Scenes From the Battle Lines

This week has found me drained and comparatively unproductive. That happens to everyone from time to time. This time, however, is different. I've literally been having to drag myself out of bed every morning. Everything I do requires extra effort-taking a shower, washing dishes, getting out of the car, remembering how to determine alphabetical order when filing. The muscles in my face are weak and my words-be them English or Spanish-are constantly tripping out of my mouth like newborn horses struggling to take their first clumsy steps. All I want to do is sleep. I feel like I'm about 80 years old. It's not the first time, and it most certainly will not be the last.

Here's my simple explanation of what multiple sclerosis is: you have an electrical appliance, say, for example, a lamp. Its cord plugs into an outlet in the wall in order to channel electricity into it and allow it to turn on and function. That electricity is channeled through the wires contained in that cord; however, those wires are not exposed, rather, they are protected by a coating of plastic or some other versatile material. What happens if there is a break in that plastic? That leaves the wires exposed and dangerously vulnerable to power shortages. Basically, power will not be conducted properly, the lamp won't work, in addition, the cord is now an active fire hazard.

The nerves in the brain and spinal cord are like those electrical cords. They send signals to every part of the body and tell them what to do; whether it be alerting the skin to sense heat or clod, or telling the legs to walk, even reminding the respiratory system to initiate the breathing process. The coating on those "cords" is called myelin. In a person with MS, the myelin is damaged the same way the plastic sheath of an electrical cord may be torn, and it results in similar problems for daily functioning. As a result, I struggle with my balance, I often stutter, I have memory problems, my vision blurs from time to time, I get spasms and numbness in my limbs. But what affects me the most is that the constant war going on in my body causes me to have periods of extreme fatigue. There are times when the best place for me to be is in bed. I have a hard time permitting myself to have those kinds of days. But lately, I just really haven't had much of a choice.

I was diagnosed with this disease 8 years ago; I'm not new to this. And I've lived through stages that were much worse. Ironically, it was a little easier to deal with emotionally when I was bound to a wheelchair. Back then it was obvious what I could and couldn't do. Now that I'm in remission and have had about 80% of my function back for a while, I have moments where I feel so healthy and normal that I completely forget, and those injections of interferon beta that I have to take 3 times a week feel as routine as brushing my teeth. I have a full and busy life, in which the disease takes a back seat. It's a footnote, not a chapter.

Or so I tell myself, and most of the people around me probably see it that way as well. I'm not dying- I look fine and have all my limbs. I'm not incapacitated; I just walk funny, and I have that cool disabled parking placard that makes trips to San Francisco so much more pleasant. Most of the time I would rather things just be that simple. I know I've got a "thing" going on, and it doesn't disrupt my life very much, so I'll just pretend it isn't there. Plus, it is very difficult to explain an "invisible" and uncommon illness to people without them thinking you are a hypochondriac or just plain lazy. Either you are a lazy hypochondriac, or you are perpetually broken and can't do ANYTHING. It can be hard for others to comprehend, and frustrating and alienating for me to try to explain...so most of the time, I don't. I usually just push myself to the limit, so that I may look and feel like a normal young adult, no questions asked.

This has really been one of those weeks that has not lent itself to keeping up appearances at all. As I mentioned at that outset, I've been struggling even to perform the simplest tasks. This is what is known as an exacerbation, commonly known in MS terms as a "flare-up." Flare-ups occur without warning, and can vary both in frequency and intensity. The only thing I can really do is try to rest through these attacks. However, I do admit that emotionally it is very difficult for me to allow myself these periods. And it's just as hard for me to take the simple preventative measure of slowing down a bit. I'm 31. Nothing should be slow yet. I'm surrounded by older people remind me of that constantly. These are the times I resent this disease the most, not so much because I lack strength to do what I'd like-though that's also an issue-but because I find myself forced to explain it to those I have to let down. I just don't like discussing it. Why, I don't quite know.

Perhaps because verbalizing it makes it harder to ignore. But realistically I can't pretend it it isn't there, the way a small child might cover her eyes and believe that no one else can ser her. I have to keep looking this thing in the eyes if I'm to keep it in submission and live my life. I know it's a reality I didn't ask for, so why should I be ashamed? I suppose I don't like the fact that it leaves me open to however people may view me, perhaps as someone useless and defective, or someone making excuses for herself. I can't do anything about it either way. Everyone won't understand; yet I suppose I simple must trust that, as my mother says, "they are required to love you anyway." The only thing I can control is how I view myself. I do the best I can, and some days, that "best" produces a lot; other days my "best" may barely eke out a fraction of what I'd hoped to achieve. I'm a functioning person with some malfunctioning parts. But when I really give it some thought, aren't we all? Defects, limitations, illnesses (whatever their nature) are not what we are; they are simply hurdles with which we must all contend. At least, for right now.

Here's a video for my "visual" friends:

Exiting "The Friend Zone"

Sigh. Here we go...


I'm typically an open book, both in person, and in writing. Despite popular opinion, I don't air ALL my dirty laundry-I give just enough brutally honest tidbits about myself to allow those around me to know who I am beyond the shadow of a doubt-and to show them that I probably can relate to whatever they're going through at a given moment because I've likely felt something similar. It allows me to connect with even the least likely of persons, and that makes me feel great. But this subject-this "relationship" stuff-is hard to address openly. I doubt I'm the only stable single person who feels that way. Talking about your love life (or lack thereof) leaves you feeling dangerously vulnerable. You can only discuss it with certain people because everyone else starts feeling bad for you and immediately trying to find people to set you up with, when all you'd hoped to do is an emotional detox. So with most people, I don't even go there, or I keep my comments broad and generalized. Even in more intimate settings I can give the impression that I have that area of my life somewhat under control despite my faults, mishaps, and troubles; either by cracking some jokes, or going into some long-winded monologue about how "I-don't-need-a-man" or "men-can't-handle-me" or whatever declaration of false bravado I can quickly think of to keep me appearing intact. In weaker moments, I may revert to a rhythmic tirade of male-bashing, because that's easy and makes for good laughs-or in the company of friends of both sexes, spirited yet good-natured debates. In extreme circumstances, I may just change the subject if it starts to get TOO real. But you know me little better now than when I began chronicling my adulthood. In writing, I don't put up a front. I can't. And, especially for my younger readers, it may be better this way. This way, you learn VERY well, complete with flashing red lights and black-and-yellow "CAUTION" tape, what NOT to do. You may view me differently after reading this; you may even respect me less. But I need to say all this in order to make sense of it myself, so bear with me.

Cutting to the chase, so to speak, I have been a long-term resident of "The Friend Zone" for many, many years. I'll explain. The "Friend Zone" describes a state in which a single person is strictly viewed by one or more members of the opposite sex within their potential dating pool, as a platonic friend, without the possibility of that friendship evolving into anything more. Based solely on my observation, many times individuals may end up here because they've been placed there ("He's like my brother, I could NEVER see him any other way"). And granted, it is completely legitimate to only feel friendly affection for someone of the opposite sex. It is an unfortunate, yet common turn of events when in a friendship, one party begins to feel something more and the other doesn't. And we've received much information over the years to help us keep our opposite-sex friendships healthy and balanced and therefore minimize the risk of heartbreak. But unrequited romantic feelings are inevitably going to develop from time to time despite even the best efforts to be careful. We are striving every day to be the best people we can-so of course we're going to have qualities that attract us to one another. But it isn't possible for us to all be in love with each other at the same time. The level to which that sting of disappointment affects us depends highly on the measures each party takes moving forward. That's one definition of what it means to be in "The Friend Zone," and that typically happens against the will of the person considered to be perpetually platonic. But there remains yet another definition-one that is completely avoidable.

Up until about last week, I sounded like a broken record, airing the same complaint over and over again about men: "What, do I have a sign on my head that says, 'Buddy'? Why does every guy I meet immediately treat me like their sister-or worse yet, their brother? (looking exaggeratedly down my own blouse) I am still a woman, aren't I?" What I say about my dealings with the opposite sex is true. In no time, pretty much any single brother I meet is telling me his whole life story and asking me for advice about the NEXT girl, while I'm sitting there having to mentally tear down the white picket fence I imagined for us and trying to figure out how we ever even got to this point. I loved and continue to love having brothers as friends, but to have every single person you've been interested in romantically since the year 2000, practically want you to be the best man in their wedding to someone else is bound to give a girl a complex. What was wrong with these men? I'm not terrible to look at, they obviously enjoy my company and hold me in high esteem, and I have the cell phone records to prove that if necessary. Emotionally speaking, they're on me like white on rice...only for it all to end with, "You'll make a great wife for someone, someday." REALLY?

I've driven everyone close to me half crazy with the fact that I'm constantly finding myself in these situations and then asking "why" for the next 3 years until the next person comes along to initiate the cycle all over again. I've been blaming the guys this whole time, thinking maybe I'm just attracted to men with issues, who are just too dumb to see a good thing when it's right in front of them. After all, Mom and Dad have known one another since they were seven years old, and they've enjoyed over 30 years of happy marriage. Wouldn't someone want to be with their "best friend"? We could skip all the layers of trying to impress each other and just realize that since we like to be around each other so much, we could make this a permanent setup. Why not? I've been frustrated and confused about this whole thing for so long I think it's put wrinkles on my forehead. But recently, finally, and much to both my relief as well as embarrassment, the veil has been lifted; the mystery solved: It's not them, it's ME. I PUT MYSELF IN THE FRIEND ZONE.

Now, people have warned me about this for years, and either I didn't get it, or I just didn't agree. I'm a friendly person. Was I supposed to just shut down and turn into a giggling fool in the presence of the opposite sex so as to be viewed as a woman? It wasn't going to happen, and I was highly insulted at the notion. Friendly and social is what I am; I didn't see anyone else around me having to change who they were. It just never seemed fair, so I went on as I was...overly familiar with every brother I met, from the MOMENT we met, slapping them on the back after a hearty laugh, draping my arm over their shoulder, referring to THEM as MY brother, drawing them into weighty conversation until they couldn't help but bare their souls. It's a great deal they get, really: That comfort of getting to enjoy a warmth that's too youthful to be motherly, not critical enough to be sisterly, less discreet or cautious than every most other "girly" girls they know...almost like having one of your boys around, except there's a pretty dress and you can dance together at parties. And the best part is, it'll always be this way-always this open, always this comfortable. She is never going to fall in love with you. Yep, guys were hitting the jackpot by finding me. Why WOULD they ever see me as anything else? My behavior made it clear from the start that there was no romantic potential; I was just a super-cool girl who was good at being "one of the guys." How dare I fall in love with any of them!

Now that the truth of this has hit me like a ton of bricks (hurled at me from the general direction of my friends and family-thanks a lot, I both love AND hate you all) at a juncture in my life where being in denial could literally be bad for my health, I've had to reluctantly (and quite shamefully) accept that I've been doing this to myself for as long as I can remember. I used to read all that information in the publications about how to have appropriate boundaries in friendships and say, "Mmm-hmm, here it is, clear as day, yet "they" STILL do this to me." Nobody did anything to me that I didn't allow or even unwittingly encourage. I see that now. And in order to end the cycle, obviously things must change. But being any other way would completely foreign, unnatural and terrifying. I've enjoyed and benefitted tremendously from being single and if that's how things continue, I'll be just fine. But the idea that I've been sabotaging myself from possibly making a connection is not something for which I'd like to spend the rest of my life kicking myself. I've been trying to figure out how I got here. Where did I lose my way? Oh...oh yeah. I remember now.

Being an overweight, nerdy adolescent often leads to success in adulthood, but can do some long-term psychological damage, I tell you. I'd have crushes on boys and just be convinced that if they ever found out how I felt, they'd laugh me out of town or turn up their noses in disgust. I had lots of pretty friends at whom all the boys would practically knock me over to look. What I noticed early on, though, was that while everyone was ogling my cute friends, the same boys were actually enjoying being around ME. They'd ask me to introduce them to my girlfriends, but at the moment of truth, they were all too nervous and self conscious and sweaty-palmed to know what to say to one another other than "hi" and "bye". Since I knew none of them were interested in me it was easy for me to just be myself and enjoy the friendships. And I did, every last one of them. Of course it hurt a little if I ever started to like one of them as more than a friend and have to listen to them pining over so-and-so, but they way I saw it, this level of intimacy would probably be the closet thing I'd ever have to a real relationship, so I might as well go all in. And that's exactly what I've been doing down to this day.

Except I'm not an adolescent anymore. I actually have plenty to offer in a relationship. But no one will ever know that until I put away my high school letterman jacket and start behaving like the woman I am. That's quite clear now. But it frightens me to no end to consider what that could possibly imply. I fear that if I don't do what I've always done, brothers won't talk to me at all. I had to sit here and stare at that line for another 5 minutes after typing it to let that reality sink in. Wow. I'm terrified. I just imagine myself sitting alone, crickets chirping in the background, wondering what happened to my life. I really don't know how I'm going to do this. So I'm afraid I can't end this entry on a triumphant high, completely resolute and equipped with a plan of execution because I still don't quite know what "change" entirely implies for me. I can only hope that my warning is taken seriously: KNOW YOUR WORTH, because you will be valued at the price you place on yourself, and once that's done, it is quite difficult to undo. I will say this, however: half the battle is won. At least now, I can stop asking, "Why?"

"Other"

I'm following a friend on Twitter who just referred to himself in one of his tweets as an "instigator." It made me laugh, because I know it to have been proven true on many occasions. I wonder, though, if that's what how he really defines himself. I mean, using a noun to describe yourself is tantamount to pronouncing a finite sentence on your own personality; as it implies that whatever you are saying about yourself is as much who you are as your gender or your race. Yet, whether we do it out loud, in writing or in theory, we all tend to define ourselves-and one other-in very specific, narrow, and unforgiving terms. Just seems easier that way. After all, categorizing others saves us the trouble of spending the time necessary to get to know their ins and outs. And which of us wants to be left at the mercy of what someone else thinks we are, right? Wouldn't it allow us more control to just TELL people who we are, and that way no one gets disappointed?

My mother does a terrible job of hiding the sadness in her voice when she recounts the following incident: When I was seven years old, I woke up one morning and announced that I was going to be PERFECT. I was not going to make a single mistake that entire day. If I explain why I undertook such an endeavor, I will lose my audience AND my composure-but suffice it to say, my ambition was writing checks that my organism could not pay. By the time I'd made it to the bathroom to get ready for school, I'd already dropped a few things on the floor and was inconsolably devastated. Mom's been losing sleep over my mental stability ever since. Poor thing. But I refuse to believe I was (or am) the only one unsatisfied with who they are. No one is completely comfortable with imperfection, I don't care WHAT they tell you. Granted, most of us eventually come to accept that we won't be the best at everything but it's safe to say that we would all like to be known for excelling or being consistently good at at something. It could be a skill, a talent, or the demonstration of some virtue or quality. It creates a fixed sense of identity, which in turn provides a comforting illusion of security.

My weight could continue to balloon to the size of Montana, but as long as I was the "smart one," I was still good for something. So I threw myself into academics. It took me years to accept that occasionally a 'B' might find itself mixed in with my string of A's and that sometimes, someone WOULD have a higher GPA than I did. I also came to realize that I wasn't entirely comfortable with the implications of being the "smart one." The "smart one" was responsible for knowing everything about any random subject at any given time. While I did have a stellar memory and impressive reading comprehension, if the book I'd read that day was about Shakespeare and not about quantum physics, I'd be able to tell you everything about the former and absolutely nothing about the latter. In plain English-some days I just was not going to sound that smart. Also, a nerd is ALWAYS supposed to be a nerd, 24 hours a day, seven days a week. She can't dance, or listen to hip-hop, or enjoy completing silly quizzes in teenage magazines, or laugh at anything without it containing an intellectual double-meaning. So, upon seeing that I couldn't fill the role of being a nerd to perfection, I reluctantly retired. That was alright-because if I wasn't the smart one, I could be the mature mother hen. I put on the work-hat of the wise old lady who always gave sage advice...except she was three months younger than you and was in your fourth period computer class. I listened to EVERYONE'S problems, from grade crises to family problems, breakups and diets, and I ALWAYS had an answer. Literally, people would submit their problems to me in first period gym, and by the end of the school day I'd have a completed written commentary addressing and resolving their issues. It felt good to be counted on to know something, to have something meaningful to say, and to be looked up to. But that, too, ran it's course. The days when my brain and hormones suddenly remembered that I was only 16 years old, and I felt like having a bad day, created a general sense of discomfort for all my peers. I was supposed to have all the answers, so what was anyone to say to comfort me?

There were glitches with every subsequent superhero identity I tried to take on from then on out: Party-Girl-April, Junior Executive-April, Day-To-Night-Barbie-April(complete with outfits that easily transitioned from early morning field-service-wear to practical work clothing to sparkly club attire. Yep. You read that right.). I had my Mary J. Blige phase when I decided I was never taking any mess from anybody (that one I actually miss). There was Big Pimpin' April, classically surrounded by upwards of 10 dudes at a time, which was fun until I realized that none of them actually remembered that I was a GIRL. My conscience didn't put up with my Touret's phase for very long(wantonly saying whatever was in my head simply for shock value, that is. I think I must have still been trying to get my meds right back then.). I had my Jill Scott/Erykah Badu "Deep-Girl" phase with my headwraps and candles; turning every congregation talent show into a finger-snapping poetry slam. I think even when I spoke in service it sounded as if I were rapping. That directly preceded the Faux Black Latina Phase (Salsa dancing every weekend and speaking with an accent although I didn't even really speak Spanish yet). Then I got sick and I wanted to be known as The Inspiration. Every conversation became an unsolicited motivational speech. Even when I started thinking like an adult and focusing on the important things, I wanted to be known as the Responsible Pioneer-on alert like some kind of theocratic paramedic. Always there, whether it was practical or realistic or possible for me to do so or not. It wasn't so much that I wanted to be someone I wasn't-I just wanted to be extraordinary somehow, and each of these "personas" reflected a dear part of myself that I wanted to make bigger and better and shinier, someone I could count on people loving and therefore, someone I could love.

A few of the major problems on this identity quest were as follows: No one can be just one predictable way all the time, no matter who you are "supposed" to be. Humans are fluid products of their emotions, upbringing and environment, and it takes a lot of discipline that most of us don't have to react robotically to a situation, especially for reasons other than moral obligation or spiritual devotion. In other words, if you are trying to work against the natural grain of your personality for any reason other than to please God-who actually gives the strength to be better than what our nature dictates that we are-we won't last long at all. Number two: Forcing yourself into a box or a type so that you always belong somewhere and so that no one can reject you is a way of enslaving yourself to fear and to other people's expectations. It doesn't take a rocket scientist to conclude that THAT isn't healthy. Thirdly, there are many, many facets to all our personalities, and depending on our surroundings, the conditions, and the company we keep, those facets either shine or become dull depending on how we try to fashion ourselves. Either way, they are always there. I was ALL the people I was trying to be, in some split-second in time, in some corner of my psyche. I believe we all have a teeny bit of multiple personality disorder, and we are all just trying to get everyone in there to get along long enough not to mess things up too badly. But the BIGGEST and most dangerous problem in a search for self, like mine, is how easy it is to underestimate and put aside the one thing that can make the abstract parts of an imperfect human harmonize into something beautiful-Godly fear. I've loved Jehovah my whole life, but there have been moments when, simply put, I've found myself so panicked and lost and desperate to see clearly who I am that I forget: That IS who I am! Having a life that revolves around keeping that love strong and pleasing Jehovah is what makes the good parts of us better and the not-so-good parts sit down and shut up (at least most of the time). We have to give ourselves and one another the opportunity to see that phenomenon in action. Serving Jehovah is the glue. I try to go any other way and I fall apart, and I'm in a million pieces all over North America, wearing who-knows-what.

So to my friend, the "Instigator"; to my loudmouths, and crybabies; prudes, and intellectuals; clowns and ditzes; mama's boys and complicated women: these are things we DO and FEEL-they aren't who we are. May we let serving Jehovah-and loving and forgiving one another-define WHO WE ARE. There's no form to fill out and submit declaring that we've finally figured ourselves out. And if there were, there really would be no need to pick a category, we could just check "other". Or, even better: rip the form up, and just LIVE.

Unraveling...On Purpose

The number 30 is an airtight alibi. It is, because I say so.

I reached 30 years of age on April 7th of this year, and because an unwritten rule states that I was supposed to either have an epiphany or a psychotic episode at that point, I knew I would eventually write about it. But I wouldn't do it right away. I'm a logical person. All my 206 bones are still present and accounted for. When I examine my skin, I see that it has regenerated itself into pretty much the same pattern consistently, save a few new lines. The perfectly circular birthmark on the outside of my left ankle is still in the same spot; the little mole on my left ring finger hasn't moved a millimeter. My DNA double-helix has done nothing different in the last 30 years, so why would anything climactic happen to me between the night of April 6th and the morning of April 7th? Knowing that made me decide to wait to write about turning 30. I felt that there would be nothing to tell. And there really was nothing to tell.

At this point I have been 30 for three months. Absolutely nothing is different in my life. My body is the same; my circumstances, unchanged...I'm walking around with the same intellectual and emotional makeup. I didn't suddenly feel the need to sit out the dance, or lose my love of learning, or stop caring about my physical appearance, or cease to get misty-eyed watching YouTube videos of baby animal antics. But something has altered. The difference is nothing decidedly dramatic. I simply discovered that turning 30 is a wonderful excuse to start running my life differently, in ways I'd previously been afraid to. I know that what I do and how I choose to live are my decisions and have been for some time, but I'll be the first to admit that I've been a serial people-pleaser my entire life for reasons I won't bore anyone with on a Monday night. The reasons don't in fact matter on the grand scale. The more I have lived and grown, the more clear it has become that living to stay in everyone else's good graces is frustrating, futile, and potentially fatal. I've known that I needed to change for a long time. I just never knew how. And I know that the courage to do what one has to do should not depend on a number. But guess what? I needed a number. I read once that a deadline is what separates a dream from a goal. It has been my dream to be a strong and genuine version of myself for a very long time. It seems safe to say that 30 was my unnofficial deadline.

It's not that I haven't been myself up to now...I can't be anyone but myself. But I had a policy of, "I'm gonna be me-as long as it's ok with YOU" that was gradually eroding at my happiness and self-worth without even my knowledge of it. This is not to say that from now on I'm going to be putting myself or my desires first and foremost in everything. I know that emotionally and spiritually that kind of thinking would be equally detrimental. Real does not have to equal rude. It simply means being honest with myself about my motives and feelings. It means having the humility to listen to input and suggestions, but at the end of the day being able to weigh all factors and make a decision between myself and my Father without waiting for unanimous acceptance or veto by others. It's having the courage to back away from influences, situations, and-if necessary-people whose presence in my life doesn't make me better. Unless my faith or integrity are on the line there is no need to be a martyr and suffer unnecessarily. There is far too much inevitable pain that must be endured and coped with for me to add needless budens to my already aching back.

Some of you are reading this and shaking your heads in confusion, possibly saying to yourselves, "So?? I've BEEN living my life this way...I don't put up with crap, people just have to take me as I am, blah blah blah..." My response: Good for you. No disrespect intended, but that's you, not me. I don't apologize for being a late bloomer. I'm not apologizing for anything else about myself that isn't morally or spiritually wrong. Like all steps, everyone takes theirs when they are ready. And yes, being labeled with the number 30 has made it easier for me to tell the world that although I love and respect my fellow man I need to take care of myself in order to serve my God and have a measure of sanity. I needed the failures and the breakdowns to prove to myself that I couldn't keep going at the same pace. I needed these years to learn who I was and who I wanted to be before I could dig my heels into the ground and insist on having the breathing room to be that person. And I needed time to learn how to do it without alienating the people I love, because in doing that I wouldn't be remaining true to who I am,either.

I vacilate not; anyone who works out can tell you that strength and balance are indelibly linked. My new favorite saying that I myself coined, sacreligious though it may sound, is this: "Jesus was no sucker." The greatest man ever to have walked the earth was known for his surpassing love, approachableness and self-sacrifice, but he wasn't a fool that blindly let himself be taken advantage of because he was scared everyone would leave him. He wasn't participating in a popularity contest. He had the courage to do what was right, and what to do what needed to be done in order to accomplish the purpose for which he came whether anybody liked it or not. That's what I'm trying to become. Incidentally, he presented himself for his assignment when he was 30. Seems my timing is pretty good after all.

Some who have had dealings with me over the years will be taken aback to find that I don't say "yes" as quickly as I used to, or that I'm a bit more vocal about my opinions than I formerly let on. I expect people to wonder if I've been taking my meds, or if I'm experiencing extnded PMS. And I that's going to bother me. Perhaps I won't get as many phone calls or invitations, and I anticipate it being uncomfortable at first. But ultimately, I have to get past the initial strain. I'm having to make some choices that are not what I've been used to. But it's about time, and so far, it doesn't feel too terrible. Blame it on the number 30, I suppose...

Just beyond my reach...

I'll spare you all my normal frilly introductions and just cut straight to the chase: I am MAD. I was sad yesterday, but the sadness has changed it's shape and now it's just anger. This may or may not make sense to anyone, but it is the truth. I am angry at my own body, and it's not because I'm not shaped like Kim Kardashian (although that wouldn't be such a terrible thing). It's because I'm sick, although I feel fine. Wow. I've never actually seen what those words look like in print. I'm sick. I almost want to laugh, but I'll probably cry and throw things instead.

None of this is new. I've alluded many times to the fact that I have multiple sclerosis (MS) and rapid cycling bipolar disorder. Yep, that's me, crippled and crazy. It's practically dance floor conversation for me now. ("You dance really well, where did you learn to meringue?" "Thanks! You know at one point I wasn't ever supposed to walk again and that I tried to kill myself six times before I was 20?" "Really? That's awesome! So what congregation did you say you were in?") But thanks to modern medicine and a steady spiritual routine, I'm fine emotionally. I have my moments but they are no more extreme than those of anyone else living in these end times. I manage, and I consider myself a happy person. And as a result of the mental and emotional journey I've taken over the years, I'm much more sensitive to others, which, I believe, has contributed to me having so many wonderful friends that I don't quite deserve but for whom I am eternally grateful. And not only can I walk (doctors weren't sure I would again), but I can dance, run, do boy push-ups....I'm in better shape now than I was before my diagnosis. Ok, sure. I have a limp, my vision gets blurry sometimes, my left hand or leg may suddenly not want to move for 5 seconds...but compared to how things were, all of that is minor. I went through a lot of physical therapy to get to this point. Some people with relapsing-remitting MS never get back to doing this well after a flare-up; I went from paralysis to hiking and swimming. I was able to get right back into the full time ministry, and Jehovah has allowed my damaged brain to learn Spanish fluently and even pick up some things in a few other languages here and there. I never would have seen any of this for myself a few years ago.

The funny thing about blessings, though, is that we enjoy receiving them so much that sometimes we just want more of them. I've always admired missionaries and traveling overseers from a distance...and I've had a small taste of that life by moving to the Spanish congregation and by having the opportunity to serve unassigned territory here and in a temporary assignment abroad. I love that life-simple; focused mainly on service and on loving the brothers and sisters. And that's what I want. It's been my goal for some time now to move to a country where there is greater need. I have no husband, I have the stamina and the desire-no time like the present, right? I look around and so many would love to "step over into Macedonia," as the Bible puts it, but their circumstances don't allow it. I've been feeling good for a long time. And though I love my congregation and am happy about what Jehovah has let me do there, I feel like I need to do this, on behalf of everyone who can't. An opportunity arose when a close friend announced she'd be returning to her hometown in Mexico and relayed to me that there is a great need in the English field, especially for native speakers to help the non-native speakers who want to help in the English group. Oh, the wheels in my head weren't just turning; they nearly spun off their axles at the thought of a situation so ideal. Abroad, but not too far from home; with the family of a close friend, which of course would make my parents feel more at ease; in a foreign language territory, yet speaking my mother tongue. The ideas were just flooding in and I let my imagination and my emotions take off downriver on a speedboat. I started telling everyone about my big dreams of being a need-greater in Mexico. I'd sell my car to my sister and live well down there off my disability money. I could see it so clearly, all the experiences and the challenges and the colors and excitement. I'm turning 30 next month, yet no one would be able to look at me with pity as so many of my peers settle into life with their husbands and children. I was going to Mexico. It almost sounded too good to be true. That's probably because it was.

Last night I was joking with my mother about how my going-away bash would rival Hollywood. She responded, "But why would you have a party if you'll be back in 3 months?" Had she not been listening? My plan was to MOVE. I reminded her of this, and she says, "Yeah, but you'll have to come back every three months for your medicine." I was silent. My medicine! I truly had forgotten. The reason I'm doing so well, the reason I feel good, besides holy spirit, are my regular pills and injections. I asked my neurologist once if I could ever get off the injections and she essentially bit my head off and swiftly reminded me of my adventures in the wheelchair. Point taken. And I know from experience what happens when a person takes anti-depressants and stops them. I need my medicines to function, period. I don't know what would happen if I stopped them and frankly,I don't want to find out. I might get down to Mexico and completely fall apart, and though I guess I'm pretty brave, that isn't a risk I want to take. So I began researching to see if I could find my medicines in Mexico. I know that many people purposely go there for medicines and medical treatment because of the substantially lower cost. And yes, the costs are lower, but here, with my health insurance, I pay nothing for a medicine that would cost me $300 USD per month in Mexico (it retails at $1800 per month here!). And that's just the injections; I haven't calculated in all the pills. So my next idea was to see if my health insurance would cover me in Mexico. It wouldn't; unless I had to go to the ER and that coverage would only last for my first six months in the country. The only feasible option was what Mom originally said-going back and forth, every three months. And I couldn't see myself having money for four round-trip tickets from Guadalajara to SF every year-not with Social Security as my only income while I am there. It hit me like a half-ton truck: this was not a realistic idea. It was a dream, and it probably wasn't going to come true. For the first time in a long time, I cried myself to sleep. And, to add insult to injury, my hand stopped moving for a while.

Some of my tears were born of my disappointment at watching Mexico dissolve before my eyes, but what hurts worse is that I feel I have no right to be upset. I know that if someone else were to cry to me about their limitations, I'd try to remind them of their value to Jehovah, and how everything we do for him must be viewed as a privilege. And more so if they had done as much as Jehovah has let me do in my circumstances. I always tried to be so positive, telling myself I'd never let the obstacles be a chapter in my life. They're merely footnotes, I'd say. I joked about my illnesses as if they were just endearing quirks that made me an individual. And the fact that I've been stable for so long made that easy. Jehovah has kept me in mind for so much and let me do things I never thought were possible for me. And if I keep focused, he might continue to let me participate this much in his service. How dare I be greedy and ask for more, I thought. I ought to just stay here with my free meds and be happy. But I was laying there, crying about losing the prospect of a foreign assignment. It's like a teenage kid getting a brand new BMW and being upset because it wasn't a Mercedes Benz. Shame on me, I thought. I prayed and cried, and cried and prayed, and this morning I woke up and had a great morning in service...until someone asked me about my Mexico plans, at which point I started crying some more. I wanted this so much. I WANT it, so badly. And I feel I'm being ungrateful for all I already have, because I want it. Uh-oh...here come the waterworks again. Am I crazy? Don't answer that; I'll rephrase. Am am wrong to hold on to the hope that this could work out somehow? Because I'm not ready to let it go yet. I know this is beyond my reach. I don't need to be told that I'm being unrealistic. I just keep telling myself that Jehovah's reach is longer than mine. And I'm hoping he'll see fit to reach and get me this one-that is, if he doesn't think I'm asking for too much.

Your Pain...In My Heart (originally composed 11/2010)

It’s incredible how easily what we see, smell and hear can take us to places we love to remember…or sometimes ones we’d give anything to forget. Memory is enigmatic stuff, y’all. I might be standing there washing dishes, and in the silence I can hear, as if it were all taking place right in the kitchen where I stand, some hostile exchange of words I may have had with someone years ago, and get upset all over again. But we need memories-even the bad ones. Memory is what keeps a child from putting his hand on a hot stove again after having burned himself once already. It can keep us from making the same mistakes twice, if we pay enough attention. Sometimes we try to block out certain pain so as not to re-live or re-experience the discomfort. That’s a defense mechanism most of us cultivate early on, so as not to keep suffering over and over again from the same blow, and the reasons for such emotional shielding are logical, in theory. But, is feeling the pain after the injury is behind us always such a bad thing?

When I was a child I told myself I would never forget how bad it made me feel when adults talked about me as if I weren't there, or when people laughed off any worry I expressed because to them I was just a cute kid. I didn't want to forget that, because that way I could guarantee I wouldn’t grow up to be that kind of grown-up. Instead, I’d be the Pied Piper; the one all the children flocked to; the one who understood. I promised myself I’d never roll my eyes at the teenager who would rather die than have to go back to school on Monday and be laughed at for wearing shoes from Payless. That I’d never tell the fat kid that real beauty was on the inside, because I’d remember that when I was the fat kid, that really did just sound like a load of crap.

In case you haven’t figured this out yet, as a younger person I was deeply sensitive and emotional-almost to the point of instability. In order to save my own life I made a choice to be proactive in being happy, and though my circumstances aren’t perfect, I find my life as a whole much easier to face. With the help of Jehovah God, the modern medicine he has allowed to exist, his organization, and just plain old time and growing up I’ve learned to work through my pain as it comes and I can honestly say that generally speaking I am content. And that bothers me sometimes, because now that I am, I don’t know that I have the same ability to empathize. I try…I know its possible; Jesus empathized with the suffering of imperfect humans although he himself was perfect. But I just feel like I was better at feeling others’ pain when I myself was a regular to sadness. I never wanted to be someone cold-I’m not superstitious but it just seems like people who aren’t good at being empathetic always get reminded of what real pain feels like in a very real way. The thing is, I was sad for a long time…I got better…now I just want to see other people feel better, too.

I'm thinking about this much more right now. One of my dads, the biological one, has been fighting lymphoma for the past six months. My sister has been dealing with some health issues that previously I'd never even heard of. Being involved in the full time ministry exposes a person to a diverse array of people...and their diverse array of problems. And everybody else I know is still living in the last days of this system of things. There are economic problems; illnesses; family conflicts; romantic disllusion; bereavement; fights with our own imperfection. We are all struggling in some way but there are always moments when some people's problems are more serious than others, period. And then there are the pains of youth...which may on the grand scale of things be minor but feel unbearably major when one is too young to see things any other way. In my congregation I am surrounded by young people and I feel for so many of them because they just appear lost, and I'm sure they often feel that way, too. When people I love suffer, I feel frustrated-mostly with myself for being helpless to do anything about it, but (and go ahead and start throwing stones at me- maybe I deserve it) its almost as if I even get impatient with THEM, the poor victim. In my mind it's like, “I love you, dangit!! Feel better already!!” I know I’m not truly upset at the person, I’m just upset at what is robbing them of their happiness and because of my love I want it to go away. I know that healing- be it physical or emotional- isn't so cut and dry, but if I love you, I want it to happen RIGHT NOW. But so does the sufferer. As well-founded as that thinking may be, it is the last thing people need. What they need is to know someone else identifies with their battle. I know that’s what I need when I’m having a hard time; it just takes me a little time to remember that when the shoe is on the other foot. I tell you, empathy hurts. You live life to get past the bad times, not to feel them over and over again through others.

Then again, maybe that's the problem-I still remember they way I thought and felt at my worst, much more clearly than I want to. It's still too fresh, and when I hear what other people experience, their words become the scents and sounds that take me back to places I hadn't packed to visit again. I also remember how hard it was to get out if those dark places. Perhaps that's why I still have to work on being a good listener. It's not because I just adore hearing myself talk. When I hear expressions that strike a chord, that take me back to heartache or confusion that I thought was far behind me, my impulse is to fill in the spaces between sentences with logic, and answers, not realizing that what I'm sitting here trying to resolve for my loved ones in 10 minutes may have taken me 10 years to get resolved within myself. Maybe it's my way of psychologically going back and consoling myself through my own drama. Whatever it is, I know it isn't good, and I'm trying to fix that. It isn't about me...it isn't about getting the comfort I wish somebody else had known how to give me years ago. In the moment, I probably wouldn't have wanted to hear it. It would have been nice to just get a hug. I'm not complaining, I know those around me loved me the best way they knew how. But this right here, what I'm doing right now...I suppose this is what empathy is about; not thinking about how I feel, or even how I felt, but I'd feel if I were the person in who's eyes I'm watching the pain; and what I'd want from me, the listener. You don't always want your problems fixed. Most of us know the logistics and if we are too young to know, that's where our parents come in. What is needed is to know that we're not crazy or wrong for what we feel, and that whether or not other people exactly understand, they care.

I think life was meant to be lived linearly and three-dimensionally; moving forward and not in retrospect or jumping back and forth from hazy flashbacks to the present as if it were the director's cut of a feature film. But that linear, forward-moving life without the agonizing flashbacks or regrets just isn't what's up right now. We're going to see and feel things we don't want to see and feel, and then tragedy will strike someone we love and we'll go back to places we thought were behind us and it will ACHE. But Jehovah doesn't let it ever become unbearable.He knows we need one another's support, in a way that only another human can offer it. That is really amazing to think about how God uses us, in all our decay and dysfunction, to take care of each other until it's time for him to step in for good. I do feel the pressing need to help people find relief for their suffering the same way I did. The things I've been through (and the fact that I keep overcoming internal and external obstacles) is no credit to me whatsoever, but to what Jehovah does for his servants. Again and again he has lifted me up from the bottom of low. He helped my parents raise me to have some semblance of sense. He has showed me light when I really couldn't see anything in front of me but dense gloom. So my first recourse in caring for down-trodden friends and loved ones is to direct them to MY source of strength. But before I even do that, they need to know I love them and that their feelings are theirs to be had and not mine to judge or even undo. It's a difficult thing to master and no one is going to do this perfectly. But no man is an island; we were created to be a community. We have to learn to be there for each other, no matter how much it hurts to do so. Having someone else's pain in your heart is a beautiful thing when you think about it. It means we are alive-and that at least a little part of that treacherous heart works just as it was meant to.

Series Finale-and Life's beginning

I wish I could tell you all where I've been these last few months...but the truth is, I don't even know. My body has been in the usual places, save a few necessary variations, but my head...I can't quite say the same for my head. Have you ever experienced a time when you realize that everything you've been doing, you've done on "autopilot?" When without even noticing, everything you do, you do robotically? Watch a hamster on a wheel. Then you'll know what I'm talking about. He just runs...without purpose or destination. He just GOES. The fact that I can't easily recount the highlight clips of my life within the past few months tells me that I have become that hamster. I just go-and I even have the nerve to get irritated when anything (or anyone, for that matter) interrupts my pace. It's a scary place to be. You know why? Because eventually you have to stop. During that pause you begin to catch up with yourself, and as you attempt to retrace your steps you realize you can logistically recount things you've done, but you couldn't say to save your life how you felt, or even how you feel. In a sense, you lose your identity, because you are not you; rather, you are little more than a machine performing tasks up to a manufacturer's specifications. It's disorienting to feel this way. For lack of a less-cliche way to put things, life is a journey, yet what is the point of going on a trip when you have nothing to show from having gone, no pictures, no souvenirs, no interesting facts, no funny anecdotes, no pseudo-horror stories to recount? You might as well have just been asleep the whole time.

Now before I scare anyone into believing that I'm at the point of what John Mayer aptly called a "quarter-life crisis," and that soon I'm going to sell all my things and move to the mountains to meditate (I don't have anything to sell and I have asthma so me and mountains don't mix for extended periods of time. Breathe easy, people), I just want to make clear that I know that there is absolutely nothing wrong with my life. On the contrary, everything is right with it. I'm surrounded by family, loving friends, I have a healthy spiritual life and work that is meaningful. I don't worry about my daily necessities [that often]. My life is good. The problem is, sometimes in working so hard to keep it that way, I forget to show up for it; to be proactive in living and experiencing it. Rather, I work tirelessly behind the scenes to make sure everyone else gets to enjoy the April Show, with its gorgeous backdrops and colorful cast of characters. And I'm constantly making production changes to stay relevant to the audience. But I'm tired. Plain and simple. I want to really see and feel as this story unfolds, and participate...before it's all over.

Believe it or not, that's part of the reason I cancelled my Facebook account. My daily thoughts had become entertainment for hundreds of people, and I liked it. I know I'm darn near 30 years old, but I've always had issues with peer acceptance and I probably always will. Hey, at least I'm real with mine. (I'm sure that has something to do with some daddy-issues from my childhood or something, but whatever, that's another day and another post.) Anyway, it's a reality that has always made social networking risky business for me. A normal person could have such an account and use it occasionally just to keep in touch with friends, share something funny, let everyone know they are alive and well. For me, that's always how it begins. But then the next thing I know, I post something...and people respond. They like what I had to say. They like ME. I post a picture of myself; oh wow, someone thinks I'm pretty. So I have to keep this up, whatever it is I'm doing or saying. Gotta keep 'em coming. And so it begins, a cycle of posting and waiting for approval, or applause, or sympathy, or some form of attention. As many friends as I have outside of cyberspace, there's no logical reason for me to have become hooked on watching people "like" me online. But we mortals aren't always so logical, are we?

This is embarrassing to write about, but it needs to be said. I started this blog knowing that I might say some incriminating things, but my self-incrimination may help someone else, so I'll put my business in the street for that purpose. My life was no longer mine. I condensed it-along with my candy-coated versions of my innermost thoughts and feelings, my hopes and dreams (or at least what I thought people would care about; I knew my audience) down to 420 characters or less, at least twice a day, and didn't feel at rest until someone said something about it. If no one said anything, I was no longer relevant and that just wouldn't do. I didn't like the way the dependency felt, but I couldn't quite stop; I just didn't know how I'd feel once I was detached from all my "friends." I made excuses for myself, and some of my pretexts wore the cloak of validity (I was finally in regular communication with my extended family, and I was told on several occasions that my post about my experiences in the Christian ministry had encouraged some to think seriously about taking it up full time). But was Facebook the only way I could do these things? I went back and forth with myself for a long time, until recently, an article about social media appeared in an issue of the Awake! magazine. Included in the article was the autobiographical account of a youth who had found himself addicted to social networks. "Well, I wouldn't exactly say I'm addicted," I quickly countered to my own self-interrogation. And maybe I wasn't addicted to the social network itself. But I was addicted to something that in some ways could be far worse-attention. I say it's worse because I've been working for years on freeing myself from the tendency to live to please those around me. Facebook had become just a high-tech way to keep doing the same thing I'd been trying to undo in every other area of my life. I'm just too old for this to keep being an issue, and if I don't stop it will make me crazy or, (who am I kidding, really?) it will turn me back to crazy with the same quickness with which Cinderella reverted at midnight. But again, that's another day and other post.

So in the last couple of weeks since I've been off Facebook, I've made a concerted effort not to go backwards. After all, just because I'm no longer part of an Internet social network doesn't mean my old ways are gone. I've said, and done, and not said, and not done, alot of things in my life, all with the common intent of staying on the course that would keep people loving me. And I got really good at it. But many of the moments that have appeared so triumphant to everyone else, I wasn't even around to feel. I was too busy trying to make sure people were still tuned in. So lately, I've just been trying to live, completely organically. I'm not talking free-range meat or hemp-based clothing. What I mean is, living life and being present with myself in every moment of it, without editing or cropping or cutting and pasting. And it's been nice. I let myself feel all the warmth in a full hug from a good friend, instead if rushing and doing a half-hug real quick so I could make sure I hugged so-and-so because otherwise they'd be mad at me. I did yardwork today and watched the sky change her night-clothes twice, instead of being so worried about my own attire for the weekend being something everyone could praise. I went away to see my other dad last weekend and just let myself be there, and every time my brain started drifting to my doubts about how I'd explain my absence to those who didn't yet know how the branches of my family tree were braided, I just told myself to shut up and be happy I was there with my dad. And I felt no necessity to give anyone the play-by-play. Even this blog will change in some ways, because now, dear reader-and forgive the icy tone; I never want to be rude, but I'm just teaching myself to be real-I'm really not too concerned as to whether you are entertained by what I have to say or not. I may even lose some followers because I get too boring, or sappy, or talk about love too much, or too little, or write too many or too few poems. It's ok. No one has to read this. It would be nice if you did. But if you don't, no worries. My life is to be lived, and shared with those I love. But the curtain has closed, and the "April Show" is no more.