Thursday, May 29
I'm sorry, we're going to have to let you go
Have you ever heard those crushing words before. I must admit that, due in no small part to my extraordinarily uncompromising personality, I have.
I've called you into my office to let you know that I've reached a determination. I'm fired. I'm going to have to let myself go. This doesn't mean that this blog will not continue to be authored. The blog will indeed continue. It's just that my personal life is getting in the way. I need to find someone more focused and, well, committed to the goals and mission of this blog. I'm showing up late, taking long lunch breaks, talking to the copy repair lady too long, and am simply not working up to my potential. More importantly I'm turning submissions in inconsistently without appropriate external editing and that is affecting our readership. I'm dead weight.
I'm sure I'll be able to find something more suited to my, um, special talents. But right now I need an author who isn't going to put things off because her personal life is in the way of meeting deadlines. I've just found that I seem to get overwhelmed by this extraordinary and exciting time in my life. I want to share it all, but my personal exuberance gets in the way because I want to write about every single morsel of it.
Because I care, I'd like to give some constructive feedback. I've watched myself do two things. I'm just saying this for my own good. First, I seem to get overwhelmed by the internal editor. "Too personal, not personal enough, too explicit, people do NOT need to know that right now, cherish that morsel for yourself, don't be too private, don't think you have to say everything, etc, etc." This can get in the way of meeting deadlines. I have to learn to write like it is a job not a journal entry that I can skip when the mood just isn't there.
Secondly, I'm not seeing myself as a writer. Writers, of personalized non-fiction, must both personalize and remove themselves professionally. At least that is the job description. I know it is difficult, but it is crucial to the success of any writing not just autobiographical writing. My, let's say "unique", personality gets overwhelmed and bogged down by the sheer weight of the wonderful things to peck out on the keyboard. And ultimately my exuberance backfires.
So, I finally made the decision to let myself go today. I think I'll find it was the best choice for me at this time. I will get a fresh start tomorrow. I will certainly find my niche.
This job, writing, is just like my job as a mental health therapist. In the office I can be myself as a therapist. In fact it is crucial that I be authentic, approachable, and fun. The client needs someone real to interact with, not a computer that spits out prepared answers like a computer program. Yet mental health clients also require the safety of a professional who is aware of and strictly adheres to the boundaries and guidelines put in place by the overseeing health board regulators. Simply, it is a doable balance. One method cannot be achieved successfully in this context without the equal application of the other method. Now I realize I must apply this same balance to my writing life and profession if I am to succeed.
This job is a jumping off point for me. I will succeed in this business if I apply myself, work hard, and be on time (be on time? That will never happen! Fascist! Did I say that out loud? Sorry...kind of.), things I'm sure I'm capable of if I believe what I'm doing really makes a difference.
So, as I said, I'm sorry I have to let myself go, but I'm certain with my talent and unique abilities (what does "unique" REALLY mean when they say that anyway?) I will have no trouble starting over. I'm confident enough to be a referral for myself.
I'll now go pack up my pride, stapler, some odd office supplies from the supply closet, and my glossy 8x10 picture of Trinity from The Matrix, and move on to the next phase of my work. I'll see you at the new workplace. I hope they have better benefits!
Stay tuned!
I've called you into my office to let you know that I've reached a determination. I'm fired. I'm going to have to let myself go. This doesn't mean that this blog will not continue to be authored. The blog will indeed continue. It's just that my personal life is getting in the way. I need to find someone more focused and, well, committed to the goals and mission of this blog. I'm showing up late, taking long lunch breaks, talking to the copy repair lady too long, and am simply not working up to my potential. More importantly I'm turning submissions in inconsistently without appropriate external editing and that is affecting our readership. I'm dead weight.
I'm sure I'll be able to find something more suited to my, um, special talents. But right now I need an author who isn't going to put things off because her personal life is in the way of meeting deadlines. I've just found that I seem to get overwhelmed by this extraordinary and exciting time in my life. I want to share it all, but my personal exuberance gets in the way because I want to write about every single morsel of it.
Because I care, I'd like to give some constructive feedback. I've watched myself do two things. I'm just saying this for my own good. First, I seem to get overwhelmed by the internal editor. "Too personal, not personal enough, too explicit, people do NOT need to know that right now, cherish that morsel for yourself, don't be too private, don't think you have to say everything, etc, etc." This can get in the way of meeting deadlines. I have to learn to write like it is a job not a journal entry that I can skip when the mood just isn't there.
Secondly, I'm not seeing myself as a writer. Writers, of personalized non-fiction, must both personalize and remove themselves professionally. At least that is the job description. I know it is difficult, but it is crucial to the success of any writing not just autobiographical writing. My, let's say "unique", personality gets overwhelmed and bogged down by the sheer weight of the wonderful things to peck out on the keyboard. And ultimately my exuberance backfires.
So, I finally made the decision to let myself go today. I think I'll find it was the best choice for me at this time. I will get a fresh start tomorrow. I will certainly find my niche.
This job, writing, is just like my job as a mental health therapist. In the office I can be myself as a therapist. In fact it is crucial that I be authentic, approachable, and fun. The client needs someone real to interact with, not a computer that spits out prepared answers like a computer program. Yet mental health clients also require the safety of a professional who is aware of and strictly adheres to the boundaries and guidelines put in place by the overseeing health board regulators. Simply, it is a doable balance. One method cannot be achieved successfully in this context without the equal application of the other method. Now I realize I must apply this same balance to my writing life and profession if I am to succeed.
This job is a jumping off point for me. I will succeed in this business if I apply myself, work hard, and be on time (be on time? That will never happen! Fascist! Did I say that out loud? Sorry...kind of.), things I'm sure I'm capable of if I believe what I'm doing really makes a difference.
So, as I said, I'm sorry I have to let myself go, but I'm certain with my talent and unique abilities (what does "unique" REALLY mean when they say that anyway?) I will have no trouble starting over. I'm confident enough to be a referral for myself.
I'll now go pack up my pride, stapler, some odd office supplies from the supply closet, and my glossy 8x10 picture of Trinity from The Matrix, and move on to the next phase of my work. I'll see you at the new workplace. I hope they have better benefits!
Stay tuned!
Wednesday, May 21
I once was lost
Okay, let’s summarize what I’ve said thus far in this series. 1-3% of the general population lives with manic depression. Homosexuals make up a tad bit higher percentage of that same general population. Now add that I am a faithful follower of Christ who is unapologetically queer, and you have the makings of a great and unique story. However, lest I sound too haughty, we have all lived through a common range of human experience. My story is your story with a few different twists. Right? The uniqueness between us is how we respond to what we have been given.
For dramatic affect I must add that I am technically homeless, or “alternatively housed”, which all together places me in my own little “marginalized” category. Again, do not for a minute think I am complaining, whining, and believe that society owes me anything. On the contrary, I owe society my honest reflection on my experience.
As I’ve said before, God must see something in me that I don’t.
Of these categories “gay Christian crazy”, my Christian identity is literally the only identity that I’ve chosen. I did not choose a “religion” per se, as if out of a vending machine. However, I did have a choice, as there are plenty of belief systems out there including the non-belief system of atheism. I do not on the other hand get to choose whether I have a mental illness or not. And I do not get to choose to be gay or not. That is fixed no matter how hard I have tried to ignore it. The fact that I chose to believe in Jesus, in God, says a lot. It says more about God than about me. It’s like what they say about friends and family. You can’t pick your family but you can pick your friends. It’s fair to assume that your friends are people you WANT to be around, and family –blood relatives– are sometimes (let’s be honest here) sufferable. I know I’m personally “sufferable”. Somebody else chose those people for us. Sometimes feels like a curse, sometimes a blessing. It’s Russian roulette, luck of the draw, anyone’s game. Or at least it feels that way sometimes when you’re looking at a family photograph.
I hate having manic-depression. I don’t hate being a lesbian, but given that it is not necessarily very popular (though it’s more okay to be a gay woman than gay man in our culture –that’s another post entirely) I can’t say the privilege isn’t without its bitter as well as sweet.
I believe that my being alive is completely divine –that God created me. I believe that God is not an opiate I concocted to help make my miserable days happier, as Karl Marx believed. Everyone is a child of God’s conception and design. But it is equally true that we all have a choice whether to believe this or not. It’s a little concept we call “free will”. Jesus made it clear that his job was to point us to God. We are not very good at it I guess. He also asserted that he is the way to God, the revelation (i.e. truth) and incarnation of God, and that he personally imparts life to the sick and dying (which is all of us). I believe he said he “is life” which is a ballsy thing to say if you’re just a guy who can’t get past the age of 33 without getting executed as a state criminal.
As I’ve said before, I am an armchair theologian. I don’t presume to be able to wax intellectually the tenets of my faith. I know I make mistakes in spelling out my theology, and I’ve had the pleasure of knowing people who like to point this out. Yet I like to think that monotheistic faith (faith in one God), though complex in that it appears incongruous with the hard “realities” of this world (war, death, suffering, taxes, hangnails, etc.), is simple. Faith is simple. It is, in essence, loving God and loving others the way he helps me love myself (by example). But few of us can honestly say that faith is simple. I can neither see God nor hear God. Faith in God is risky for that reason. It is also difficult. Being a good person, an honest person, a “moral” person who loves justice and mercy and humility, is difficult. Maybe there are people out there who have all that in the bag. I personally need help with these things. That’s what I was thinking about in 1988. That’s when Jesus came into focus.
In 1988 I “became” a Christian. What people refer to as being “born again” which I guess is what happened. My experience was life changing. Yet my experience is not even close to universal. I would never presume that any other person will find their way to God the way I did. Or better, that God would woo anyone else in the same way he wooed me. God would not be that petty as to require replication. It’s not God’s style. Have you noticed that? I remember when my friends and I would sit around and try to decide whether people (please forgive me), like Catholics for example, were really “Christians”. As if it was so simple. But I was very young and I knew everything, right? My experience is uniquely mine. You’ll see that it was a gift from God. And by gift I mean a kitchen appliance gift that a husband gives a wife. Seriously! Very practical.
My best friend in college has often expressed her amazement that I didn’t kill myself in the way I recklessly careened through my college experience. I hate to be one of those “born again” Christians who trumps up her past in order to prove to you how lost she was when Jesus found her so that Jesus looks even better, more heroic. I once was lost but now I’m found. Unfortunately is moderately true, as my friend can attest, that my life was somewhat of a wreck. What was surprising to me at the time is that even though I suddenly became a total Jesus freak, my life still tended to careen out of control. In all actuality life did not become easier, I just had someone to fall back on…and occasionally blame. In some ways it became harder in that I suddenly had to live up to the moral expectations of a perceived crowd of onlookers. Onlookers that seemed to have it more together than I could ever manage. But let’s save that for later.
First I want to tell you about my interesting encounter with God in fall of ‘88. I tell few people the whole story. Primarily because I cherish it. I hold it close because in sharing it with others I risk it being trampled on and misused. Most friends might know the basic story that I “became” a Christian at a Christian retreat put on by the university ministry The INN, that I “prayed the prayer of salvation”, and that I “committed my life” to God. What most people don’t know is that I saw a vision, and the reason I don’t tell people this is because I cherish it…and it also sounds kind of fishy. Especially fishy when you consider that I was a regular drug user AND very probably, upon distant reflection, in a moderate manic state at the time. Yet I’ve never ever, ever, ever questioned the reality of what I saw. God gave me a vision that autumn day as a gift because, and I know this for a fact, I would never have allowed myself to buy into the whole Jesus thing unless he had. In fact, he gave me the gift because I asked for it.
I like to tell people that for years I was like a 4 year old with God. You know. Most of us are. It is like when someone tries to introduce you to their normally gregarious child, but the instant you reach out your hand to the kid she scurries behind her parent’s legs, peering at you skeptically from between his thighs. There’s curiosity there, but no faith or trust. For years I’d flirt around with the idea of believing in God, and acting like his existence and personal involvement in the world really made a difference. But I couldn’t make the leap. I’d skip around the idea and then suddenly hide behind my skepticism and mistrust. In the spring and summer before my final undergraduate year, I began settling into a pragmatic search for God.
Many of my Anthropology classes at that point were at least partially centered on religions, religious customs, and how spirituality and belief shapes culture and vice versa. I distinctly remember a class, in another department, about Greek & Roman Mythology. I was fascinated. Not so much by the mythology and extraordinarily repertoire of dysfunctional gods, but by the articulation of morality the culture wrote into world history. There were other philosophers of other cultures too, but the Greeks & Romans caught my attention.
I was intrigued by the ideal morality that Greek and Roman philosophers wrote of. I would read and think, “I am not a moral person.” Please don’t argue with me. My friends and family saw me as a good person on the most part. I wasn’t necessarily one of those tortured individuals wrestling with unseen personal demons…well, maybe I was. I just knew what I knew about myself. I could be terrible, and beyond that I couldn’t find it in me to be my own moral compass. I knew my hidden record…I was a thief, I drove around drunk, I cheated, I slept with people I didn’t even care about, I hated myself, I liked people who treated me badly, I was an adulteress, I was a terrible student, I wasn’t a contributing member of society. It is all subjective, you know. Though this rap sheet includes some quite entertaining and poignant stories, at the end of the day I seriously feared my moral compass was irreversibly broken.
By that summer I was fully engaged in some kind of spiritual quest for truth. I had no idea what I was doing. But don’t we all embark at some point, or at many points in our lives, on this kind of quest? I had a nerdy kind of boss at the pizza place who reminded me of the stapler guy in the movie The Office. He would sit and read during his lunch break. I decided to join him one day and discovered too late that he was reading a bible. Wanting to appear nonchalant, I settled in with my salad and asked about his family. He was really a decent guy who unwittingly (or maybe wittingly) drew me and my skepticism out into the open. I saw a book under his bible titled, Evidence that Demands a Verdict (or Verdict that Demands Evidence, I can never remember). I asked what the book was about, and when he described the premise I was astonished.
What I haven’t told you is that by the time I had talked to my boss I had systematically gone through all the major world religions with my red correction pen, crossing each one off as personally and universally implausible. Yet I kept getting hung up on Jesus Christ. That man, that story, was different. Perhaps one could presume that my interest was due to the fact that I was more comfortable with Jesus because I was raised in a culture that is nominally Christian. However, I have seen and heard many stories from many people who were not raised in a culture steeped in Christianity, but for whom Jesus became a welcome character who’s spiritual plausibility was hard to dismiss. So, I was getting hooked up on Jesus like a fishing net on the rocky ocean bottom, and was looking for more information. I’d gone into a Christian bookstore near where I lived but rushed out with nothing but an enduring dislike for Christians. Too happy, too kind, too fake, i.e. too untrustworthy.
That book, which I borrowed from my boss, turned out to be very instrumental. It wasn’t sentimental. It spelled out the facts like the evidence brought forth at a trial. Oh, well, that makes sense since the author is a lawyer. Josh McDowell.
Jump ahead. I’d returned to school with my brand new mountain bike at hand. I’m in heaven because all my classes are my beloved anthropology classes. A new friend, who I soon found out was a total Christian, was in 3 of my classes. We got along because we have the same sense of humor. In one class, for example, we sat and listened painfully to our interim professor prattle on in her monotone voice. One day I raised my hand and asked if she could spell, “thdoiik mnmmoms thmommbik.” I know. Not too nice, right? But my friend laughed with great mirth at my sarcasm. That made her a trustworthy Christian in my eyes. One who was compromising and sarcastic. I’m just kidding of course. She is not compromising, but that is an example of how I sifted people out. I didn’t think she was fake, hypocritical, irritatingly flaunting her high morals. I still don’t think that way about her. People who made a spectacle of their high morals threatened me. I still don’t think it’s right.
By this time I had decided that in order to get deeper information about Jesus and what in the world he had to do with God, I was going to have to go to church. NO WAY! I did not want to set a foot in a church. I said, “Hey God, if you do exist I’m letting you know that I refuse to go to a church.” I talked like that. Really.
Churches were filled with too much preaching, too much smiling, and most likely too much pretending. I was stuck. One day I was buzzing around campus on my bike, flying over staircases, curbs, and anything that would increase my agility and make my stomach flop. I stopped to look at the posters on an information kiosk in Red Square at the center of campus. I still sometimes go back to that same kiosk up on campus just to look at the spot where I saw the poster that changed the course of my spiritual quest that day. It was a poster for The INN, a Christian student ministry that met on Tuesday nights. It was at night, so it couldn’t be church! I was excited. I knew I would learn something more there.
Later that day I told my anthropology friend that I wanted to go to the INN. Much later she told me she just about passed out when I told her this. Not only had she been praying for me to turn to God, but she also was a faithful INN attendee. I won’t get detailed about the time between that day and the retreat. Suffice it to say I became more and more intrigued and less and less freaked out by large groups of Christians over the following weeks. These were goofy talented people. I liked them after all.
Fast forward. By the time I’d gotten to the retreat I am completely frustrated. “So I’m just supposed to…what? What am I supposed to do? Just accept Jesus? What does that mean? I can’t even understand the bible. How am I supposed to just accept everything without understanding it? That seems just wrong.” So went my arguments. Arguments that served only to protect my heart. I did not want to fall for something that just wasn’t true. I was almost completely certain that Jesus had something significant to do with God, but I wasn’t willing to bet my entire life on it. It wasn’t really unrequited love I was experiencing, it was more like the frustrated tension between two would be lovers who want each other badly. I think we call that sexual tension, and I don’t feel the least bit weird for using the analogy in this case.
Fast forward. It’s Sunday. It’s the 5th and final “lecture” of the retreat. I’m antsy, fidgety, anxious. I barely heard the speaker. I wanted to know what to do about this and was getting nowhere. My search had plateaued big time. I was ready to explode with frustration. After the lecture we sang a song or two. There was one song that spoke to me so deeply that I cried. I’ve never been able to find that song since. I personally don’t think it exists…except for that one time, for me. Then the speaker got up and started praying. He must have prayed something about opening our hearts up to God because everything inside me, all the hope, skepticism, fear, desire, and anxiety suddenly shifted. It was like fog when you’re driving. The fog parts and “suddenly” you see. But all I saw was that I had a window of opportunity. I was still unsure that God was actually there. So I prayed the most audacious and ballsy prayer I’ve ever prayed.
“I can’t make this decision to throw myself off a cliff without evidence that you exist and will catch me. I just can’t do this. I’m sorry. I want to believe with all of my heart but I can’t tell if you are really there or if it’s just me hoping you are. Could you show me that you exist? Jesus, are you REALLY God? Are you really my pathway to God? Don’t make a fool of me. I just can’t invest my entire life and promise it to something I’m unsure of? I want to be 100%, and right now I’m not. If you show me, I’ll never ask you to prove yourself again. I’m ready if you’ll show me.”
I’m telling you this because it is what happened. A girl asked for proof and a big God answered her. It is hard to tell this part because it is a bit difficult to word. I fear it sounds hokey when I describe it.
I had been looking at the floor all that time, but when I looked up I saw a man. Not really a man at all. A figure. Not a clear figure, but spiritually speaking he was Jesus. No doubt. No one would doubt it. My heart leapt and I instantly told him I would never ask him to prove himself to me again. And I haven’t. I said he had everything I could possibly give him, which wasn’t much, and I would not withhold my heart either.
My life changed drastically that day. God has never appeared to me again. I don’t expect him to in my lifetime. Once is enough. Though his presence completely convinced me, it also frightened me in the way VERY good things can tend to do. I frequently live my faith out to its frayed edges, and at the end of my ability, the end of my ability to believe in something so absurd as Jesus, I have that vision. It is a closer. Something I can’t question. I cannot run out of faith because he has answered the end of my flappable faith with himself. He is enough for me in the end. I am fully 100% invested like I told him I would be. I don’t need world peace, fulfilled desires, perfectly logical theology, every prayer answered, or even other people to bolster my faith in God. I believe simply because he took the time to show me his face. I’ll never forget it. That’s all I need. It cannot be taken away from me.
So went the beginning of a torrid and passionate love affair I find myself in to this day. A "relationship" with the God of the Universe sounds strange when I say it like that. Yet it is true. God is big and God is here all at once. Like all relationships there is always something new. Thank goodness. More on that later.
Praying At Gethsamene by He Qi
For dramatic affect I must add that I am technically homeless, or “alternatively housed”, which all together places me in my own little “marginalized” category. Again, do not for a minute think I am complaining, whining, and believe that society owes me anything. On the contrary, I owe society my honest reflection on my experience.
As I’ve said before, God must see something in me that I don’t.
Of these categories “gay Christian crazy”, my Christian identity is literally the only identity that I’ve chosen. I did not choose a “religion” per se, as if out of a vending machine. However, I did have a choice, as there are plenty of belief systems out there including the non-belief system of atheism. I do not on the other hand get to choose whether I have a mental illness or not. And I do not get to choose to be gay or not. That is fixed no matter how hard I have tried to ignore it. The fact that I chose to believe in Jesus, in God, says a lot. It says more about God than about me. It’s like what they say about friends and family. You can’t pick your family but you can pick your friends. It’s fair to assume that your friends are people you WANT to be around, and family –blood relatives– are sometimes (let’s be honest here) sufferable. I know I’m personally “sufferable”. Somebody else chose those people for us. Sometimes feels like a curse, sometimes a blessing. It’s Russian roulette, luck of the draw, anyone’s game. Or at least it feels that way sometimes when you’re looking at a family photograph.
I hate having manic-depression. I don’t hate being a lesbian, but given that it is not necessarily very popular (though it’s more okay to be a gay woman than gay man in our culture –that’s another post entirely) I can’t say the privilege isn’t without its bitter as well as sweet.
I believe that my being alive is completely divine –that God created me. I believe that God is not an opiate I concocted to help make my miserable days happier, as Karl Marx believed. Everyone is a child of God’s conception and design. But it is equally true that we all have a choice whether to believe this or not. It’s a little concept we call “free will”. Jesus made it clear that his job was to point us to God. We are not very good at it I guess. He also asserted that he is the way to God, the revelation (i.e. truth) and incarnation of God, and that he personally imparts life to the sick and dying (which is all of us). I believe he said he “is life” which is a ballsy thing to say if you’re just a guy who can’t get past the age of 33 without getting executed as a state criminal.
As I’ve said before, I am an armchair theologian. I don’t presume to be able to wax intellectually the tenets of my faith. I know I make mistakes in spelling out my theology, and I’ve had the pleasure of knowing people who like to point this out. Yet I like to think that monotheistic faith (faith in one God), though complex in that it appears incongruous with the hard “realities” of this world (war, death, suffering, taxes, hangnails, etc.), is simple. Faith is simple. It is, in essence, loving God and loving others the way he helps me love myself (by example). But few of us can honestly say that faith is simple. I can neither see God nor hear God. Faith in God is risky for that reason. It is also difficult. Being a good person, an honest person, a “moral” person who loves justice and mercy and humility, is difficult. Maybe there are people out there who have all that in the bag. I personally need help with these things. That’s what I was thinking about in 1988. That’s when Jesus came into focus.
In 1988 I “became” a Christian. What people refer to as being “born again” which I guess is what happened. My experience was life changing. Yet my experience is not even close to universal. I would never presume that any other person will find their way to God the way I did. Or better, that God would woo anyone else in the same way he wooed me. God would not be that petty as to require replication. It’s not God’s style. Have you noticed that? I remember when my friends and I would sit around and try to decide whether people (please forgive me), like Catholics for example, were really “Christians”. As if it was so simple. But I was very young and I knew everything, right? My experience is uniquely mine. You’ll see that it was a gift from God. And by gift I mean a kitchen appliance gift that a husband gives a wife. Seriously! Very practical.
My best friend in college has often expressed her amazement that I didn’t kill myself in the way I recklessly careened through my college experience. I hate to be one of those “born again” Christians who trumps up her past in order to prove to you how lost she was when Jesus found her so that Jesus looks even better, more heroic. I once was lost but now I’m found. Unfortunately is moderately true, as my friend can attest, that my life was somewhat of a wreck. What was surprising to me at the time is that even though I suddenly became a total Jesus freak, my life still tended to careen out of control. In all actuality life did not become easier, I just had someone to fall back on…and occasionally blame. In some ways it became harder in that I suddenly had to live up to the moral expectations of a perceived crowd of onlookers. Onlookers that seemed to have it more together than I could ever manage. But let’s save that for later.
First I want to tell you about my interesting encounter with God in fall of ‘88. I tell few people the whole story. Primarily because I cherish it. I hold it close because in sharing it with others I risk it being trampled on and misused. Most friends might know the basic story that I “became” a Christian at a Christian retreat put on by the university ministry The INN, that I “prayed the prayer of salvation”, and that I “committed my life” to God. What most people don’t know is that I saw a vision, and the reason I don’t tell people this is because I cherish it…and it also sounds kind of fishy. Especially fishy when you consider that I was a regular drug user AND very probably, upon distant reflection, in a moderate manic state at the time. Yet I’ve never ever, ever, ever questioned the reality of what I saw. God gave me a vision that autumn day as a gift because, and I know this for a fact, I would never have allowed myself to buy into the whole Jesus thing unless he had. In fact, he gave me the gift because I asked for it.
I like to tell people that for years I was like a 4 year old with God. You know. Most of us are. It is like when someone tries to introduce you to their normally gregarious child, but the instant you reach out your hand to the kid she scurries behind her parent’s legs, peering at you skeptically from between his thighs. There’s curiosity there, but no faith or trust. For years I’d flirt around with the idea of believing in God, and acting like his existence and personal involvement in the world really made a difference. But I couldn’t make the leap. I’d skip around the idea and then suddenly hide behind my skepticism and mistrust. In the spring and summer before my final undergraduate year, I began settling into a pragmatic search for God.
Many of my Anthropology classes at that point were at least partially centered on religions, religious customs, and how spirituality and belief shapes culture and vice versa. I distinctly remember a class, in another department, about Greek & Roman Mythology. I was fascinated. Not so much by the mythology and extraordinarily repertoire of dysfunctional gods, but by the articulation of morality the culture wrote into world history. There were other philosophers of other cultures too, but the Greeks & Romans caught my attention.
I was intrigued by the ideal morality that Greek and Roman philosophers wrote of. I would read and think, “I am not a moral person.” Please don’t argue with me. My friends and family saw me as a good person on the most part. I wasn’t necessarily one of those tortured individuals wrestling with unseen personal demons…well, maybe I was. I just knew what I knew about myself. I could be terrible, and beyond that I couldn’t find it in me to be my own moral compass. I knew my hidden record…I was a thief, I drove around drunk, I cheated, I slept with people I didn’t even care about, I hated myself, I liked people who treated me badly, I was an adulteress, I was a terrible student, I wasn’t a contributing member of society. It is all subjective, you know. Though this rap sheet includes some quite entertaining and poignant stories, at the end of the day I seriously feared my moral compass was irreversibly broken.
By that summer I was fully engaged in some kind of spiritual quest for truth. I had no idea what I was doing. But don’t we all embark at some point, or at many points in our lives, on this kind of quest? I had a nerdy kind of boss at the pizza place who reminded me of the stapler guy in the movie The Office. He would sit and read during his lunch break. I decided to join him one day and discovered too late that he was reading a bible. Wanting to appear nonchalant, I settled in with my salad and asked about his family. He was really a decent guy who unwittingly (or maybe wittingly) drew me and my skepticism out into the open. I saw a book under his bible titled, Evidence that Demands a Verdict (or Verdict that Demands Evidence, I can never remember). I asked what the book was about, and when he described the premise I was astonished.
What I haven’t told you is that by the time I had talked to my boss I had systematically gone through all the major world religions with my red correction pen, crossing each one off as personally and universally implausible. Yet I kept getting hung up on Jesus Christ. That man, that story, was different. Perhaps one could presume that my interest was due to the fact that I was more comfortable with Jesus because I was raised in a culture that is nominally Christian. However, I have seen and heard many stories from many people who were not raised in a culture steeped in Christianity, but for whom Jesus became a welcome character who’s spiritual plausibility was hard to dismiss. So, I was getting hooked up on Jesus like a fishing net on the rocky ocean bottom, and was looking for more information. I’d gone into a Christian bookstore near where I lived but rushed out with nothing but an enduring dislike for Christians. Too happy, too kind, too fake, i.e. too untrustworthy.
That book, which I borrowed from my boss, turned out to be very instrumental. It wasn’t sentimental. It spelled out the facts like the evidence brought forth at a trial. Oh, well, that makes sense since the author is a lawyer. Josh McDowell.
Jump ahead. I’d returned to school with my brand new mountain bike at hand. I’m in heaven because all my classes are my beloved anthropology classes. A new friend, who I soon found out was a total Christian, was in 3 of my classes. We got along because we have the same sense of humor. In one class, for example, we sat and listened painfully to our interim professor prattle on in her monotone voice. One day I raised my hand and asked if she could spell, “thdoiik mnmmoms thmommbik.” I know. Not too nice, right? But my friend laughed with great mirth at my sarcasm. That made her a trustworthy Christian in my eyes. One who was compromising and sarcastic. I’m just kidding of course. She is not compromising, but that is an example of how I sifted people out. I didn’t think she was fake, hypocritical, irritatingly flaunting her high morals. I still don’t think that way about her. People who made a spectacle of their high morals threatened me. I still don’t think it’s right.
By this time I had decided that in order to get deeper information about Jesus and what in the world he had to do with God, I was going to have to go to church. NO WAY! I did not want to set a foot in a church. I said, “Hey God, if you do exist I’m letting you know that I refuse to go to a church.” I talked like that. Really.
Churches were filled with too much preaching, too much smiling, and most likely too much pretending. I was stuck. One day I was buzzing around campus on my bike, flying over staircases, curbs, and anything that would increase my agility and make my stomach flop. I stopped to look at the posters on an information kiosk in Red Square at the center of campus. I still sometimes go back to that same kiosk up on campus just to look at the spot where I saw the poster that changed the course of my spiritual quest that day. It was a poster for The INN, a Christian student ministry that met on Tuesday nights. It was at night, so it couldn’t be church! I was excited. I knew I would learn something more there.
Later that day I told my anthropology friend that I wanted to go to the INN. Much later she told me she just about passed out when I told her this. Not only had she been praying for me to turn to God, but she also was a faithful INN attendee. I won’t get detailed about the time between that day and the retreat. Suffice it to say I became more and more intrigued and less and less freaked out by large groups of Christians over the following weeks. These were goofy talented people. I liked them after all.
Fast forward. By the time I’d gotten to the retreat I am completely frustrated. “So I’m just supposed to…what? What am I supposed to do? Just accept Jesus? What does that mean? I can’t even understand the bible. How am I supposed to just accept everything without understanding it? That seems just wrong.” So went my arguments. Arguments that served only to protect my heart. I did not want to fall for something that just wasn’t true. I was almost completely certain that Jesus had something significant to do with God, but I wasn’t willing to bet my entire life on it. It wasn’t really unrequited love I was experiencing, it was more like the frustrated tension between two would be lovers who want each other badly. I think we call that sexual tension, and I don’t feel the least bit weird for using the analogy in this case.
Fast forward. It’s Sunday. It’s the 5th and final “lecture” of the retreat. I’m antsy, fidgety, anxious. I barely heard the speaker. I wanted to know what to do about this and was getting nowhere. My search had plateaued big time. I was ready to explode with frustration. After the lecture we sang a song or two. There was one song that spoke to me so deeply that I cried. I’ve never been able to find that song since. I personally don’t think it exists…except for that one time, for me. Then the speaker got up and started praying. He must have prayed something about opening our hearts up to God because everything inside me, all the hope, skepticism, fear, desire, and anxiety suddenly shifted. It was like fog when you’re driving. The fog parts and “suddenly” you see. But all I saw was that I had a window of opportunity. I was still unsure that God was actually there. So I prayed the most audacious and ballsy prayer I’ve ever prayed.
“I can’t make this decision to throw myself off a cliff without evidence that you exist and will catch me. I just can’t do this. I’m sorry. I want to believe with all of my heart but I can’t tell if you are really there or if it’s just me hoping you are. Could you show me that you exist? Jesus, are you REALLY God? Are you really my pathway to God? Don’t make a fool of me. I just can’t invest my entire life and promise it to something I’m unsure of? I want to be 100%, and right now I’m not. If you show me, I’ll never ask you to prove yourself again. I’m ready if you’ll show me.”
I’m telling you this because it is what happened. A girl asked for proof and a big God answered her. It is hard to tell this part because it is a bit difficult to word. I fear it sounds hokey when I describe it.
I had been looking at the floor all that time, but when I looked up I saw a man. Not really a man at all. A figure. Not a clear figure, but spiritually speaking he was Jesus. No doubt. No one would doubt it. My heart leapt and I instantly told him I would never ask him to prove himself to me again. And I haven’t. I said he had everything I could possibly give him, which wasn’t much, and I would not withhold my heart either.
My life changed drastically that day. God has never appeared to me again. I don’t expect him to in my lifetime. Once is enough. Though his presence completely convinced me, it also frightened me in the way VERY good things can tend to do. I frequently live my faith out to its frayed edges, and at the end of my ability, the end of my ability to believe in something so absurd as Jesus, I have that vision. It is a closer. Something I can’t question. I cannot run out of faith because he has answered the end of my flappable faith with himself. He is enough for me in the end. I am fully 100% invested like I told him I would be. I don’t need world peace, fulfilled desires, perfectly logical theology, every prayer answered, or even other people to bolster my faith in God. I believe simply because he took the time to show me his face. I’ll never forget it. That’s all I need. It cannot be taken away from me.
So went the beginning of a torrid and passionate love affair I find myself in to this day. A "relationship" with the God of the Universe sounds strange when I say it like that. Yet it is true. God is big and God is here all at once. Like all relationships there is always something new. Thank goodness. More on that later.
Praying At Gethsamene by He Qi
Monday, May 19
part two of part II part
I promised a part two to part II "the privileged few". And for those of you hanging on the edge of your ergonomic seats for the sequel I hope not to disappoint. I've recieved great feedback on the personalized information I've provided in the past two posts in particular. I love to write stuff that people actually want to read.
So, if you have a question or anything that you'd like me to answer or write about, please let me know. If you have the question in your mind, chances are there are several others with a similar question. In college I regularly raised my hand in class. Not in order to irritate my profs or fellow students (although, well, I probably did). I usually found that I wasn't the only one with that question on my mind. Sometimes friends in class would say to me later, "Thanks for asking that question. I didn't want to ask it and you articulated it well." They usually said it in that way because my questions ranged from embarrassingly dumb, to simply embarrassing, to confrontive, to emotionally charged. Of course, in my paranoia assumed that my friends were really saying, "If you'd shut up in class we might get something done, little miss 'I-need-everyone-to-hear-how-smart-I-think-I-am'".
It is always fascinating when we have evidence which proves that we, in essence, really don't change. When I was in elementary school I used to raise my hand and ask questions all the time. Well, that stretches the truth a bit. I didn't really raise my hand, I just asked questions. Okay, well, that's a bit of a stretch too. I didn't so much raise my hand and ask questions as just talk whenever I felt like talking. I can prove this. My mom has saved numerous report cards from my childhood. On many of them the "Teacher's comments" section nearly said the same thing verbatim throughout the years and over the course of many teachers. Usually it went something like:
"Kimberly is a bright student. If she could apply herself her grades would improve. She is very entertaining. However she tends to distract the rest of the students during class time." That is how the kind teachers put it. I have a thing about the word "bright".
In my mind it is tantamount to calling me retarded (or challenged, or whatever it is now). One of my professors told me he thought my writing skills were in the top 3% of students he's taught. But then he made the fatal mistake of saying, "You're very bright Kimberly". I cried. That's right. Cried, as if to say, "How could you say that about me? I'm heartbroken!" I have no idea what it is about that word. The only thing I can compare it to is when your parents tell you your dog "ran away" when in reality he was run over by a garbage truck and his body wisked away to some pet crematorium by a kind neighbor who would expect the same if his daughter's dog was found dead. I don't know. I'm like an anorexic. I look at my intellect and see a big fat butt and cellulite.
Okay, on with the real point of my post.
Today I was having lunch with a friend who is not privy to my having "surfaced". Actually, she isn't privy to anything with regards to my "orientation". We were sitting in the Bagelry (the best bagels in the region) catching up. The sun has turned to a muggy combination of showers and spritzes. We sit and she's telling me about her and her husband's ambivalence about fostering to adopt. I'm excited for her. I think she'll be a great mom. I told her so and she made me tell her why. Remember, if you ever say something like that to someone, you better be prepared to follow it up with some real evidence! That was no problem for me, however, because I rarely ever say something just to hear myself say it or to make someone feel better because "Kimberly said so".
As we sat there eating our scrumptious bagels, in walks a family. And by family I mean to say 2 mommies and two little toe heads. It was obvious to me. Suddenly I was distracted. I focused on my friend like I would a bulls eye on a target I didn't want to miss. I wanted to accost the family. Yet I couldn't excuse myself and go talk to them because it would open the door to a conversation I didn't want to have with my friend in the short time we had before our next, longer, visit. So I prayed. "God, please don't let them leave. Please. I want to talk to them!" Two minutes later I sat helplessly watching them leave the Bagelry, children in tow. By this time I was filling her in on my very part time job without pay, my writing. I followed them with my eyes. They went to their car, and then I lost them. All I could think, way back in my head behind the conversation that was at the forefront (that I was paying total attention to), was, "Rare opportunity missed! Arg." That's right, "Arg".
But hold on. Don't even think that I give up on God's faithfulness so easily. I was sure he planned to answer me even if it meant running into them somewhere else someday. Instead, after I hugged my lovely friend from my old WWU days goodbye, I walked with anticipation across the street to the co-op/pet store. Smart thinking. Rabbits, rats, cats, birds, kids. Perfect combination. If they hadn't left downtown, that is where I would find them. No luck. I hurried past the rabbits and rats to the back where the cats and birds were. They were nowhere to be found. I did pet the cats and cry for awhile because that's what I do at pet stores. I cry. I want to take them all home and let them lie on my books in the sun. A lady came with a carrier and I asked if she was taking one home. She said emphatically, "No, I'm taking three!" A woman after my own heart but with a house. However, according to my friend Michael I'm not allowed to have cats because I'm a single woman and not only that I'm middle aged and gay. Too much of a stereotype I guess. Well, he's not so much forbidden me but has made it clear that he would be embarrassed for me.
ANYWAY! I went to purchase some landscape fabric since I was there and half way down the aisle I saw my family. My heart lept. God must have been grinning in the way he does when loves his children in demonstrative and obvious ways. Like a kid who wants your attention but runs and hides instead, I veered into the next aisle to check out the dog chews. I got over my sudden shyness quickly and ran after them just as they were exiting the store. I grabbed the shirt of one of the gals and asked breathlessly, "Are you guys a family?"
Now, you may be thinking about two things. Or not. But you may be wondering, "Why would she ask them that question?" And, "Why such eagerness on your part to meet them?"
First, why would I stalk two strangers and so eagerly desire to introduce myself and talk with them? The first answer I would give is very vague. I'm not sure I know completely myself. All I know is that I was strongly compelled. My heart lept. I knew, like I always know, that these two women would welcome me like family. And when I see them, and other "alternative" families like them, hope is what rises up inside of me. Something swells up inside. Sort of like The Grinch's heart when he realized that Christmas wasn't about stuff after hearing the singing of the Who's rising up from Whosville. But I didn't steal anyone's stuff.
I don't know many lesbians. And I definitely don't know too many my age. These gals were my age. Maybe a bit younger. I crave the community of women who experience the "uncommon" life of a gay woman. I have done all kinds of not necessarily uncharacteristic things, but definitely bold and forward things, to meet other gay people. Stalking isn't always my first choice. But a woman has to do what a woman has to do. I need to do what it takes to access a somewhat "hidden" community. By hidden I mean oftentimes unidentifiable, or cloistered. The community I seek is definitely not hiding, per se. The community I seek is minority. I will be like a drop of ink in a basin of water once I find my way into this community. They say, just like these two mommies said to me, that once you meet a few women the community opens up because the degrees of separation are far smaller than in the general population. In other words, it's tight. Not unlike the Christian community except with, perhaps, an element of "survival and safety in numbers".
I have many desires in my heart that I've let rise to the surface ever since God showed me that he would neither let me go if I "came out" or allow my theology to waver and falter** (see end of post). Among those desires is a somewhat well formed and new desire for family. It is not that I didn't desire a family before, but if you consider what I would have been giving up to pursue a family in the heterosexual context...well, needless to say, from that perspective you can see why it was shelved on the "hopeless desires that likely won't be fulfilled" shelf. I do not understand the logic behind my sudden increase in hope and desire. It does not make sense given the factors I face to "overcome" in order to have a family.
Maybe I have to spell out the situation for you. If I meet someone today, one could safely assume that we would not start a family for at least a year and half. If you don't even factor in the fact that we could not be married and have a legal binding relationship, here are the things at play in my mind. Okay, add my age, 41. Then tack on the fact that I have been diagnosed with a mental illness. This is significant for two reasons. One, I take drugs that would poison a fetus, so I would have to go off the drugs in order to get pregnant if that were the route we took. However, I can't go off my medications because not only would I have raging hormonal changes, I would likely be triggered into an episode that would be far worse than the last. Not an option. Second, if we chose adoption we would face the possibility of my "mental Illness" showing up. Bipolar is not a light diagnosis. Then you add into this proof that we both are gay and that limits the adoption agencies and countries.
+ no current relationship
+ age 41
+ mental illness diagnosis
+ "alternative" family label
= dismal possibility for a family
Surprisingly, I have a sense of hope and commitment for a family in my future than I EVER did before. Strange that so many obstacles would INCREASE my desire. I don't know if that says more about me or God. I'm assuming the latter. My heart is very tender towards this possibility. Very open and yet I don't think I'll be victim to disappointment, hurt, and hopelessness. All those things we are attempting to avoid when we don't open our hearts to desires that are risky just by sheer impossibility of them. Hope is a funny and risky thing.
So, I HAD to talk with this family! I had to ask them "Are you guys a family?" because so many other alternative questions would have likely come straight out of my little booklet of "oppressive" language. A book I've learned to use over the years and which is not only obsolete and unnecessary, but self-deprecating as well. I wanted to assume they were a family regardless if they actually were just friends. I've been out with my girl friends and their kids, and you are sometimes aware that people are looking at you with one of those bubbles over their head, "I wonder if they are lesbians". I've gotten over the mild fear I had about that. I didn't care if these two weren't actually a couple. If they weren't and they were offended by my presumption, I, ultimately, would be the only one with the right to be more offended. I would say, "I'm sorry you are offended by my assumption that you are a family. If you had been I would have presumed that you were both courageous and strong." Then I would take out my rainbow flag, turn on the heels of my sensible shoes, and yell, "gay pride baby!!"
Okay, maybe I wouldn't do that. I hate the rainbow thing, but I think I have to get used to it in the same way you have to get used to your son/daughter-in-law's irritating family. My language is changing. That isn't a bad thing. Everywhere I've gone in this life, my language changes. They call it colloquialism. Language that is specific to an area, group, or culture. I moved from England to America and my daily language use changed. I moved from America to China and my daily language use changed. It was interspersed with simple Mandarin phrases such as, "I'm not fat, I'm an American." My handling of the English language was also affected by the need to simplify my dialog and vocabulary for my students. I'm very determined and purposeful about my language. I'm like my own watch dog now because I am becoming aware of how my beliefs about homosexuality, cultural beliefs that I have understudied, are inherent in my language.
I have a new friend Rick who works with Catholic Community Services and on the side runs the regional extension of a Lutheran group that helps in all aspects of gay issues and faith. Rick was meeting with me every week for a while when I was first coming out of my closet. He is fun to be with. His story is that his wife finally told him that he was gay. I find that completely funny in that most of us think of really messy and painful things happening in relationships in which one person is gay. Anyway, when we would talk he would catch me when I said something that was unnecessary, self-deprecating, obsolete, or judgemental. I remember one evening in particular when I said, "Blah, blah, blah, people like us." Before I took a breath he asked me, "What do you mean by 'people like us?'" I was embarrassed! I determined from that moment on to be aware of my language. Not only be aware, but police it like the DMZ!
There is enough going around. Enough language, enough intolerance, enough ignorance, enough unloving language, that I don't have to add to it. I am aware of when I say things, think things, do things that promote even the slightest message that homosexuality is bad, wrong, unforgivable, weird. Sometimes it's just laziness. Sometimes it is easier to use the old language and believe that it does not real harm. Sometimes it is just difficult to find new language. Especially when you are like me. Compelled to form my own language. I am not a parrot. I always am compelled to rephrase everything into my own wording so that it makes more sense to me. I'm arrogant in that way. This becomes a real problem in counseling in that a good counselor uses the language of her client rather than rephrasing everything they say.
I am still the same girl. I'm hearing things differently, but it's the same set of ears. When I listen to anyone who speaks of social justice, I think about how Jesus looks at "people like me". Jesus is the champion of the marginalized and oppressed.
I hope you aren't thinking that it is an exaggeration to say that homosexuals are oppressed. If you are thinking this I want you to try a simple exercise. Please. For 5 minutes, even 10 if you can, sincerely pretend that homosexuality is okay with God. Spend the first 20 seconds saying to yourself, "I will be fine and my theology will not be harmed in any way. I do not need to think of the myriad reasons I believe homosexuality is wrong." Then spend the rest of the time thinking about what being a homosexual in this society (since this is the one you are in) is like. All I ask is that you take that 10 minutes for what it is. I don't expect any drastic changes in what you believe. After all, it took me 17 years to believe that it wasn't wrong of me to live this life. I can't blame anyone, especially if they never have to face that life head on themselves. However, maybe you will see that homosexuals are an oppressed people. We are okay. We are even stronger for it. At least I am. But it is my goal not to let myself promote oppression. Part of that job is to say the same things to the people around me as I say to myself.
**I'd always assumed that 1) God would leave me to my own devises as I might be stubbornly seeking my own desires by living a queer life, and, 2) I would throw the baby out with the bathwater. The bathwater being the "choice" to live a queer life, and the baby being all the tenets of my faith, including and not limited to the belief that Jesus is my Lord who came to show me the way to God my Father.
So, if you have a question or anything that you'd like me to answer or write about, please let me know. If you have the question in your mind, chances are there are several others with a similar question. In college I regularly raised my hand in class. Not in order to irritate my profs or fellow students (although, well, I probably did). I usually found that I wasn't the only one with that question on my mind. Sometimes friends in class would say to me later, "Thanks for asking that question. I didn't want to ask it and you articulated it well." They usually said it in that way because my questions ranged from embarrassingly dumb, to simply embarrassing, to confrontive, to emotionally charged. Of course, in my paranoia assumed that my friends were really saying, "If you'd shut up in class we might get something done, little miss 'I-need-everyone-to-hear-how-smart-I-think-I-am'".
It is always fascinating when we have evidence which proves that we, in essence, really don't change. When I was in elementary school I used to raise my hand and ask questions all the time. Well, that stretches the truth a bit. I didn't really raise my hand, I just asked questions. Okay, well, that's a bit of a stretch too. I didn't so much raise my hand and ask questions as just talk whenever I felt like talking. I can prove this. My mom has saved numerous report cards from my childhood. On many of them the "Teacher's comments" section nearly said the same thing verbatim throughout the years and over the course of many teachers. Usually it went something like:
"Kimberly is a bright student. If she could apply herself her grades would improve. She is very entertaining. However she tends to distract the rest of the students during class time." That is how the kind teachers put it. I have a thing about the word "bright".
In my mind it is tantamount to calling me retarded (or challenged, or whatever it is now). One of my professors told me he thought my writing skills were in the top 3% of students he's taught. But then he made the fatal mistake of saying, "You're very bright Kimberly". I cried. That's right. Cried, as if to say, "How could you say that about me? I'm heartbroken!" I have no idea what it is about that word. The only thing I can compare it to is when your parents tell you your dog "ran away" when in reality he was run over by a garbage truck and his body wisked away to some pet crematorium by a kind neighbor who would expect the same if his daughter's dog was found dead. I don't know. I'm like an anorexic. I look at my intellect and see a big fat butt and cellulite.
Okay, on with the real point of my post.
Today I was having lunch with a friend who is not privy to my having "surfaced". Actually, she isn't privy to anything with regards to my "orientation". We were sitting in the Bagelry (the best bagels in the region) catching up. The sun has turned to a muggy combination of showers and spritzes. We sit and she's telling me about her and her husband's ambivalence about fostering to adopt. I'm excited for her. I think she'll be a great mom. I told her so and she made me tell her why. Remember, if you ever say something like that to someone, you better be prepared to follow it up with some real evidence! That was no problem for me, however, because I rarely ever say something just to hear myself say it or to make someone feel better because "Kimberly said so".
As we sat there eating our scrumptious bagels, in walks a family. And by family I mean to say 2 mommies and two little toe heads. It was obvious to me. Suddenly I was distracted. I focused on my friend like I would a bulls eye on a target I didn't want to miss. I wanted to accost the family. Yet I couldn't excuse myself and go talk to them because it would open the door to a conversation I didn't want to have with my friend in the short time we had before our next, longer, visit. So I prayed. "God, please don't let them leave. Please. I want to talk to them!" Two minutes later I sat helplessly watching them leave the Bagelry, children in tow. By this time I was filling her in on my very part time job without pay, my writing. I followed them with my eyes. They went to their car, and then I lost them. All I could think, way back in my head behind the conversation that was at the forefront (that I was paying total attention to), was, "Rare opportunity missed! Arg." That's right, "Arg".
But hold on. Don't even think that I give up on God's faithfulness so easily. I was sure he planned to answer me even if it meant running into them somewhere else someday. Instead, after I hugged my lovely friend from my old WWU days goodbye, I walked with anticipation across the street to the co-op/pet store. Smart thinking. Rabbits, rats, cats, birds, kids. Perfect combination. If they hadn't left downtown, that is where I would find them. No luck. I hurried past the rabbits and rats to the back where the cats and birds were. They were nowhere to be found. I did pet the cats and cry for awhile because that's what I do at pet stores. I cry. I want to take them all home and let them lie on my books in the sun. A lady came with a carrier and I asked if she was taking one home. She said emphatically, "No, I'm taking three!" A woman after my own heart but with a house. However, according to my friend Michael I'm not allowed to have cats because I'm a single woman and not only that I'm middle aged and gay. Too much of a stereotype I guess. Well, he's not so much forbidden me but has made it clear that he would be embarrassed for me.
ANYWAY! I went to purchase some landscape fabric since I was there and half way down the aisle I saw my family. My heart lept. God must have been grinning in the way he does when loves his children in demonstrative and obvious ways. Like a kid who wants your attention but runs and hides instead, I veered into the next aisle to check out the dog chews. I got over my sudden shyness quickly and ran after them just as they were exiting the store. I grabbed the shirt of one of the gals and asked breathlessly, "Are you guys a family?"
Now, you may be thinking about two things. Or not. But you may be wondering, "Why would she ask them that question?" And, "Why such eagerness on your part to meet them?"
First, why would I stalk two strangers and so eagerly desire to introduce myself and talk with them? The first answer I would give is very vague. I'm not sure I know completely myself. All I know is that I was strongly compelled. My heart lept. I knew, like I always know, that these two women would welcome me like family. And when I see them, and other "alternative" families like them, hope is what rises up inside of me. Something swells up inside. Sort of like The Grinch's heart when he realized that Christmas wasn't about stuff after hearing the singing of the Who's rising up from Whosville. But I didn't steal anyone's stuff.
I don't know many lesbians. And I definitely don't know too many my age. These gals were my age. Maybe a bit younger. I crave the community of women who experience the "uncommon" life of a gay woman. I have done all kinds of not necessarily uncharacteristic things, but definitely bold and forward things, to meet other gay people. Stalking isn't always my first choice. But a woman has to do what a woman has to do. I need to do what it takes to access a somewhat "hidden" community. By hidden I mean oftentimes unidentifiable, or cloistered. The community I seek is definitely not hiding, per se. The community I seek is minority. I will be like a drop of ink in a basin of water once I find my way into this community. They say, just like these two mommies said to me, that once you meet a few women the community opens up because the degrees of separation are far smaller than in the general population. In other words, it's tight. Not unlike the Christian community except with, perhaps, an element of "survival and safety in numbers".
I have many desires in my heart that I've let rise to the surface ever since God showed me that he would neither let me go if I "came out" or allow my theology to waver and falter** (see end of post). Among those desires is a somewhat well formed and new desire for family. It is not that I didn't desire a family before, but if you consider what I would have been giving up to pursue a family in the heterosexual context...well, needless to say, from that perspective you can see why it was shelved on the "hopeless desires that likely won't be fulfilled" shelf. I do not understand the logic behind my sudden increase in hope and desire. It does not make sense given the factors I face to "overcome" in order to have a family.
Maybe I have to spell out the situation for you. If I meet someone today, one could safely assume that we would not start a family for at least a year and half. If you don't even factor in the fact that we could not be married and have a legal binding relationship, here are the things at play in my mind. Okay, add my age, 41. Then tack on the fact that I have been diagnosed with a mental illness. This is significant for two reasons. One, I take drugs that would poison a fetus, so I would have to go off the drugs in order to get pregnant if that were the route we took. However, I can't go off my medications because not only would I have raging hormonal changes, I would likely be triggered into an episode that would be far worse than the last. Not an option. Second, if we chose adoption we would face the possibility of my "mental Illness" showing up. Bipolar is not a light diagnosis. Then you add into this proof that we both are gay and that limits the adoption agencies and countries.
+ no current relationship
+ age 41
+ mental illness diagnosis
+ "alternative" family label
= dismal possibility for a family
Surprisingly, I have a sense of hope and commitment for a family in my future than I EVER did before. Strange that so many obstacles would INCREASE my desire. I don't know if that says more about me or God. I'm assuming the latter. My heart is very tender towards this possibility. Very open and yet I don't think I'll be victim to disappointment, hurt, and hopelessness. All those things we are attempting to avoid when we don't open our hearts to desires that are risky just by sheer impossibility of them. Hope is a funny and risky thing.
So, I HAD to talk with this family! I had to ask them "Are you guys a family?" because so many other alternative questions would have likely come straight out of my little booklet of "oppressive" language. A book I've learned to use over the years and which is not only obsolete and unnecessary, but self-deprecating as well. I wanted to assume they were a family regardless if they actually were just friends. I've been out with my girl friends and their kids, and you are sometimes aware that people are looking at you with one of those bubbles over their head, "I wonder if they are lesbians". I've gotten over the mild fear I had about that. I didn't care if these two weren't actually a couple. If they weren't and they were offended by my presumption, I, ultimately, would be the only one with the right to be more offended. I would say, "I'm sorry you are offended by my assumption that you are a family. If you had been I would have presumed that you were both courageous and strong." Then I would take out my rainbow flag, turn on the heels of my sensible shoes, and yell, "gay pride baby!!"
Okay, maybe I wouldn't do that. I hate the rainbow thing, but I think I have to get used to it in the same way you have to get used to your son/daughter-in-law's irritating family. My language is changing. That isn't a bad thing. Everywhere I've gone in this life, my language changes. They call it colloquialism. Language that is specific to an area, group, or culture. I moved from England to America and my daily language use changed. I moved from America to China and my daily language use changed. It was interspersed with simple Mandarin phrases such as, "I'm not fat, I'm an American." My handling of the English language was also affected by the need to simplify my dialog and vocabulary for my students. I'm very determined and purposeful about my language. I'm like my own watch dog now because I am becoming aware of how my beliefs about homosexuality, cultural beliefs that I have understudied, are inherent in my language.
I have a new friend Rick who works with Catholic Community Services and on the side runs the regional extension of a Lutheran group that helps in all aspects of gay issues and faith. Rick was meeting with me every week for a while when I was first coming out of my closet. He is fun to be with. His story is that his wife finally told him that he was gay. I find that completely funny in that most of us think of really messy and painful things happening in relationships in which one person is gay. Anyway, when we would talk he would catch me when I said something that was unnecessary, self-deprecating, obsolete, or judgemental. I remember one evening in particular when I said, "Blah, blah, blah, people like us." Before I took a breath he asked me, "What do you mean by 'people like us?'" I was embarrassed! I determined from that moment on to be aware of my language. Not only be aware, but police it like the DMZ!
There is enough going around. Enough language, enough intolerance, enough ignorance, enough unloving language, that I don't have to add to it. I am aware of when I say things, think things, do things that promote even the slightest message that homosexuality is bad, wrong, unforgivable, weird. Sometimes it's just laziness. Sometimes it is easier to use the old language and believe that it does not real harm. Sometimes it is just difficult to find new language. Especially when you are like me. Compelled to form my own language. I am not a parrot. I always am compelled to rephrase everything into my own wording so that it makes more sense to me. I'm arrogant in that way. This becomes a real problem in counseling in that a good counselor uses the language of her client rather than rephrasing everything they say.
I am still the same girl. I'm hearing things differently, but it's the same set of ears. When I listen to anyone who speaks of social justice, I think about how Jesus looks at "people like me". Jesus is the champion of the marginalized and oppressed.
I hope you aren't thinking that it is an exaggeration to say that homosexuals are oppressed. If you are thinking this I want you to try a simple exercise. Please. For 5 minutes, even 10 if you can, sincerely pretend that homosexuality is okay with God. Spend the first 20 seconds saying to yourself, "I will be fine and my theology will not be harmed in any way. I do not need to think of the myriad reasons I believe homosexuality is wrong." Then spend the rest of the time thinking about what being a homosexual in this society (since this is the one you are in) is like. All I ask is that you take that 10 minutes for what it is. I don't expect any drastic changes in what you believe. After all, it took me 17 years to believe that it wasn't wrong of me to live this life. I can't blame anyone, especially if they never have to face that life head on themselves. However, maybe you will see that homosexuals are an oppressed people. We are okay. We are even stronger for it. At least I am. But it is my goal not to let myself promote oppression. Part of that job is to say the same things to the people around me as I say to myself.
**I'd always assumed that 1) God would leave me to my own devises as I might be stubbornly seeking my own desires by living a queer life, and, 2) I would throw the baby out with the bathwater. The bathwater being the "choice" to live a queer life, and the baby being all the tenets of my faith, including and not limited to the belief that Jesus is my Lord who came to show me the way to God my Father.
addendum
I am terrible with numbers!!
The year my father drove coast to coast was 1971. Sorry to those of you who expect that I edit my own work. I'm "hiring" an editor. And by "hiring" I mean without pay. When royalties begin appearing, paychecks will be written for sure.
The year my father drove coast to coast was 1971. Sorry to those of you who expect that I edit my own work. I'm "hiring" an editor. And by "hiring" I mean without pay. When royalties begin appearing, paychecks will be written for sure.
Saturday, May 17
harken back briefly
Here's something to think about:
A couple weeks ago I filled my gas tank for a trip to Seattle and it cost $37.00. By the time I went to work the next day in Bellingham I had to put gas in the tank again. In 1966 my father drove from the east coast to Washington state. He saved his travel journal from the trip and recorded the mileage and other information each time he stopped at a gas station. Do you know how much he spent on gas for the entire trip coast-to-coast?
$36.43
A couple weeks ago I filled my gas tank for a trip to Seattle and it cost $37.00. By the time I went to work the next day in Bellingham I had to put gas in the tank again. In 1966 my father drove from the east coast to Washington state. He saved his travel journal from the trip and recorded the mileage and other information each time he stopped at a gas station. Do you know how much he spent on gas for the entire trip coast-to-coast?
$36.43
Thursday, May 15
part II: the privileged few
I’m gay. That fact coupled with my being manic depressive places me in an even smaller percentage of the world wide population. You can see how I easily corner the market in terms of minority status. You should be laughing. I am. I’m not being sarcastic. I find this extraordinary life more and more interesting and humorous than oppressive and sad. I find great strength in these peculiarities. God must see something in me that I don’t.
Here are some questions for you.
If you are heterosexual, how often during the week do you think about your sexual orientation? If you believe in God, how often do you think about your sexuality while also thinking about God? How do you know you are attracted to the opposite sex? How do you know you are not attracted to other people of your same sex? Do you think it is possible for you to be attracted to people of your same sex?
I’ll go first since I brought it up. Let me preface this post with this: I am not going to defend my sexual orientation. It may seem defensive of me even to preface it that way, but my orientation isn’t up for discussion. It is sad that I even feel a need to say that. What I do want is discussion and learning focused on what it is like to be gay, what it is like being a Christian and gay, what it is like to "come out" in a conservative church and to conservative friends. I want discussion centered around learning. I really do mean for you to learn, because, after all, I have lived as a heterosexual and therefore am pretty sure I understand it. It’s true. I’m not being cocky. What I’m saying is that I’m open to discussion that is all about mutual edification. Okay, now on to today's round table.
1) If you are heterosexual, how often during the week do you think about your sexual orientation?
I think about my sexual orientation probably every 15 minutes. At least. I haven’t been counting. I think about it because I’ve never let myself think about it for very long until about November of last year when I decided to “surface” as gay (a friend recently used the word “surface” and I decided I like it better than the worn out phrase “coming out”). I think about it because my culture is so heterosexually oriented that I’m reminded pretty continuously of my differences. I think about it because I’m still getting used to being able to say it and think about it freely. With decreasing frequency I find myself thinking, “Oh my goodness! I’m gay!” I am settling into it like a pair of comfortable and sensible shoes.
I first admitted and accepted that I was attracted to women in 1992 while in China. China is a recurring place in my life story, and it is in China* that I fell for Jenny. Much to my disappointment Jenny is a healthy heterosexual woman and I was left with somewhat of a broken heart even though we have remained good friends. When I returned from China I went through a process one could appropriately describe as “going into the closet”. "In the closet" is a very appropriate term. My closet was well organized and smelled of cedar.
*By the way, pray for the people in the areas around Chendu that were affected by the earthquake. I received a letter from someone in Chengdu who said that the 7.9 earthquake lasted 4 whole minutes. I've heard that the devastation of an earthquake isn’t measured so much in its seismic strength as in the length of the quake. 30 seconds is a long quake! 4 minutes is devastating. He said that in the 40 hours following the quake they experienced 3000 aftershocks! How frightening. I pray they find their True Comforter. The Chinese can be pretty fearful and superstitious about natural disasters. Natural disasters such as this are considered an ominous message.
Anyway, after my return from China I didn’t live a double life. I just chose to live a heterosexual life because it seemed a lot easier. The other path contained too many unknowns. I knew, and told my closest friends, that I was more attracted to women far more than men. I never expressed shame or remorse with regards to this obvious truth. I just kept down that path that seemed the path of least resistance. I didn't want to test what God REALLY thinks about homosexuality.
I thought about homosexuality often enough though. When I would watch a movie and was more interested in the female leads than the males. My infatuations with certain men were confusing and awkward, and hardly ever ended well. My infatuations with women were funny and enjoyable, but always controlled. When I was eventually engaged to be married, I sabotaged the relationship to the point where he couldn’t stand me anymore. I can’t say with any conviction that sabotage wasn’t my plan from the moment he put that ring on my finger. My conduct was awful. But it was a huge relief when we chose to call off the wedding. These and other things led me into moments where I would briefly resurface and contemplate living out my actual orientation. But I would get scared. Each time, like a gopher popping out of his hole and seeing all those people watching for his shadow, I would run fearfully back into my hole. There was too much at stake. I thought I would lose too much.
Now I think about my sexual orientation a lot because I finally surfaced and decided to live honestly and authentically. Maybe you hardly ever think about your heterosexuality. I can’t help it. It took every ounce of courage in me to come out, to surface, to see if God really wanted me to continue living a lie, and to eventually come out in the church unapologetically. I am faced with a consistent message that who I am is somehow wrong, sinful, or simply “yucky”. When I think about a committed relationship I have to think about what that would look like when our relationship is neither recognized by the state or the church. It isn’t the approval I’m wanting. It is the recognition that I can be with someone and that someone would be recognized as “family” and could parent legally and equally with me, take care of me in a medical emergency and vice versa, and be able to have other inherent rights you, a heterosexual, can take for granted.
But really I enjoy thinking about my life now. About my future. I think about it because I can, and because I’m so content and at peace. Mostly I think how pleased I am that I get to live out my whole life in the sight of God, without fear and without losing my faith.
2)
If you believe in God, how often do you think about your sexuality while also thinking about God?
It is a strange question, I know. But I think it is extremely difficult for us to tolerate God being in the same “room” as our sexuality. It’s a sad result of our puritanical heritage. I’m not just talking about sex. I’m talking about sexuality. The whole package. Attraction, desire, intimacy, sensuality. I have an odd question for you. Is God a eunuch? Does he procreate? Why did he create us as sexual beings? Simply to procreate? If we are created in the image of God, what about God is sexual? Does it make you uncomfortable to think of God as a “sexual” being? Would it make it easier if you understood sexuality as a metaphor for intense desire for intimacy in God? An illustration of what it looks like to get lost in Someone other than ourselves? Do you crave the same kind of intimacy with God as you do with your partner? I'm talking sexual intimacy. We should. We should desire God and a kind of intimacy with him that is reminiscent of what the French call a “tiny death", an orgasm. A kind of ecstasy that abandons self control. That is so uncomfortable for us to contemplate. Yet you have to admit there is no better place you’d want to lose yourself than in the presence and hands of God.
I love the fact that God has now infused the most secret crevasses of my life. Sexuality is a place where the devil plays and nimbly weaves his lies. He steals it from God right under our noses. Shame, obsession, perversion, violence. Sexuality itself is considered ostentatious. We believe that given free reign it can get out of hand…and dancing inevitably leads to sex and babies. I’m not saying we all need to become comfortable with our nakedness and parade around proudly. Lord! Save that for heaven. It makes me wonder, will we have Vera Wang, accessories, and really cool shoes in heaven? Oh, sorry. I digress.
I’m an armchair theologian. I may not be saying all of this correctly. However, I think that our sexuality is too easily hijacked by “the world” as Jesus puts it. The world keeps us from allowing our sexuality and God in the same room at once. However, when we allow sexuality to become part of God's relationship with us, it is both frightening and incredibly comforting. It is frightening in that way intimacy always is. We lose ourselves, we lose control, and that is something we mostly try to avoid? Tell me if I’m wrong.
3) How do you know you are attracted to the opposite sex?
I was in a conversation with a friend one day where he was trying to explain to me why I was not being pursued by suitors of the opposite sex. “You need to work at making yourself more attractive to guys. They are very visual,” is what he said to me.
Number one, I don’t think I can adequately describe the force with which I wanted to slug him.
Second, thank God I don’t have to be under the scrutiny of men anymore. I’ll leave that to heterosexual women who enjoy the process of attracting men. I find it personally abhorrent in the same way you heterosexuals might consider wooing someone of the same sex abhorrent. I’m glad I can say that now with complete conviction and confidence.
Third, I could never understand how his theory worked when I look around me. There are plenty of disheveled women –physically, emotionally, and mentally– who have somehow been able to woo their man. Love wins out in the end. Mates are chosen with far more attributes in mind than physical attractiveness. Attraction does not = attractiveness. I think attraction has something to do with, as I explained to him that day, a whole person attraction. And I am damn cute anyway!
Fourthly, all the same rules of attraction apply in homosexuality as in heterosexuality. If you think of sexuality and attraction in the same narrow way my friend does (I don’t know, maybe he’s changed his mind after reaching middle age, thinning hair, a couple kids, and many years of marriage), I can see why you would believe that the rules would also be narrow in homosexual attraction. I don’t know about you but I'm looking for the whole package. Attraction is about how one particular person is exquisitely attracted to another person on levels that are far beyond only the physical realm.
4)
How do you know you are not attracted to other people of your same sex? Do you think it is possible for you to be attracted to people of your same sex?
I’ve already spoken to this a bit. If you are heterosexual, you won’t be attracted to the opposite sex. The same goes with homosexuality. I have had a “history” of relationships with men. Let’s just say that my relationships have looked less like loving and more like I was working out my demons on them. With the exception of my engagement to a somewhat effeminate man, I never dated anyone for longer than 2 weeks. Even if it was going well.
I dated a Disney in college. We actually were compatible in ways that I don’t necessarily want to get into. I broke up with him using excuses like, “It’s just not working.” He was confused, “Uh, we’ve only been together for 2 weeks and I really like you.” Frankly, so was I. I did like being around him, but I just had this compulsion to jettison men away from me as soon as possible. And to tell you the truth I gave up a lot for that break-up. The Disney’s were going to have a big shindig that summer and I would have been invited for sure.
I have had a few lovely male suitors (that my friend from the previous story wasn’t privileged to hear about). Very good looking and enjoyable men. One friend, a strapping, solid, and incredibly sensual model, pursued me with an honesty and authenticity that nearly broke me. But I thwarted him. He was begging me, and although it was a bit difficult, I relished the ability to say no to such a beautiful man. I was attracted to him, yes. I think ANYONE would be attracted to him. Physically he is beautiful. But I also knew the attraction was purely sexual. I liked him a lot. I still like him. He’s a great guy. Why would I say no? If you consider my last points about attraction, attraction is about the whole package. Just because I was attracted sexually means nothing because my sexuality isn’t actually about sex. I know that is a hard one to grasp if you’ve always believed that homosexuality is only about sex.
I have given myself to men physically but never ever emotionally. I think you know the difference if you are married to your mate, your soul-mate perhaps. I, however, don’t know what that is in reality. I can wax eloquently about what I know it looks like. But out of all the chances I’ve had to experience it, I never did. That is because I’m gay and was barking up the wrong palm tree.
That about wraps up this portion of part II, but I think I’m going to have to have a part II of part II. Stay tuned.
Here are some questions for you.
If you are heterosexual, how often during the week do you think about your sexual orientation? If you believe in God, how often do you think about your sexuality while also thinking about God? How do you know you are attracted to the opposite sex? How do you know you are not attracted to other people of your same sex? Do you think it is possible for you to be attracted to people of your same sex?
I’ll go first since I brought it up. Let me preface this post with this: I am not going to defend my sexual orientation. It may seem defensive of me even to preface it that way, but my orientation isn’t up for discussion. It is sad that I even feel a need to say that. What I do want is discussion and learning focused on what it is like to be gay, what it is like being a Christian and gay, what it is like to "come out" in a conservative church and to conservative friends. I want discussion centered around learning. I really do mean for you to learn, because, after all, I have lived as a heterosexual and therefore am pretty sure I understand it. It’s true. I’m not being cocky. What I’m saying is that I’m open to discussion that is all about mutual edification. Okay, now on to today's round table.
1) If you are heterosexual, how often during the week do you think about your sexual orientation?
I think about my sexual orientation probably every 15 minutes. At least. I haven’t been counting. I think about it because I’ve never let myself think about it for very long until about November of last year when I decided to “surface” as gay (a friend recently used the word “surface” and I decided I like it better than the worn out phrase “coming out”). I think about it because my culture is so heterosexually oriented that I’m reminded pretty continuously of my differences. I think about it because I’m still getting used to being able to say it and think about it freely. With decreasing frequency I find myself thinking, “Oh my goodness! I’m gay!” I am settling into it like a pair of comfortable and sensible shoes.
I first admitted and accepted that I was attracted to women in 1992 while in China. China is a recurring place in my life story, and it is in China* that I fell for Jenny. Much to my disappointment Jenny is a healthy heterosexual woman and I was left with somewhat of a broken heart even though we have remained good friends. When I returned from China I went through a process one could appropriately describe as “going into the closet”. "In the closet" is a very appropriate term. My closet was well organized and smelled of cedar.
*By the way, pray for the people in the areas around Chendu that were affected by the earthquake. I received a letter from someone in Chengdu who said that the 7.9 earthquake lasted 4 whole minutes. I've heard that the devastation of an earthquake isn’t measured so much in its seismic strength as in the length of the quake. 30 seconds is a long quake! 4 minutes is devastating. He said that in the 40 hours following the quake they experienced 3000 aftershocks! How frightening. I pray they find their True Comforter. The Chinese can be pretty fearful and superstitious about natural disasters. Natural disasters such as this are considered an ominous message.
Anyway, after my return from China I didn’t live a double life. I just chose to live a heterosexual life because it seemed a lot easier. The other path contained too many unknowns. I knew, and told my closest friends, that I was more attracted to women far more than men. I never expressed shame or remorse with regards to this obvious truth. I just kept down that path that seemed the path of least resistance. I didn't want to test what God REALLY thinks about homosexuality.
I thought about homosexuality often enough though. When I would watch a movie and was more interested in the female leads than the males. My infatuations with certain men were confusing and awkward, and hardly ever ended well. My infatuations with women were funny and enjoyable, but always controlled. When I was eventually engaged to be married, I sabotaged the relationship to the point where he couldn’t stand me anymore. I can’t say with any conviction that sabotage wasn’t my plan from the moment he put that ring on my finger. My conduct was awful. But it was a huge relief when we chose to call off the wedding. These and other things led me into moments where I would briefly resurface and contemplate living out my actual orientation. But I would get scared. Each time, like a gopher popping out of his hole and seeing all those people watching for his shadow, I would run fearfully back into my hole. There was too much at stake. I thought I would lose too much.
Now I think about my sexual orientation a lot because I finally surfaced and decided to live honestly and authentically. Maybe you hardly ever think about your heterosexuality. I can’t help it. It took every ounce of courage in me to come out, to surface, to see if God really wanted me to continue living a lie, and to eventually come out in the church unapologetically. I am faced with a consistent message that who I am is somehow wrong, sinful, or simply “yucky”. When I think about a committed relationship I have to think about what that would look like when our relationship is neither recognized by the state or the church. It isn’t the approval I’m wanting. It is the recognition that I can be with someone and that someone would be recognized as “family” and could parent legally and equally with me, take care of me in a medical emergency and vice versa, and be able to have other inherent rights you, a heterosexual, can take for granted.
But really I enjoy thinking about my life now. About my future. I think about it because I can, and because I’m so content and at peace. Mostly I think how pleased I am that I get to live out my whole life in the sight of God, without fear and without losing my faith.
2)
If you believe in God, how often do you think about your sexuality while also thinking about God?
It is a strange question, I know. But I think it is extremely difficult for us to tolerate God being in the same “room” as our sexuality. It’s a sad result of our puritanical heritage. I’m not just talking about sex. I’m talking about sexuality. The whole package. Attraction, desire, intimacy, sensuality. I have an odd question for you. Is God a eunuch? Does he procreate? Why did he create us as sexual beings? Simply to procreate? If we are created in the image of God, what about God is sexual? Does it make you uncomfortable to think of God as a “sexual” being? Would it make it easier if you understood sexuality as a metaphor for intense desire for intimacy in God? An illustration of what it looks like to get lost in Someone other than ourselves? Do you crave the same kind of intimacy with God as you do with your partner? I'm talking sexual intimacy. We should. We should desire God and a kind of intimacy with him that is reminiscent of what the French call a “tiny death", an orgasm. A kind of ecstasy that abandons self control. That is so uncomfortable for us to contemplate. Yet you have to admit there is no better place you’d want to lose yourself than in the presence and hands of God.
I love the fact that God has now infused the most secret crevasses of my life. Sexuality is a place where the devil plays and nimbly weaves his lies. He steals it from God right under our noses. Shame, obsession, perversion, violence. Sexuality itself is considered ostentatious. We believe that given free reign it can get out of hand…and dancing inevitably leads to sex and babies. I’m not saying we all need to become comfortable with our nakedness and parade around proudly. Lord! Save that for heaven. It makes me wonder, will we have Vera Wang, accessories, and really cool shoes in heaven? Oh, sorry. I digress.
I’m an armchair theologian. I may not be saying all of this correctly. However, I think that our sexuality is too easily hijacked by “the world” as Jesus puts it. The world keeps us from allowing our sexuality and God in the same room at once. However, when we allow sexuality to become part of God's relationship with us, it is both frightening and incredibly comforting. It is frightening in that way intimacy always is. We lose ourselves, we lose control, and that is something we mostly try to avoid? Tell me if I’m wrong.
3) How do you know you are attracted to the opposite sex?
I was in a conversation with a friend one day where he was trying to explain to me why I was not being pursued by suitors of the opposite sex. “You need to work at making yourself more attractive to guys. They are very visual,” is what he said to me.
Number one, I don’t think I can adequately describe the force with which I wanted to slug him.
Second, thank God I don’t have to be under the scrutiny of men anymore. I’ll leave that to heterosexual women who enjoy the process of attracting men. I find it personally abhorrent in the same way you heterosexuals might consider wooing someone of the same sex abhorrent. I’m glad I can say that now with complete conviction and confidence.
Third, I could never understand how his theory worked when I look around me. There are plenty of disheveled women –physically, emotionally, and mentally– who have somehow been able to woo their man. Love wins out in the end. Mates are chosen with far more attributes in mind than physical attractiveness. Attraction does not = attractiveness. I think attraction has something to do with, as I explained to him that day, a whole person attraction. And I am damn cute anyway!
Fourthly, all the same rules of attraction apply in homosexuality as in heterosexuality. If you think of sexuality and attraction in the same narrow way my friend does (I don’t know, maybe he’s changed his mind after reaching middle age, thinning hair, a couple kids, and many years of marriage), I can see why you would believe that the rules would also be narrow in homosexual attraction. I don’t know about you but I'm looking for the whole package. Attraction is about how one particular person is exquisitely attracted to another person on levels that are far beyond only the physical realm.
4)
How do you know you are not attracted to other people of your same sex? Do you think it is possible for you to be attracted to people of your same sex?
I’ve already spoken to this a bit. If you are heterosexual, you won’t be attracted to the opposite sex. The same goes with homosexuality. I have had a “history” of relationships with men. Let’s just say that my relationships have looked less like loving and more like I was working out my demons on them. With the exception of my engagement to a somewhat effeminate man, I never dated anyone for longer than 2 weeks. Even if it was going well.
I dated a Disney in college. We actually were compatible in ways that I don’t necessarily want to get into. I broke up with him using excuses like, “It’s just not working.” He was confused, “Uh, we’ve only been together for 2 weeks and I really like you.” Frankly, so was I. I did like being around him, but I just had this compulsion to jettison men away from me as soon as possible. And to tell you the truth I gave up a lot for that break-up. The Disney’s were going to have a big shindig that summer and I would have been invited for sure.
I have had a few lovely male suitors (that my friend from the previous story wasn’t privileged to hear about). Very good looking and enjoyable men. One friend, a strapping, solid, and incredibly sensual model, pursued me with an honesty and authenticity that nearly broke me. But I thwarted him. He was begging me, and although it was a bit difficult, I relished the ability to say no to such a beautiful man. I was attracted to him, yes. I think ANYONE would be attracted to him. Physically he is beautiful. But I also knew the attraction was purely sexual. I liked him a lot. I still like him. He’s a great guy. Why would I say no? If you consider my last points about attraction, attraction is about the whole package. Just because I was attracted sexually means nothing because my sexuality isn’t actually about sex. I know that is a hard one to grasp if you’ve always believed that homosexuality is only about sex.
I have given myself to men physically but never ever emotionally. I think you know the difference if you are married to your mate, your soul-mate perhaps. I, however, don’t know what that is in reality. I can wax eloquently about what I know it looks like. But out of all the chances I’ve had to experience it, I never did. That is because I’m gay and was barking up the wrong palm tree.
That about wraps up this portion of part II, but I think I’m going to have to have a part II of part II. Stay tuned.
Wednesday, May 14
“technical” difficulties
I know we all have our issues, difficulties, problems, and relatives who drive us batty. I don’t think I’m one of those people who has to have a more fantastical story. Someone who has no idea that she must “one up” people when they tell her their own stories of difficulty, problems, struggles, issues, and that irritating cowlick that she can never seem to tame. Am I? But I must admitt that the overall range of issues I have the privilege of juggling is a bit, well, let’s say “character building”. I want to tell my own stories as honestly and authentically as possible. I know I have discovered the secret to my sanity and success. The secret is to accept my challenges and limitations, look at them realistically, talk about them honestly, see them for what they are, be blessed, and use every thing that I find in them to give to others. At times, when I look at my life through that lens, I’m stunned. I'm stunned. Among the challenges I'm privileged to face are, found in my Blog title, “Gay Christian Crazy”
Part I: Crazy
Only I can call myself crazy. It’s just like someone’s out of control child. A parent can say to you, “my kid is out of control”, but you may not have that same right.
If you look at a national average, my diagnosis, Bipolar I (formerly Manic Depression), the prevalence in the population is 3-5%. But many studies have concluded that there is a mere 1% prevalence rate of the illness world wide. It is considered one of the most severe mental illnesses to have. It is very surreal for me when I look at a sentence like that. I don't know if I'll ever get used to it. I also feel kind of special. Not only in a hostile and bitter sort of way, but in a David and Goliath way too.
Here’s a summary of the illness:
“Bipolar I Disorder is one of the most severe forms of mental illness and is characterized by recurrent episodes of mania and (more often) depression. The condition has a high rate of recurrence and if untreated, it has an approximately 15% risk of death by suicide. It is the third leading cause of death among people aged 15-24 years, and is the 6th leading cause of disability (lost years of healthy life) for people aged 15-44 years in the developed world.”
I was diagnosed with manic depression a few months after returning from my teaching position over in China. But I only actually accepted the diagnosis about a year and a half ago. That means it took me only, uh, 14 years. I constantly questioned it, half accepting, half denying it. “I’m not really sick, I’m just a mess”. “I’m fine, I can make myself better.” “Only really crazy people are mentally ill. I’m just an artist.” But people in my life beg to differ. I have to agree now. Now I see my illness for what it is. I still hate the label “mentally ill”, but it is about as appropriate a label as it gets. I am ill and it affects my mental capacities.
After I was initially diagnosed in ’93 I was prescribed the psychotropic drug Lithium. On the periodic table, which you studied in middle school, it is atomic #3, just after hydrogen and helium. It is a naturally occurring salt, and according to popular legend its therapeutic affects on mood disturbance was discovered when it was introduced as a table salt substitute at a prison. A decrease in inmate violence, acting out, and hostility was eventually attributed to the introduction of lithium to the prison population’s diet. I don’t know if that is entirely true, but I really like that version of the story.
When lithium was first introduced to my diet in the form of a little pink pill taken 4 times a day, I was overjoyed at the peace I experienced. One day, really, I suddenly realized that it was quiet. There was a frenetic activity in my brain that never seemed to quiet down. In fact, author and fellow manic depressive Dr Kay Redfield Jamison wrote a powerful and informative memoir of her journey from undiagnosed mayhem to her own acceptance. The book is appropriately titled, The Unquiet Mind. The inner noise of a bipolar mind is like the chatter of the radio as you surf from station to station. It is like the roar of surf and like the distraction of a jack hammer while trying to study for a statistics exam (please refer to my former post “if/then”).
Unfortunately one of the primary problems faced by us manic depressives is that we seem to eventually tire of both the side-affects of our medications and, more importantly, the lack of excitement, color, and vibrancy of our lives before meds. We frequently suffer serious memory lapses in that we forget all the devastation, pain, and general lunacy that was also endemic in our former unmedicated life.
After 5 years on meds, in 1999 I made a deal with God. I know what you're thinking and I agree. However, at the time I thought it was a brilliant idea. I said, “If you let me go off this stupid medication that is causing more problems than it is supposed to correct, I promise I’ll listen to anyone who tells me I’m obviously in the middle of a manic episode.” Well, anyone who knows ANYTHING at all about manic depression knows that among the many symptoms is the inability to personally accept or even identify the symptoms when they are present. And to compound the situation, the manic person will rarely listen to those voices of reason around them anyway. “La, la, la, I can’t hear you,” we sing as we stick our fingers in our ears, “I’m having fun and you are trying to ruin it”. Unfortunately for me, 5 years after that deal with God I had people around me in late 2004 who were unable, for whatever reason, to identify and/or confront me when I was, as one person described after the fact, “completely gone”.
The course of an "episode" -BP is episodic and symptoms are generally only present during eposodes- looks like that grading curve that some sadistic teachers use to humiliate those of us who really suck in academia. The manic episode starts, always, at the “normal” mood stability range. This is the range most “stable” people hover around. It ranges from peace and contentment to the temporary psychosis of PMS. We all experience trauma, pain, grief, and bad news. Mostly we journey through these things experiencing a wide range of emotions that tend to be abnormal, outside the average range. But they are temporary and somewhat manageble. The manic depressive can no more control the course of their moods as control a vehicle skidding on black ice at 80 mph. You slowly, or rapidly, climb up and up into the manic range of mood instability.
The euphoria of the climb is what we remember when we romanticize the “good old days” before the "zombie'ing" affects of psychotropic medications. It's the same euphoria drug addicts crave. Mania literally has the same effect as a drug. Manic depressives crave it like anyone would crave a great high. In fact, any of you ever experienced the good, pure, home grown mania you would probably want more of it too. Colors are brighter, you feel invincible and smarter and funnier. To compound your unperturbed grandiosity, everyone really likes you when you're manic (seriously, people just LOVE me when I’m on my way up). You gain new friends, business partners, projects. You can accomplish a lot (mostly because you rarely sleep), you’re productive, creative, you feel sexy and crave sexual intimacy, and it is an overall fantastic and addictive experience. Oh, yea, and you lose weight because you rarely eat. I like that part especially.
Visible and troubling problems begin at the crest of the bell curve. At some point everything goes wrong. Suddenly you are not feeling so great and you don’t know why. You wake up one morning with a feeling dread. People are treating you differently and you don't know why. The euphoria turns into paranoia. Excess energy is gone and you begin to experience rapid successions of restlessness, lethargy, irritability. The brightness and extreme feelings turn delusional, hallucinatory, and hostile.
The unavoidable descent into clinical depression begins to take its course. As you cascade helplessly down the other side of bell curve your brain experiences a severe disruption in its normal metabolic rate and blood flow. Your ability to function normally in this state, already severely compromised, is compounded by the fact that you are now buried helplessly in the wake of devastation of your eratic activity in your mania. Relationships have been hurt if not destroyed. You also can't keep up with all the expectations and projects you accumulated in your mania. Money has disappeared on things you can’t recall (or don’t want to). Bills come out of nowhere. You lose jobs, people, money, respect, belongings, and trust. You can’t even trust yourself. You can’t get a grip on reality anymore because you have run the gamut of unreality like a drunkard in a blackout.
After 5 years on medication I struck that deal with God, and, as is the clinically exact course of the illness, in late 2004 experienced the most severe manic episode of my life. Counting the months of mania (prior to my entering treatment again in February of 2005), it took me about 3 years to recover. And by recover I mean physically becoming stable, for I am still recovering my life from the episode.
Now my brain is back. But my brain was fried! Cooked. In those 3 years I suffered two of the most severe depressions that nearly cost me my life. And THAT was ON the medications!! I was prescribed an aptly named anti-psychotic medication, I was back on lithium but at three times the dosage (as high as can be tolerated), and tried 3 other mood stabilizing drugs in an attempt at achieving an elusive mood stability. Until I was stable I had no chance of even starting to recover my life. I was incapacitated to the point that I was being strongly encouraged to go on Disability. I was on two occasions strongly encouraged to check myself into the hospital. I was “let go” from my job. I lost friends (like losing a $20 bill, “I have no idea where I dropped it or I’d go back and get it again”).
I lost complete faith in regaining any agency in my own life. But I didn’t go on disability because I’m stubborn and far too proud. I didn’t check into a hospital even though I wanted the safety of being watched and controlled by someone other than my suicidal self. I didn’t want it on my record. I reminded myself, while in a fetal position in bed at 4 p.m., that perhaps one day I’ll be okay and try to adopt a child... I did not want a future adoption agency see “psychiatric hospital patient” in my medical records. I didn’t want on my record for a number of reasons. I had some tiny miniscule ability to direct myself, but it didn’t feel like much at all. In fact, all I wanted to do was crawl up in a corner and maybe die if it was okay with God. It wasn't. Obviously.
In a future post I will tell you all that I gained from this. It is all insurmountably good (I mean that in a non-manic way). However, maybe this lets you in to see how this particular illness ravages hope. Ravages? It rapes. The hardest thing to comprehend, for me and others, is that it’s all in my head. I can’t even take a blood test to prove to myself that I have an “illness”.
However, I do have great pride that I am in good company! Many creative and brilliant people have suffered the same wages of an illness for which people in medieval times were burned at the stake. An illness that is the poster child for "insane assylums". But in these more civilized times our lunacy seems to be put to better uses. Here is a taste of the good company I keep: Virginia Woolf
Winston Churchill
Buzz Aldrin
Napoleon (okay, maybe not "good" company)
Rosemary Clooney
Robert Frost
Cary Grant
Ralph Waldo Emerson
Emily Dickinson (actually, there are a significant amount of poets who have been BP!)
Jack London
Mozart
Mark Twain
Vincent van Gogh (everyone knows that! The ear thing)
Ted Turner
Abe Lincoln
and, of course, Jim Carrey.
In part II, my next post will look at the “gay” portion of my Blog title. Another piece of me that falls in the lowest percentages of the world wide population. Another piece of who I am that is challenging that sets me apart in some ways and for which I carry a label of "other". I'm not whinning.
In part III I will elucidate that piece of who I am with all the struggles and blessings therein. It beats the struggles and blessings of the other pieces hands down. Part III, my Christian life, my life in the hands of an invisible God.
Oh, yea, about the “technical” difficulties. I wanted to tell you that I have not been posting because I have been experiencing technical difficulties with my computer and also with internet connection. Can you believe the audacity of my neighbor? He went and put a lock on his wireless router and now I can’t freeload off of him! Some people. Then my computer has been doing mean things to me. So, I called the Dell people for some customer support. Dell has fantastic customer support. I told “Christian”, who spoke with somewhat of a strong Punjabi accent, “It’s a good thing you guys provide such great tech support because your computers have a lot of problems.” I’ve never been one to understate the obvious.
But in reality, “technically” the reason I have not posted is because I formed a really bad habit in all my years living with manic depression. I'm moody in my ability to create. I create when my mood is “creative”. So, I have not been writing because I am “technically” bipolar and moody. I'm working on that.
Part I: Crazy
Only I can call myself crazy. It’s just like someone’s out of control child. A parent can say to you, “my kid is out of control”, but you may not have that same right.
If you look at a national average, my diagnosis, Bipolar I (formerly Manic Depression), the prevalence in the population is 3-5%. But many studies have concluded that there is a mere 1% prevalence rate of the illness world wide. It is considered one of the most severe mental illnesses to have. It is very surreal for me when I look at a sentence like that. I don't know if I'll ever get used to it. I also feel kind of special. Not only in a hostile and bitter sort of way, but in a David and Goliath way too.
Here’s a summary of the illness:
“Bipolar I Disorder is one of the most severe forms of mental illness and is characterized by recurrent episodes of mania and (more often) depression. The condition has a high rate of recurrence and if untreated, it has an approximately 15% risk of death by suicide. It is the third leading cause of death among people aged 15-24 years, and is the 6th leading cause of disability (lost years of healthy life) for people aged 15-44 years in the developed world.”
I was diagnosed with manic depression a few months after returning from my teaching position over in China. But I only actually accepted the diagnosis about a year and a half ago. That means it took me only, uh, 14 years. I constantly questioned it, half accepting, half denying it. “I’m not really sick, I’m just a mess”. “I’m fine, I can make myself better.” “Only really crazy people are mentally ill. I’m just an artist.” But people in my life beg to differ. I have to agree now. Now I see my illness for what it is. I still hate the label “mentally ill”, but it is about as appropriate a label as it gets. I am ill and it affects my mental capacities.
After I was initially diagnosed in ’93 I was prescribed the psychotropic drug Lithium. On the periodic table, which you studied in middle school, it is atomic #3, just after hydrogen and helium. It is a naturally occurring salt, and according to popular legend its therapeutic affects on mood disturbance was discovered when it was introduced as a table salt substitute at a prison. A decrease in inmate violence, acting out, and hostility was eventually attributed to the introduction of lithium to the prison population’s diet. I don’t know if that is entirely true, but I really like that version of the story.
When lithium was first introduced to my diet in the form of a little pink pill taken 4 times a day, I was overjoyed at the peace I experienced. One day, really, I suddenly realized that it was quiet. There was a frenetic activity in my brain that never seemed to quiet down. In fact, author and fellow manic depressive Dr Kay Redfield Jamison wrote a powerful and informative memoir of her journey from undiagnosed mayhem to her own acceptance. The book is appropriately titled, The Unquiet Mind. The inner noise of a bipolar mind is like the chatter of the radio as you surf from station to station. It is like the roar of surf and like the distraction of a jack hammer while trying to study for a statistics exam (please refer to my former post “if/then”).
Unfortunately one of the primary problems faced by us manic depressives is that we seem to eventually tire of both the side-affects of our medications and, more importantly, the lack of excitement, color, and vibrancy of our lives before meds. We frequently suffer serious memory lapses in that we forget all the devastation, pain, and general lunacy that was also endemic in our former unmedicated life.
After 5 years on meds, in 1999 I made a deal with God. I know what you're thinking and I agree. However, at the time I thought it was a brilliant idea. I said, “If you let me go off this stupid medication that is causing more problems than it is supposed to correct, I promise I’ll listen to anyone who tells me I’m obviously in the middle of a manic episode.” Well, anyone who knows ANYTHING at all about manic depression knows that among the many symptoms is the inability to personally accept or even identify the symptoms when they are present. And to compound the situation, the manic person will rarely listen to those voices of reason around them anyway. “La, la, la, I can’t hear you,” we sing as we stick our fingers in our ears, “I’m having fun and you are trying to ruin it”. Unfortunately for me, 5 years after that deal with God I had people around me in late 2004 who were unable, for whatever reason, to identify and/or confront me when I was, as one person described after the fact, “completely gone”.
The course of an "episode" -BP is episodic and symptoms are generally only present during eposodes- looks like that grading curve that some sadistic teachers use to humiliate those of us who really suck in academia. The manic episode starts, always, at the “normal” mood stability range. This is the range most “stable” people hover around. It ranges from peace and contentment to the temporary psychosis of PMS. We all experience trauma, pain, grief, and bad news. Mostly we journey through these things experiencing a wide range of emotions that tend to be abnormal, outside the average range. But they are temporary and somewhat manageble. The manic depressive can no more control the course of their moods as control a vehicle skidding on black ice at 80 mph. You slowly, or rapidly, climb up and up into the manic range of mood instability.
The euphoria of the climb is what we remember when we romanticize the “good old days” before the "zombie'ing" affects of psychotropic medications. It's the same euphoria drug addicts crave. Mania literally has the same effect as a drug. Manic depressives crave it like anyone would crave a great high. In fact, any of you ever experienced the good, pure, home grown mania you would probably want more of it too. Colors are brighter, you feel invincible and smarter and funnier. To compound your unperturbed grandiosity, everyone really likes you when you're manic (seriously, people just LOVE me when I’m on my way up). You gain new friends, business partners, projects. You can accomplish a lot (mostly because you rarely sleep), you’re productive, creative, you feel sexy and crave sexual intimacy, and it is an overall fantastic and addictive experience. Oh, yea, and you lose weight because you rarely eat. I like that part especially.
Visible and troubling problems begin at the crest of the bell curve. At some point everything goes wrong. Suddenly you are not feeling so great and you don’t know why. You wake up one morning with a feeling dread. People are treating you differently and you don't know why. The euphoria turns into paranoia. Excess energy is gone and you begin to experience rapid successions of restlessness, lethargy, irritability. The brightness and extreme feelings turn delusional, hallucinatory, and hostile.
The unavoidable descent into clinical depression begins to take its course. As you cascade helplessly down the other side of bell curve your brain experiences a severe disruption in its normal metabolic rate and blood flow. Your ability to function normally in this state, already severely compromised, is compounded by the fact that you are now buried helplessly in the wake of devastation of your eratic activity in your mania. Relationships have been hurt if not destroyed. You also can't keep up with all the expectations and projects you accumulated in your mania. Money has disappeared on things you can’t recall (or don’t want to). Bills come out of nowhere. You lose jobs, people, money, respect, belongings, and trust. You can’t even trust yourself. You can’t get a grip on reality anymore because you have run the gamut of unreality like a drunkard in a blackout.
After 5 years on medication I struck that deal with God, and, as is the clinically exact course of the illness, in late 2004 experienced the most severe manic episode of my life. Counting the months of mania (prior to my entering treatment again in February of 2005), it took me about 3 years to recover. And by recover I mean physically becoming stable, for I am still recovering my life from the episode.
Now my brain is back. But my brain was fried! Cooked. In those 3 years I suffered two of the most severe depressions that nearly cost me my life. And THAT was ON the medications!! I was prescribed an aptly named anti-psychotic medication, I was back on lithium but at three times the dosage (as high as can be tolerated), and tried 3 other mood stabilizing drugs in an attempt at achieving an elusive mood stability. Until I was stable I had no chance of even starting to recover my life. I was incapacitated to the point that I was being strongly encouraged to go on Disability. I was on two occasions strongly encouraged to check myself into the hospital. I was “let go” from my job. I lost friends (like losing a $20 bill, “I have no idea where I dropped it or I’d go back and get it again”).
I lost complete faith in regaining any agency in my own life. But I didn’t go on disability because I’m stubborn and far too proud. I didn’t check into a hospital even though I wanted the safety of being watched and controlled by someone other than my suicidal self. I didn’t want it on my record. I reminded myself, while in a fetal position in bed at 4 p.m., that perhaps one day I’ll be okay and try to adopt a child... I did not want a future adoption agency see “psychiatric hospital patient” in my medical records. I didn’t want on my record for a number of reasons. I had some tiny miniscule ability to direct myself, but it didn’t feel like much at all. In fact, all I wanted to do was crawl up in a corner and maybe die if it was okay with God. It wasn't. Obviously.
In a future post I will tell you all that I gained from this. It is all insurmountably good (I mean that in a non-manic way). However, maybe this lets you in to see how this particular illness ravages hope. Ravages? It rapes. The hardest thing to comprehend, for me and others, is that it’s all in my head. I can’t even take a blood test to prove to myself that I have an “illness”.
However, I do have great pride that I am in good company! Many creative and brilliant people have suffered the same wages of an illness for which people in medieval times were burned at the stake. An illness that is the poster child for "insane assylums". But in these more civilized times our lunacy seems to be put to better uses. Here is a taste of the good company I keep: Virginia Woolf
Winston Churchill
Buzz Aldrin
Napoleon (okay, maybe not "good" company)
Rosemary Clooney
Robert Frost
Cary Grant
Ralph Waldo Emerson
Emily Dickinson (actually, there are a significant amount of poets who have been BP!)
Jack London
Mozart
Mark Twain
Vincent van Gogh (everyone knows that! The ear thing)
Ted Turner
Abe Lincoln
and, of course, Jim Carrey.
In part II, my next post will look at the “gay” portion of my Blog title. Another piece of me that falls in the lowest percentages of the world wide population. Another piece of who I am that is challenging that sets me apart in some ways and for which I carry a label of "other". I'm not whinning.
In part III I will elucidate that piece of who I am with all the struggles and blessings therein. It beats the struggles and blessings of the other pieces hands down. Part III, my Christian life, my life in the hands of an invisible God.
Oh, yea, about the “technical” difficulties. I wanted to tell you that I have not been posting because I have been experiencing technical difficulties with my computer and also with internet connection. Can you believe the audacity of my neighbor? He went and put a lock on his wireless router and now I can’t freeload off of him! Some people. Then my computer has been doing mean things to me. So, I called the Dell people for some customer support. Dell has fantastic customer support. I told “Christian”, who spoke with somewhat of a strong Punjabi accent, “It’s a good thing you guys provide such great tech support because your computers have a lot of problems.” I’ve never been one to understate the obvious.
But in reality, “technically” the reason I have not posted is because I formed a really bad habit in all my years living with manic depression. I'm moody in my ability to create. I create when my mood is “creative”. So, I have not been writing because I am “technically” bipolar and moody. I'm working on that.
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