoil, but to successfully help carry those who really just need a helping hand. Yes, there is a lot of evil in the world, but I do not believe that in order to properly raise children than I should feel entitled to put them in a glass bubble and ensure they do not leave it. Our children need to be built up, to know they are important.  We need them to feel as though they are the most special people in the whole world, and lovingly correct them when they need some guidance in life. I successfully consider parents to be like bumper railings. There are many bowling pins that children can consider targets. They don’t have to bowl a strike every time, there is some leniency allowed, but when things start to get out of hand, we are there to guide them back into the correct realm of things.

The problem I have with the parents of this documentary is that, unlike the bumper railings, they have set a strict guideline on their children and expect them to follow it to the T. However, one cannot be expected to never make a mistake, and not allowing for any error only allows forever-wounds to be created, for craters to be formed where they are not wanted. We cannot know the damage we bring to our children when we refuse to love them or accept them for veering off to the side a little in the path of life. For not bowling a strike every time they set a target.

Growing up, I was given a purity ring on my sixteen birthday. I had no plans of rushing out and losing my virginity to the first man I met, but I felt uncomfortable upon receiving the gift because I have always believed that you can guide a child to believe what you think is right, but after a certain point it is just time to let them run with the values you have hoped to instill in them. Obviously I don’t believe that children at age thirteen should be having sex. They are far too young to comprehend and understand the consequences if something goes wrong. But giving our children the tools of abstinence and not allowing them to understand what could happen if they fail to follow through only sets our nation up for rising rates of teenage pregnancy. Whether a teenager of consenting age decides they want to have sex or not is their choice, not the choice of the parent. Am I grateful that I waited until I met my husband to embark on this journey? Yes. But that doesn’t mean that is the ideal image for every teenager.

What I’m saying is, that if we fail to teach our children better methods of protected sex, we are failing to give them the tools to make the right decisions. We can tell them that we believe they should save themselves for marriage, providing good, solid reasons as to why of course, but we cannot make them follow through. They are bound to make mistakes. Are we going to follow them everywhere they go and remind them not to kiss, or hold hands or whatever we believe that stopping point should be? It’s simply insanity. Like I’m sure  I have said a hundred times, our job is to set boundaries and to hope they understand what will happen if they make the personal choice other than the one I have told them I prefer. We are set to be guiders, not commanders. Our children will not effectively listen if we force them to follow a certain path of behavior, they are more likely to either rebel or to only do it because “they were told so”. We cannot give them the proper background to stand up for what THEY believe and allow them to accept these beliefs as their own if we ensure that they know nothing other than what we tell them. The world will throw a lot of garbage at our children, it is our job to give them the tools to sort through that garbage, to make decisions accordingly, and hope they turn out the beautiful people we believe the to be.

Another reason why I become sickeningly irritated by the parents in this documentary is because this type of teaching is so blatantly patriarchal it’s disturbing. As far as I am concerned, yes there are differences in the way that males and females GENERALLY are made, but most of those differences deal with the way we prefer things, and are very stereotypical. Maybe a general mass may think one way, but that does not apply to everyone. That’s why I think that gender standards are too rigid, and I think that maybe they should be more fluid so as to allow for the people who don’t exactly line up to the ways the world thinks they should run the ability to be accepted, too.

Women and men are more equal than so many people like to believe. If we teach our children that one gender is inferior, we allow the slanted view that women belong in the kitchen and men belong in the work force to be perpetuated. And this is not only a disgrace to the fact that many women are born with brains and domestic capabilities, and to the men that feel they cannot show any type of quality that might resemble anything feminine. It’s not black and white.

This documentary disturbed me because these girls (one who was interviewed began going to these purity balls at age seven. Seven!! That’s extremely young to make sure they know about sexuality and exactly what purity entails.) attend the ball with their fathers. They dress up like princesses, are served dinner, watch a little performance put on by other girls, and do a little dancing. All of that is not disturbing. I believe it is sweet that the fathers would want to spend time with their daughters, to make sure they understand that they are valued, in every way. We all should make sure that our children feel that way. After the dinner, however, it gets freaky. There are forms passed out, and the fathers agree with their daughters that their daughters will remain pure until their wedding night. It’s not like these daughters have a choice. And the fact that the fathers seem to take their daughters purity into their own hands only sounds perverted and disgusting to me. My father does not need to ensure that I am pure by regularly having discussions with me about it. I felt as though some of the dads appeared to have too much interest in their daughter’s sex lives. It’s really not their business.

The film tried to state that the fathers simply don’t want their daughters hearts to be broken, for them to experience heartache because they found the wrong person to date. They shared that before a boy even was able to hang out with a girl he was interested in, the father would have to sit down with the man, hang out with him a few times, and then decide if he was a perfect match. In my opinion, that means that the father would be selecting a mate based on what he WANTS his daughter to date, that HE thinks would work, but that gives no room for the daughter to make her mind up about what she likes or wants. It allows no room for decision making on the girl’s part. In my head it sounds more like arranged marriage then courting. I believe parents should be able to suggest to their child who the right pick is, and hope for the best, but demanding that they can’t see certain people only allows them to want to see that person more. (Trust me, I know from personal experience). But also, it feels like some of the girls in the video got married quite soon after dating the first person they met. I’m not suggesting that we should all go around dating everyone in sight to decide our personal preferences. It’s such a beautiful thing when we allow our God into our lives to help us decide our potential future mate. And I’m lucky that I only dated one other person before I met my husband. When you know you know. I just feel as though there should be a little more leniency on the part of the parents for deciding who their children are interested in. We cannot prevent our children from heartache. It is inevitable. Even we give our children heartache sometimes. These parent’s goals are absurd.

Also, are the boys of these families taken to another ball and asked to pledge their virginity to their mothers? Do their mothers attend, desperately attempting to ensure that their sons are as pure as they desire their daughters to be? Or as much of society believes, are they men allowed a “free pass”, able to engage in sexual activity before their wedding day? I cannot even explain the level of irritation I have at a society that claims that men are allowed to have whatever amount of sex they want with as many girls as they want and that is “normal” but if a woman does the same thing, she is automatically considered a whore. I’m sorry, but where do we get off explaining to women that they are worth less than men? That men can do whatever they want but women should automatically be held to a higher standard. Pathetic. That’s what it is. It makes it seem that women are irresistible, but that women can find some means of self control. This only makes rape acceptable, only excuses it when a man cannot control his instincts but blames the victim when she “cannot find the grace to act like a lady and keep him from thinking of her in that way.” Ya know what I say to that line of thinking? Fuck you. Fuck society for thinking that way.

The biggest reason that this documentary made me sick is the fact that it makes it seems as though a girl’s only worth is in her ability to give her gift of virginity to her husband on her wedding day. This does not take in to account victims of sexual assault or rape. Girls who “mess up”. Those who do not find pleasure in those of the opposite sex. None of these things are taken into account. It is automatically assumed that a girl will naturally like a boy, will keep herself in good grace and not bring sexual violence towards her upon herself, and she will remain pure by staying away from any and all temptations.

As far as I am concerned, putting so much worth on a woman’s sexuality takes so much away from her potential as a smart individual, as a contributing member of society, as a brilliant being all her own, different from all of those around her. It places worth on artificial things like beauty, the ability to perform simple household duties, the ability to maintain the principles of motherhood. It assumes that all women desire to be married, therefore they should not deviate from the given path. I call bullshit.

I’m sick of the indoctrination we call America. I’m sick of the lies. I’m going to speak out now. I am going to stand up for what I believe. Always.


Sometimes, I wonder how I got so far in life. What pushed me to succeed when everything else in my life was pushing me down, with a millstone hanging from my neck? 

I listen to the music of the universe
and it whispers to my fingertips, 
makes them dance 
to the tug of my hearstrings
between depression
and gravity-defying joy
from oppression. 

I just want to know
what it feels like
for my heart 
to beat wildly in its cage
and then 
to be set free
to roam galaxies. 

Nothing tugs 
more than that place
I’ll never get to go
the waves
I’ll never get to ride. 

I can’t handle this anymore, this mundane life, full of too many days sprawled in front of a motion picture, my heart beating too slow. What is adventure if it only gets clogged in my cerebral cortex? 

I have risen up from my past, and shine anew

So, today I’ve been doing a lot of thinking. I was cleaning and afterwards decided I needed a break. I rummaged around and found old journals from when I was in high school. For most of my life I have been writing at all times, when it is convenient and when it is not, when I feel like it and when I am just screaming at my hands and brain to just give me something, anything to write. I sometimes wonder if I came out of the womb with a pad of paper and a pen, having used my nine months growing also writing of my experiences. Either way, God gave me an innate desire to continuously write everything I could down. 

As far as journaling goes, I’m actually kind of awful at it. I write, in all places. I have numerous documents on my computer, blog entries here, and probably 10 notebooks with different time-lines. This does not include the pieces of paper I find shoved in places with idea on them. But I’m really bad at continuously writing so I can keep up with more life events. I guess my life dream has been to leave a legacy on paper for others to read. It isn’t always pretty, but it shows my struggles internally through every major event, and through a lot of changes. 

Looking back on my writing I was flooded with memories of my childhood. I have done a lot to find peace in my circumstances growing up. I don’t know if I will ever be ready to completely talk about that. I just don’t feel comfortable because I know my parents had good intentions, that they never stopped loving me, that they did their best. But holy hell sometimes I struggle with that. I am so blessed that now I can happily say my parents and I are working on a complete and peaceful relationship, one step at a time. It has been wonderful. 

I can’t help but see how much time has allowed me the opportunity to grow. Mostly, I remember feeling extremely lonely all the way up until I graduated high school. It felt like no one wanted to understand who I was on the inside. Or if they did want to, they couldn’t. I was depressed. I laughed a lot, but inside was a tumultuous mess. I was constantly battling my needs with my desire to be liked and craved. The only thing steady about this whole time, was that for the most part I never walked away completely from my faith. I struggled, maybe even became angry at God a little. But I knew he loved me, that he had a hand of protection over me, and that some day every thing would work out. 

Healing has been a scary process. But I’m learning to let go, of a lot of things. Those things are allowed to be memories, but hanging on to the hurt only allows them to fester. Pain is not an easy thing to get over. It takes time. And sometimes when we think we are almost healed a scar is revisited and sometimes even re-injured and we must hang on tight. 

I might be able to open up more about this in the future. Right now everything is just a jumbled mess. I’m so very proud of where I am. Blessed to know healing has come. God has been faithful in his promises. And I hold tight to the knowledge that I have learned from my past, and will continue to grow as time goes on. I refuse to be stagnant.