The Frizzy Headed Monster

You would think that, if I was going to jealous of anyone, it would be of my Suburban friends…the ones with big houses, three car garages, car payments, and kids who play soccer on Saturdays, go to private schools during the week and church, faithfully, every Sunday.

But I’m not. I mean, sometimes I get this itch to do the “normal” thing, as this Suburban life is what I grew up knowing. Minus the private school. Oh, and substitute soccer for softball. We had a big yard. And big bedrooms. Bedrooms that somehow separated us from the messiness of being a family and where I sometimes felt lonely. But there are those moments, like when I open the door and step on a coat, trip over a pair of shoes, and take two steps into the living room and scratch my head, saying to myself, “I just picked this place up…” that I think maybe a big house would make more sense. And then I remember reading this article in “House Beautiful,” one of seven some odd magazines that I subscribe to thanks to my Diet Coke addiction and their “Reward” program. I rarely find time to read any of them and I have vowed to take them to Italy with us to read them when I’m “not busy,” as if in learning another language and culture and assisting my three helpless children acclimate will somehow leave me bored. This article was by the Editor, a frail-looking gay fellow whose personality shines through his writing and whose mannerisms are likely to mirror Boy George. In this particular article, he was discussing how much he enjoys small spaces and how when he goes to his friends’ houses that are ginormous, he always asks the questions, “So where do you really live?” And most often they lead him to a tiny corner in the house, with a comfy chair and a good light. And that is where they “live.”

And thus, when I think about this (as well as the small fact that we are moving to a country where you can’t find anything bigger than a shoebox to live in), any grass-is-greener-than attitude pretty much dissipates and I am left happy with our tiny house (and tiny mortgage). That is not to say that people don’t have preferences. Just as those “big house” people probably get all jealous of one another over their crown molding and master suite bathrooms and fancy refrigerators, I, a small space city gal with a budget the size of a tuna can, get jealous of other small space city gals who live on a similar sized tuna can budget.

In fact, right now I am sitting in the kitchen of one of my friend’s apartments in downtown Chicago. She (I will call her Joanna) and her husband just left for church with their three children who were matched in Christmas attire, like they just stepped out of a Ralph Lauren ad. Now, I have to preface by saying that the jealousy I’m allowing to simmer in a tiny part of my conscious, isn’t just about this space and her utilization of it, though I will go on about that I’m sure. It’s also about the fact that since I have known this girl, for going on five years, she and her husband have always done everything the “right” way…or I should say the way I was raised to believe was the “right” way. When we all lived in the same building, we lived two floors above them. On a Saturday night, while Thomas and I fought over who would do bedtime or dishes or laundry, I would make my way to their apartment to ask Joanna a question and she and her husband would be sitting there serenely, their children asleep, listening to Saturday night worship music together, reading and studying their own separate books in their own little chairs. It was like a scene at my grandparent’s house. It seemed too perfect and until that point, I thought that people our ages with kids our kids’ ages, just simply lived in chaos.

In addition, my friend also manages to work on her Masters, lead Bible Studies, throw parties, counsel friends, workout, bake, attend (and head up) important meetings, clean and organize her home, and decorate it in a way that is completely unlike my style but that is somehow appealing in all of its warmth and coziness. To boot, she and her husband have the job here at Moody that we were looking to apply for before we applied with Avant to go to Italy. The job comes with this top-floor apartment, and get this, a rooftop deck (I have prayed, boldly, like my son when he wants a Power Ranger, for a rooftop deck for a good three years…). Oh and they adopted a little black baby girl, something that has always been in my heart to do. These small facts are most likely unbeknownst to them, and it’s quite a joy to see them in this job position and with this beautiful baby girl. There is just this part of me…the part that still believes, after all these years, that Jesus is holding out on me because I’m not good enough, that is somewhat invidious of my friend.

Because I am here alone, just with Elias and Keziah (the others are down the hall sleeping), I was looking around at all of her utilitarian ideas for space, and a sense of guilt crashed over me, like a ferocious wave, as I searched for a Tupperware container to put leftovers in and found them in their own drawer, aligned with color-coded lids, perfectly placed into one another just like one of those infomercials for some space-saving masterpiece. And I suddenly felt like the girl on that same infomercial who is over-dramatizing the effects of not having such an item. Only, when I saw the dramatized version of myself reaching above the sink in my kitchen for a Tupperware container, the scene of the lids and plastic cups falling onto my head and into my sink of dirty dishes was was a familiar one, it being part of my daily life and all.

I even made my way into her bedroom, as I snoopily wanted to check out her closet space. The top drawer of her dresser was open and there lay a cute little sock organizer…one that looked like it was made just for this little chest of drawers. There in this small diagonal tick-tack-toe cubby thingy, were each pair of socks folded perfectly into one another, as if they were twins in the womb…as if they had never been apart all of those times in the washer. This, and I was pretty proud of myself when last Friday I organized Thomas and my socks, putting the matches in their own shoebox and the orphaned ones into a broken hamper.

By the time I made my way into her bathroom, the only other niche besides my closet that I just can’t seem to make “work” when it comes to style and function, I threw my hands up and admitted that keeping up was wholly impossible. For there on her cute little shelves, lay side by side, a few decorative paraphernalia and toothbrushes, as if they went together. As if the toothbrushes were part of her decor. There was no clutter. You wouldn’t have thought that one, three, and four year-olds shared this space. No toothpaste smeared on the sink. No fingerprints on the mirror. And certainly not the same smells that fill our bathroom at home, thanks to a certain six year-old that seems to miss when aiming.

So if I were in a counseling session, Mike would probably say, “So what is really going on? What are you unhappy with in your life that is causing guilt over Tupperware placement?” And I would take a deep breath, like I just did, take a sip of Diet Coke (did that too) and stare at him, the ceiling, the window, for a good two minutes (you kind of have to speed up the thinking process when you are getting charged by the minute). And I would probably say something to the effect of, “That’s a good question.”

I would probably think back to last night and how I left some other Chicago friends’ house with a sense of emptiness. How I felt unheard and misunderstood for ridiculous reasons. How I thought that perhaps I was projecting my feelings toward Thomas onto these innocent bystanders. Because Thomas and I really haven’t connected in a while. And because he is a talker, as well as an extrovert, and I’m an introvert who can pose as an extrovert in situations where I feel comfortable, I therefore have this terrible disposition of having to have my heart (my thoughts) drawn out of me. It can happen easily when I sense someone really wants to know me. But as in the case of marriage, somehow the busyness of life gets in the way and we forget the needs of one another and the reality that our styles of communication are as different as the climates of Indiana and Florida. Thomas talks and talks and as he talks his point begins to unfold, as well as his heart. I, on the other hand, do the same, but in a very different “climate,” if you will. My heart has to feel secure and understood and empathized with in order for my “point” to unfold. I haven’t been drawn out lately. My conversations have been shallow. The climate is off. In my marriage. With my family. In my friendships. Even with Jesus.

Perhaps the reason is that the reality of us moving in six months, as well as all the “work” that has to be done in order for us to leave, has begun to settle down into my heart, like an Alka-Seltzer dropped in water, fizzing and bubbling, unpredictable in its nature, but sure to subside nonetheless. When faced with an awkward conversation, instead of being objective, I think, “This is what it’s going to be like in Italy.” I will be unknown. This is scary. I know. I have done this sort of thing before.

And with Thomas, I’ve been with him in the midst of change. We either cling to one another or cling to something else that gives us comfort. The first is good. The latter is damaging. I have real fears.

I was talking to my older sister, Julia, recently and I was listening, my heart feeling helpless, as she lamented over the loss of the baby boy they were getting ready to adopt from China. She talked about how she had been angry lately. Mean to her husband and kids. Feeling out of sorts.

She and I have this bond, as we have grown older. It wasn’t always this way. When we were young, we used to hit each other with brushes and point out one another’s flaws. I always told her she had a big nose and bird legs. Her defense was that I was fat with a fat nose. In hindsight, it’s quite funny, as none of those things are inherently true. We just used whatever ammo we could come up with in our puberty-stricken state.

But somehow, the older we’ve gotten, the more kids we have had, and the ways in which our lives share so many passions and goals, it is as if there are moments where our genetic makeup takes over and we are in default sister mode. We share deep joy and deep pain. It’s like the first day of spring. While it’s been so cold for so long, I remember the warmth of the sun when it hits my pale skin for the first time in months. I breathe deep and allow my body to receive this new, proverbial season with all of its flowery smells, like a fresh load of fabric-softened laundry. In a world that can be cold and lonely, she makes me feel known.

When Julia said this about being angry, I began thinking about how I’ve not been the most pleasant person as of late either. And I remembered that my emotions are typically a gauge for what is going on in my heart. Time is no longer on my side. Months are slipping by until we leave, and by nature, I am beginning to disassociate with the world around me. This is typically when my addictive personality starts rearing its frizzy head. Instead of involving myself emotionally in relationships that are seemingly going to dissolve, I exercise, eat, clean, shop, and stalk random people on Facebook… all in the hopes of dissimulating.

And suddenly all of those old demons, the ones I have arrogantly “gotten past,” are once again before me, raising their pointed horns and all. I’m critical. I’m jealous. I’m materialistic. Ironically, I’m all the people I criticize. Fitting, really.

And so Mrs. Therapy Person, also known as my conscience, there you have it. That is why I am comparing myself to someone whose sock drawer is the equivalent of a modern art sculpture (though I guess my shoebox sock drawer may better fit the modern art description…really I do not like modern art…but was simply trying to make the point that she is organized in a way that I can never be). That is why I am questioning whether or not Jesus has remembered my prayers, especially the one for a rooftop deck. And that is for sure why I’m being overly critical of my husband who is in reality a mere human, just like myself. We are all in process.

And I am taking a deep breath again. Realizing that, in the little humility I can invoke in this moment, it’s all about forgiveness and grace. Just like my babies have known my relationship to each one, the moment each was born, so I know these friends, Forgiveness and Grace. They are familiar. I met them when I was fourteen and have taken advantage of them, mostly in my desperate moments, ever since. And in these moments of errant behavior, coupled with a heavy heart, I call on them again.

And I hear His voice, like a God who would care enough for me to take on human flesh and die a criminal’s death, like the constant sound of the tide, muted and tranquil, saying “Come to Me.”

And once again I am home.

Happy Pills

After making our way in the snow to Target last night, with the sheer intention of getting my prescription for Zoloft (otherwise known as my happy pills) filled, I walked to the pharmacy and stared at the cold steel door over the window, realizing it would be yet another day until I would feel somewhat sane again.

Not only did I suffer from a serious headache yesterday from the lack of mind-altering enhancement (otherwise known as Serotonin), but I also was quite emotional this morning. Now, I am (with or without meds) totally wired as a feeler. I sense God's presence and leading in my life through my emotions. No, they are not always right, especially when I'm reading the world through an emotional lens that is tweaked by hormones. However, more often than not, I listen to my gut when it is speaking. I am learning, in my 29 years of life, that when something doesn't "feel" right, I would be most wise to just wait on God's leading. I could give you lots of examples of times I didn't do this, but dwelling on our mistakes is no fun and I have been lacking some serious verbiage lately and to go on about such things would only suck more of my brainpower, as well as your time. Trust me, I'm doing all I can right now to come up with some sort of point to this blog.

As a side note, or rather I guess this would go along with my point, I also know, through my feelings, when I am supposed to write. I get this anxious feeling...like a kid waiting to see Santa. The only difference is that I'm not only the kid waiting, I'm also the one pretending to be Father Christmas. And delivering some sort of message is my responsiblity alone. THe proliferation of all that I hold inside is up to me. If it's good, well surprise! I am as delighted as you are. But if it's bad, it goes into my drafts folder with all the other rejects, and I'm back to a blank screen (aka a stocking of coal). And this would be fine if I didn't have that continued nagging, pulling, lump-in-my-throat-thing going on where I know God wants to stretch me and have me share my heart with you.

Most times, when I sit down to blog, I get sidetracked by e-mail, facebook, slickdeals, or as in the case a moment ago, a crying child. Ope. He must have heard me type that, for he just began whining in his bed again.

Okay. Silence. Finally.

So like I was saying, when I sit down to write, just as if I were in college with a paper due tomorrow, I put on my procrastination hat, and find something else to do. Delving into my emotional state, somehow making sense of it, and making it sound good enough to keep your attention is a very risky thing. It's like I'm in the 8th grade beauty pageant all over again, standing awkwardly in that Barbie-pink, ridiculously puffy dress, waiting to find out if I'm indeed the next "Ms. Brandywine." Mind you that all you needed was one of these overstuffed dresses to win and my best friend's mom knew that because she was the one that hosted these outlandish events and lent me the dress...and well, come to think of it, I think I was the only one with such a dress, henceforth I was the winner... however... It was still a terrible feeling to have given those judges my all and then to wait nervously for them to tell me if I was good enough.

And so it is with you. I hate hate hate that I am such a sucker for affirmation. I long to adhere to the childhood proverbs about not caring what others think (or better put in Christian circles..."only caring what Jesus thinks"), but I'm just not there. So trust me when I say that your encouragement is what is making me sit here at my little desk, in this uncomfortable chair, in my small, quiet house, with all of its hushed interstate sounds and mulled cider smells, to communicate with you...to put myself on the line...in order for something beyond myself to be fashioned, bent, and sculpted with these tiny keys and with these tiny words and these ridiculously long sentences.

Now then. Where was I? Emotions. No crazy meds. This morning. Ah yes.

So on the way to church, I was listening to the radio and on came this song by a girl I know from Chicago. I only encountered her a handful of times, but we were good friends with her good friends and henceforth the strange connection. This woman and her husband lost their baby to SIDS in May, I believe. And this song on the radio is older. And her voice is so beautiful. And you could feel the pain in her voice, even though it wasn't even there when the song was recorded. I wanted to cry. I held back tears for fear that mascara would be all over my face by the time I got to church. I thought about how shallow that was. How I was inhibiting the sharing in God's sorrow for this mother all for the sake of my freshly painted face. My heart remained heavy.

When I finally made my way into church with my whining children in tow, I looked to the screen and saw the face of a hurting mother. She was telling the story of how they lost their teenage son in a car accident less than a year ago. Through tears she told of God's comfort in the midst of pain.

Next, a husband and wife told their story about a miscarriage, a failed adoption, and the eventual miracle baby who recently came into their lives.

At that point, I took my kids to their class and began talking to a friend. I later made my way down the hall to the high school room, where I always go for a few minutes. I like the music and the energy of a generation that isn't afraid to dream big dreams. Concurrently, I like praying for the kids in the room. I couldn't help but think, as I knelt down in the very back of the dimmed santuary, how so many of these kids were hurting, perhaps feeling inadequate, depressed...maybe even suicidal. I stared at them, my eyes drifting from one to another, wondering about their stories. Wondering who was lonely. Who was afraid.

Then I continued my Sunday morning sojourn, by heading upstairs to the "young adult class," where I look forward to my weekly cream-filled iced donut. You know, I saw a sign in a Kansas City gas station once, as I was at the cash register purchasing a box of Krispy Kremes for our ride home that read, "Go ahead, you have all day to work it off." And that is how I look at donuts, as well as any other sugar filled dessert item dressed in breakfast drag.

I was quite disappointed when upon entering the room, I didn't see the white boxes of yeasty heaven in the back. I made my way to a table, feeling out of sorts without Thomas being there with me. My ADD settled down and I listened to the conversation that our pastor friend was leading. It had to do with "where the class was going" and, having had plently of discussions with him regarding his philosophy of ministry, I knew what he was getting at. The dialogue was going in circles and at some point, my haven't-had-medicine-for-four-days side kicked in and I began "sharing" my opinions. My opinions carried the weight of emotion with them because, at the moment, I was for some reason passionate about getting these people to understand what the pastor dude was trying to communicate. One of the guys refuted me, proving my overly sensitive feminist side right. I got annoyed. I wanted to leave the room. And then I realized that indeed I was being overly sensitive and overly critical and just as my emotions had given me compassion for those hurting people and those high school kids moments earlier, they were now beginning to control this other side of me...the dark side if you will, and I knew in that moment that my mind was off. I needed to keep my mouth shut before I said anything I regretted. I needed to get my kids and get out of there.

I acted normal as I made my way down the stairs, across to the classrooms, and over toward my parents who were holding a tired Ezra. My heart was still heavy. I began having shallow conversations with people, just wanting to get away, in fear of what I was capable of in my "the world is against me" state. Elias began hitting his sister who began crying. He then proceeded to chase Ezra around, nearly running into the crowd of people. Upon telling him his TV privelege was going to be taken away for his nasty attitude, he used an unpleasant cuss word, at which point I shared with him that he would also be getting his mouth washed out with soap. I took his hand and, remaining calm, pulled him along the snowy parking lot, trying to ignore him screaming, "Let go. Let go. Let go." When i finally did let go, he began screaming that he wanted to watch TV. That lasted for a good ten minutes in the car until I reminded him that I could take more priveleges away.

By the time we got home, Elias had calmed down (with a Zest-fully-clean mouth) and I had a new month-supply of happy pills in hand. I put a pill in my mouth, took a sip of Diet Coke, and swallowed.

We went over to our friends' house later on that day. I could feel my negativity subsiding. Of course, Annette's dance party in her kitchen helped a little... I felt free to be me. Not inhibitied by a skewed perception of some false philosophy on life.

I am constantly amazed, when I confront this part of me (because this isn't the first time I let my prescription run out), how real my emotions appear. They drown me at moments. I make the world out to be a dark and mean-spirited place and I make my husband out to be my mortal enemy (oh, that happened later in the day). It's ugly really. But when my brain is functioning as it should, my emotions act as a guide. They assist in directing me into new worlds. They guide me into grieving for a hurting mother, a desperate teenager. They steer me to try new things, to make myself a little more vulnerable, to confront someone who's hurt me or say sorry to one I've wronged. But when I'm imbalanced, my emotions don't merely guide me. They control me. I have no say over where they will take me. When it's good, like this morning when I had a tiny glimpse into God's heart for his hurting children, it's good. But when it's bad, like taking little comments personal, it's really bad. And when it's really bad, I know that depression is not far off.

Therefore, I am at peace with the fact that I need medication. Emotions are such an intregal part of the way I see the world and my role in it. Without them, I would wither and die. But it took two children and a third pregnancy to make me see that my emotions were controlling me and therefore damaging my husband and children with their unpredictability. But more than that, they were damaging me. I see Jesus' grace better with medicine, because it's easier to extend it to myself and others. Ahhhh. Grace. I love that word. It always brings me back to a place I can start from. And tomorrow I will be glad to start it afresh without the highs and lows...just a steady compassion for my family and my neighbors...a love that can only be stirred through growing closer to Jesus and letting Him guide me. Whether that's through my emotions or not...that lies in the hands of a God who shouts to us through his beauty and remains silent through our pain. A God whose ways we will never comprehend but in whose mercy we must depend. A God who has given us our emotions in order to channel us into His heart.