Like Me, Love Me, Whatever

When did I stop caring about “likes” on Facebook?

I suppose it was shortly after the prank.

Allow me to back up a little bit.

You see, just a few months leading up to the prank I’d already begun an informal investigation into my addiction to Facebook “likes” (or “likes” on any of my other social networks for that matter – Twitter, Instagram). I started by asking my friends how they felt when others “liked” their posts. They were about 50/50 in terms of being greatly affected or completely indifferent. But those who could live in a world of social networks, share things, and not feel disheartened when nobody formally “liked” their posts, felt foreign to me and curiosity got the best of me. I actually wanted to be like them. I wanted to be able to share whatever I wanted with whoever I wanted and not care what other people thought. I even went so far as to begin filming a humorous video in which I engaged in a handful of attention-seeking gestures in hopes of understanding what I needed to do to maximize the number of “likes” I received.

During my research, I began to notice something about those who seemed indifferent to social media “likes.” They may have been immune to the emotional pull of Facebook, but the  real root of “like” addictions is our common need for approval.

Think about it. Deep down, don’t we all want approval from someone? I discussed this with a friend who never cared about whether or not anyone “liked” what she posted on Facebook she freely admitted that her own self-esteem was boosted whenever her boss praised her for a job well-done. For the rest of us, maybe we seek the approval of a parent or pastor or spouse or close friend. If that’s the case then really the main difference between FB and RL is the level of superficiality. Why does it matter what someone I barely know thinks? Why does it matter how someone I haven’t seen in 15 years or more reacts to a post? Honestly, if social media didn’t exist, would I even care?

In many ways, social media is like an adolescent popularity contest. It’s refreshing to meet one of those rare souls who manages to be secure in who they are regardless of whether they fit in with the cool cliques or not. It would be fantastic if we could learn to love ourselves or even just to like ourselves like that.

I’ve spent enough years in and out of psychotherapy to know that my own “like” addiction is strongly linked to my life-long struggle with low self-esteem and trying to find my self-worth. Combine that with unstable moods, a stunted development into adulthood, and some kind of personality disorder and you have someone at a very high risk of engaging in an unhealthy relationship with Facebook.

Despite the frustration of often feeling unheard and unwanted on FB, there was one thing I always prided myself on in all my posts and that was my commitment to honesty and vulnerability. So you can imagine the betrayal many of my friends and followers must have felt the day I decided to tell a lie.

True, in my mind it didn’t exactly register as a lie. It was a meant to be an innocent joke, a harmless prank. Lots of people do pranks, right? I mean, once I remember a Facebook friend announced that he was engaged and no seemed angry at him when he later confessed that he made it up. And perhaps it was a the memory of his prank still lodged somewhere in my subconscious that made my own decision to change my relationship status just for fun feel okay.

Admittedly it was an impulsive decision. I’d never had the occasion to change my relationship status before. The last time I was in a serious relationship was a year or so before I had a FB account. Then one day I was hanging out with a good friend, painting the walls at her place, laughing, regressing, and making up silly stories. In one story we imagined a romantic relationship for us and, swept away in the moment, I logged onto Facebook and updated my relationship status to say “in a relationship.” Then I watched wide-eyed as the “likes” and “congratulations” poured in.

Then I thought, how strange that all that honesty and vulnerability I’d freely dispensed up until then remained in obscurity without any of the available reactions put to use. Yet a mere change in relationship status and suddenly everyone I know is awake and cheering for me.

I continued my ruse for a few more days. Only a couple of friends persistently tried to call my bluff but I refused to allow anyone but me to blow my cover so I misled these friends as best I could. I even tried to enlist the help of a mutual friend. But it all backfired when I made a fake break-up video that some mistook as a real cry for help (compelling me to remove it immediately and consider a career in acting). After that I reset my relationship status to “single” and tried to derive a deeper meaning from it in a follow-up post.

I tried to make it a kind of teaching moment, lamenting to all who cared about what a sad commentary it seemed that people see the act of being in a relationship as far superior to remaining single.

But my friends politely and lovingly disagreed with me. They believed the “likes” had more to do with Facebook’s algorithms that tend to make changes in relationship status more visible to other newsfeeds than anything else I post. So I can’t take this personally, in other words, but at least some of my friends are willing to engage in meaningful conversation about it with me.

For the next few days, I couldn’t stop thinking about my failed prank. Even though only one person directly expressed their disapproval to me and no one unfriended me, I felt an immense sense of guilt. I mean, honesty is perhaps the most important virtue I look for in a friend and I’ve always tried to model it, almost to a fault. But who would be able to trust me now?

In the midst of my inner-turmoil I realized something. Despite all I’d done, I didn’t actually hate myself. Yes, I’d learned a very important lesson and I desperately wanted to talk it out with this one friend I’d somehow offended, but when they turned down my invitation, I pursued it no further. I figure when they’re ready to talk, they’ll let me know. There’s a good chance this particular conflict isn’t really about me anyway.

So what changed in me? How did I come to love myself after so many years of self-hatred?

I guess part of it was planted in me over the summer when I attended family counseling with just my sister and me. We live in the same house and, for some reason, especially in recent years, almost all my anger and frustration has been directed toward her. But she was never the source of it all and so I had to learn to redirect my anger. I had to learn to treat her with the same respect I do everyone else. And yes, I’m still working on that, but it’s getting better.

At the same time I was receiving one-on-one counseling with a different therapist. She taught me about early childhood trauma and how it still can have a strong grip on us well into adulthood. This led me to identify a trauma trigger that had plagued me for as long as I can remember and, when set-off, had me crying right then and there, no matter where I was. It wasn’t a big deal when I was a kid but as a woman in my late thirties it’d become increasingly embarrassing.

The trigger, for reasons still unknown, turned out to be any situation in which I was caught breaking a rule without realizing it and, as soon as another person made me aware of what I’d done, I’d emotionally become a child again, reacting as though I’d done something terribly wrong and would have to be punished. Suffice it to say, I’ve lived my life as an avid rule-follower to the best of my ability, as a way of (on a subconscious level) avoiding punishment, real or imagined.

So I told my counselor this and, though she didn’t specialize in trauma therapy, she still gave me advice for someone who was dealing with PTSD from any sort of trauma. She told me that whenever I feel the tears and the fear of punishment overtaking me, to tell myself that whatever it was that happened to me in my childhood isn’t happening to me anymore. This is a different time, a different place, with different people. And low and behold, I’ve not had those uncontrollable tears triggered since.

Why would the conquering of such a minor trigger result in a greater self-esteem? Well, remember, those were uncontrollable tears that manifested in the public sphere with not even warning enough for me to run to the nearest ladies room and hide. Of course, the key word here is “control.” To be able to control an emotion that I was unable to control for many years means I might have more control over my life than I previously thought.

For those of you who follow the enneagram, I’m a four and I’ve only just begun to delve into the positive aspects of all that entails. But at least in knowing I’m a four, it’s as though everything about my personality, including my craving for constant validation, actually makes sense. Admittedly I’m no enneagram expert. I’m just putting that out that there in case you happen to be like me. It is a beautiful thing, even for someone like me who longs to be “unique” or “special” to basque in the knowledge that she can be just that and still feel connected to others.

This past year I wrote a book, a memoir. I’ve not yet found a publisher nor have I actively sought one out, but it still feels like an immense achievement and it has sewn in me the desire to write more, take more photographs, and create more videos. I’ve never won the masses over by doing any of these things, but for once I’m okay with that. It’s enough now just to know that my work is out there. Anyone can find it if they want to.

Anyway, here’s to 2018! May it be the best year yet!

What You Didn’t Know

Though I can in no way enforce this, I do you think your viewing experience of my latest video would be much more enhanced if you knew a little bit of why I chose these specific songs and images.

Let me start by saying I put a lot of thought into this. Nothing heard or seen in this is without meaning, at least for me. However, it began as sound. About 6 months after I returned from France (roughly 14 years before this video was made), I sat alone in my dorm room with a tape recorder and began speaking my thoughts into it. I don’t remember exactly what compelled me to do so. Perhaps I meant for it to be a letter, a “talking letter” as my dad called them when we made audio cassettes to send to our relatives when I was a child and all my extended family lived out-of-state. Then, when I was in France, I made “talking letters” for my best friend and my parents. Occasionally I’d take my tape recorder with me as I roamed to capture the sounds of other people’s voices as well. But most of the time it was just me, alone in a room, longing to share with my thoughts with another human being.

The six months leading up to my first bipolar manic episode were, up until then, the most challenging, exuberant, and melancholy moments in my life. There was a constant, unprecedented flux of emotion and, whether it was the highest of highs or the lowest of lows, I longed to tell someone about it, anyone. But once I’d made the decision to live alone in a tiny studio apartment in Montpellier, I came to the instant realization that no matter how happy I was at the end of the day, having no one to share my thoughts would instantly bring me down. And so, with no a computer of any sort, no TV, and rarely enough money to buy more minutes for my prepaid cell phone, I talked into my cassette tape recorder, I prayed and read my Bible until God felt completely real and became my sole companion, and I wrote like mad until I actually succumbed to madness.

Music calmed me in my solitude. I didn’t bring any sort of portable CD player with me because I intended even before I left to buy a plug-in mini-stereo once I arrived in France. Originally, I wasn’t even going to bring my own CDs because I was so committed to hearing French and only French, but at last I caved in and packed a small CD wallet with Christian music, much of which had already brought me comfort over the years. I justified this decision by reminding myself that, as my French friends in the US had informed me, this kind of music wasn’t even available in France. In the end, I was grateful for my decision and all the songs you’ll hear, except the first one, came from that collection of CDs. By contrast, I was actually tricked into listening to the song by Avril Lavigne. You see, in my loneliness I would often wander through the music stores and listen to the samples they had on display with their complimentary headphones. One day, when I was particularly sad and lonely, I saw the name Avril Lavigne, mistakingly assumed she was French, and began listening to her songs in the store when I stumbled upon “I’m With You” and felt as though she’d written the song just for me because that was exactly how I felt in that moment. So I impulsively bought her album and played it over and over again in my studio. Eventually, in the height of my mania, I made a mixtape for a friend beginning with her song and ending with “The Time is Now” by Twila Paris, the song which, as you’ll learn when you read my memoir, was the song that happened to be playing when I encountered God in a mystical, terrifying, and beautiful moment in which I neither heard voices nor had visions but felt, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that he was there in the room with me, reminding me that he was there for me and that I needn’t be afraid.

The order of songs on the mixtape was intended to be a soundtrack to my journey from beginning to end, from mourning to dancing (actually side A was all English but side B was the same idea, but all French music) Thus, “The Time is Now” became God’s words to me as well. A few days later, I’d abandon everything and walk into the unknown only to be intercepted by French law enforcement en route to Spain and ultimately taken to a psychiatric hospital in Thuir, France. Three weeks later, my dad flew to France to bring me home to the States – not that I wanted to go home, but no one gave me the choice. They told me I was sick and that I wasn’t able to think clearly and that everything they were doing was in my best interest. I didn’t believe them, but I obeyed, thinking this was perhaps God’s plan for me after all. After all, did Jesus resist arrest even though he knew he’d be beaten and nailed to a cross to die? No.

I made the audio track before I pieced together the images for this video. In fact, this is a remake of a similar video I did about 6 or 7 years ago. The only other faces you’ll see are people from that time in my life, people who would have been on the receiving end of my emotional outcries. I understood very little of what I was going through back then; they understood even less. But I still count them as friends and, even though we’ve not seen or spoken to one another in what feels like lifetimes, I still hope that, should we ever meet again, the spark of friendship will reignite and we’ll laugh and sing as we did when we were young.

Where’s the Value in Me?

It suddenly dawned on me the other day when I was talking with the makeup artist and salesman at Nordstrom. He told me that I needed to take better care of my skin or else no amount of makeup of any kind would look good on me.

But, I argued, it’s all too time-consuming and besides, I have a difficult time starting any new habit, especially if such a change would make me healthier or more attractive.

Well, he said, I think that’s really more of a self-esteem issue than anything else.

That was it. I was dumbstruck and the uninvited tears resurfaced. It wasn’t really a dramatic moment, of course. My voice remained calm and my breathing steady. In fact, I could easily dismiss such tears as allergies even though I knew full well that wasn’t true. No, what he said had actually triggered an involuntary emotional reaction. I could feel it in my chest and in my spine.

I smiled and requested a tissue, apologizing profusely. I’m sorry for this pitiful display of weakness I can’t seem to control. I’m sorry you had to witness it. I’m sorry it exists. I’m sorry I exist.

Then I blamed it on the bipolar disorder, although I knew that was kind of a lie. But it just felt easier to be dishonest at the moment than to take a stranger into the labyrinth of all my abnormal psychologies. He played along and started telling me about someone else he knew with bipolar disorder and my tears let up.

If a mental health professional were to sit down with me and ask me right now if I have suicidal thoughts, I would have to say no simply because I don’t have any sort of plan. I’ve not been collecting sharp objects or hoarding medication. I’m not romanticizing about death in my private fantasies or anything. No, I can assure you beyond a shadow of a doubt that if death takes me before I grow old, it won’t be by my own hand.

Then she’d breathe a sigh of relief and write somewhere in her notes like: this patient is not suicidal. She can keep her shoe laces, her drawstrings, and all the under wires in her bras. She is free to go where she pleases, no need to be monitored 24/7.

But she wouldn’t be completely right. I don’t meant to say I’m in immanent danger. But I’ve also not fully bought into the idea of growing old, especially when I perceive that phase of life as being incredibly lonely. I mean I’m 37 years old, my peers all seem to have spouses or kids or nieces or nephews or some combination thereof. They don’t seem afraid of entering their senior years completely alone because they have a plan for coping with old age. They seem confident in knowing their life will always be of value to someone. But I’m not confident, at least not for me. Furthermore I’m the youngest of my own family making the odds favorable that I’ll be the last in my family to go so what’s the point in prolonging such misery?

My diagnosis of bipolar disorder many years ago seemed to solidify this morbid take on life. After grieving my old life and spending most of that grief in denial, depression, and anger, I finally decided to take care of my chemical imbalance. I also spent years in and out of therapy because, let’s face it, I suck at dying and I figured if didn’t learn how to at least “pass for normal”, I’d lose the few friends I had (who were the people I longed to spend most my time with) and never make new friends.

It was hard but I did what I could and it kind of worked except for that nagging feeling I carried with me that I’d never be good enough. You see, back then I was woefully behind all of my peers in this race called life and, since then, I’ve felt that it’s too late to catch up. I’ve fallen too far, perpetually left in the dust.

On the other hand, it’s not like I perceive anyone else to be as doomed as I am. Even those who have greater struggles than me I tend to hold in greater esteem than I hold myself and I know I’m a hypocrite for thinking it. But give me every intellectual argument in the world for esteeming myself and believe me, I’ve heard it before. Telling me again and again that I’m valuable and loved will never be enough because internally I will be telling myself this: You’re only saying this because you’re my friend (family member, mentor, pastor, counselor, etc.) and you have to say this. You don’t really mean it. I’ll say thank you because that’s what you want me to say but I never have and never will believe you if you so say anything kind about me.

I’ve been wondering a lot lately why I can’t follow my doctor’s orders when it comes to taking care of my diet. I’ve been wondering why I can’t stick to a regular exercise routine or remember to follow the dentist’s instructions each night and wear my night guard. But now I think I know . The reason I can’t get on board (and stay on board) with any new habit that’s good for me physically is because I just don’t see the point anymore. I’ve almost stopped believing I have the ability to impress anyone let alone me. Yet I still write. I still photograph. I still hope in a way, but it’s not enough.

To be sure, my struggle with how I see myself predates any mental illness diagnosis, but it had a fighting chance when I was in college, at least in the three years leading up to my first hospitalization. In my late teens and early twenties, I began opening my mind more and allowing myself to change. I even went in search of change (as many young people do) by going out-of-state to school and, ultimately, across the ocean. With each new city, state, or country I stepped into, I knew I had another chance to be a new and improved version of me. But the illness reset much of that progress and it became harder to move forward when so few of my peers stood with me anymore.

I guess the question, then, is, how do I fix this? After all the emotional damage, how do I truly learn to love myself?

The Solo Retreat: L.A. Edition

I love long drives and it had been a while since my last solo retreat so I decided to go someplace different this time. I decided to drive to Los Angeles, California, the heart of the TV and film industry and, coincidentally, only about a 7 or 8 hour drive from home. I only had two goals when I arrived: to visit the ocean and The Museum of Broken Relationships in Hollywood.

My reservations were for The Santa Monica Motel in Santa Monica. It wasn’t a particularly fancy place but I was on a very tight budget so it was the best I could do. Besides, I wanted something near the beach, preferably Venice Beach because it was listed on Discover Los Angeles dot com as the best beach for people-watching. But Santa Monica would have to do.

This wasn’t a vacation. I hoped to have time and solitude for prayer and introspection but I also hoped to learn something new. I just wasn’t entirely sure what I’d learn and, for me, that was part of the fun.

The desert as a landscape easily gives way to contemplation. Desert Center, for example, was almost a ghost town. I was the only tourist that day which made the landscape seem all the more alien. But I still chose to walk along that dusty main road and take pictures of abandoned buildings and decapitated palm trees. I might’ve ventured further but the “Keep Out” and “No Trespassing” signs managed to deter me. I’ve never been much of a rule-breaker.

Further down the I-10, I made it a point to stop for the famous Dinosaurs of Cabazon which I’d seen from the road many times but never up close. There was a gift shop inside the brontosaurus (the incorrect word I’d learned in my childhood but most certainly was still used when these were built). When I went in and I was the only customer. The young 20-year-old girl working there seemed bored and starved for conversation. So I chatted with her for a bit as I picked out postcards and cheap dinosaur figurines. I told her about my what I liked to photograph and she told me about the photography class she took at her high school. Then we talked about travel and college. She was sweet but seemed even more naïve than I was at her age and that’s saying quite a lot. But at least she’ll be able to tell the next generation about the time she worked inside a giant dinosaur.

Back on the road, I thought a lot about all the crosses I passed. I see them in the city as well but for some reason the ones along the desert part of the I-10 baffled me. I think it was because they seemed so inaccessible. Driving at 65 mph or more there was no way to gather more than a mere glimpse. It was enough time to know someone died there but nothing more and it irked me. Who were they? Who chose to commemorate them with a cross? Was it a family member, a friend, or maybe some stranger who’d been at the scene? If there were fresh flowers, who’d traveled all that way to lay them there and why? What are we supposed to remember about them anyway? Is it important to know where they died? Wouldn’t it be better to know how they lived? Would it help us to know their names, stories, favorite songs or who they hoped to be? And why does this bother me so?

I saw more and more luxury vehicles the closer I came to Santa Monica. Shiny Mercedes, Porches, Priuses, and Jaguars began to surround me. But it all made sense once I realized that many of them were exiting at Beverly Hills. Then I started to wonder who might be driving them. Was it someone I’d recognize from film or TV? Could it be a celebrity I admired or had a crush on but who would inevitably leave me tongue-tied were we to actually meet in person?

When I checked in at my motel, I asked the guy at the front desk how far we were from the ocean and he told me it was a 12-minute walk from there so I quickly dropped everything off in my room, grabbed my jacket, my camera, and the tripod, and hastened to the beach to capture the sunset.

I held nothing back as an amateur photographer. I let myself look foolish in every way except when talking to strangers. This would not be a night for asking strangers if I could take their pictures. But there were beautiful, athletic people all around me, running and cycling. There was even a kind of outdoor gymnasium for acrobats or gymnasts or something, complete with rings and high bars and slack-lining. I thought of my own frumpy, out-of-shape body and felt more like an outsider than ever. But at least this time I could call myself a “tourist” and my awkwardness would make some sense.

I hung around a little past sunset to capture the carnival lights on the boardwalk and then wandered home. As I walked, I couldn’t help but notice the prevalence of homelessness right in front of me. But it was dark and I was too fatigued to wrap my mind around the crises of homelessness yet.

Friday was my only full day in L.A. and I’d printed out directions from the motel to The Museum of Broken Relationships before I left Arizona. The museum itself, however, wasn’t open until 11 so I headed down the road to Venice Beach and began photographing and filming the surfers. I could tell these surfers were passionate about their sport. It was inspiring to watch as they waited patiently for just the right wave. Sometimes the  waiting  seemed to take forever until at last one or two surfers would stand and ride a wave for 2, maybe 3, minutes tops. The wetsuits they wore protected them from the chill of the Pacific but once they returned to the beach, I’d see them shiver. As an outsider, my temptation is to ask, was it worth it? But these surfing addicts tell me in no uncertain terms that it’s totally worth it. The waves are quite possibly their greatest love.

I only had a couple hours to spend on Venice Beach, so I walked quickly, but I also made frequent photo-stops. On the peer I saw the occasional body resting beneath worn blankets. The coast can be a chilling place to sleep, especially at night. I wonder how long I’d last in such conditions.

The fishermen were gathered at the end of the pier as were the sea birds.

Venice Beach was obviously a dog-friendly area and many of the dogs were full-bred pedigrees. Their owners doted over them as though they were their children. Both owners and dogs were well-groomed and well-mannered. Dog people sometimes seemed to outnumber ordinary people so no one felt compelled to stop and say, “Oh! Your dog’s so cute! Can I pet him?” But try walking a cat and it’s a completely different story. Suddenly all the attention is focused on you and your furry feline and everyone has questions. Everyone wants to take a picture.

Next stop: Hollywood.

I can’t remember where I’d first heard of The Museum of Broken Relationships. I want to say that Post Secret posted something about it on their Facebook page back when the museum opened about a year ago. After that, I immediately started following them on Instagram and kind of fell in love. But let’s face it, they had me at the word broken.

It’s expected for us to celebrate success in life. Most awards are given to people who have achieved something. We celebrate what we build, not what falls apart. We celebrate what we repair, not what we break. But I think what we often forget is that much of what we create is built on and from the rubble of failure and brokenness.

The museum was a little underwhelming to me, but I blame myself for that. I’d built it up so much in my mind that it was almost destined to disappoint. What I loved most about the museum, though, were the stories. There’d be an object (or a series of objects) and then a story to accompany them. The objects were meaningless by themselves. But with a story to go with them, they became exceedingly more valuable. I kind of wished I hadn’t shredded my ex’s old letters and pawned the engagement ring now because they would’ve been worthy donations (so long as he remained anonymous). But there was no museum like this back then.

Also, although most of the “broken relationships” on display were between two people who were in love, there were a few that fit in the “family” or even the “friendship” realm as well as breakups with religions, faiths, or ideologies. The heart and soul of the museum, however, are the personal stories from ordinary people and, as a memoirist, I crave this kind of stuff.

The museum is in the heart of Hollywood on Hollywood Blvd. Hollywood “stars” line the sidewalk just outside the door and it’s impossible not to see the irony. A “star” represents someone who’s made it in the entertainment world and that person will never be forgotten. But if we never achieve fame, it’s unlikely anyone will remember us beyond a couple of generations after we’re gone. There will be records of our existence but no stories. I’m not entirely sure why, but it saddens me to think of this.

Playing the role of “tourist” that day, there never seemed to be a convenient time to sit down. Once a tall, good-looking man in a white shirt tempted me with a chance to sit for two hours and watch a free movie. It took me a minute to realize that he was a Scientologist and we were, in fact, right outside the big Scientology building. So I turned him down. Of course, he insisted he wasn’t trying to convert me but I just smiled. I wasn’t witty enough to know what to say nor was I in the mood to discuss our differences in beliefs. In the end, I just told him I had to keep walking and there are plenty of other tourists he can try and ensnare. He doesn’t need me.

After our encounter, two things struck me about the Scientologists’ method of proselytizing. First of all, I only saw attractive people working as “missionaries” – I mean like movie star attractive. In other words, they were way out of my league in terms of appearance. Second, they seemed to be gifted at speaking more than one language so I assume they’re fairly intelligent. So why, when he described the movie he was handing out tickets for, did it sound like a story straight out of a science fiction novel? Why did he seem to sincerely believe it to be the true story of the origins of mankind?

Scientologists weren’t the only ones seeking converts on Hollywood Blvd. I saw a street preacher wandering around with a sign telling us all to repent. The strange thing was, he wasn’t really preaching. He was just carrying a big speaker around with a recording of another preacher. This was a new, I thought. I’ve yet to see Phoenix street preachers stoop to such levels. Once more, he left many of us with the impression that he was probably foreign and maybe he didn’t fully understand the message he was sharing in the first place.

I reminded myself that Hollywood was built as a place to create fantasy. Movies are supposed to be escapes from reality. So pretending to be a street corner preacher didn’t seem very far-fetched. Playing “let’s pretend” is what Hollywood does best.

It was hard to think of the glitz and glamour of Hollywood with the disturbing reminder that homelessness was right before our eyes and couldn’t easily be ignored. Like many others, I walked past several several folks in need because there were just too many to count. The homeless problem in L.A. is to big a problem to ignore. It overwhelming and just feels like a lost cause much of the time.

Sunset Blvd. wasn’t any better and it’s even more frustrating when you realize that Beverly Hills and Sherman Oaks are just around the corner. Many our favorite rich and famous Hollywood stars live around there in their secluded mansions, indulging in wasteful luxuries when they could better use their wealth to help the suffering people right outside their doors.

Then again, it’s not a situation that you can just throw money at and hope it will go away. Each homeless person is an individual with individual needs and individual problems. There’s no blanket solution.

Here in Phoenix, it’s not as bad as L.A. but it’s getting worse. I’m currently trying to chat with people about realistic solutions. I don’t know the hearts of our favorite stars but I can’t believe all their hearts are hardened. I know of at least one person from Beverly Hills who felt compelled to help the homeless and did. That’s Caitlin Crosby, founder of The Giving Keys. Sadly, I don’t know of other individuals from the entertainment industry who are actively doing something for the homeless in L.A. But if you know of anyone, please tell us. We could use a little more hope.

I went to the Hard Rock Café for dinner that night. I asked for a table for one. I don’t know if the server ever saw the irony but I was wearing my “People Need Other People shirt from To Write Love On Her Arms.

He sat me at a table near the bar overlooking all the other tourists who actually had people to eat with. Directly facing me was another “table for one.” I glanced up at him now and then, not wanting to stare. I wonder what would’ve happened if one of us had invited the other to eat with them? I thought I detected a foreign accent when he ordered his food. What if he spoke French? That would be so awesome because I love to speak French! Then again, he probably wouldn’t want to be seen with someone like me. Nothing like being around movie and TV stars to remind you that you’re not attractive.

On my way out, I asked the hosts about the stereotype I’d heard that almost all servers in that area were trying to become actors. There were three of them up front just then and the girl on the left shook her head “no.” The guy in the middle said it wasn’t true in a serious tone. But then the tall, good-looking guy to the right smiled and said, “I’m trying to become an actor! And I know a lot of my buddies who are working on the floor are too.”

I laughed. See? There’s a reason the stereotype exists.

Getting back to the motel on a Friday night in Hollywood without any kind of GPS proved to be a fun challenge. Parking seemed to be pay-only and street parking was filled to capacity. How do I pull over and check my old-fashioned paper map? Eventually I found a McDonalds parking lot and made it to bed at last.

The next day, on my way back to Arizona, I opted for a change of scenery and took highway 62 through Parker, Arizona instead of I-10. After driving through Twenty Nine Palms, the road became pretty quiet. I wasn’t surprised, though, since, when I’d left the last town, the sign said something like: “No Services for Next 100 Miles.”

Along the way, I pulled over to the side of the road because I saw what seemed to be a shoe shrine. Across the street and along the railroad tracks I’d already become baffled by the names and dates written with stones. How did the people get there anyway? There weren’t many pullouts until I arrived at this one where the foundations of old buildings were on the ground, covered in broken glass.

I was alone in the desert and it made me feel a little uneasy. But I had to take the pictures of the shoes. It was all very unusual. I mean, why were these people driven to do this? Some of the shoes had writing. Was this how they wanted to be remembered? Was there a superstition attached to leaving shoes here? Did they think it would bring them good luck? Who’s idea was this?

Not a single car drove pass the entire time I was there. Were all those shoes left in the cloak of darkness? Maybe it wasn’t real. My mind does play tricks on me sometimes. Oh, but I have photographic evidence! And, of course, the internet: en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rice,_California

I stopped taking pictures after the shoes in the desert. The stories those shoes could tell if they could talk!

At the end of the journey, everything I’d seen seemed to be pointing at a greater truth. But I have to be careful when and how I derive meaning from objects and experiences. My mind has worked against me before. And yet the mystery and the mysticism of faith and life never ceases to enthrall me. From roadside crosses to broken relationships to Hollywood stars to homeless people to discarded shoes: there is meaning in it all.

P.S. I took some videos too and put them together in a kind of slideshow with a few of the stills and two songs that have come to be very important to me over the years. Hope you like it.

Missing the Mark

Me in Tombstone, AZ, age 15 (1995)

Who can say what it was that really derailed me earlier in life leaving me stuck on the margins of Western society, watching as everyone else lives more respectable and “normal” lives than mine?

Maybe it was the word I misspelled in the all-school spelling bee in (I think) fourth grade. I proved to be the best speller in my class only to be publicly embarrassed when I misspelled the first word I was given (“cosmetic”). Or maybe it was the private joy I felt when my sixth grade teacher told me I was the only one in the class who tested out of seventh grade reading class only to have the humiliation of testing back into reading in eighth grade.

Again in seventh grade, I’d earned a spot in the talent show after auditioning with a piano arrangement of the title song from “The Phantom of the Opera” by Andrew Lloyd Weber and yet I couldn’t perfect it let alone memorize it in time for the performance. It was so terrible, in fact, that my piano teacher urged me not to perform it because she believed doing so would be both an embarrassment to her as well as to me. But the teacher who’d organized the talent show told me it was too late to drop my act and so, the night of the performance, my best still wasn’t good enough and, when it was over, I ran backstage to my friends waiting in the wings and cried.

That same year, the junior high principle called me into his office to tell me I’d tested high enough to be in accelerated English and I turned down the opportunity to move up because it was only offered during one period which conflicted with choir. I actually thought music mattered more back then. In retrospect, the adults shouldn’t have left that kind of decision to a 13-year-old.

I suppose the downward spiral could have started in tenth grade when I auditioned for the school play “The Crucible” and completely bombed. I was so terrible the drama teacher wouldn’t even cast me as an extra. Later on, when the school performed the musical “Grease,” I wasn’t even cast in the chorus. I’m quite sure that’s when my Broadway dreams officially shattered.

Singing was something I still thought I was good at. After all, I’d had voice lessons, I’d been a favorite for choir solos throughout junior high and high school, I sang in the praise band at the church youth service and had been a regular church soloist since sixth grade. But then, when I joined the Christian singing group known as the Continentals for a 10-week tour one summer, I auditioned for a solo the week of rehearsal camp, one I’d practiced repeatedly back home, but there I completely choked. I couldn’t even find the right key, a problem I didn’t remember having before. So I remained in the background all summer (though I admit, the role did kind of grow on me).

Regular blows to my confidence took place throughout my adolescence and continued well into my young adulthood. My one great surge in confidence came shortly before my most significant mental breakdown, the one that lead to an involuntary hospitalization in Thuir, France. For me, that was actually the turning point for everything in my life. After that I was never really sure I was good at anything. That thought pattern has been so prevalent in me that not even psychotropic medication and therapy have been able to completely resolve it.

Go back to school, some of you tell me. Well, I’ve tried that but it never goes well. I mean, I barely earned my bachelor’s degree. My university transcripts are nothing to boast of.

True, I’m writing and, although I don’t feel I’m a great writer, I enjoy writing and sharing my thoughts.

I saw an add once from RELEVANT magazine calling for new writers. RELEVANT happens to be one of my favorite publications and when I saw the ad, at first I thought about what a joy it would be to write for them. Then I wrote a response but never sent it. It was basically an anti-résumé, meant to be delivered attached to a giant, red flag.

Today is my 37th birthday and one I happily share with Victor Hugo and Stan Roberson. However I’m acutely aware that at my age I’m nowhere near where Post-Modern Western society expects me to be.

Don’t get me wrong. It doesn’t bother me to be childless and single. If that were the only problem, I think I’d be fine. But the milestones I truly regret not having achieved by now are independence and vocation. I just want to be able to say to a stranger “this is what I do and I’m good at it and I enjoy doing it.” At last I’d have respect and then perhaps the younger folk will come to me for advice and encouragement (and I’d freely give it them).

There is a downside to trying to change at my age, however. The psychological damage is now so deeply rooted and widespread that the process of recovery is going to be much longer and decisively more painful than it might’ve been when I was younger. But I have to wonder, “now me” is the “me” I know best, but is there another version of “me” trapped beneath the rubble who still needs to be set free?

Hope for the Hopeless Romantic

I’m almost done writing the latest draft of my memoir, a story that spans nearly three years of my youth – from age 22, when I was most innocent, idealistic, adventurous, and passionate, until age 25, when I felt most powerless and hopeless.

My story isn’t really a love story, though, at least not in the traditional sense. But there are traces of romance here and there. I rediscover them as I flip through my personal writings and I’ve polished and edited some of those bits for you, too, so that you can join me on my journey to reconstruct a life

Historically, the longest relationship I ever had was with a guy I met while I was still a senior in high school. We were both working at a bookstore together and I remember how hard it was to believe that someone I liked actually liked me back. I was in such a state of disbelief that I tried to destroy the relationship from the start. We’d gone on an evening walk to a nearby park where I told him all the reasons I didn’t think he should date me. I confessed every sin and every fatal flaw I could think of and, to my amazement, he didn’t run away. He didn’t even flinch. In fact, he continued to write me poetry and create thrifty and imaginative adventures for us to go on for at least another year. But by our second year together, our relationship went downhill. I won’t go into details. Let’s just say we both share some of the blame.

Our breakup happened shortly after I turned 21. We were even engaged for a little bit (although it never really felt like it). A year later we met up for dinner. True, part of my motivation was to see if I had any residual feelings for him after all that time. But I was relieved to know those feelings had completely dissolved. I could hop on my plane to France knowing there was no reason to return. I was free.

The time period covered in my memoir was one of the most fruitful periods in my life in terms of personal writing. I didn’t write daily, but I definitely carried my diary with me more often than ever before. Beginning with my study abroad in France, I also developed a ritual of writing semi-regular generic emails, or, what you might call predecessors to blogs such as this one. Of course my writing was nothing to boast of, but at the time I thought it was quite prolific. It would actually frustrate me sometimes to try and write a story or a poem and suddenly face a writer’s block that seemed nonexistent moments before when I was scribbling in my diary. Now I look at those old diaries and analyze my younger-self. Today, I’m trying to figure out how I became so confused about love.

My first three months in France aren’t covered in the memoir. In earlier versions I wrote about them. I wrote, for instance, of the only five men I ever locked lips with in France and, believe me, it went no further than that because I took the whole “saving myself until marriage” thing pretty seriously and it threw some of the Frenchmen I met for a loop. Most Europeans lose their virginity around 17 or 18. I was 22 and still hadn’t lost mine (and wouldn’t for a very long time). It was like I was from another planet. But at least no one tried to force himself on me. At least they were cool with moving into a conversation or leaving me alone entirely. For me, it was disappointing how uninterested many guys seemed once sex was off the table. I couldn’t understand because deep conversation was almost the epitome of intimacy in my world. In any case, once I settled in Montpellier, my kissing days were over (save “la bise” a.k.a. “French cheek kissing”). I had one French guy-friend and I told him in no uncertain terms that the next man I date will be the man I marry. To my delight, those words didn’t send him running. We stayed friends for the duration of my time there. Sometimes he’d talk to me about girls he dated or wanted to date and I was happy to listen and encourage him in his romantic endeavors. My only regret is not being able to say goodbye. But then again, I wasn’t able to say goodbye to anyone in Montpellier, but you’ll understand why when you read my book.

Here are some thoughts from my personal writings about love followed by reflective commentary from more than a decade later. But, I’ll let you draw your own conclusions. Then, when my memoir is finished and published, you can read it and have a better understanding of the story as a whole.

Here’s a playlist of songs that would have influenced my thoughts about romance back then. All of them are from musicals because musicals are stories and each song is part of a greater story. I love that!

I didn’t know yet to identify it as such, but that weekend I was suffering from major depression triggered by grief. To be alone at such a time in a city practically made for lovers made the weight in my chest even heavier. In response, I turned to God, personal letters, and my journal. I walked alone at night heedless of the catcalls that follow young women far more often in France than in the States. “Discutez avec moi” was never an invitation simply to talk. There were expectations behind those words I wasn’t about to find out.

The French guy in this case had misinterpreted a smile I’d given him one evening. Americans smile at strangers far more often than French people do and I knew that even then. But like any idealist, I believed this guy could change. I thought we’d meet up and he’d be okay with simple conversation. But then he saw the Celtic cross around my neck and realized there was a reason I wasn’t “putting out.”

Since I arrived in Montpellier six months earlier, there’d been no kissing, no hand-holding, and very little hugging. Physical affection had been reduced to the French cheek-kissing ritual known as “la bise” which isn’t really kissing, if you think about it. There is a very light touch of one cheek to another but the kissing itself is mostly in the air. The sound of lip-smacking solidifies it. No actual kissing; just really loud pretend kissing. The above writing came at the climax of my mental breakdown. It was meant to be my last entry ever before I diminished into the world, weaving in and out of different lands and cultures without a name or passport and demonstrating a Mother Teresa style love in every village and every town. Mother Teresa never married. If she could live an impactful and meaningful life without a husband then so could I, right?

I elaborated a bit more on this in my “epistles” from the psychiatric hospital in Thuir, France.

Still delusional, I fought against the very idea of romantic love. In my head the memories of lonely Frenchmen who thought love and sex were one and the same were fresh on my mind. One of my very last memories of such a misunderstanding was a day or two before I left Montpellier. I agreed to help a very tall young man with his English. He told me he was a Christian so I used a Bible verse from either the gospel of John or 1 John (it was a while ago) for our tutoring session. I had him read it and then asked him what he understood. At the end of the meeting, he invited me to his place for coffee. I was smart enough to know that “coffee” was usually a euphemism for sex and so I politely said no to which he replied, “but Jesus said to love your neighbor! Come to my place and make love to me!”

I shook my head and said back to him, “Jesus didn’t mean that kind of love.”

One of my guy friends had professed his love for me over the summer. Before he went away in the fall, he burst into my dorm room to tell me how he felt and request a farewell kiss. But I turned him down. I enjoyed hanging out with him but I didn’t feel the same for him as he did for me. And yes, there is something empowering about rejecting someone’s advances toward you verses being rejected. Besides, by this juncture in the story, I’d been given a diagnosis and I’d researched it extensively. I knew there was no guarantee my medication would always work and I’d never have another breakdown. I wondered if it was fair for me to date anyone.

Rich Mullins never married. He was engaged once but that’s the closest he ever came and towards the end of his life some were dubbing him the “happy celibate.” He didn’t eschew that title either. He said in an interview once that maybe God did want him to be celibate and the way that he accomplished that was by breaking his heart.

I love Rich Mullins and it saddens me at times that I didn’t come to love him until after he died. But I was also still a teenager when he died and he was in his early forties. The point is that, even after death he had such a strong influence on my life that I began to think more and more of celibacy as a gift. Jesus didn’t even marry so why did it seem like everyone in Christianity made such a big deal about marriage?

I recommend you read Paul’s chapter on love in 1 Corinthians 13. It’s often read at wedding ceremonies, or so I’m told. I actually haven’t been to many weddings. My “touched with fire” reference is both to Kay Redfield Jamison’s book of the same title and the only textbook manic episode I’ve ever experienced. Someone told me once that mania has a way of bringing your greatest desires to the surface. For some that means becoming overtly promiscuous. For others it means going on a wild spending spree or impulsively taking a plane to London. For me it meant living out and sharing a New Testament kind of love. Of the four Greek loves, I’m referring to agape. Look it up.

The rules of love change when you discover you have feelings for someone you don’t want to have feelings for.

Just when I feel like I can accept not falling in love (or at least not being loved in return), someone I’m interested in shows interest in me. It is unbelievably annoying. So does this mean celibacy isn’t my calling in life? Does this mean that the next guy I date won’t actually be the guy I marry? And how much of my story do I tell him? I owe it to him to give him some sort of warning before he chooses to be in a relationship with me. He needs to have a chance to get out while he can!

This becomes the story of my life, at least the romantic end of it. There will be one more short-lived romance before I turn 30. It wasn’t ideal but anyone who knows me knows I can easily fall into self-pity and self-hatred. I see my flaws much quicker than I see my gifts. But when someone loves me and I don’t fully understand why, I begin to think maybe I’m not such a royal fuck-up. If someone I love can love me, then there must be something about me worth loving.

 

Time Again

En façade Yann Caradec - Creative Commons license https://www.flickr.com/photos/la_bretagne_a_paris/
En façade
Yann Caradec – Creative Commons license
https://www.flickr.com/photos/la_bretagne_a_paris/

I wrote about time before but the subject continues to fascinate me, especially since I got my hands on James Gleick’s new book, Time Travel: A History. You see, I’m working on my memoir and I’ve come to the realization that my memory kind of sucks (something I’ve written about as well). But, for this particular tale, I’ve got lots of original source material to help me remember. It’s almost like telling someone else’s story much of the time, except I do notice myself smiling at certain aspects of the story or feeling somewhat melancholy because, although I’ve changed quite a bit, I’ll never forget that season of my life – not completely anyway. One of the most important sources was the diary I kept between August 2002 and February 2003; my one true friend, if you will. So I searched within in it for references to time because time is an important theme in my story and rewrote all of them so they’d be more palatable to an audience who has yet to learn the whole story. Here they are. Keep in mind, I was 22, almost 23, when this story took place and these references are in chronological order.

Time is something I can give.

Time can be taken.

Time can be taken from me.

My generation will have its time to shine.

God’s timing is perfect.

You can learn about someone by spending time with them.

Sometimes it’s better to ignore time.

Time is never truly free.

What we do with our time is not always within our control.

Alone time is to be cherished.

Time is precious and can be wasted if we’re not careful.

Time flies.

Our imagination can take us back in time, centuries before we even existed.

Sometimes it feels like the past is crying out to me.

Change takes time.

Time can be lost and, occasionally, found.

Sometimes time feels longer than it actually is.

It’s nice once in a while to slow down and take your time.

I wish I had more time.

I need time to reflect.

I don’t have much time.

It’s time to make new memories!

Where has time gone?

Why does time feel non-existent?

I don’t have enough time to write.

I don’t have enough time.

Sometimes that’s all you have time for.

Scars remain from times when I felt helpless.

Time will end.

Reflecting on Finding God in the Waves

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I might never have heard of Science Mike (Mike McHargue) had I not already been a faithful listener of the RELEVANT Podcast where he’s invited over now and then to help settle debates or make us all smarter in general. That was where I first learned about his book, too: Finding God in the Waves: How I lost my faith and found it again through science.

Right away I knew I needed to read this book.

Of course, I’ve never had a problem reconciling science and faith. After all, my dad’s a man of faith and a man of science. He even has some impressive credentials with his undergraduate degree from MIT where he studied aeronautics and engineering before switching to the left coast and studying engineering and computer science at Stanford. His Ph.D. in computer science comes from a less prestigious university, but the point is, his brain is hardwired for science. I can’t remember a time when our kitchen table didn’t have publications such as Science, Astronomy, ACM, MIT Technology Review, etc. spread across it. On top of that, he’s always admired and respected Carl Sagan and eagerly purchased the box set of Cosmos almost as soon as it came out on DVD (along with such nerd, sci-fi classics as Star Trek the Original Series, The Hellstrom Chronicle, 2001: A Space Odyssey, and Contact).

My dad is also a man of faith and when I was growing up, he made sure we all went to church every Sunday. Granted he raised us in the Presbyterian church (PCUSA) which was one of the more “liberal” denominations where women could be ordained as ministers and doubts and questions were not discouraged. He spent many years as an elder or a deacon and frequently taught classes and/or led small groups.

Dad never saw the Bible and science as being at odds with one another because, as he put it, “If you want to learn about science, you read a science textbook. If you want to learn about God, you read the Bible.” He was an evolutionist as well. It wasn’t too much of a strain for him to believe the creation story wasn’t meant to be a literal account of how the world was made. And even now, if there is something he doesn’t know or understand, he isn’t afraid to say “I don’t know” and seek council from someone with more knowledge in the matter.

So when I first began learning about the New Atheist movement and meeting people who took real issue with anyone who claimed to be Christian but also claimed to believe in science, I was taken aback. What was so wrong with calling that which was beyond the realm of science God?

Unlike Mike, science didn’t kill my faith. Nonetheless, I had no trouble identifying with his loss of faith. Of course, my story is quite different and I’ve told it countless times over the years. I don’t think it needs to be told here (not yet at least).

When I publicly renounced my faith in 2006, I wrote an essay explaining why. I didn’t have a blog back then nor had I signed up for any sort of social media service. Instead I sent this to friends and family on my email list. It went something like this:

First and foremost I must send my apologies to the friends and family who strove for so long to guide me and mold me in the faith of their fathers. Although I know you did it with the best intentions, the time has arrived for me to move on, evolve, progress, and change. After careful consideration following years of indoctrination, I have at last come to the conclusion that I can no longer adhere to the old ways. That is to say, I can no longer call myself a Christian. Nor can I embrace any religion the world has to offer me. In the following discourse, I lay out the research and experiences that have led me to this conclusion.

I began my journey very pious in my faith. So much so, that I was certain only my beliefs were true and anything beyond them were of the devil. I observed the world from my comfortable certainty of a blissful afterlife and cried that so many would not be with me. My emotions, backed by a self-proclaimed loving church, drove me to tell others about what I had found, why I was so joyful, so blessed, and how they could be too. It saddened me to think that other religions had deceived their followers. It never occurred to me that I too had been deceived.

The problem was, I was lying even to myself. Truth be told, I had never experienced real joy as my parent church told me I would. Perhaps, I thought, that was coming in the afterlife. But even I couldn’t explain a loving God condemning his own creation to hell simply for not believing. I wondered, too, if that was where I should go.

Overtime I’ve been letting go of this black and white view of life and death. By and large, the people who have been the most caring in my world have been non-Christians. I remained pious as I transitioned from high school to university. That first year away from home I studied at a Christian school, but, as I moved on to a more liberal and secular university system, I came to understand that there was much more apprehension toward Christianity among those with a higher education than those without, sometimes stretching as far as anger.

I remember words of caution from my Christian friends as I told them I was transferring to a non-Christian school. They said my faith would be challenged as never before, so I must be ready to defend it. Don’t trust any source other than the Bible. Avoid taking courses on philosophy or religion at the university. Be well grounded in apologetics. Do not read material that is anti-Christian lest you give the devil a foothold.

That failed to strike me as odd until I began to branch out and encounter people with different faiths, cultures, and worldviews. All of a sudden it struck me that, if my faith were the one, true faith, then it should be able to withstand the onslaught of contradicting ideas. Oddly enough, I had pitied other religious groups for not reading literature that contradicted what they believed solely on the basis that they had been told anything written to bring down their church was bad. Now days I wonder how I ever did that without seeing how greatly I was contradicting myself.

Though my current train of thought can be largely attributed to discussions I’ve had with other people over the course of the past five years, there have been a few books recently that have also played a pivotal roll in shaping my worldview…

Contradictions between Christian churches also led me to dig deeper to unravel the secrets of the book and the religion that has shaped western civilization for nearly two millennia. It always boggled me how a religion that was supposedly peaceful still used words like “spiritual warfare” and “God’s army”. It also boggled me how a religion that was seemingly very attractive to women in the first century C.E. became one of the most oppressive religions the world has known.

I’m not angry for all those years of blind belief. However, the freedom I have now is far greater than the one promised to me by the church I was raised in. Therefore, I encourage everyone, no matter what your creed, to stop and question everything. Next time you partake of a sacrament or rise to sing a hymn, stop and ask yourself why you are doing so. Where did the words come from that you utter so mechanically during a service? If you were not raised in the your faith, would you still believe it?

As I look at world politics and the war on terror, I realize how quickly the world is decreasing in size. We can now contact someone on the other side of the world with the click of a mouse. The flow of information and ideas that we have access to now is unprecedented. I believe that is why fundamentalists are so frantic about guarding their way of life. However, change is on the horizon and no one can stop it.

… I want to thank all of you, because my way of thinking has been so deeply influenced by conversations with others, I can honestly say that there is not one among you who has not taught me something that has aided me in my journey. However, my journey is not over and hopefully neither is yours….

I obviously edited the above statement. I could’ve edited more but it felt so disrespectful to my younger-self to do so. She was really passionate when she wrote this. Of course, that was also a time when my tendency toward self-harm and suicide attempts was at its peak. Perhaps that’s why the following quote from Mike’s book struck me the way it did. He was responding to someone who was very critical of his return to faith and some of the things he’d been saying in public. Perhaps the person criticizing him felt betrayed in a way. Whatever the reason, Mike brought up an important point that I hadn’t thought of before but makes perfect sense to me.

“But if you follow my work, you know I’m not out to convince anyone of anything about God. My work is in response to suffering – there are people for whom the loss of God produces acute pain. Second, you’re right about everything you’ve said. My experience doesn’t prove anything to anyone – not even me.” (p. 139)

Two things stood out for me: the loss of God producing “acute pain” and a religious experience not being reliable proof for anyone, not even for the person who experienced it.

A few months ago I wrote a series of short monologues and one of them was about my desire to talk about Jesus. In the beginning of Mike’s book he writes about being a kind of social outcast (stereotypical “nerd” if you will) as a kid and God being like his friend, someone who was always there who he could talk to about anything.

That was how God was for me, too, especially when I entered my adolescence and didn’t feel like I could talk to my parents about most of the stuff going on inside of me. God was often my only friend and I could actually imagine him holding me while I wept because no one else was ever there to hold me. And this concept of God as my best friend carried over into my young adult years and played a crucial role in my first mental breakdown at age twenty-three, while I was studying abroad in France. Religious experience mixed with mania and psychosis if awfully hard to defend, especially if the experience was so impactful and so beautiful to you that you simply don’t want to chock it all up to some sort of brain malfunction. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

In mid-summer this past summer, I wrote this:

…In fact, to make this easier on all of us, I won’t call myself a “Christian.” It’s not like I belong to a church anyway. Why would I tell you to do something I don’t even do?

Just go ahead and call Jesus my imaginary friend because to talk to someone you can’t see or hear requires a bit of imagination. Call me stupid, irrational, spineless, and childish if you wish but I’ve been trying to cope with being alone for a long time now. It’s not easy when you’ve never quite felt like you belonged anywhere. My closest friends, even my own family, don’t “get” me most of the time. But this Jesus fellow, he gets me. He knows me better than I know myself.

So why don’t you humor me a bit because I don’t have a close friend or a lover anymore. I don’t have someone in my life with whom I feel comfortable enough to share everything. But this Jesus guy, my “imaginary friend” if you will, is all of that and even though I can’t hear an audio voice or feel his physical arms around me when I need someone to comfort me, I still sometimes sense he’s there and it brings me peace.

That’s what I want to talk about, but I won’t because I love having you for a friend and I really don’t want to scare you away.

I did not realize it at the time but much of my “pain” when I abandoned my faith was directly linked to the loss of my best friend and, at times, my only friend: God.

Books fed my doubt when I turned away from my faith. But my return to faith was also fed by literature. I have a tendency to read a book and think the author and I could be best friends. Mike McHargue refers to Donald Miller and Rob Bell, two of the authors who helped me return to faith as well and both of whom I’ve also met. But, unlike Mike, I don’t know how to talk to people I admire when I meet them in real life. With both Bell and Miller I became completely tongue-tied and I think I said something really stupid. I met Rob Bell fairly recently so I can say for a fact that it all went downhill after I mumbled something along the lines of “I don’t know how to talk to celebrities.” But, at least my discomfort and embarrassment made him laugh. If Science Mike ever does a signing here in the Phoenix area, I’ll probably just write a note and hand it to him. It’s so much easier than actually talking.

By the way, I love Mike’s advice for how church people should handle doubt:

“If you’re a Christian who wonders what to do with someone who’s in doubt, consider these words carefully: Love and grace speak loudly. The first and best response to someone whose faith is unraveling is a hug. Apologetics aren’t helpful. Neither are Scripture references. The first thing a hurting person needs is to know they’re not alone.

“My path back to God was paved with grace by those who received my doubt in love.” (p. 119)

Returning to church has been a bit of a challenge for me. No offense to Mike, but I think it’s probably easier if you’re married with children. My quest for a church home is much more difficult when I’m searching alone. And then I have the mental illness thing plaguing me. I once tried to go to seminary but I was too afraid to tell them I had bipolar disorder. I was too afraid to tell them my experience with God was basically dismissed by everyone because it was mixed with mania and psychosis. Hyper-religiosity was the name the psychiatrists gave to it and ever since it happened, my life has been derailed. I was told I couldn’t live and serve in a developing nations if I was taking psyche medicine. I was told most missions or humanitarian organizations would reject me because I’m basically a liability. What a foolish idea to think that I could serve God or even encourage other people to serve God when I’m severely mentally ill!

But I miss being part of a faith community. I suppose I’ll have to drive farther than I’d like to find one but I love Mike McHargue’s list of what a church should be.

“When it comes to finding a congregation you can serve as part of, there are two things you have to look for: a church that is safe and a church that will challenge you. You should find a church that can share or accept your views on evolution, same-sex marriage, social justice, and environmental concerns; that’s part of what makes it safe. Your church should affirm you and accept you exactly as you are, should celebrate how you were made and how you’ve grown, and should tend to your wounds and love you as you heal. But it can’t stop there.

“Your church also has to challenge you to become all you can become. It should comfort you, but it shouldn’t let you get too comfortable. The people of your church should challenge rote thinking and decision making and prompt you to put your ideas into love action – to embody the Gospel with hands made dirty by work in the world. The congregation should empower you to serve the world with grace and to see that world with ever-more-loving eyes.

“I’d go so far as to say it should make you become more like Jesus, but don’t tell anyone I said that.” (p. 223)

Anyway, all this is to say, I thank God for Mike McHargue and I’m so glad he shared his story. I’m going to give my copy away, but not as an evangelical tool. I have more friends who are skeptics than I have friends who are believers but they’ve been handed books and tracts from so many well-meaning religious folk that they just don’t care anymore. They’ve heard hateful words from street-corner preachers and have had door-to-door salesmen hang religious flyers on their doorknobs or ring their doorbells in an attempt to force religious beliefs upon them face-to-face. Therefore, if a skeptic friend wants my copy of this book, he or she need only ask. I have only one copy but I will pay the postage to send this copy anywhere in the world. That’s how important I think it is.

 

 

Dear Old Friend….

My Dear Old Friend,

Do you remember me? We’re still friends, right? Although, I guess that all depends on how you define “friend.”

(above: A mix of mostly my voice from childhood, adolescence, and young adulthood followed by a clip from Matt Marvane’s single “Un coin de paradis”– “I wish you happiness…The perfume of life is so good this day when you’ve found a reason to exist…I wish you happiness….” Matt Marvane (translated by me))

Anyway, I’ve always considered you a friend. Even when I barely knew you I knew I’d do anything for you. I don’t know if you felt the same about me. But who cares? I was happy when you were near and I think I’d still be happy if I could only see you again, even if just for a moment.

Of course, as time went on, our paths diverged. I mean, we started out as equals. We were both in the same year of college after all. But somewhere along the way you managed to harness your gifts and earned respectability while I squandered mine. You boldly chased your dreams while I self-sabotaged. And now here we are, still running the race only you’re so far ahead of me I can’t even see you anymore. Once more, you’ve taken the crowds with you. There’s no one left to cheer me on aside from a few retirees who are really only there because they’re related to me (or maybe they just pity me).

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You know, one of the reasons I decided to live was because I sucked at dying and each failed suicide attempt pushed you further away. The more I relied on you to bandage my wounds, the less you wanted to see me. And even though I really needed a friend, I forgot how to be a friend. I can see that very clearly now. But at the time, my emotions blinded me.

It was when dying consumed my waking thoughts that friends like you began dropping from my life at an unprecedented rate.

Most of you chose simply to stop answering my calls, texts, and emails, hoping I’d take the hint and leave you alone. And after all these years, I’ve actually had the chance to experience being on the other side. I know it’s the easy way out and I’ve done it too, but that doesn’t mean it’s the right way to handle things.

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I may have thought of us as friends, but I could tell in your eyes, I ceased being a friend when the world began to revolve around me and I no longer asked about you. It was before I learned to offer hugs, asking for them instead (can I have a hug?). I needed constant validation. I can’t do this. I’ll never be able to do that. I suck at this. There’s no point in trying anymore. I was so needy that if now-me would’ve met then-me, I’d probably have abandoned me too.

But there was one friend, and only one friend, who ended it right; who cared enough to formally “break-up” with me. She broke up over the phone because she was too far away to do it in person, but we talked for at least an hour. In that time, she told me this was only temporary, a year at most. She loved me, she said. But she was not emotionally capable of handling my self-harm and suicide attempts at the moment. I mean, for God’s sake, I’d been hospitalized twice in one week for drug overdoses! The first of which she’d been there for and she’d witnessed me telling the nurses I wasn’t going to do this again. I’d lied right in front of her – although I’d lied to myself too. I really did believe what I said.

So she said goodbye and of course I cried. Of course I was miserable. I was miserable for a long time but at least I understood. At least she told me how she felt instead of leaving me in the dark as everyone else, including you, had done.

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Fast-forward many years until now and guess what? Many years of talk-therapy and psychiatric medicine have actually helped a lot. Furthermore, it turns out the friend who “broke-up” with me had inadvertently done me a huge favor. She became the voice for all of you and in so doing, she guided me to where I needed to go if I wanted to have any friends at all.

Wasn’t the advent of social media amazing? During the MySpace vs. Facebook wars the word “friend” became a verb and lost much of its original meaning. I kind of wish we had more than one word for “friend” like the French do. When I was in France, I always referred to my “friends” as “amis.” But the French frequently use the word “copin” for “friend” as well. The difference between “amis” and “copins” was simply a matter of how important that person was to you. “Amis” is the stronger term although the French Facebook uses that as well so maybe it too has lost a bit of its meaning in recent years.

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I have over 200 “friends” on Facebook which isn’t a lot compared to some of those friends’ friends. Some have an upward range of a thousand or more. For the most part, my criteria for “friending” people on Facebook is simple (with a few exceptions). If I’ve met you face to face at least once and I like you, I’ll add you as a friend.

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I remember the early days when I’d receive friend requests from former high school and college mates who I hadn’t seen in years. We’d message one another and catch up a little bit and I’d naively try and arrange miniature reunions with those who lived nearby. But even with my own car and lots of flexibility when it came to time, few people took me up on the offer. Of the two or three people who did, only one still hangs out with me at all. Everyone else just piled on the excuses. Their passiveness sent me one clear message: We’ve moved on. We don’t want you in our lives.

Pixilated-PartyAt least you and many others could use the excuse of distance. We can’t travel across oceans at a moment’s notice. Although it wouldn’t kill us to Skype now and then but I won’t pressure you, lest you prove my fears to be true. (It’s not that you can’t talk with me – it’s that you won’t talk with me)

I almost feel like it’s easier to find someone to date than it is to find a friend in this day and age. I prefer guy-friends most of the time. They’re much less dramatic than us women and they don’t want to waste their time shopping for clothes or doing makeovers. Gay guys are the best because they don’t pose a threat to me and, even if I do develop a little crush on one of them, it’s already quite clear that our relationship will never go beyond the platonic level and I can easily get over such a crush. Straight guys can stay in the friend-zone as long as they’re single, but if they are looking (and not looking for me), it becomes kind of sketchy once they do begin a relationship with someone else. But, if I’m a true friend, I’ll do my best to befriend his significant other too. Usually that’s not hard if he finds a good match to begin with. I’m not referring to a guy who’s at the “best friend” level, mind you. If I met a guy who I considered my best friend and he saw me as his best friend too, I’d definitely want to marry him. But that just hasn’t happened yet, at least not for me.

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Anyway, the point is, I need a friend, a true friend, and they’re so hard to come by these days! You’re as great a friend as you can be from far away but I need to find someone here.

Here’s what I expect in a friend and the kind of friend I aspire to be:

  • First and foremost, a true friend must be honest at all times, even when the truth hurts. Not even a “little white lie” will be tolerated.
  • Someone who lives within a reasonable driving distance and owns a car (this is Phoenix, after all).
  • Someone I can see often and who I look forwarded to seeing.
  • Someone who doesn’t share all the same the same interests as me, but with whom I have enough in common that we can genuinely enjoy our time together.
  • Someone with whom I can laugh uncontrollably but I also feel comfortable enough to cry with.
  • Someone who is secure enough to admit being wrong once in awhile.
  • Someone who may not share the same faith as me but who let’s me talk about my faith sometimes because it’s important to me.
  • Someone who loves me just as am and doesn’t expect me to change but always encourages me to grow.
  • Someone who loves books.
  • Someone who knows how to actively listen.
  • Someone to just be silly with.

The Solo Retreat

I needed to get away and I knew that if I didn’t go now, it would be a long time before the opportunity would arise again. Two nights were all I could afford which meant my solo retreat would have to stay within the boundaries of my state. Luckily, Arizona isn’t all a sizzling, hot desert full of saguaros, prickly pears, rattle snakes, and buzzards. Just a couple hours drive north of Phoenix and I’m at a blissful nine thousand foot elevation, surrounded by pine trees and a cool, mountain breeze. I’m in Flagstaff.

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I’ve been to Flagstaff many times. I used to be intimately familiar with it because I’d gone to school, lived, and worked there when I was younger.

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Solo retreats are a wonderful way to recharge. I’ve had enough practice that each one I take is better than the last. This particular one couldn’t have come at a better time. A week or so prior, I’d had an emotional wakeup call from a rather unexpected source. Ten years ago, I would have let my emotions consume me. But this time I still wept, but I also interpreted this reality check as a sign. My life needed to change, in a big way. And for that, I needed to separate myself from the usual distractions. I needed to be alone.

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There was no plan really. I brought lots of books, magazines, paper and writing utensils. I left the laptop at home and went analog as much as possible. I posted a picture a time or two to Instagram and Facebook, but only when I was in my hotel room where there was Wi-Fi.

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I arrived in Flagstaff on a Sunday. Since it was still a too early to check into my hotel room, I browsed through the untranslated French at Bookmans, choosing a book by Françoise Sagan that had what appeared to be a squashed bug stuck to the title page. I bought the book anyway as well as a copy of Oscar Wilde’s The Picture of Dorian Gray. Then I sat down with a frozen coffee drink in the café. By the time I was done it was time to check in.

As soon as my hotel room was ready, I checked in, unpacked a little, and just rested until the sun was low enough in the sky for optimum photography. Besides, I needed a little time to adjust to the altitude.

IMG_4703Around four-thirty, I grabbed my camera and headed downtown. When I arrived, I followed the sound of drumming and shouting to its source: an anti-police protest.

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The protesters were a small but passionate group of young people. I watched them carry their signs chanting, “Black lives matter; Red lives matter; Blue lives murder.” There were no African American protesters but there were Native Americans and sympathetic white people shouting and marching through streets and alley ways. Ironically, they were followed by a few policemen. I’m not sure who they were supposed to be protecting – us or them. I don’t know the stories of the people the protestors seemed to be honoring either. Were they killed by the police too, like so many we’ve been hearing about on the news?

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I’ve never participated in a protest. I remember talking to someone about it when I was studying in France fourteen years ago, though. In France, it seemed like the young people were always protesting something. Protesting was second only to going on strike, it seemed. My French friend and I wondered if protests ever actually made a difference. He didn’t think so. From what he understood, most protests were more like social gatherings or parties anyway. It’s like, let’s all unite under a common hate, make signs, and yell at people because it’s fun. Afterward we’ll have a beer together.

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I went to the bar in the basement of Charlie’s for dinner. It was nice being the only customer and making small talk with the young bartender. But I should’ve known it was too good to last. Two young ladies came in and sat at the bar a little ways from me. They were blond, tipsy, and very pretty. I attempted to talk to them as well and, when that didn’t work, I pulled a book out of my purse and endeavored to read.

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As more people shuffled in, I abandoned the bar and finished my dinner at a nearby table. I must’ve looked like a sight for sore eyes anyway: fat, no makeup, and a scarf on my head to keep sweat from dripping in my eyes. The other people at the bar were, at the very least, a decade younger than me. I imagine when they reach my age, they’ll be married with children and bars such as this will no longer seem appealing.

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As I wandered around town, I’d sometimes overhear the newest generation of university students talking about their assignments or extra-curricular activities. In the poetry section at the bookstore, I witnessed two twenty-something ladies fan-girl over dead poets. They exuded a such a raw, youthful passion the likes of which I’d not seen since I was their age. One of the girls talked about lining her bookshelves with beautiful, vintage editions of the timeless works of great poets.

IMG_4922The next day I decided to I needed to see dinosaur tracks and headed north on 89A toward Tuba City and Page. I’d read about the tracks in Phoenix Magazine but I didn’t expect the road to feel quite so long. Most of the drive was through the Navajo Reservation and, aside from the occasional Navajo jewelry vendors, there weren’t many places to stop along the way. So I listened to my Voyage Imaginaire playlist with its 283 songs about journeys, destinations, home or being foreign. I also squeezed in a few songs to help me imagine I’m already far from here. Sometimes I tell myself it’s too long for a single playlist, and yet it sustained all the way there and back.

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The dinosaur tracks were pretty amazing. It remind me of my brief obsession with paleontology when I was a kid, before Jurassic Park was even a thing. I asked my guide if there was anything in traditional Navajo beliefs to explain dinosaurs and she said they don’t even have a word for dinosaur in her language (I think she said the elders used to call it “giant bird” or something like that). But she’d lived on that part of the Res her whole life. The fossilized footprints were kind of like her backyard where she played as a little girl.

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I had no clue where to go next but the day was still young so I just followed the signs to Page. Lake Powell, Glen Canyon and the dam were major tourist attractions, especially for international tourists.

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On my way out, I stopped to see Horseshoe Bend, a 1.4 mile round trip hike overflowing with international tourists. I heard, among other languages, German, Spanish, Portuguese, and Dutch, but the most pleasant sound for me was French. I spent a lot of time simply eaves-dropping on French conversations. But I couldn’t find the courage to interrupt the French. I’d been listening to French music in the car and still knew how to speak it well. I just didn’t feel like I fit in around so many attractive people. I thought of a time when I wasn’t fat and dining with Europeans. I remember how they’d make fun of fat people, especially fat Americans. It didn’t bother me then because I wasn’t the object of ridicule. But now I’m acutely aware of what I’ve become. I am the negative American stereotype, the person I never dreamed I’d become. Couple that with the scarf I wore on my head to keep the sweat out of my eyes, my lack of makeup (also due to sweating issues), and the adult acne that had broken out all over my lower face. If you knew nothing about me but what you saw, you might not feel inclined to talk with me either.

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I did speak to one French guy. I asked him in English how the view was from where he was standing and he silently signaled that he didn’t understand so I switched languages and suddenly he was no longer mute. He had lots to say, so long as it was in his own language.

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But our small talk was brief. He’d come with family. All the international tourists had come with family, or, at the very least, friends. The point is, no one came alone. As far as I could see, I was the only solitary tourist which also robbed me of my desire to strike up conversations with strangers. Each person already had with them the only person or people they cared to talk with. No need to have a superficial friendship with an American, especially a weird-looking, fat, thirty-six-year-old, unmarried, woman like me.

IMG_5014Maybe I’m projecting but I don’t think so. I’m very observant. It is what it is and, though I can’t change everything about me, I can lose weight and find a good dermatologist to help me with my face. It’s just going to take time and it’s not going to be easy. (More on this later.)

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Back in Flagstaff, I headed to the grocery store to score a picnic dinner. I remember when it used to be called New Frontiers. Now it’s part of the Whole Foods corporation. That didn’t bother me so much as the entire “village” that’s been built up around it. The fancy new apartments built above high-end retail chains are still looking for tenants. But what kind of people would want to live there? I know people who’ve lived in Flagstaff for most (if not all) their lives and they’d probably find this sort of thing appalling. Even the “village” street names attempt to give the new place a kind of “Old World” feel like “Piccadilly,” “Regent,” or “Cambridge.” It’s like they’re trying to make a miniature Europe except European villages derive their charm from their distinct personalities built over time. The people who own and work in the shops are the ones living above them. McDonald’s may be in cities the world over, but the village should not be defined by multi-national corporations.

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Tuesday I drove to Lake Mary hoping to snap some photos but it turned out I needed a permit to park my car there. So I turned around and headed to Sedona by way of Oak Creek Canyon where I also hoped to find photo ops, but I couldn’t seem to find a place to park my car for free there either. It was all national forest land and almost everything the government didn’t owned was privately owned.

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I wondered what happened to the commons. Is there anything that isn’t “owned” by anyone anymore? Then again, maybe it’s better this way. Nature’s worst enemy is man.

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Finally I found free parking near the most popular, touristy street in Sedona. I switched to a longer lens for this one. By the way, you wouldn’t believe how many people I saw with SLR cameras while I was away! There may be a camera on every smart phone but the more sophisticated amateur photography is far from dead.

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From Sedona I went to Jerome where there were more tourists, only in this case they were mostly Americans. Storm clouds followed me there, but I didn’t mind. Give me a cloudy day over a sunny day any day. Besides, in a place like Jerome, clouds only enhance beauty and mystery.

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The clouds followed me all the way home. There was a little rain as drove through Prescott Valley but mostly the sky was amazing. I had to pull over to the side of the road a couple of times just to capture the clouds. I wish I’d have caught some lightening as well, but lightening never seems to cooperate with me. I’ve seen some brilliant photographs of lightening by professionals, but I have yet to figure out how they do it. It can’t be sheer luck each time.

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Then I came home.

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