lovely vs. unlovely

Sometimes when everything around you seems to go to crap, all you need to do is take a breath, look around you and notice all the lovely things that exist.
Sure, there's really unlovely thing, and yes in that moment their existence is more prominent than the lovely.
But noticing the lovely helps take the edge off the unlovely.
It gives you a flicker of hope that maybe it's possible that things can still get better.

Yesterday, it was the rain hitting the window while reading a good book with my favorite old album playing.

Getting to have a moment like that made it possible for my sapped creativity to start flowing again, or at least start churning.
It gave me a fresh look on life.

Not a new one, because I believe that's what the last 4 years were for.
But a fresh one.
Definitely a fresh one.

Words.

I don't understand how people can be so inconsiderate of others when it comes to words.

Sure, I'm not perfect either, and I'm sure there are times when my words come off in ways I don't intend. But there are some people who speak without a care of how you interpret it because to them it's not their problem.
But it is. It is your problem. You are inadvertently creating pain in another human being, and if that isn't a problem, I don't know what is.
No one is ever going to be perfect. It's impossible for every word you say to always be as sweet as honey, but you can do what is in your power to do to speak soft words.

Why would you want to say things that cut people down?
Why would you want to make someone feel ignorant?
Why would you want to tear someone apart?

Do you not realize that words have a lasting influence?
That what one is told is what echoes through their heads when they're alone?

You have the power to infiltrate someone's darkest times with light, why would you instead spout out swords that pierce through and shred on the way out?

Just because you are able to speak, doesn't mean you should.
Just because you have the ability to form words doesn't mean you should shoot them off without a second thought.

Yes, we are all different.
We are all raised differently and have different frames of mind.
I believe that is part of what makes the world beautiful.
Why not cultivate that beauty with kind words?

When you're dead and 6 feet deep, what will people say of you?
What will be their lasting impression?
What will live on longer than you?

Make it of kindness.
Make it warm fuzzies.
Make it something people want to remember, not something people can shrug off and move on from.
Make your life count, form your words with care.

A night at the Oscars

I just read a post my friend wrote after his experience at the Oscars last night.
He works for the Armed Forces Network, and goes to different events to get footage and interviews to stream over to our troops around the world.

He beautifully describes what kind of release this is for them, desperate for any touch of home.
And he tells of some of his celebrity encounters.

This is why I have tears in my eyes.

People forget that celebrities are also people.
They have emotions.
They have limits.
They have thoughts.
They have ideas.
They have families.
They have opinions.
(their own opinions.)
They aren't too different from the rest of us.

Except that they also have a spotlight on them 24/7. That they are recognized anywhere they go, and have to always be "on" as soon as they step foot out side the door, and some even if they just open their blinds.

So to hear of celebrities that wanted to talk to Stephen, that came over to him without him asking, that asked how he was doing, that were honored to tell our troops how proud of them they are. To see pictures of someone as prominent as Anjelina Jolie waiting to talk to Stephan as he conversed with Matthew McConaughey, it really makes my heart beam with pride.
These people, these humans, recognize that there are other humans out there in the world right now, risking their lives for the freedom they have to do what they do. This freedom for all of us. That we don't have some right or entitlement to these freedoms, but that we fight for them... It gives me a whole heck of a lot more respect for them.

If you want to read his post, you can find it here.

Lyrics

"You were a good thing in a world gone wrong."

You're worth it.

In honor of NEDA week, I dug up this old picture from 2009.

I took this when I lived in Delaware, two years after I decided enough was enough and that I was going to start eating again.

I never thought I’d find myself with the label “Anorexic” sprawled across my being, but sure enough, there it was. For four solid years, this was the tangled web that became my reality, the worst of it unfolding in the months leading up to freedom. (Or as much of it that I can have after such a long ordeal. Consequences are real.) I don’t know the smallest I got, because I didn’t have a scale when I was away at school. But I do know that the smallest I ever got at home was 132lbs, (which, being as tall as I am looks grotesquely small.) and I lost a great deal more after that. 

I was asked this weekend what it was that made me choose that road, and honestly it was hard to pinpoint.
My family was struggling with money and I had just started public school, which has tons of little expenses the private school I was used to didn’t. I felt bad always asking my parents for money, so I stopped eating lunch. It at least took away that weekly question.
Coming from the comforts of my private school bubble and being immersed in the stark difference of the public school world was nothing less of a culture shock. Everything was so sudden; every detail of the world I once knew was now questioned, and I was left to figure out the answers by myself. 
I was a bit of a late bloomer. Leaving private school, I was still rather short and my baby fat was lingering. I never cared before, but suddenly I’m in this place where all the words that had been told to me over the years of, “you shouldn’t eat that.” “That will go straight to your hips.” “Do you wanna end up like so-in-so who weighs 300lbs?” came straight to the forefront of my mind and weighed on me like a mountain on my shoulders. As I stopped asking for lunch money and kept myself busy, the inches started falling away. People started making comments of how good I looked. It didn’t hurt that I was also finally getting taller and starting to even out. 
But I still wouldn’t accept that I had a problem yet. Part of my Grandma’s cause of death was bulimia. I refused to be that, so I made myself eat once a day to try and avoid the official label.
Then a man close to our family was going through a divorce and saw beauty in me I didn’t know of. He started making advances and doing favors and trying to get me alone. I got a job, he started working there too. He complimented me on the one part of myself I really hated, telling me, “You have great legs.” in a way that made me feel violated. I wanted to be so skinny that he wouldn’t want me, so the fire burned. We were nearly 3 years deep and this point, and I just let it all fall away. I started obsessing, shooting excuses anywhere I went. Volunteered to help extra at a camp I helped at during the summer to avoid the cafeteria. I was a pro. A few people saw right through me, but they never said anything. I kept going on, withering away little by little.
I graduated and went away to college. Anorexia became the only thing familiar to me. I couldn’t let it go, it was like a dear old friend to me; sure to make me feel better when I was nervous and reassure me when I felt like I wasn’t up to par. 

Finally, someone stood up to me. 
Here, I had a few people around me who noticed what I was doing to myself and loved me enough to not let me live that way. They didn’t do an intervention or anything, but they loved me through it. They took opportunities when they arose to tell me that this was dangerous and I needed to be careful. That this was no way to live.

When I was about 13, a friend of mine committed suicide. It wrecked our still picture-perfect world. I was floored by it and couldn’t understand how someone could do this. I told my Dad I could never do that to them, in utter disbelief. As I got older, I started seeing how someone could do that. How life could be so difficult that ending it seemed to be the answer. But that subtle, unintentional promise to my Dad kept ringing in my ear. Each time I tried, I couldn’t go through with it. I would hear my own voice speaking to help lines of what I was planning on doing and even as the words spilled through my mouth, there was no way this could be me, right? I never went through with it. I couldn’t do that to my Dad. 
Fast-forward back to college, and I’m having a conversation with my student adviser, who is a dear friend of mine, when she pointed out, “What you’re doing is a slow suicide.”

My world was rocked. How dare I? How could I be so selfish as to carry on with this?
More than that, it made me realize my mortality. I’ve always known life is short and tomorrow is never guaranteed, but I had never considered this side of it. That I was slowly taking my own life. How much longer could I go on like this until I ended up in a hospital? Would it be too late? And if it wasn’t, everyone would know my secret, and I didn’t want to sit through their criticism, and the shame I would feel.

So I stopped eating, tried to throw up any time I had the chance. I wanted this wrenching feeling inside me to die. Nothing I could do would take it away.
Then one Wednesday evening, I asked my friend if I could talk to her after a service we were in. I said simply, “This is stupid. I’m gonna start eating.”

She cried.
I had no idea why she was crying, it wasn’t a big deal. This was a simple thing, I mean, I almost didn’t tell her but I knew she’d probably want to know. That it was only fair to keep her in the loop since she’d been there through so much.

6 months later, I started getting really sick. The doctors couldn’t figure out what was wrong with me. I was so mad because now that I wanted to eat, I couldn’t. I didn’t want to fall back into that thing I loved so long ago. I didn’t trust myself. 

That went on for another 7 years, varying in intensity and symptoms. Towards the end of it I even lost my gallbladder. Other organs hurting just the same, but I refuse to lose more than I’m capable of living a semi-normal life without.

How much longer would I have had? How many more months, weeks, days would I have been able to get away with it before something serious happened?

I don’t know.

But I do know that looking back now, 7 years 2 weeks and 4 days later, I’m so grateful to have the chance at life. To be able to do the things I love. To see things most people overlook.

I shouldn’t be here. I shouldn’t be able to live life as normally as I do. More should be wrong with me than there is. 

But there isn’t.
I’m alive.
And although I’ve faced death more times than I care to admit, death has not overcome me.

Freedom is so worth it.
Let today be the day you start again.
If you have breath in your lungs, it’s not too late. 

Reach out. Get help. Let go. 

You are so worth it. 

Grief is no joke.

Grief is no joke.
I recently found myself in a downward spiral of seclusion from a death that I thought I had processed and worked through.
Apparently not.

It hit like a ton of bricks.
Like I had been hit by the car they can't find that hit and killed my friend.
Suddenly. Out of nowhere. Left to die.

The reality of those moments and how they unfolded two years ago came flooding back.
Not just of my friend and her death and processing that, but of all the other things that were going on in my life in the moment. All those things I have since endured months of therapy to be able to process and get past.
And here it was.
Like I never left.

People don't believe me that I'm an introvert. I was an extrovert as a kid (the correct term for me is an ambivert, although I have noticed I find myself favoring time alone) and have developed into an introvert the older I get and the more I come to know myself.
I can be extroverted. I can play the card. I can use it when it's just easier to push past my desire to be alone as to avoid questions people don't really want the answer to.

But when I'm exhausted, when I'm drained, when I have nothing left to give of myself and all I want is to be alone, people don't know how to handle this.
It's not fair, really. Why do people care? Or rather, act like they care. They only care when they can see evidence of a difference, not during the day-to-day when they wreck my emotions and don't even bat an eye to it. Don't get me wrong, sometimes it's needed. I like correction, I like knowing when I'm wrong so I can fix it. But when you treat me like I'm at fault and implore all these negative thoughts and questions in my head about something that is as simple as a difference of opinion or ways of processing/handling things, that's not fair.
I tend to find myself in this situation often, questioning what could be wrong with me to bring this on again.
I'm not even going to go into defense of all the opinions I can hear people thrashing at me as to why it's my fault or how I should look at it. Trust me, I've tried.
And on most days, I'm successful.
But when I have this monster weighing on my back and heart, I'm barely getting through my own living, let alone having to interact with other people.

Grief is no joke.
And though I've been told that my life could be worse, to think of those who have been involved in "real" tragedy, that I'm fine and am making it out to be more than what it is, that I'm just too sensitive, this isn't the case.

I'll never forget the day I sat with my counselor and told her how many people I've known to die--some closer to me than others--in such a short time span, her jaw dropped and she was speechless.
Sure, I know a lot of people. But it seems to be a bit much, even for someone as friendly as me. That day in that office, I was beyond grateful to be in front of this lady with her clipboard, sitting on her couch. To know her credentials, and to know that this lady with those credentials who just heard my confession spill out of my mouth like I was saying the sky was blue recognized those words to be something worth grieving.

That was the thing, I didn't think I was allowed to grieve.
After all, I wasn't particularly close to them, per se.
The relatives that fell in the category lived almost 1,000 miles away from me, didn't remember who I was the last time I saw them. Surely that doesn't constitute the same kind of grief as someone who was raised by their grandpa, does it?
Surely it isn't as hard as someone who was best friends with, sister, brother, parent, mentor to the victim? I was, after all, just a friend.
Like so many other people.
No real direct correlation.
Just someone who happened to know the person.
Another face in the funeral crowd.

"I should count my blessings. After all, I still have my Dad, Mom, Sister, Brother in law, Best friend since childhood, etc."

To me, that correlates to, "You have no real reason to grieve. Quit being dramatic."

No real reason to grieve...
By whose standards?
Who says I can't grieve?
No one knows what life is like for me
And I know a lot of people say that. And I know everyone is fighting things we can't see and will never know. But does that make mine any easier? Knowing that someone else is suffering? It breaks my heart, which I think is where much of my compassion spurns from.
Which is how I know so many people.
People who die.
And those who have yet to die.

Grief is no joke.

Which is why I find myself wanting to be alone when I know I can't handle interaction.
When the questions open old wounds.
When curiosity fuels masked concern.
When people want to point and stare, and whisper about the impenetrable girl wonder showing a crack of something different than the sunshine they've grown accustomed to.
When demands can't be met.
When humanity is overlooked, and selfishness arises.

I'm not an animal in a zoo.
I'm not an artifact in a museum.
I'm not an oddity at a circus.

I'm human. I feel. I break. I cry. I grieve.
Yes, I will rise above this.
And when I get knocked down, I won't stay there forever.
I'll rise again.
But in that moment you see me in the valley, please don't gawk.
It's a process for me just like anyone else.
You don't know the connections I did have with that person.
How this is affecting my daily life.
How what I know from my past becomes painful, because the memory is laced with someone now gone.
How I see them in dreams, over and over and over again.
You don't know what I know.

Grief is no joke.

My friend who knows grief as a bitter friend gave me this advice.

The struggle of grief is not for the faint of heart. The myth that "it gets better with time" isn't exactly true... It may get better in regards to the daily struggle, but I've learned that the waves of grief hit harder than before because they're seemingly unexpected. Just hang on, endure, allow yourself to grieve, let your soul weep, and when it passes the warmth of the morning sunshine will be pleasantly bittersweet. Taking naps helps me, because sleeping at night is usually a challenge due to my grieving mind. Naps are the best I love you, my sweet friend. Always here if you need me!

That is what helps grief.
Knowing you're not alone.
That being in this place is okay. That you have to be there for a time.
That you can't stay there, and that's the beauty of it.
Grief is no joke,
But grief will subside.

Fight to get there.

(and take naps. because they're the best.)

Luke 2:19 -- But Mary kept all these things in her heart and thought about them often.
One version says "treasured."

Mary kept the things in her heart--to herself--and treasured them.

This scripture is one that is often at the back of my mind.
There are many things that I have been told that aren't necessarily to be shared. Sure, they can be great and exciting, but timing is everything.
You don't want to tell everyone... for one thing, you could come across as proud or snotty or whatever, and completely negate the point of what God wants to do with you or through you.

Also, not everyone will believe you.

When it's something God is doing, it'll happen. He'll do it. He'll find a way. Heck, He'll make a way.
When something like that is so sensitive on your heart, you can't afford negativity. 
Ponder those things in your heart. Treasure them.
They aren't things to be thrown around.
They have value.
Far exceeding temporary riches here.

The things the Lord tells you are eternal.
They last forever.
They won't wear out, they won't expire.

Treat the knowledge of the Lord with care.
It is a gift.
Guard it.
And when it comes time, use and utilize it.

Trust Him and His timing. 
He loves you.