This blog is comprised of some bits that are drawn directly from a journal entry that I wrote at the beginning of the month, some of it is adapted to further explain myself. Most of it will be word-for-word. This is simply an honest reflection of faith in doubt, doubt in faith, and navigating the two when the struggle is all you see and feel.
_________________________
Finally. Finally I can cry. I've tried. I tried watching movies to elicit a good cry, but I still just couldn't muster it up. I think I've been running from feeling anything since I've moved here. Even faith. I haven't felt "close" to God consistently (or even really intermittently) since before graduation.
What's opening me up right now, finally bringing some release, is watching Calvary Chapel's Praise Jam. It reminded me of my faith then and I missed it. The physical space of that church. The people. Mostly the feeling of worshiping in that space.
Man, the pendulum swings. I have had so many different experiences of faith and conceptions of who God is over the years. Youth group, Calvary Chapel, Mission Year, Holy Trinity, South Lawndale, Prayer team, IHOP (Int. House of Prayer), Missio Dei, Reba Place Fellowship, Redeemer Anglican, North Park... Each with their own unique presentation of God and how we live out the faith individually and communally. I hadn't anticipated that with all of that, this is where I'd end up - crippled by fear, confusion, and guilt. I don't know how to reconcile all I have seen and experienced in these places, or if they even can reconcile. I feel like a reed in the wind, blown each way.
Maybe the fact that I have held onto faith through all these experiences is a sign of its strength and tenacity amidst it all, but really... What has remained of my faith from each transition to the next? Has anything been held solid and maintained? I feel like I'm grasping at fine sand. Finally it all falls through and I'm standing here with a clenched fist, and what remains can't build a dwelling - it can't even build a sandcastle. It's all I can do to keep the few grains of sand in the crevices of my clenched fist. All the remaining grains serve to do is to remind me of what I once had.
I'm so afraid. I'm afraid to believe anything about God anymore because my faith has been scarred and become more fragile for believing too much too easily, because at each stage I threw aside all my faith had been built on to discover news ground on which to build. I'm afraid to open my hands in hopes of more for fear that the few grains I have left will slip away.
I'm afraid to even speak of God as though he's more than a principle or concept, not because I don't believe he's more but because I'm afraid to put a stake in who I believe he is if he's more. I'm not afraid of God. I'm afraid of disfiguring him, following something other than him that I think is him and having my soul slowly diminish as I give more and more of myself to something less than or different than God as he truly is. I don't think my faith could survive that again.
I get anxious talking about God. I'm terrified to speak anything and attribute it to God or to his work. I'm not afraid of what God will say or do when I open my hands. I'm still afraid of little old me blindly ravaging my own soul and possibly hurting others in the process by feeding them ideas about God that are false and are more reflective of our broken vision than of his actual character. Any broken ideas I hold onto about God don't actually change God's character, but my perception of his character, making him less and less familiar to me, as though I don't know him and never have.
Like an old memory retrieved after years of non-use is tainted by every experience thereafter and is altered as details are forgotten or misplaced, so I feel with God. Like all I have are memories of God that have been twisted, changed, and disfigured as a result of all the experiences and ideas I have gained over the years. Some are right, some are wrong. Some are beneficial and some are destructive. I no longer know how to sift which is which. Or how to separate ideas that were good but have become destructive over time by misapplication or misunderstanding.
I could ask God how to sift. I could pray for greater understanding. In the end I still only hear God through this vessel, through myself, my interpretations. And my interpretations can't be trusted because I'll always be interpreting through the lenses of my experiences.
When it comes down to it, I have two choices. I can stay in this place, perfectly preserved, my cramped hand holding to the few grains of sand I have left. Perfectly preserved in what I hold onto. Perfectly preserved in this fear, this yearning for more with the certainty of remaining "as is". Or I could risk it all, again. I could risk unimaginable damage to my faith that could reduce me to less than I imagined possible, with the possibility that perhaps I might experience restoration, whatever that holds. I want to take that risk.
God, this is what I've got. If any of it is useable, will you use it to build something new? Something whole that integrates who you've revealed yourself to be in truth?
If you could feed 5,000 with a few fish and loaves, if you could keep a widow's jar of sustenance from running empty, if you could provide manna in a barren land, couldn't you build a dwelling from these grains and the ones that I have foolishly let slip between my fingers?
Sunday, March 24, 2013
Wednesday, March 13, 2013
I am Belle. Supposedly.
This is such a departure from my typical blogs, but I've decided to blog about whatever stands at to me as it does. And in this exact moment, it's Disney. Disney princesses, nonetheless.
I know Disney has received a lot of flack for portraying women being helpless without a man (Snow White, Sleeping Beauty, Cinderella). I have read studies about their body types and the effect that their physical perfection has on young girls. I get all of that.
My focus in this blog is very different. It is gender-related for sure, but it takes a very different view.
When I was a kid, I went to see Pocahontas in theaters. The soundtrack to Pocahontas was the very first CD I remember owning. I loved it. I had a Jasmine T-shirt that I loved. It was my favorite T-shirt as a kid. It was a sort of tie-dyed pink and purple with sparkles. Jasmine was on it in her green silky outfit holding a bird close to her. My mom reminds me that I loved Beauty and the Beast when I was a kid. I watched it constantly for a while. I remember very clearly watching it with my Uncle (he brother) when I was very, very young. I remember that scary scene when the Beast is on the roof and being glad that my uncle was there to watch it with me at my grandma's house. One of the two Disney songs I connect with the absolute most belongs to Ariel though, in "Part of Your World".
By far, these were my favorite Disney princesses. Pocahontas, Belle, Jasmine, and Ariel. Had I watched Disney cartoons much longer, I am quite certain Mulan would have been up there too. As it is, I haven't seen it all the way through.
Why these four? What is the same about them? What distinguishes them from one another and from the ones I don't like as much? What admirable qualities do each possess? Do any of them possess any qualities that aren't as admirable?
Jasmine. Jasmine might have been my favorite princess for years. She had a subtle compassionate nature. Like all Disney princesses, she loved animals. She cared for her pet Tiger and some random birds. She liked Aladdin's monkey, though the feelings weren't initially returned.
She had a boldness that she asserted quite intentionally often. She didn't trust easily. She sought freedom. She desired to turn her back on her privilege. She was acutely aware of her sexuality. She was very independent.
Pocahontas. Probably my second favorite princess at the time. Perhaps my ultimate favorite now. Again, she had a strong connection with animals. She took it further though, feeling a kinmanship with all nature, which rang true for her culture. Though she was wise and independent, she was humble and was subtle and perhaps even more thoughtful in how she undermined false perceptions. She was the boldest when she stood up against the wrongs of her own culture. She also didn't sit as a victim when her own culture was under threat.
She was both gentle and stern. She was sacrificial and she challenged people in love. She chose loyalty and commitment to her people over the immediate gratification of love at the end of the movie when she would have accompanied John Smith. She has the most qualities I would like to emulate.
Belle. I connected with Belle a lot because of her fearlessness. Or, not so much fearlessness, but for her courage. I don't think she intended to challenge societal structures as much as she did. She did so by being herself, but "herself" didn't fit in well with those norms at all. I admired her for reading and seeking intellectual pursuits. I admired her for standing up for her father when everyone in her town demeaned him. I admired her for not letting herself be reduced to a man's simple pleasure. I admired her for being disgusted with Gaston's antics when all the other women swooned.
Of all the princesses, Belle was the *most* sacrificial. Unlike the early Disney movies where the men were sacrificial, Belle was a woman who sacrificed herself for not one, but two men - her father and the beast, her love. She looked beneath the surface of what could immediately be seen. She chose a life, which she assumed would be doomed for the sake of her father. And she allowed her perspective to change. She easily could have hated the beast forever and actually accepted a doomed life. But her openness allowed her to see things in a new way and transform her surroundings by being an agent of change.
I didn't watch this movie a lot as I got older. Some of the scenes and emotions were too intense. These days, Belle might give Pocahontas a run for her money in terms of qualities. They are both very high up there.
Ariel. Oh Ariel. What shall we do with you? Ariel is a strange one. I like her and I am annoyed by her. Her disrespect to her father is not so noble as Pocahontas's gentle but stern approach to her father. Ariel isn't challenging a way of life that is wrong. Nothing's *wrong* with her life or her culture. I appreciate her though for trying to extend the vision of those around her. She sees a world that no one else sees and maybe in a way belonged to that world from the beginning. I, too, have felt that the world I'm a part of isn't the world I was born into. Which makes me an easy candidate for buying into the Kingdom that Jesus spoke of. A world that could be here and is kinda in reach, but only in an obscured way.
Ariel annoyed me because she foolishly made a deal with Ursula. She gave up that which she was gifted with. I have fought all my life to be heard. Nothing makes me feel more belittled in life than to feel that people don't hear me, or don't care to hear me. I know I have things of value to say. I don't say that arrogantly. I just know I have ideas and feelings that need to be heard. Not being heard is the biggest insult to the essence of my character. I resent Ariel for trading her voice for legs when she had so many things of value to say. Like Ariel, I have a little "room" in my mind with all these ideals stored away. It is a room of longings unfulfilled for a world that can only be seen in part in my world. I so relate to her song in that little room. It is the very song that inspired this blog, as I began to cry when I watched it on youtube.
I disagree with her approach. She's more cynical and disagreeable. She's unwise in her hastiness. She clings to independence until she feels threatened, then she clings to the nearest thing to provide security. I don't like the way she dealt with what she felt, but I understand her feelings deeply.
These are fictional characters. Except for Jasmine, each of these women are the stars of the movies they are in. I am so, so pleased that cartoon women, despite their physical perfections, have been represented as pillars of strength. Their compassion has been celebrated as strengths rather than being used as signals of the "weaker sex". They are characters that I easily relate to.
I write all of this as a defense of them. Revisiting these songs and these characters has helped me to revisit my own character and the development thereof, since these characters informed my development as a child. It's no wonder that I turned out to be a sort of feminist when even cartoons presented me with this view of women. I know that if I wasn't such an introspective person, especially as a child, these movies could have been harmful to my self-image, as several psych studies confirm. But being who I am, the characters in these movies give me a model of qualities to aspire to, and maladaptive ways of coping that I actively wish to avoid.
I have taken multiple "Which Disney Princess are you?" quizzes. Other than one that put me as Cinderella (*gag*), the one that has popped up the most consistently is Belle, and I am elated. I think I prefer the movie Pocahontas, but these days, I admire Belle's character the most.
I can't decide if this blog is supremely silly and pointless or if it's interesting and fun. But it's been fun to write. I'm not a very "princessy" person. I've not been one to idealize Disney princesses (before this blog anyway). I actively disliked the color pink until I was in college. I often wear a Rosie the Riveter necklace. But this struck me and I wanted to write about it. So here it is, for your reading pleasure.
What do you think about the way women have been portrayed in these Disney movies? Which character are you the most drawn to? Which do you most want to be like? What are your thoughts on anything I have touched on here? Comment and share your thoughts!
I know Disney has received a lot of flack for portraying women being helpless without a man (Snow White, Sleeping Beauty, Cinderella). I have read studies about their body types and the effect that their physical perfection has on young girls. I get all of that.
My focus in this blog is very different. It is gender-related for sure, but it takes a very different view.
When I was a kid, I went to see Pocahontas in theaters. The soundtrack to Pocahontas was the very first CD I remember owning. I loved it. I had a Jasmine T-shirt that I loved. It was my favorite T-shirt as a kid. It was a sort of tie-dyed pink and purple with sparkles. Jasmine was on it in her green silky outfit holding a bird close to her. My mom reminds me that I loved Beauty and the Beast when I was a kid. I watched it constantly for a while. I remember very clearly watching it with my Uncle (he brother) when I was very, very young. I remember that scary scene when the Beast is on the roof and being glad that my uncle was there to watch it with me at my grandma's house. One of the two Disney songs I connect with the absolute most belongs to Ariel though, in "Part of Your World".
By far, these were my favorite Disney princesses. Pocahontas, Belle, Jasmine, and Ariel. Had I watched Disney cartoons much longer, I am quite certain Mulan would have been up there too. As it is, I haven't seen it all the way through.
Why these four? What is the same about them? What distinguishes them from one another and from the ones I don't like as much? What admirable qualities do each possess? Do any of them possess any qualities that aren't as admirable?
Jasmine. Jasmine might have been my favorite princess for years. She had a subtle compassionate nature. Like all Disney princesses, she loved animals. She cared for her pet Tiger and some random birds. She liked Aladdin's monkey, though the feelings weren't initially returned.
She had a boldness that she asserted quite intentionally often. She didn't trust easily. She sought freedom. She desired to turn her back on her privilege. She was acutely aware of her sexuality. She was very independent.
Pocahontas. Probably my second favorite princess at the time. Perhaps my ultimate favorite now. Again, she had a strong connection with animals. She took it further though, feeling a kinmanship with all nature, which rang true for her culture. Though she was wise and independent, she was humble and was subtle and perhaps even more thoughtful in how she undermined false perceptions. She was the boldest when she stood up against the wrongs of her own culture. She also didn't sit as a victim when her own culture was under threat.
She was both gentle and stern. She was sacrificial and she challenged people in love. She chose loyalty and commitment to her people over the immediate gratification of love at the end of the movie when she would have accompanied John Smith. She has the most qualities I would like to emulate.
Belle. I connected with Belle a lot because of her fearlessness. Or, not so much fearlessness, but for her courage. I don't think she intended to challenge societal structures as much as she did. She did so by being herself, but "herself" didn't fit in well with those norms at all. I admired her for reading and seeking intellectual pursuits. I admired her for standing up for her father when everyone in her town demeaned him. I admired her for not letting herself be reduced to a man's simple pleasure. I admired her for being disgusted with Gaston's antics when all the other women swooned.
Of all the princesses, Belle was the *most* sacrificial. Unlike the early Disney movies where the men were sacrificial, Belle was a woman who sacrificed herself for not one, but two men - her father and the beast, her love. She looked beneath the surface of what could immediately be seen. She chose a life, which she assumed would be doomed for the sake of her father. And she allowed her perspective to change. She easily could have hated the beast forever and actually accepted a doomed life. But her openness allowed her to see things in a new way and transform her surroundings by being an agent of change.
I didn't watch this movie a lot as I got older. Some of the scenes and emotions were too intense. These days, Belle might give Pocahontas a run for her money in terms of qualities. They are both very high up there.
Ariel. Oh Ariel. What shall we do with you? Ariel is a strange one. I like her and I am annoyed by her. Her disrespect to her father is not so noble as Pocahontas's gentle but stern approach to her father. Ariel isn't challenging a way of life that is wrong. Nothing's *wrong* with her life or her culture. I appreciate her though for trying to extend the vision of those around her. She sees a world that no one else sees and maybe in a way belonged to that world from the beginning. I, too, have felt that the world I'm a part of isn't the world I was born into. Which makes me an easy candidate for buying into the Kingdom that Jesus spoke of. A world that could be here and is kinda in reach, but only in an obscured way.
Ariel annoyed me because she foolishly made a deal with Ursula. She gave up that which she was gifted with. I have fought all my life to be heard. Nothing makes me feel more belittled in life than to feel that people don't hear me, or don't care to hear me. I know I have things of value to say. I don't say that arrogantly. I just know I have ideas and feelings that need to be heard. Not being heard is the biggest insult to the essence of my character. I resent Ariel for trading her voice for legs when she had so many things of value to say. Like Ariel, I have a little "room" in my mind with all these ideals stored away. It is a room of longings unfulfilled for a world that can only be seen in part in my world. I so relate to her song in that little room. It is the very song that inspired this blog, as I began to cry when I watched it on youtube.
I disagree with her approach. She's more cynical and disagreeable. She's unwise in her hastiness. She clings to independence until she feels threatened, then she clings to the nearest thing to provide security. I don't like the way she dealt with what she felt, but I understand her feelings deeply.
These are fictional characters. Except for Jasmine, each of these women are the stars of the movies they are in. I am so, so pleased that cartoon women, despite their physical perfections, have been represented as pillars of strength. Their compassion has been celebrated as strengths rather than being used as signals of the "weaker sex". They are characters that I easily relate to.
I write all of this as a defense of them. Revisiting these songs and these characters has helped me to revisit my own character and the development thereof, since these characters informed my development as a child. It's no wonder that I turned out to be a sort of feminist when even cartoons presented me with this view of women. I know that if I wasn't such an introspective person, especially as a child, these movies could have been harmful to my self-image, as several psych studies confirm. But being who I am, the characters in these movies give me a model of qualities to aspire to, and maladaptive ways of coping that I actively wish to avoid.
I have taken multiple "Which Disney Princess are you?" quizzes. Other than one that put me as Cinderella (*gag*), the one that has popped up the most consistently is Belle, and I am elated. I think I prefer the movie Pocahontas, but these days, I admire Belle's character the most.
I can't decide if this blog is supremely silly and pointless or if it's interesting and fun. But it's been fun to write. I'm not a very "princessy" person. I've not been one to idealize Disney princesses (before this blog anyway). I actively disliked the color pink until I was in college. I often wear a Rosie the Riveter necklace. But this struck me and I wanted to write about it. So here it is, for your reading pleasure.
What do you think about the way women have been portrayed in these Disney movies? Which character are you the most drawn to? Which do you most want to be like? What are your thoughts on anything I have touched on here? Comment and share your thoughts!
Tuesday, March 12, 2013
Learning Love through [Inter?]Dependence.
One rap song I used to love in high school was the song "Independent" by Lil' Boosie and Lil' Phat. Like a number of songs that came out while I was in high school, it decided to make spelling an active part of the song by spelling out the word independent in the lyrics.
I liked it because it was a song that was all about women being independent and that being an attractive quality. One of the qualities I hold dear to me is independence. It makes me anxious because I truly believe that interdependence is the ideal in the Kingdom of God. But I sure like my independence. I'm beginning to learn that independence is a quality that I can embrace, so long as I don't use it at the exclusion of the Kingdom. One of my dearest friends told me point-blank that I was probably the most independent person he knew. He clarified that it wasn't in a bad way, but that it was true in his experience and that he meant it.
I'm beginning to realize that the theme in my life right now, the theme that has been building up but has come to an ultimate head in the past few weeks, is the theme of dependence or interdependence. Moreso, learning how to be trusting enough to rely on interdependence in times of need, where the balance of give and take is not equal (is it ever?).
Looking at where I am now and how I've gotten here, I realized that it has been the result of others lifting me up. Every single aspect of my present life. Living situation, job, support in my job, the car I am driving, etc.
The most recent thing that has revealed this to me is all that has resulted from a mishap with my car. Long story short, my car stopped working properly while I was a good two hours from home on a mini-road trip.Someone close made all the arrangements so that I would be taken care of immediately. Then I was at the mercy of the two-truck driver named Tony. He had just finished his work for the day when he received the call about me. He happened to be in the area and knew that no one would be willing to take me 1.5 - 2 hours back to where I was trying to go.
Not only did he agree to take me, but at some point he asked me if he could stop at a gas station to buy a drink. I replied, "For sure. I'm actually going to get something too if we stop." When I picked up a Vitamin Water and set it on the counter to pay, he put his stuff on the counter too, looked at me and said, "I got it."
Since my car has been in the shop, I have had to rely on folks for rides constantly. I am currently driving a car that a friend lent me for the time-being. Friends have offered me a place to stay, recommended me for jobs (a few have even hired me for various odd jobs), supported me at my jobs, shared their event tickets, cooked for me, hosted me, paid for me, provided me with transportation, lent me clothes that were needed for specific occasions, and have walked with me where I am.
I began truly learning interdependence in Mission Year. I learned it in a different way in college. But now, in the stage of life I am in and in the place I am in... This is the first time that I have felt like I have nothing to give back. I may provide laughter and smiles and company at times. But I know without a shadow of a doubt that I have been given more than I am currently capable of giving any of them.
This has always been a difficult position for me. But rather than convincing myself that I am leeching off of people and that if were a better person I'd be more independent and doing more for them, I am accepting this as my life right now. I know that I am being shown love and mercy and that the appropriate response is love and gratitude, not guilt and stress. My time to give more will come, but for now I'm on the receiving end of an outpouring of love. And all of these people have made it easier than I could have imagined to simply accept it.
They have helped me to understand Jesus a little better. They have helped me to be more accepting of His love. I can accept it regardless of my worthiness, regardless of my efforts, regardless of all of it. Why on earth would I bathe in guilt and stress, self-demeaning thoughts and hopelessness, when I could simply accept what I am being given and find even greater hope and joy in that?
Thank you. Thank you family. Thank you friends. Thank you all. I thank God for you and I thank God for his love for me and you have expressed his love to me so clearly.
I liked it because it was a song that was all about women being independent and that being an attractive quality. One of the qualities I hold dear to me is independence. It makes me anxious because I truly believe that interdependence is the ideal in the Kingdom of God. But I sure like my independence. I'm beginning to learn that independence is a quality that I can embrace, so long as I don't use it at the exclusion of the Kingdom. One of my dearest friends told me point-blank that I was probably the most independent person he knew. He clarified that it wasn't in a bad way, but that it was true in his experience and that he meant it.
I'm beginning to realize that the theme in my life right now, the theme that has been building up but has come to an ultimate head in the past few weeks, is the theme of dependence or interdependence. Moreso, learning how to be trusting enough to rely on interdependence in times of need, where the balance of give and take is not equal (is it ever?).
Looking at where I am now and how I've gotten here, I realized that it has been the result of others lifting me up. Every single aspect of my present life. Living situation, job, support in my job, the car I am driving, etc.
The most recent thing that has revealed this to me is all that has resulted from a mishap with my car. Long story short, my car stopped working properly while I was a good two hours from home on a mini-road trip.Someone close made all the arrangements so that I would be taken care of immediately. Then I was at the mercy of the two-truck driver named Tony. He had just finished his work for the day when he received the call about me. He happened to be in the area and knew that no one would be willing to take me 1.5 - 2 hours back to where I was trying to go.
Not only did he agree to take me, but at some point he asked me if he could stop at a gas station to buy a drink. I replied, "For sure. I'm actually going to get something too if we stop." When I picked up a Vitamin Water and set it on the counter to pay, he put his stuff on the counter too, looked at me and said, "I got it."
Since my car has been in the shop, I have had to rely on folks for rides constantly. I am currently driving a car that a friend lent me for the time-being. Friends have offered me a place to stay, recommended me for jobs (a few have even hired me for various odd jobs), supported me at my jobs, shared their event tickets, cooked for me, hosted me, paid for me, provided me with transportation, lent me clothes that were needed for specific occasions, and have walked with me where I am.
I began truly learning interdependence in Mission Year. I learned it in a different way in college. But now, in the stage of life I am in and in the place I am in... This is the first time that I have felt like I have nothing to give back. I may provide laughter and smiles and company at times. But I know without a shadow of a doubt that I have been given more than I am currently capable of giving any of them.
This has always been a difficult position for me. But rather than convincing myself that I am leeching off of people and that if were a better person I'd be more independent and doing more for them, I am accepting this as my life right now. I know that I am being shown love and mercy and that the appropriate response is love and gratitude, not guilt and stress. My time to give more will come, but for now I'm on the receiving end of an outpouring of love. And all of these people have made it easier than I could have imagined to simply accept it.
They have helped me to understand Jesus a little better. They have helped me to be more accepting of His love. I can accept it regardless of my worthiness, regardless of my efforts, regardless of all of it. Why on earth would I bathe in guilt and stress, self-demeaning thoughts and hopelessness, when I could simply accept what I am being given and find even greater hope and joy in that?
Thank you. Thank you family. Thank you friends. Thank you all. I thank God for you and I thank God for his love for me and you have expressed his love to me so clearly.
Saturday, March 2, 2013
Seeing Art in a New Light
As some of you know, I have a job now that allows me to create paintings and to teach others to replicate them. Along with that, I have also been doing some works for friends of mine (on commission and once in a while as a gift).
What fascinates me most about art is how art pieces develop as a sort of conversation between you as the artist, and your materials. The materials you work with have their own rules and their own ways of working. Sometimes as you paint, elements aren't consistent. Sometimes you can't mix the exact shade you had before, sometimes your brush is wet still and the paint applies thinly. Sometimes you are working with multiple brands (and qualities) of paint.
I have come to discover that no art piece turns out the way I envision it in my head. It used to bother me because I always thought what I had created was worse than the beautiful image I imagined. After several years, I began to see that sometimes I created pieces better than I imagined them being and sometimes worse.
I am finally coming around to recognize that to compare the two is demeaning to the piece you created, to yourself as an artist, and to the creative process as a whole. What the creative process delivers is an art piece that is fully of meaning, intentional and unintentional, conscious and subconscious. What I imagine in my head doesn't ever involve me. I'm not necessary to the process. I like to take a backseat - I don't like to assert myself into my works for the most part. For the longest time, I thought my art could only be good so far as I was completely distanced from what I was creating.
Now I realize that art is art because of the artist. I still don't sign my works. I still don't want a name embedded in my works. I'm happy to get recognition for my work, but I want my art to stand on its own, acknowledging me with a nod or with a deep connection, but no longer subsisting off of me and my name.
I was thinking today about how the relationship of artist to their artworks are like the relationship of parent to children.
Sometimes I look at my art, the way it communicates ideas and what ideas is conveys, either intentionally or unintentionally. It reflects me, but is beyond me. It contains elements of me, but it reaches for something else and contains other elements that I don't possess. Sometimes my art pieces say things that embarrass me. Sometimes they say things that I am astounded they can say, because they are things I've never said before. Sometimes I have to take a second, longer look and wonder, "Is this element a reflection of me or is this reflecting something different?" Sometimes I have ideas of what I think it should say. I have goals and hopes for its purpose. But in the end, it's going to be what it's going to be. And even as I form it, it also forms me.
For example, I just finished a painting called "Easter Sunday". It is a pastel sunrise over rolling hills with a big white church built atop of it. As I was creating it, different things stood out to me.
1. Admittedly, I made this piece because I think it will sell well as an idea. I had no inclination to paint a church and to paint in pastel colors. I had no inclination to paint cartoonishly bright rolling hills. Easter is one of my least favorite holidays. I enjoyed making the painting, but I would not have made this painting for any other reason (at least not at this point in my life).
2. The sky was the most beautiful part of the painting.
3. The church was the most time consuming. I took the most care with it, using varying brush sizes, painting multiple coats of white to make sure none of the sky shone through beneath the church.
4. The hills were exceedingly bright and childish.
________
Given these details, two different interpretations of what I created began to emerge in my mind.
1. This was a childlike view of Easter - exaggerated colors and styles. Innocent. The backdrop existed only to showcase the beautiful church, which took the most amount of time.
2. This was a critical view of every aspect of the set-up. The most beautiful thing, the sky, took the least amount of effort and it was hidden/obscured by a church. The church was meant to be the centerpiece, but it asserted itself there boldly and distinctly as the sky, the beautiful sky was reduced to a supporting role.
It began in my head as the first interpretation. But I realized that I didn't buy into it. The image I wanted to create was one that would sell. Because I was playing to an idea that I had no draw to to begin with, it turned into satire.
What gave it away? The hills. They were a bright, commercialized Easter green color. Like the color of the plastic grass that people put in Easter baskets. It looked plastic. It looked so and empty against the complexity of the sky. It all felt so manufactured, created to elicit feelings which I myself didn't feel.
The painting spoke to me, showing me my own cynicism in regard to a "manufactured church", commercialization and consumerism, and the value of a "pretty picture". At that point I responded to what my painting was telling me. It felt disingenuous to begin with, but it wasn't too late to express truth.
I took the image more seriously. I put in more details to the church. The windows were no longer left as black gaping shapes. They were given lines for the window-frames. The roofing was given more texture. It was still no match for the sky, but it was no longer standing as its own satirical representation of a church.
The hills. The last thing I did was to fix the hills. At first I intended to cover up that plastic green altogether. But upon second thought, I wanted that story, that dialogue, and the gradual revelation of truth to be present. I painted a darker, shaded-looking grass color, leaving that bright green on the sides of the hill that the sunlight would reach. I mixed an even darker green and filled in the darkest areas.
And the painting was done. Does it look manufactured now? To me, yes, it does. But it is honest. It no longer mocks the fact that this is the case. It takes itself seriously. It may still have the manufactured appearance, but it's meaning is fuller than that now as a result of the dialogue I had with it. It even looks more beautiful and appealing than it did before. And now it poses questions that it didn't before.
Maybe no one else would see those things if not for this blog. But I do, and that's enough for me. Again, I am formed as I form my work. And had I only been wishing to paint what I envisioned, if I removed myself from the work entirely (if it were even possible), it wouldn't achieve the depth it now has and/or have the effect is has had on me.
Anyway, just an introduction to my world. I know this makes me sound crazy, but I'm okay with that. I'm an INFJ. Everything we see has worlds of meaning. It's the only way I know, and I hope my art, this blog, and my interactions with others are the better for it.
What fascinates me most about art is how art pieces develop as a sort of conversation between you as the artist, and your materials. The materials you work with have their own rules and their own ways of working. Sometimes as you paint, elements aren't consistent. Sometimes you can't mix the exact shade you had before, sometimes your brush is wet still and the paint applies thinly. Sometimes you are working with multiple brands (and qualities) of paint.
I have come to discover that no art piece turns out the way I envision it in my head. It used to bother me because I always thought what I had created was worse than the beautiful image I imagined. After several years, I began to see that sometimes I created pieces better than I imagined them being and sometimes worse.
I am finally coming around to recognize that to compare the two is demeaning to the piece you created, to yourself as an artist, and to the creative process as a whole. What the creative process delivers is an art piece that is fully of meaning, intentional and unintentional, conscious and subconscious. What I imagine in my head doesn't ever involve me. I'm not necessary to the process. I like to take a backseat - I don't like to assert myself into my works for the most part. For the longest time, I thought my art could only be good so far as I was completely distanced from what I was creating.
Now I realize that art is art because of the artist. I still don't sign my works. I still don't want a name embedded in my works. I'm happy to get recognition for my work, but I want my art to stand on its own, acknowledging me with a nod or with a deep connection, but no longer subsisting off of me and my name.
I was thinking today about how the relationship of artist to their artworks are like the relationship of parent to children.
Sometimes I look at my art, the way it communicates ideas and what ideas is conveys, either intentionally or unintentionally. It reflects me, but is beyond me. It contains elements of me, but it reaches for something else and contains other elements that I don't possess. Sometimes my art pieces say things that embarrass me. Sometimes they say things that I am astounded they can say, because they are things I've never said before. Sometimes I have to take a second, longer look and wonder, "Is this element a reflection of me or is this reflecting something different?" Sometimes I have ideas of what I think it should say. I have goals and hopes for its purpose. But in the end, it's going to be what it's going to be. And even as I form it, it also forms me.
For example, I just finished a painting called "Easter Sunday". It is a pastel sunrise over rolling hills with a big white church built atop of it. As I was creating it, different things stood out to me.
1. Admittedly, I made this piece because I think it will sell well as an idea. I had no inclination to paint a church and to paint in pastel colors. I had no inclination to paint cartoonishly bright rolling hills. Easter is one of my least favorite holidays. I enjoyed making the painting, but I would not have made this painting for any other reason (at least not at this point in my life).
2. The sky was the most beautiful part of the painting.
3. The church was the most time consuming. I took the most care with it, using varying brush sizes, painting multiple coats of white to make sure none of the sky shone through beneath the church.
4. The hills were exceedingly bright and childish.
________
Given these details, two different interpretations of what I created began to emerge in my mind.
1. This was a childlike view of Easter - exaggerated colors and styles. Innocent. The backdrop existed only to showcase the beautiful church, which took the most amount of time.
2. This was a critical view of every aspect of the set-up. The most beautiful thing, the sky, took the least amount of effort and it was hidden/obscured by a church. The church was meant to be the centerpiece, but it asserted itself there boldly and distinctly as the sky, the beautiful sky was reduced to a supporting role.
It began in my head as the first interpretation. But I realized that I didn't buy into it. The image I wanted to create was one that would sell. Because I was playing to an idea that I had no draw to to begin with, it turned into satire.
What gave it away? The hills. They were a bright, commercialized Easter green color. Like the color of the plastic grass that people put in Easter baskets. It looked plastic. It looked so and empty against the complexity of the sky. It all felt so manufactured, created to elicit feelings which I myself didn't feel.
The painting spoke to me, showing me my own cynicism in regard to a "manufactured church", commercialization and consumerism, and the value of a "pretty picture". At that point I responded to what my painting was telling me. It felt disingenuous to begin with, but it wasn't too late to express truth.
I took the image more seriously. I put in more details to the church. The windows were no longer left as black gaping shapes. They were given lines for the window-frames. The roofing was given more texture. It was still no match for the sky, but it was no longer standing as its own satirical representation of a church.
The hills. The last thing I did was to fix the hills. At first I intended to cover up that plastic green altogether. But upon second thought, I wanted that story, that dialogue, and the gradual revelation of truth to be present. I painted a darker, shaded-looking grass color, leaving that bright green on the sides of the hill that the sunlight would reach. I mixed an even darker green and filled in the darkest areas.
And the painting was done. Does it look manufactured now? To me, yes, it does. But it is honest. It no longer mocks the fact that this is the case. It takes itself seriously. It may still have the manufactured appearance, but it's meaning is fuller than that now as a result of the dialogue I had with it. It even looks more beautiful and appealing than it did before. And now it poses questions that it didn't before.
Anyway, just an introduction to my world. I know this makes me sound crazy, but I'm okay with that. I'm an INFJ. Everything we see has worlds of meaning. It's the only way I know, and I hope my art, this blog, and my interactions with others are the better for it.
Wednesday, February 20, 2013
Phobias, Fear, and Control.
This is a departure from the Story series. Which I will resume sooner or later. Something else have come to mind that I want to write about.
This blog entry is super personal and contains details that I may have never told anyone before. Only my family and closest friends know about my phobia. Only two of my closest friends have any knowledge of how debilitating it was.
Have you ever heard of emetophobia - the fear of vomiting? I didn't know it was a real thing until I was a teenager, though I struggled with it for over half of my life. When I have told some people about it, they say, "Yeah, I hate throwing up too." I just drop it because I don't want to sound crazy. The phobia drove my life for years and years, affecting all aspects of it. It was much more than "hating it".
It started when I was about 10, which is typical for emetophobes. A traumatic experience causes fear and emetophobia develops as a way of coping with (and creating) anxiety for years to come. I don't know how much money my mom and I spent collectively on all the Pepto Bismal I consumed all those years. I used to take it daily. Sometimes multiple times daily. After every meal I felt nauseous. Sometimes I could control myself. Other times it blew up into a full-fledged panic attack, with my body shaking violently because of the surge of adrenaline. It always happened privately. I dragged my mom into it constantly and I will never understand her patience with me. She got frustrated, sure, and she would sometimes make it known. But she always stood by me and never abandoned me when I had those panic attacks.
Violent panic attacks like these happened on a regular basis too. Sometimes everyday, sometimes every week. I began to try to find ways to cope. I always carried around a huge purse. No one knew what I carried in it. If they were to look inside, they would think, "Oh, she's such a kid. I'm glad she's taking her time growing up." But everything inside was a coping mechanism. I had gum, mints, Silly Putty, a Cat's Cradle string, pens, nail polish, lotions, toothpaste, and others. Gum and mints gave me something to focus my attention to. A non-offensive flavor that would provide focus. Silly Putty gave me something to squeeze and to focus sensations on. I tried to ignore the sensations of nausea by filling my mind with other sensations. Feelings, tastes, smells, and mental tasks.
I hated going out to eat. I was terrified of food poisoning. The question I always asked my mom was, "Is this cooked enough? Will it make me sick if I eat it?" After I finished my meal, I immediately excused myself to the restroom to deal with a panic attack (either preventing it or letting it play out, if it was too late) and out came my bag of tricks. I was a skinny kid. I was so afraid that people would assume I was bulimic the way I disappeared after every meal.
It affected everyday life. If you google phobias, almost any phobia in fact, you will find a pseudo-religiosity to it. People form rituals to cope. They fear that breaking rituals will cause their phobia to occur. I'm not sure if I had any like that, per se. But I remember it interfering in ways that go beyond fear and edge into control. Occasionally throughout the day I remember thinking, "If I don't _________, I'm going to get sick". They weren't rituals. There was no regularity to what this phrase was applied to. But things that had nothing to do with being sick were associated with that fear. I felt that I had to do things in a certain amount of time or a certain way or I was doomed.
I remember grotesque would-you-rather scenarios would pop into my mind. Would you rather get sick or (insert something clearly worse here)? I wouldn't know how to answer these in my mind. I refused to answer. I knew what was rational, but if I admitted it, I was doomed to get sick. I remember thinking, "I need to pray for peace and for calm to deal with these panic attacks." But I was afraid to pray. If I prayed, Satan might afflict me with sickness. If I didn't for fear of Satan, God might punish me with it. I couldn't win. It interfered with my faith, giving my false perceptions of God and an overwhelming fear of figurative darkness. In fact, I and other emetophobes, couldn't even say (or type) the word "vomit" or any common euphemisms. It was like Voldemort. You say it, you summon it. The more you think about it, the sicker you feel. It was like Vomiting was a god and you didn't want to anger it.
Strange thing about emetophobia... If you Google it, you will find that research shows that people with emetophobia vomit far less often than most people. I found the average for non-emetophobes to be about 2 times a year. For emetophobes it varies, but I believe the average was around once every 12 years. What's ironic about the phobia is that we have fear because we believe we can prevent it. And guess what? We pretty much can. People used to ask why I would waste time being afraid about something I can't control. Well, I can control it. And if you ask most emetophobes, they would much rather be emetophobic and deal with this crippling fear that interferes with daily life than to not have it and throw up. That's just true.
On another note, something I always used to find really strange about myself is that I couldn't burp. I burped maybe twice a year and before it happened, I thought I was going to be sick. I haven't known anyone else in person who can't burp. I taught others how to make themselves burp, but I couldn't do it. When I googled "inability to burp", I found others who couldn't, and even more strangely... I found a solid connection to emetophobia. Burping and vomiting both involve the same flap of skin over the esophagus or throat or something. Anyway, as it turns out, people who can't burp experience more nausea on a regular basis than the typical population. This is because all of the gas gets trapped inside and has a longer route to be released, which means you are carrying it in you. Eating more food would aggravate it and make it more uncomfortable and nauseating.
People who are emetophobic control this unknowingly. In fact, after years, they may not know how to relinquish that control. I tried to burp for years and it wasn't able to happen.
I remember starting public high school after being homeschooled. I wasn't afraid of the people. At all. I was terrified of feeling nauseous or having a panic attack or actually being sick at school. Over the years, the daily fear started to go away. It become a bi-weekly or monthly occurrence. I had panic attacks very infrequently. By this point, I knew it was mostly in my head. I still felt nauseous and awful, but I knew I wouldn't be sick, which made it easier to deal with. Only two of my close friends from high school knew about my phobia. Both of them found out by accident. One when I freaked out on her in the middle of a panic attack.
It wasn't until college when I began to feel the fear being erased rather than simply being diminished. Part of it was having multiple times of feeling so sick that I wanted to throw up (something I had never experienced before nor imagined was possible). But the biggest event that happened took place at a University Ministries leadership retreat. I opened up to one of my close friends about my phobia, my regular stomach issues (only loosely related to the phobia), and even my inability to burp.
What happened still doesn't make sense to me. Then again, none of this is "rational". She talked to me about God's love driving out fear. Yeah, I'd known that verse since I was a kid. I'd never thought about it in terms of my phobia though. She talked to me about how easy it is to believe God loves us, so far as we can comprehend it. She talked about how we need to truly trust God's love as incomprehensible. Greater than what we comprehend. Not just know it, but accept it. How much freedom there is in that. We talked in general terms about fear. Of my friends, she's the only one who knew about how my phobia occasionally turned into a battle between God and Satan in my mind. As ridiculous and untrue as I see that being now, it speaks to how much of my faith was influenced by fear.
I tried to control my fear. I could keep myself from throwing up, so I had control. Yet, my phobia controlled me. I didn't know whether I was serving God in my fear or whether I was serving my own phobia. I don't think it's my "fault" that I developed the phobia. I don't think God was angry with me or was thinking, "Why doesn't she just trust me?" It was its own thing that in a way became its own little religion or the lens through which I saw my own God. And man, I saw Him wrongly through that fear.
My friend prayed for me, for my stomach, for my fear, and for my inability to burp (which I had to fight to keep from laughing out loud at). By this point, my phobia was already nearly gone, but its effects on my faith and perception of God still had a residual presence. She prayed that I would truly believe and accept God's love being larger than I could imagine it. That I wouldn't accept only as much as I could imagine, but that I would accept more. I don't really know what happened. But that night I burped. I got excited, then figured "Well, this is probably one of my twice a year burps." Then it happened again the next day. A few times.
I know this is weird. But I can burp now. And it makes a difference in my day to day life. My phobia has slowly dissipated over the years and it hasn't effected my day-to-day life in years. I might even say I don't have that phobia anymore. But being freed to burp has been *huge*. This is one of those stories I don't tell people either. Some don't believe in healing. Some think it's offensive to think of God healing this when he doesn't heal other things. I don't know if God divinely stepped in to heal me in this or not. At the very least, I believe that my trust in Him opened up something in me. Was it physical? Mental? Spiritual? Yeah, something like that.
The whole story of my phobia and my getting over it is so interesting to me. I still don't know when I began to get over my fear. High school was probably the start. It wasn't until my second year of college that I truly began to feel real freedom. It wasn't until that last year that I experienced that healing, if you want to call it that. This whole experience shows me how the physical, mental and spiritual aspects of a person are really closely related. And how closely fear and control are related. There's a whole lot more to examine there. May blog about that another time in more general terms (separate from this story).
I still occasionally have times where I have to fight off what I know could become a panic attack. I still don't swallow pills. I still chew my food way too long and eat too slowly. I still know and occasionally use coping tactics if I think I'm descending to a fear-driven place in my mind. But I know what it is happening. I know what is true. Some of these things may be permanent - like eating slowly. But the fear doesn't have to be. In fact, it is not.
_______________________
Thanks for indulging this blog that is so focused on me. It is a place of vulnerability that I have not shared with people pretty much ever. Again, close friends, roommates who had to know, and my poor wonderful family who stood with me in it (especially my mom - shout out to her, any response but hers I am certain would have made the phobia worse). Here it is, public. Maybe someone with emetophobia will stumble upon it and be encouraged that there is hope. Many people with emetophobia never know life without that crippling fear. And many people have it even worse than I did. I hope they too may find freedom.
This blog entry is super personal and contains details that I may have never told anyone before. Only my family and closest friends know about my phobia. Only two of my closest friends have any knowledge of how debilitating it was.
Have you ever heard of emetophobia - the fear of vomiting? I didn't know it was a real thing until I was a teenager, though I struggled with it for over half of my life. When I have told some people about it, they say, "Yeah, I hate throwing up too." I just drop it because I don't want to sound crazy. The phobia drove my life for years and years, affecting all aspects of it. It was much more than "hating it".
It started when I was about 10, which is typical for emetophobes. A traumatic experience causes fear and emetophobia develops as a way of coping with (and creating) anxiety for years to come. I don't know how much money my mom and I spent collectively on all the Pepto Bismal I consumed all those years. I used to take it daily. Sometimes multiple times daily. After every meal I felt nauseous. Sometimes I could control myself. Other times it blew up into a full-fledged panic attack, with my body shaking violently because of the surge of adrenaline. It always happened privately. I dragged my mom into it constantly and I will never understand her patience with me. She got frustrated, sure, and she would sometimes make it known. But she always stood by me and never abandoned me when I had those panic attacks.
Violent panic attacks like these happened on a regular basis too. Sometimes everyday, sometimes every week. I began to try to find ways to cope. I always carried around a huge purse. No one knew what I carried in it. If they were to look inside, they would think, "Oh, she's such a kid. I'm glad she's taking her time growing up." But everything inside was a coping mechanism. I had gum, mints, Silly Putty, a Cat's Cradle string, pens, nail polish, lotions, toothpaste, and others. Gum and mints gave me something to focus my attention to. A non-offensive flavor that would provide focus. Silly Putty gave me something to squeeze and to focus sensations on. I tried to ignore the sensations of nausea by filling my mind with other sensations. Feelings, tastes, smells, and mental tasks.
I hated going out to eat. I was terrified of food poisoning. The question I always asked my mom was, "Is this cooked enough? Will it make me sick if I eat it?" After I finished my meal, I immediately excused myself to the restroom to deal with a panic attack (either preventing it or letting it play out, if it was too late) and out came my bag of tricks. I was a skinny kid. I was so afraid that people would assume I was bulimic the way I disappeared after every meal.
It affected everyday life. If you google phobias, almost any phobia in fact, you will find a pseudo-religiosity to it. People form rituals to cope. They fear that breaking rituals will cause their phobia to occur. I'm not sure if I had any like that, per se. But I remember it interfering in ways that go beyond fear and edge into control. Occasionally throughout the day I remember thinking, "If I don't _________, I'm going to get sick". They weren't rituals. There was no regularity to what this phrase was applied to. But things that had nothing to do with being sick were associated with that fear. I felt that I had to do things in a certain amount of time or a certain way or I was doomed.
I remember grotesque would-you-rather scenarios would pop into my mind. Would you rather get sick or (insert something clearly worse here)
Strange thing about emetophobia... If you Google it, you will find that research shows that people with emetophobia vomit far less often than most people. I found the average for non-emetophobes to be about 2 times a year. For emetophobes it varies, but I believe the average was around once every 12 years. What's ironic about the phobia is that we have fear because we believe we can prevent it. And guess what? We pretty much can. People used to ask why I would waste time being afraid about something I can't control. Well, I can control it. And if you ask most emetophobes, they would much rather be emetophobic and deal with this crippling fear that interferes with daily life than to not have it and throw up. That's just true.
On another note, something I always used to find really strange about myself is that I couldn't burp. I burped maybe twice a year and before it happened, I thought I was going to be sick. I haven't known anyone else in person who can't burp. I taught others how to make themselves burp, but I couldn't do it. When I googled "inability to burp", I found others who couldn't, and even more strangely... I found a solid connection to emetophobia. Burping and vomiting both involve the same flap of skin over the esophagus or throat or something. Anyway, as it turns out, people who can't burp experience more nausea on a regular basis than the typical population. This is because all of the gas gets trapped inside and has a longer route to be released, which means you are carrying it in you. Eating more food would aggravate it and make it more uncomfortable and nauseating.
People who are emetophobic control this unknowingly. In fact, after years, they may not know how to relinquish that control. I tried to burp for years and it wasn't able to happen.
I remember starting public high school after being homeschooled. I wasn't afraid of the people. At all. I was terrified of feeling nauseous or having a panic attack or actually being sick at school. Over the years, the daily fear started to go away. It become a bi-weekly or monthly occurrence. I had panic attacks very infrequently. By this point, I knew it was mostly in my head. I still felt nauseous and awful, but I knew I wouldn't be sick, which made it easier to deal with. Only two of my close friends from high school knew about my phobia. Both of them found out by accident. One when I freaked out on her in the middle of a panic attack.
It wasn't until college when I began to feel the fear being erased rather than simply being diminished. Part of it was having multiple times of feeling so sick that I wanted to throw up (something I had never experienced before nor imagined was possible). But the biggest event that happened took place at a University Ministries leadership retreat. I opened up to one of my close friends about my phobia, my regular stomach issues (only loosely related to the phobia), and even my inability to burp.
What happened still doesn't make sense to me. Then again, none of this is "rational". She talked to me about God's love driving out fear. Yeah, I'd known that verse since I was a kid. I'd never thought about it in terms of my phobia though. She talked to me about how easy it is to believe God loves us, so far as we can comprehend it. She talked about how we need to truly trust God's love as incomprehensible. Greater than what we comprehend. Not just know it, but accept it. How much freedom there is in that. We talked in general terms about fear. Of my friends, she's the only one who knew about how my phobia occasionally turned into a battle between God and Satan in my mind. As ridiculous and untrue as I see that being now, it speaks to how much of my faith was influenced by fear.
I tried to control my fear. I could keep myself from throwing up, so I had control. Yet, my phobia controlled me. I didn't know whether I was serving God in my fear or whether I was serving my own phobia. I don't think it's my "fault" that I developed the phobia. I don't think God was angry with me or was thinking, "Why doesn't she just trust me?" It was its own thing that in a way became its own little religion or the lens through which I saw my own God. And man, I saw Him wrongly through that fear.
My friend prayed for me, for my stomach, for my fear, and for my inability to burp (which I had to fight to keep from laughing out loud at). By this point, my phobia was already nearly gone, but its effects on my faith and perception of God still had a residual presence. She prayed that I would truly believe and accept God's love being larger than I could imagine it. That I wouldn't accept only as much as I could imagine, but that I would accept more. I don't really know what happened. But that night I burped. I got excited, then figured "Well, this is probably one of my twice a year burps." Then it happened again the next day. A few times.
I know this is weird. But I can burp now. And it makes a difference in my day to day life. My phobia has slowly dissipated over the years and it hasn't effected my day-to-day life in years. I might even say I don't have that phobia anymore. But being freed to burp has been *huge*. This is one of those stories I don't tell people either. Some don't believe in healing. Some think it's offensive to think of God healing this when he doesn't heal other things. I don't know if God divinely stepped in to heal me in this or not. At the very least, I believe that my trust in Him opened up something in me. Was it physical? Mental? Spiritual? Yeah, something like that.
The whole story of my phobia and my getting over it is so interesting to me. I still don't know when I began to get over my fear. High school was probably the start. It wasn't until my second year of college that I truly began to feel real freedom. It wasn't until that last year that I experienced that healing, if you want to call it that. This whole experience shows me how the physical, mental and spiritual aspects of a person are really closely related. And how closely fear and control are related. There's a whole lot more to examine there. May blog about that another time in more general terms (separate from this story).
I still occasionally have times where I have to fight off what I know could become a panic attack. I still don't swallow pills. I still chew my food way too long and eat too slowly. I still know and occasionally use coping tactics if I think I'm descending to a fear-driven place in my mind. But I know what it is happening. I know what is true. Some of these things may be permanent - like eating slowly. But the fear doesn't have to be. In fact, it is not.
_______________________
Thanks for indulging this blog that is so focused on me. It is a place of vulnerability that I have not shared with people pretty much ever. Again, close friends, roommates who had to know, and my poor wonderful family who stood with me in it (especially my mom - shout out to her, any response but hers I am certain would have made the phobia worse). Here it is, public. Maybe someone with emetophobia will stumble upon it and be encouraged that there is hope. Many people with emetophobia never know life without that crippling fear. And many people have it even worse than I did. I hope they too may find freedom.
Monday, February 4, 2013
Story 4: A Tale of Two Addicts
It was the best of times, it was the worst of times... Yeah, wrong story. I wonder how much that phrase applies to the story I am about to share though.
A couple notes before I dive in. I am a little wary about sharing this story. I mentioned in my last blog that I have learned a lot from eavesdropping. This story is entirely composed of things I heard while eavesdropping during a long public transit commute. The moral grounds for navigation in this story is a little less clear. I don't know the names of the people, which may protect their identities, but may serve as proof that I have no right to share the story either.
The conversation happened in a public place, and it wasn't a hush-hush conversation. I feel that this story is valuable to share because this is a world most of us have no access to. I don't know if this constitutes me being given access or me taking it. I hope that the way I tell this story does not diminish the character of the two people in this story. If it does, I have failed just what I set out to do. With anything else, you can have access to this world or you can deny it. It takes a certain disposition, an openness, to enter. If you continue to read, please keep that in mind and reserve judgement.
Also, I will be analyzing bits posing responsive questions to the story afterwards.
______________________________________________
Like two of my previous stories, I was on my way home from classes at my college. I had an hour commute on one bus. The 82. It usually took exactly 56 minutes, sometimes 57, unless there was a major setback. I knew this bus, I knew the route, and I even recognized some commuters who traveled with me (probably unknowingly) on a regular basis.
On one particular day, a girl on the bus who appeared to be just a little older than me sat down a few rows up. She looked to me like a girl in a punk-rock music video with her short, spiky platinum-blonde hair. Her clothing was fashionable and fit the persona she also wore.
A few stops later, a man that was probably in his mid-40s stepped onto the bus. He had tan skin with deep wrinkles in his worn face and he wore non-descript clothes. As he made his way up the main aisle he said "hi" to someone he knew. I was always fascinated when people just randomly ran into people they knew in such a big city. I knew of a few regular commuters and he wasn't one of them. But he knew people. I wondered how. My mind was blown when I saw his reaction upon spotting the blonde as he continued making his way up the center aisle.
His face lit up and once he was standing beside her, he reached forward to ruffle her hair. He sat down and began talking to her. "Ok," I think. "Things just got more interesting and bizarre." I listened to their conversation as best as I could, but I couldn't understand them. I was used to hearing multiple languages spoken in a single day at this point, but their conversation sounded different. Familiar, yet inaccessible. After trying to identify the language, I realized they were speaking English. They spoke faster than I had ever heard English spoken. I'm talking, they put the Gilmore Girls to shame. On top of that, the older man seemed to have speech difficulties. Not an impediment, perse, and certainly not a stutter, but his words never seemed fully formed.
I adapted to what I was hearing and finally made out some of what they were saying. From their conversation, I gathered that they were comfortable acquaintances. They shared details that true friends would have known about each other already, and details that no stranger would tell another stranger.
They were talking about their heroine addictions.
She told him that people always asked her, "Why don't you just stop?" She said, "I tell them to take a hit and see why they can't stop." She said that once you've found something you want to do more than anything else, it's sadistic not to do it. But with drugs, it's sadistic to keep doing it too.
Her addiction began in high school. She said she shot up so much that she started locating veins in her hands and feet because the other veins had become too difficult to locate. She talked about how good the highs felt and the man agreed with her. She told him about one of her friends who took an exceedingly large hit and the man just said, "He didn't want to get high. He just wanted to die. There's a difference. I just do it to get high. I just wanna get a good buzz." She agreed, conceding that sometimes she "overdoes it". He admitted the same.
Easily and matter-of-factly she said, "You know, my friend died last week."
He asked who it was, how, etc. She said, "You don't know her." Through more conversation, he determined that he did know the woman who died. Well, not the woman. But he knew the woman's husband. She went on to explain that she died from a blood infection. He asked her how she got it and what it was. She explained once. He asked again. She answered. Three times this repeated. She asked, "Are you high right now?" He didn't reply. She told him again that it was a bad needle that poisoned her blood. He asked who could get this blood infection. She said that anyone who happened upon a bad needle could.
"Why haven't I gotten it?" He asked.
"Why haven't I?" She echoed.
He reminded her that he'd been using for much longer than she had, implying that it was more shocking that he was still alive.
She nodded and continued. "My mom's a nurse. She keeps telling me to be careful so I don't get it."
Just that abruptly she had to leave. She frantically told him to pull the string to alert the bus that it needed to stop. As she scrambled to leave, she told him that she would probably see him in a few days, and she exited the bus.
_________________________
I don't know who this story is about, really. I also don't know who this story isn't about.
Is it about the man who, without an addiction would have been middle-aged, but who was far outliving the life expectancy for someone with his addiction?
Is it about the young woman who, in her young 20s, was a veteran heroine user?
Or perhaps her mother who, as a nurse, knew the risks and inevitable effects of heroine but could only plead with her daughter to "be careful" because she was otherwise unable to help her?
Was it about the gravity of addiction and the rift between the life addicts want and the life they can't have?
Was it about the woman who died from a bad needle? Or perhaps the husband she left behind?
Or was it about the semblance of community that addicts naturally form?
Wasn't it about all of those things? I guess the story is about addiction. It's easy to disassociate from statistics and to be weirdly fascinated by those health class images of "before and after" addiction, all while removing humanity from the topic. But here was a girl, not much older than me. And here was a man. They themselves did a fair share of associating with and disassociating from their own stories. But their humanity and their struggle through their stories could not be denied.
"When you can stop, you don't want to. When you want to stop, you can't." -- Candy (2006)
A couple notes before I dive in. I am a little wary about sharing this story. I mentioned in my last blog that I have learned a lot from eavesdropping. This story is entirely composed of things I heard while eavesdropping during a long public transit commute. The moral grounds for navigation in this story is a little less clear. I don't know the names of the people, which may protect their identities, but may serve as proof that I have no right to share the story either.
The conversation happened in a public place, and it wasn't a hush-hush conversation. I feel that this story is valuable to share because this is a world most of us have no access to. I don't know if this constitutes me being given access or me taking it. I hope that the way I tell this story does not diminish the character of the two people in this story. If it does, I have failed just what I set out to do. With anything else, you can have access to this world or you can deny it. It takes a certain disposition, an openness, to enter. If you continue to read, please keep that in mind and reserve judgement.
Also, I will be analyzing bits posing responsive questions to the story afterwards.
______________________________________________
Like two of my previous stories, I was on my way home from classes at my college. I had an hour commute on one bus. The 82. It usually took exactly 56 minutes, sometimes 57, unless there was a major setback. I knew this bus, I knew the route, and I even recognized some commuters who traveled with me (probably unknowingly) on a regular basis.
On one particular day, a girl on the bus who appeared to be just a little older than me sat down a few rows up. She looked to me like a girl in a punk-rock music video with her short, spiky platinum-blonde hair. Her clothing was fashionable and fit the persona she also wore.
A few stops later, a man that was probably in his mid-40s stepped onto the bus. He had tan skin with deep wrinkles in his worn face and he wore non-descript clothes. As he made his way up the main aisle he said "hi" to someone he knew. I was always fascinated when people just randomly ran into people they knew in such a big city. I knew of a few regular commuters and he wasn't one of them. But he knew people. I wondered how. My mind was blown when I saw his reaction upon spotting the blonde as he continued making his way up the center aisle.
His face lit up and once he was standing beside her, he reached forward to ruffle her hair. He sat down and began talking to her. "Ok," I think. "Things just got more interesting and bizarre." I listened to their conversation as best as I could, but I couldn't understand them. I was used to hearing multiple languages spoken in a single day at this point, but their conversation sounded different. Familiar, yet inaccessible. After trying to identify the language, I realized they were speaking English. They spoke faster than I had ever heard English spoken. I'm talking, they put the Gilmore Girls to shame. On top of that, the older man seemed to have speech difficulties. Not an impediment, perse, and certainly not a stutter, but his words never seemed fully formed.
I adapted to what I was hearing and finally made out some of what they were saying. From their conversation, I gathered that they were comfortable acquaintances. They shared details that true friends would have known about each other already, and details that no stranger would tell another stranger.
They were talking about their heroine addictions.
She told him that people always asked her, "Why don't you just stop?" She said, "I tell them to take a hit and see why they can't stop." She said that once you've found something you want to do more than anything else, it's sadistic not to do it. But with drugs, it's sadistic to keep doing it too.
Her addiction began in high school. She said she shot up so much that she started locating veins in her hands and feet because the other veins had become too difficult to locate. She talked about how good the highs felt and the man agreed with her. She told him about one of her friends who took an exceedingly large hit and the man just said, "He didn't want to get high. He just wanted to die. There's a difference. I just do it to get high. I just wanna get a good buzz." She agreed, conceding that sometimes she "overdoes it". He admitted the same.
Easily and matter-of-factly she said, "You know, my friend died last week."
He asked who it was, how, etc. She said, "You don't know her." Through more conversation, he determined that he did know the woman who died. Well, not the woman. But he knew the woman's husband. She went on to explain that she died from a blood infection. He asked her how she got it and what it was. She explained once. He asked again. She answered. Three times this repeated. She asked, "Are you high right now?" He didn't reply. She told him again that it was a bad needle that poisoned her blood. He asked who could get this blood infection. She said that anyone who happened upon a bad needle could.
"Why haven't I gotten it?" He asked.
"Why haven't I?" She echoed.
He reminded her that he'd been using for much longer than she had, implying that it was more shocking that he was still alive.
She nodded and continued. "My mom's a nurse. She keeps telling me to be careful so I don't get it."
Just that abruptly she had to leave. She frantically told him to pull the string to alert the bus that it needed to stop. As she scrambled to leave, she told him that she would probably see him in a few days, and she exited the bus.
_________________________
I don't know who this story is about, really. I also don't know who this story isn't about.
Is it about the man who, without an addiction would have been middle-aged, but who was far outliving the life expectancy for someone with his addiction?
Is it about the young woman who, in her young 20s, was a veteran heroine user?
Or perhaps her mother who, as a nurse, knew the risks and inevitable effects of heroine but could only plead with her daughter to "be careful" because she was otherwise unable to help her?
Was it about the gravity of addiction and the rift between the life addicts want and the life they can't have?
Was it about the woman who died from a bad needle? Or perhaps the husband she left behind?
Or was it about the semblance of community that addicts naturally form?
Wasn't it about all of those things? I guess the story is about addiction. It's easy to disassociate from statistics and to be weirdly fascinated by those health class images of "before and after" addiction, all while removing humanity from the topic. But here was a girl, not much older than me. And here was a man. They themselves did a fair share of associating with and disassociating from their own stories. But their humanity and their struggle through their stories could not be denied.
"When you can stop, you don't want to. When you want to stop, you can't." -- Candy (2006)
Tuesday, January 29, 2013
Story 3: The Maple Scones
This small, seemingly insignificant story affected me deeply.
It was my first year at college and I was commuting 1 hour each way to and from school. It kept me from getting too involved in any activities on campus. But on one particular day I was drawn to an evening lecture by an incredible theologian named Christopher J. H. Wright (I recommend The Mission of God). I'm sure the fact that there were refreshments afterwards stood out to me too. At that point, I was not doing so well financially and was mildly concerned about the price of food.
I was not disappointed. The lecture was excellent, and Chris Wright had an accent that was an exquisite blend of British and Irish accents; I could have listened to him for hours. I sat quietly, absorbing it all. By the time I left, it was dark and creepy outside and I had a whole hour before the bus dropped me off a good 15-20 minute walk from home.
I got on the bus, which was packed. At the next stop a lady entered the bus and tried to skip out on paying fare altogether. The bus driver yelled at her and, becoming exasperated eventually called out, "Can someone come up here and escort this lady off the bus?"
One man did go up to the front. Not to escort her off, but to pay her fare. He caught my attention.
On public transit I liked to play this game. Chicago is known for being one of the most segregated cities in the U.S. I liked to look at passengers and guess whether they'd be going as far south as I was. This was a middle-aged black man. He had a few plastic bags with him. I figured he'd be going pretty near my final destination. As time progressed, my assumption proved itself true.
The further south the bus went and the later it became, the emptier the bus was. It was finally quiet enough that I could distinguish individual conversations. I have no shame in eavesdropping on public conversations in public places. I have learned a *lot* that way. I am so glad I did this time too. The conversation I heard was between the same man who paid for the woman's fare early on, and the bus driver. They were in the very front of the bus, and I was a far ways back. By then, only the three of us were on the bus and I could hear every word of the conversation. The passenger began talking about dope fiends and quickly ushered the conversation towards a recent movie with Denzel Washington in it about drugs. They couldn't remember the name and it was driving them crazy.
Me, in a full display of creepiness, piped up and called out the title for them, "American Gangster?!" His face lit up and he goes, "Yes, that's the one!" Then I realized how weird it was that I was involving myself in their conversation without being a real part of it. Rather than going back to eavesdropping, or actually minding my own dang business, I thought to myself, "Shoot. If I'm going to be a part of this conversation, I'm going to be a part of it. Why not?"
I stood up, grabbed my stuff and moved to the front of the bus so that I was sitting in a row that allowed me to see and communicate with both men. They didn't seem bothered, so I joined in on their conversation. Again, mostly listening, but throwing in my two cents occasionally. The man actively included me in the conversation, shifting his eye contact between the bus driver and myself. He seemed to be quite eager to have two people listening to him.
As we continued our commute, the man pulled an unopened water bottle out of one of the plastic bags he had stowed on the seat next to him and handed it to the bus driver, who was both surprised and pleased. The man continued talking. I hung onto his words. He was a very charismatic person. He shifted among several topics rapidly. Some were deep, some were silly, but most were quite thought-provoking. More than anything it was the way he spoke that intrigued me, as though everything was of the utmost importance. History, drugs, female circumcision, tribalism, Tazmanian devils... I'm not making this up.
He stopped suddenly, looked over at me and said, "Young lady, I think I have..." He trialed off as he began digging through his plastic bags. I considered stopping him by saying, "Oh, no thanks. I'm good." But I didn't want to be rude. And to be honest, my curiosity got the better of me. Finally, he found what he was looking for, and out of the bag came scones! Three very large scones wrapped together in plastic wrap. He claimed they were from Starbucks, but I wondered. I'd never seen Starbucks 1) use plastic wrap or 2) wrap three things together.
Hesitantly I asked, "Are you sure you don't want them?" He motioned to the cup of coffee in my hand and said, "Naw, you do the coffee thing, you have them." I graciously said thank you as I silently wrestled in my head with what to do. I have a hard time accepting gifts from people. Also, it's kinda common knowledge not to accept food from a stranger. Especially not food that could easily have been handled/poisoned.
I thought for a second about throwing them away to be safe, then I became angry that I would ever consider such a thing. Not only would I not throw them away. Not only would I eat them. I would eat one right then, just to prove to him that I truly was grateful and that I trusted his gesture. And I did, though I wasn't particularly hungry, and though technically it violated the rules of bus-riding. The driver sure didn't mind.
The scone was incredible. It was maple flavored and it was everything an Americanized scone should be. The man who gave it to me looked pleased that I was eating it and he asked how it was.
I wrote about it in my journal. I was amazed by this gesture that, to me, was anything but little. This man chose loss over his gain. Either I accepted his gift, and he missed out on 3 scones, or I rejected it and he feels silly for offering. The gesture crossed boundaries of race, age, and gender. His offer extended a bridge that I could choose to walk across or to reject entirely. Either way, he takes a loss. It bothered me for days. Why would he do that? I was some random girl. Why? Why give water to the bus driver? Or pay fare for the lady who acted entitled to a free ride (or was too broke to afford it, but was too proud to ask for help - which is surprisingly common and supported by commuters in Chicago)?
I understood my motivation for accepting his gift. I wish I understood his motivation for offering it.
A movie I really like poses the question, "Does anyone do something for nothing?"
"Nothing" is not as clear of a term as you might think right away. But if by "nothing", that means "nothing that directly benefits the self", the answer is yes. I found this answer in maple scones from an eccentric stranger.
This man showed me what faith is in a new light. And in that sense, it wasn't for nothing.
It was my first year at college and I was commuting 1 hour each way to and from school. It kept me from getting too involved in any activities on campus. But on one particular day I was drawn to an evening lecture by an incredible theologian named Christopher J. H. Wright (I recommend The Mission of God). I'm sure the fact that there were refreshments afterwards stood out to me too. At that point, I was not doing so well financially and was mildly concerned about the price of food.
I was not disappointed. The lecture was excellent, and Chris Wright had an accent that was an exquisite blend of British and Irish accents; I could have listened to him for hours. I sat quietly, absorbing it all. By the time I left, it was dark and creepy outside and I had a whole hour before the bus dropped me off a good 15-20 minute walk from home.
I got on the bus, which was packed. At the next stop a lady entered the bus and tried to skip out on paying fare altogether. The bus driver yelled at her and, becoming exasperated eventually called out, "Can someone come up here and escort this lady off the bus?"
One man did go up to the front. Not to escort her off, but to pay her fare. He caught my attention.
On public transit I liked to play this game. Chicago is known for being one of the most segregated cities in the U.S. I liked to look at passengers and guess whether they'd be going as far south as I was. This was a middle-aged black man. He had a few plastic bags with him. I figured he'd be going pretty near my final destination. As time progressed, my assumption proved itself true.
The further south the bus went and the later it became, the emptier the bus was. It was finally quiet enough that I could distinguish individual conversations. I have no shame in eavesdropping on public conversations in public places. I have learned a *lot* that way. I am so glad I did this time too. The conversation I heard was between the same man who paid for the woman's fare early on, and the bus driver. They were in the very front of the bus, and I was a far ways back. By then, only the three of us were on the bus and I could hear every word of the conversation. The passenger began talking about dope fiends and quickly ushered the conversation towards a recent movie with Denzel Washington in it about drugs. They couldn't remember the name and it was driving them crazy.
Me, in a full display of creepiness, piped up and called out the title for them, "American Gangster?!" His face lit up and he goes, "Yes, that's the one!" Then I realized how weird it was that I was involving myself in their conversation without being a real part of it. Rather than going back to eavesdropping, or actually minding my own dang business, I thought to myself, "Shoot. If I'm going to be a part of this conversation, I'm going to be a part of it. Why not?"
I stood up, grabbed my stuff and moved to the front of the bus so that I was sitting in a row that allowed me to see and communicate with both men. They didn't seem bothered, so I joined in on their conversation. Again, mostly listening, but throwing in my two cents occasionally. The man actively included me in the conversation, shifting his eye contact between the bus driver and myself. He seemed to be quite eager to have two people listening to him.
As we continued our commute, the man pulled an unopened water bottle out of one of the plastic bags he had stowed on the seat next to him and handed it to the bus driver, who was both surprised and pleased. The man continued talking. I hung onto his words. He was a very charismatic person. He shifted among several topics rapidly. Some were deep, some were silly, but most were quite thought-provoking. More than anything it was the way he spoke that intrigued me, as though everything was of the utmost importance. History, drugs, female circumcision, tribalism, Tazmanian devils... I'm not making this up.
He stopped suddenly, looked over at me and said, "Young lady, I think I have..." He trialed off as he began digging through his plastic bags. I considered stopping him by saying, "Oh, no thanks. I'm good." But I didn't want to be rude. And to be honest, my curiosity got the better of me. Finally, he found what he was looking for, and out of the bag came scones! Three very large scones wrapped together in plastic wrap. He claimed they were from Starbucks, but I wondered. I'd never seen Starbucks 1) use plastic wrap or 2) wrap three things together.
Hesitantly I asked, "Are you sure you don't want them?" He motioned to the cup of coffee in my hand and said, "Naw, you do the coffee thing, you have them." I graciously said thank you as I silently wrestled in my head with what to do. I have a hard time accepting gifts from people. Also, it's kinda common knowledge not to accept food from a stranger. Especially not food that could easily have been handled/poisoned.
I thought for a second about throwing them away to be safe, then I became angry that I would ever consider such a thing. Not only would I not throw them away. Not only would I eat them. I would eat one right then, just to prove to him that I truly was grateful and that I trusted his gesture. And I did, though I wasn't particularly hungry, and though technically it violated the rules of bus-riding. The driver sure didn't mind.
The scone was incredible. It was maple flavored and it was everything an Americanized scone should be. The man who gave it to me looked pleased that I was eating it and he asked how it was.
I wrote about it in my journal. I was amazed by this gesture that, to me, was anything but little. This man chose loss over his gain. Either I accepted his gift, and he missed out on 3 scones, or I rejected it and he feels silly for offering. The gesture crossed boundaries of race, age, and gender. His offer extended a bridge that I could choose to walk across or to reject entirely. Either way, he takes a loss. It bothered me for days. Why would he do that? I was some random girl. Why? Why give water to the bus driver? Or pay fare for the lady who acted entitled to a free ride (or was too broke to afford it, but was too proud to ask for help - which is surprisingly common and supported by commuters in Chicago)?
I understood my motivation for accepting his gift. I wish I understood his motivation for offering it.
A movie I really like poses the question, "Does anyone do something for nothing?"
"Nothing" is not as clear of a term as you might think right away. But if by "nothing", that means "nothing that directly benefits the self", the answer is yes. I found this answer in maple scones from an eccentric stranger.
This man showed me what faith is in a new light. And in that sense, it wasn't for nothing.
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