I went home this past week to be with my family for Christmas. It's still hard to split my time between my parents, and I still tiptoe around the topic of one when I'm with the other. I had a confrontation of sorts with my dad one day. It's really difficult to believe someone has truly chosen something which isn't in his or her best interest, but no matter how many different ways you explain it, it goes in one ear and out the other. I hate feeling like he listens to everyone else but his children. But at the end of the day, its his choice, its his life. I cannot choose for him, and I really wish I could have faith that he's making the right decision. I think one of the hardest things is to suddenly one day realize your parents are people just like you and me. They make mistakes, they have baggage, and they're broken, too.
So many times their brokenness and baggage gets passed down from generation to generation, which creates a cycle of destructive behavior and abuse if its not handled correctly. I look around me and see so many people who have been through much worse things than I have, and I wonder how they're still walking and breathing today. Sometimes I think its a miracle we turn out as whole as we do.
I am so thankful my parents don't put me in the middle or use me against eachother... I cannot imagine how difficult and heartbreaking that must be. But no matter how much I disagree with so many of their choices, I'm learning that good or bad, those were their choices and now we all deal with the consequences. I've definitely learned from their mistakes, and I pray certain aspects of both sides of my family do not carry on through me in the future. My mother wanted those things to end with her and my dad, and maybe the end result is the divorce. Maybe my brother and I had to go through this with them in order to learn from their mistakes and not allow those things to carry on past us. I will not pass those things on to any children I may have in the future.
I have so many thoughts on cycles of poverty, abuse, lack of education, etc. I get so frustrated with parents of our kids at my internship, but I have to realize many times these parents are doing the best they can. I have to wonder what kind of parents they grew up with. Considering their parents behavior, anything better than that, although not healthy and constructive, is probably considered okay as long as they aren't treating their kids as poorly as they were treated as children. Does that make sense?
It's late and I'm rambling now, but maybe someone can understand my ramblings and hopefully identify with them. I'd love to hear your thoughts either way. Leave a comment, I'll respond. Let's dialogue with eachother.
Thursday, December 27, 2012
Sunday, November 04, 2012
No Apologies, No Regrets
It's been a while since I've really felt the sting of believing differently than others, of living on the sidelines. Sidelines meaning outside what popular, modern day culture believes. It's uncomfortable, and it's lonely, but I will not be wavered. I cannot be wavered. And I will not apologize.
Tuesday, October 23, 2012
Unwanted
They tell us over and over in class and in our field placements not to let our own personal feelings get in the way of our service to the client. Do not project beliefs onto the client, do not counter-transfer feelings onto the client... all that technical jargon... I'm impressed that I've kept it under wraps this far. I was seriously tested yesterday, though, when a situation came up between a mother and son. I won't give details, but let's just say the mother's lack of concern was incredibly difficult to hear about and watch. Thankfully the situation was handled quickly, but for a little while my heart was breaking for him.
The hard part was knowing how normal the experience was in his world. He knows his mom doesn't want him. As I sit here and think about that, I can't wrap my mind around how that must feel, and I definitely can't wrap my heart around it. I feel so protective of these kids, and when I think about putting myself in some of their shoes, I feel paralyzed... I wouldn't survive a day, let alone 12, 14, 16 years. I cannot fathom what it feels like to not be loved by my parents. I got everything I needed and then some, and I never questioned their love for me.
I realize I'm trying to figure out what use this stark contrast of experiences might serve in my field placement. I can't understand what he thinks and feels when he thinks about his mom. But can I take what I know and have learned from my parents and use that to serve these kids well? Will that make a difference?
The hard part was knowing how normal the experience was in his world. He knows his mom doesn't want him. As I sit here and think about that, I can't wrap my mind around how that must feel, and I definitely can't wrap my heart around it. I feel so protective of these kids, and when I think about putting myself in some of their shoes, I feel paralyzed... I wouldn't survive a day, let alone 12, 14, 16 years. I cannot fathom what it feels like to not be loved by my parents. I got everything I needed and then some, and I never questioned their love for me.
I realize I'm trying to figure out what use this stark contrast of experiences might serve in my field placement. I can't understand what he thinks and feels when he thinks about his mom. But can I take what I know and have learned from my parents and use that to serve these kids well? Will that make a difference?
Saturday, October 20, 2012
The Loner
My best friend and I had one of those conversations the other day where you see yourself as you really are, and you're not exactly happy with what you see. She and I have been through a lot together. She's seen the best and the worst in me and hasn't walked away. She's earned the right to be brutally honest with me, especially when I don't want to listen.
In a nutshell, she's worried about me. I've got a set of pretty good defense mechanisms that I use without even realizing it, and a lot of times it keeps me from community and I miss out on some pretty fantastic people. My rationale? If I am a loner by choice, at least I know it's because I chose it and not because they didn't respond to my efforts. So many times I've put myself out there for people, only to be met with... well, nothing. I'm very much an introvert, so I have to purposefully put myself out there to get to know people. I get tired of trying after so many times of being let down. In the end, I'm at risk of not trying at all.
I don't know how to fix something like this. I'm pretty selective about who I let in. If you ask me questions, I'm more than happy to answer, I just don't offer it without the asking. Does that make me unapproachable? Not knowing how to move past this doesn't mean don't try... I just don't know where to begin. I try to imagine what I'd say to one of my kids...
"Just because you're unsure of yourself doesn't mean take yourself out of the game. Take it step by step, day by day, interaction by interaction, person by person. And in time you'll get there, one relationship at a time."
I feel something in me churning to be better, do better. To love more, love bigger. To not be afraid of vulnerability. All the "what-ifs" keep clouding my mind.
"What's the worst that could happen? You don't become friends with that person, maybe your feelings get hurt from the rejection. But you pick yourself up and you dust yourself off, because tomorrow is a new day, and with each of these new experiences, you are becoming a new person. A stronger person."
Its time I take my own advice.
In a nutshell, she's worried about me. I've got a set of pretty good defense mechanisms that I use without even realizing it, and a lot of times it keeps me from community and I miss out on some pretty fantastic people. My rationale? If I am a loner by choice, at least I know it's because I chose it and not because they didn't respond to my efforts. So many times I've put myself out there for people, only to be met with... well, nothing. I'm very much an introvert, so I have to purposefully put myself out there to get to know people. I get tired of trying after so many times of being let down. In the end, I'm at risk of not trying at all.
I don't know how to fix something like this. I'm pretty selective about who I let in. If you ask me questions, I'm more than happy to answer, I just don't offer it without the asking. Does that make me unapproachable? Not knowing how to move past this doesn't mean don't try... I just don't know where to begin. I try to imagine what I'd say to one of my kids...
"Just because you're unsure of yourself doesn't mean take yourself out of the game. Take it step by step, day by day, interaction by interaction, person by person. And in time you'll get there, one relationship at a time."
I feel something in me churning to be better, do better. To love more, love bigger. To not be afraid of vulnerability. All the "what-ifs" keep clouding my mind.
"What's the worst that could happen? You don't become friends with that person, maybe your feelings get hurt from the rejection. But you pick yourself up and you dust yourself off, because tomorrow is a new day, and with each of these new experiences, you are becoming a new person. A stronger person."
Its time I take my own advice.
Saturday, September 29, 2012
Resilience
So I'm a couple months into my last year of grad school. It's been a pretty crazy ride. I've been put in situations I never thought I'd be in. My beliefs have been challenged on every level possible, and I've questioned more of myself than I knew there was. But it's the questioning... and the not being afraid of the questioning, that has made me grow.
This past week was the hardest yet at my internship. I'm placed at a youth crisis center. We focus on runaways and homeless kids ages 7-17, with smaller programs to help kids aging out of foster care. It's a seriously amazing program, but that's not what I want to talk about right now. I want to talk about the kids. The soldiers. The fighters. The ones that get dealt the hard hand in life for no reason at all, and they're left on their own to pick up the pieces. I met some girls this past week, 5 girls from 13-16. I'm pretty sure if I were to look up resilience in the dictionary right now, their pictures would be beside it. Abused by parents, looked over, not as preferred as the younger sister. Beaten by the boyfriend. Taken advantage of by someone almost 3 times her age.
Blamed.
Despised.
Rejected.
Broken
Into
Pieces.
They have to be hard so the world doesn't kill them.
Invisible so they can be
SAFE.
On Tuesday I had to ask one of them if she really meant it when she told me she had wanted to jump off a bridge before. "Do you want to hurt yourself? Do you want to hurt anyone else? Do you have plans for either?"
I try to put myself in these girls shoes, no matter how long its been since I was their age. I try to imagine what it would feel like to truly know and feel like "my mother loves my little sister more than me"... "Why don't my parents want me? Why don't they love me? What did I do wrong...?"
"Why?"
I had the chance to speak truth over the two most difficult girls before the week was over.
As she walked out the door, more than likely to go back to her abuser boyfriend, I looked at her and said, "We can't make you stay here. It's your choice to go if that's what you want. But please, please know... we care about you here. We all care about you... and you know where to find us."
As she sat in front of me with tears streaming down her face pleading for the love and approval of her mother, yet feeling such strong disdain and anger for the abuse, I was able to tell her what I saw when I looked past the frustration. "You are strong. You're a survivor. You lived this and you made it through. And whether or not you see it, you are stronger because of it, in a way that no one else will be because they have not walked in your shoes. You will make it through this and you will be okay. You will.
Because you are strong.
You are resilient."
This past week was the hardest yet at my internship. I'm placed at a youth crisis center. We focus on runaways and homeless kids ages 7-17, with smaller programs to help kids aging out of foster care. It's a seriously amazing program, but that's not what I want to talk about right now. I want to talk about the kids. The soldiers. The fighters. The ones that get dealt the hard hand in life for no reason at all, and they're left on their own to pick up the pieces. I met some girls this past week, 5 girls from 13-16. I'm pretty sure if I were to look up resilience in the dictionary right now, their pictures would be beside it. Abused by parents, looked over, not as preferred as the younger sister. Beaten by the boyfriend. Taken advantage of by someone almost 3 times her age.
Blamed.
Despised.
Rejected.
Broken
Into
Pieces.
They have to be hard so the world doesn't kill them.
Invisible so they can be
SAFE.
On Tuesday I had to ask one of them if she really meant it when she told me she had wanted to jump off a bridge before. "Do you want to hurt yourself? Do you want to hurt anyone else? Do you have plans for either?"
I try to put myself in these girls shoes, no matter how long its been since I was their age. I try to imagine what it would feel like to truly know and feel like "my mother loves my little sister more than me"... "Why don't my parents want me? Why don't they love me? What did I do wrong...?"
"Why?"
I had the chance to speak truth over the two most difficult girls before the week was over.
As she walked out the door, more than likely to go back to her abuser boyfriend, I looked at her and said, "We can't make you stay here. It's your choice to go if that's what you want. But please, please know... we care about you here. We all care about you... and you know where to find us."
As she sat in front of me with tears streaming down her face pleading for the love and approval of her mother, yet feeling such strong disdain and anger for the abuse, I was able to tell her what I saw when I looked past the frustration. "You are strong. You're a survivor. You lived this and you made it through. And whether or not you see it, you are stronger because of it, in a way that no one else will be because they have not walked in your shoes. You will make it through this and you will be okay. You will.
Because you are strong.
You are resilient."
Friday, September 07, 2012
Raw
My parents got a divorce a couple months ago after being married for 37 years. They were my "go-to" marriage, my role models. I knew marriage could work because they'd had hard times and had worked through it.
And yet here we are...
How do you grieve the loss of what you always believed something to be? I, personally, have no idea...
So under the rug it goes. Or maybe on top, and I roll up the rug and put it in the attic. Out of sight, out of mind, out of my heart. And yet, as things always do, it caught up to me. The rug rolled itself right over to that pull down ladder, which fell open... on my head, and my heart.
The hard part is that I understand why they got a divorce. I get it. It makes total sense to me, and I'm not angry at them. But I am angry. I'm hurting. I don't know how to grieve.
So many defenses have kicked in. I don't want to deal with it. Not that it'll make it go away, cause it won't. But I cannot make my heart understand the logic in my head. And maybe one of the worst things about all this is how disillusioned I've become. Cynical, jaded. For now, I refuse to go through what they went through. I'd rather be single than put myself in a situation where I'd end up getting a divorce. (As my therapist said, "Wouldn't we all?" Isn't that just a given? If we knew the outcome of everything, we would choose not to go through most of life for fear of hurt.)
My point is this... I know in my head that I am not my parents. I know my experiences are not and will not be the same as theirs. But try telling that to my heart right now.
I went to my therapist a couple days ago for the first time in almost a year. I didn't resolve anything, and now instead of not feeling anything, I feel raw and vulnerable... As if someone's ripped the bandaid off the gaping wound to flush it out, dry it out. I know healing takes time. Time and pain. This is just a pain that doesn't go away. Even in the best and happiest of moods, it lingers in the background whispering to my insecurities and cynicism.
But as healing also goes, however, I know with time the pain will lessen. It won't go away, I'll just become accustomed to it.
And yet here we are...
How do you grieve the loss of what you always believed something to be? I, personally, have no idea...
So under the rug it goes. Or maybe on top, and I roll up the rug and put it in the attic. Out of sight, out of mind, out of my heart. And yet, as things always do, it caught up to me. The rug rolled itself right over to that pull down ladder, which fell open... on my head, and my heart.
The hard part is that I understand why they got a divorce. I get it. It makes total sense to me, and I'm not angry at them. But I am angry. I'm hurting. I don't know how to grieve.
So many defenses have kicked in. I don't want to deal with it. Not that it'll make it go away, cause it won't. But I cannot make my heart understand the logic in my head. And maybe one of the worst things about all this is how disillusioned I've become. Cynical, jaded. For now, I refuse to go through what they went through. I'd rather be single than put myself in a situation where I'd end up getting a divorce. (As my therapist said, "Wouldn't we all?" Isn't that just a given? If we knew the outcome of everything, we would choose not to go through most of life for fear of hurt.)
My point is this... I know in my head that I am not my parents. I know my experiences are not and will not be the same as theirs. But try telling that to my heart right now.
I went to my therapist a couple days ago for the first time in almost a year. I didn't resolve anything, and now instead of not feeling anything, I feel raw and vulnerable... As if someone's ripped the bandaid off the gaping wound to flush it out, dry it out. I know healing takes time. Time and pain. This is just a pain that doesn't go away. Even in the best and happiest of moods, it lingers in the background whispering to my insecurities and cynicism.
But as healing also goes, however, I know with time the pain will lessen. It won't go away, I'll just become accustomed to it.
Tuesday, August 28, 2012
I try to be honest with what's going on in my life in hopes of helping others... if I can share my experiences and struggles, maybe someone out there will see they're not alone. That being said, I also need to say that not everything is so difficult. Yes, life is seriously hard, especially right now. But there are so many good things as well. Tonight I reconnected with old college friends via Skype. They live in El Salvador, and I haven't seen them in over 6 years.
It's such a comforting thing to be able to pour out your heart to someone without fear of judgement, rebuke, or rejection. Sometimes it takes more bravery to let people in instead of running away and keeping your guard up. I'm an expert runner... I have many years experience keeping people at a distance and keeping a mask on. But it's tiring, and these days it gets old quickly.
I still know better than to give the truly honest answer to people that ask how I am and don't really care to know, but I'm less afraid than I used to be about being genuine.
So in the midst of some of the hardest times I've ever been through, I find it seriously comforting to admit I cannot do it on my own and to ask for help, knowing I won't be turned away.
It's such a comforting thing to be able to pour out your heart to someone without fear of judgement, rebuke, or rejection. Sometimes it takes more bravery to let people in instead of running away and keeping your guard up. I'm an expert runner... I have many years experience keeping people at a distance and keeping a mask on. But it's tiring, and these days it gets old quickly.
I still know better than to give the truly honest answer to people that ask how I am and don't really care to know, but I'm less afraid than I used to be about being genuine.
So in the midst of some of the hardest times I've ever been through, I find it seriously comforting to admit I cannot do it on my own and to ask for help, knowing I won't be turned away.
Thursday, August 16, 2012
The Power of Contentment
Ever since I moved out on my own, states away from my family, I've only had jobs as a barista, server, or kitchen assistant. You know, the ones for which I spend four years in college studying Spanish. Sometimes it's been really hard to make ends meet and get bills paid on time. My church has been amazing and has helped me through most of those times, and so through these past few years I have learned about grace and receiving with thankfulness despite my strong desire to be self-sufficient and pay back the money. However, according to my pastor, grace is grace and mercy is mercy and they cannot be paid back. They are gifts freely given, undeserved, yet unconditional. Each act of mercy from my church is truly humbling and reminds me over and over how Christ called us to care for one another.
Currently I'm a server at a small Mexican restaurant, the best in town. I now understand what it feels like to live off tips. Living off others' generosity is a really difficult thing sometimes. When the restaurant is slow, I don't take home much tip money and I become anxious. How will I pay my bills? How will I pay rent? How will I put gas in my car or buy Luna's food? And the knots in my stomach and back grow larger as worry creates more worry and the endless cycle begins.
I realized the other night that it's really just a matter of perspective. I can either look at it as slow business, bad tips or job security in a lousy economy. People have to eat, and people like Mexican. So as long as I do my job well, I will have work and some sort of paycheck, no matter how small.
My prayer has changed from "Lord let them leave me at least 20% or more" to "please help me to be content with where you have placed me and what you provide for me." It's not an easy request. It's so much easier to worry and be anxious, but we were commanded not to be. "Do not be anxious and worry for nothing."
I have noticed a small shift in perspective. Although I still hope for big, fat tips, I hope more for the peace of mind that He will provide. It's a daily battle because the bills and deadlines are still there. But so is He.
Currently I'm a server at a small Mexican restaurant, the best in town. I now understand what it feels like to live off tips. Living off others' generosity is a really difficult thing sometimes. When the restaurant is slow, I don't take home much tip money and I become anxious. How will I pay my bills? How will I pay rent? How will I put gas in my car or buy Luna's food? And the knots in my stomach and back grow larger as worry creates more worry and the endless cycle begins.
I realized the other night that it's really just a matter of perspective. I can either look at it as slow business, bad tips or job security in a lousy economy. People have to eat, and people like Mexican. So as long as I do my job well, I will have work and some sort of paycheck, no matter how small.
My prayer has changed from "Lord let them leave me at least 20% or more" to "please help me to be content with where you have placed me and what you provide for me." It's not an easy request. It's so much easier to worry and be anxious, but we were commanded not to be. "Do not be anxious and worry for nothing."
I have noticed a small shift in perspective. Although I still hope for big, fat tips, I hope more for the peace of mind that He will provide. It's a daily battle because the bills and deadlines are still there. But so is He.
Tuesday, August 14, 2012
The Gangbanger and the White Girl
I sat down across from him and took in his weary eyes. His face seemed different than before, as if it weren't trying so hard to hide what lay just beneath the surface. He seemed more childlike, not so hardened from years in the streets, years without a father, years with a mother that didn't really see what was right in front of her face. Today, he actually looked like the 17 year old that he is.
I will never in a million years forget that kid... the one that opened my eyes to life as a second generation gang member. The one who would be just as afraid to walk a day in my shoes as I would be to walk a day in his. We had absolutely nothing in common, maybe except fear of the other. Yet somehow managed to find common ground on which we could stand and bridge the gap between us: our skin color, age, gender, culture, education, background, future.
He's the one that really began tearing down my misconceptions and wrong perceptions of those we so often label as thugs, thieves, liars, miscreants, good-for-nothings, gangbangers, losers, murderers, waste of space. We look at them and want to run.. RUN... in the opposite direction. If I'd met him in the streets instead of in jail, I probably would have. But since I was supposed to "help" him, here we were... with him believing it was a waste of time and me praying to God that I could say anything, demonstrate anything, communicate anything that might pierce that hardened heart and wall of armor... when in reality it was mine that needed to be pierced....because underneath I saw a child that grew up before it was his time. He simply saw what was his childhood in the hood. I saw a child that witnessed life taken away before his had even begun. He saw the cycle of life. People live, people die. I saw someone that learned to hate the police for taking his father before he ever had a chance to learn that the police are "supposed to protect us". He saw the reality that police are just as human and flawed as the rest of us; they just get to hide behind a badge and call it law. I saw a future with prison. He saw a future of just being alive. What I saw as a threat to society, he saw as survival. The drug dealing was a way to provide for his family. A kid trying to raise a kid. ...but clearly my perceptions were better because they didn't land me in prison. ...or was it just a different kind of prison?
Over the next 9 months, I found my mind untangling itself from its tightly wound, knotted ideas of right and wrong, justice and injustice, living and surviving... and I found myself unable to say I'd live any differently had I walked 17 years in his shoes.
That's the thing about labels. They write people off before we ever give them a chance to show us who they are. They cheapen the image of God in us. They lie about who we were, who we are, and who we will be... and worse, they sabatoge hope.
Had I listened to the lies and believed the labels, I never would have given ear to the old, wise soul inside a teenage gangbanger's body. I never would have questioned him, weighing his words between truth and lies in order to learn the real truth of who he was. Not the gangbanger, but the person. Had I not allowed him to test me, my sincerity, my intentions, my belief in a better future for him... allowing him to weigh me between authenticity and hypocricy, he would not have understood that not all white people are hypocrites and believe themselves to be"saviors of the poor". Had I listened to the labels, both our walls of misunderstanding and misconception would not have begun to crumble.
Yeah, we found our common ground and understanding... We're both just two broken people doing our best to make life the best it possibly can be. We just have different methods.
I just hope and pray to God I become half the social worker that he is gangbanger.
I will never in a million years forget that kid... the one that opened my eyes to life as a second generation gang member. The one who would be just as afraid to walk a day in my shoes as I would be to walk a day in his. We had absolutely nothing in common, maybe except fear of the other. Yet somehow managed to find common ground on which we could stand and bridge the gap between us: our skin color, age, gender, culture, education, background, future.
He's the one that really began tearing down my misconceptions and wrong perceptions of those we so often label as thugs, thieves, liars, miscreants, good-for-nothings, gangbangers, losers, murderers, waste of space. We look at them and want to run.. RUN... in the opposite direction. If I'd met him in the streets instead of in jail, I probably would have. But since I was supposed to "help" him, here we were... with him believing it was a waste of time and me praying to God that I could say anything, demonstrate anything, communicate anything that might pierce that hardened heart and wall of armor... when in reality it was mine that needed to be pierced....because underneath I saw a child that grew up before it was his time. He simply saw what was his childhood in the hood. I saw a child that witnessed life taken away before his had even begun. He saw the cycle of life. People live, people die. I saw someone that learned to hate the police for taking his father before he ever had a chance to learn that the police are "supposed to protect us". He saw the reality that police are just as human and flawed as the rest of us; they just get to hide behind a badge and call it law. I saw a future with prison. He saw a future of just being alive. What I saw as a threat to society, he saw as survival. The drug dealing was a way to provide for his family. A kid trying to raise a kid. ...but clearly my perceptions were better because they didn't land me in prison. ...or was it just a different kind of prison?
Over the next 9 months, I found my mind untangling itself from its tightly wound, knotted ideas of right and wrong, justice and injustice, living and surviving... and I found myself unable to say I'd live any differently had I walked 17 years in his shoes.
That's the thing about labels. They write people off before we ever give them a chance to show us who they are. They cheapen the image of God in us. They lie about who we were, who we are, and who we will be... and worse, they sabatoge hope.
Had I listened to the lies and believed the labels, I never would have given ear to the old, wise soul inside a teenage gangbanger's body. I never would have questioned him, weighing his words between truth and lies in order to learn the real truth of who he was. Not the gangbanger, but the person. Had I not allowed him to test me, my sincerity, my intentions, my belief in a better future for him... allowing him to weigh me between authenticity and hypocricy, he would not have understood that not all white people are hypocrites and believe themselves to be"saviors of the poor". Had I listened to the labels, both our walls of misunderstanding and misconception would not have begun to crumble.
Yeah, we found our common ground and understanding... We're both just two broken people doing our best to make life the best it possibly can be. We just have different methods.
I just hope and pray to God I become half the social worker that he is gangbanger.
Monday, August 13, 2012
The Deconstruction of My Hardened Heart
I'm tired of pretending everything's okay when it's not.
Life is not easy. Frankly, it's f'ing hard and anyone who says differently is in denial. I'm tired of pretending I've got it all together when I don't. The truth is that the older I get, the less I understand and the more broken I feel.
Tonight a friend of mine asked me about my experience with depression... how long I've dealt with it, how have I coped, how have I gotten better? She's seeking for hope, and she needs to know it can get better. Only someone who has dealt with depression understands the despair that comes with it, the battle for sanity that takes place in your mind every moment of every day... the fear that things will never change.
I haven't felt that kind of despair for a little while, but I remember like it was yesterday. During my "dark days" I would go to the bathroom at work multiple times a day to let out the tears and brokenness that plagued my mind and heart. The weight was unbearable, and it was all I could do to make it from one hour to the next. Sometimes when life weighs so heavily on you, it's all you can do to take it minute by minute, second by second, because thinking ahead even to the afternoon or evening is too overwhelming.
I want to be honest about my experiences with depression because I feel like it's still so taboo, especially in the Christian circles. I never told anyone at my church that i grew up in about my depression or that I went on meds because I knew they would judge me and tell me I wasn't walking with God the way I needed to be. Everything was a spiritual problem and it was up to me to fix it. I no longer understood the meaning of joy or hope, and somehow I knew it was more than something I could fix. It wasn't a spiritual problem. It was something that's been passed down through my family, and I just so happen to be the one to deal with it more than the rest. I say all this because I believe so many people out there deal with depression and anxiety and believe it's something wrong with them or a spiritual problem. Maybe it is, maybe it isn't. But it's something that needs to be brought out in the open and talked about, because once the thoughts are put into words and those words are said outloud, they lose their power.
The last couple of years have held some crazy painful experiences, and I honestly have no idea if I've dealt with them or not. I do know, however, they've left me hardened and braced for the next huge secret to come out, the skeleton in the closet that was buried under years of bad advice, bad decisions, and promises to never tell. My heart feels so hard. I doubt a million times a minute, and I have little faith that these trials serve a purpose. However, another friend of mine believes they do, and it's good to be reminded of that, especially if I have difficulty believing it myself. Sometimes all we need is someone else to believe in us. I don't want to be hardened forever, but honestly, I'm afraid of what God will do to soften my heart again... What will he take away this time? What will he ask me to give up? What new trial will bring me to my knees before him? I honestly don't know if I can take anything else.
Life is not easy. Frankly, it's f'ing hard and anyone who says differently is in denial. I'm tired of pretending I've got it all together when I don't. The truth is that the older I get, the less I understand and the more broken I feel.
Tonight a friend of mine asked me about my experience with depression... how long I've dealt with it, how have I coped, how have I gotten better? She's seeking for hope, and she needs to know it can get better. Only someone who has dealt with depression understands the despair that comes with it, the battle for sanity that takes place in your mind every moment of every day... the fear that things will never change.
I haven't felt that kind of despair for a little while, but I remember like it was yesterday. During my "dark days" I would go to the bathroom at work multiple times a day to let out the tears and brokenness that plagued my mind and heart. The weight was unbearable, and it was all I could do to make it from one hour to the next. Sometimes when life weighs so heavily on you, it's all you can do to take it minute by minute, second by second, because thinking ahead even to the afternoon or evening is too overwhelming.
I want to be honest about my experiences with depression because I feel like it's still so taboo, especially in the Christian circles. I never told anyone at my church that i grew up in about my depression or that I went on meds because I knew they would judge me and tell me I wasn't walking with God the way I needed to be. Everything was a spiritual problem and it was up to me to fix it. I no longer understood the meaning of joy or hope, and somehow I knew it was more than something I could fix. It wasn't a spiritual problem. It was something that's been passed down through my family, and I just so happen to be the one to deal with it more than the rest. I say all this because I believe so many people out there deal with depression and anxiety and believe it's something wrong with them or a spiritual problem. Maybe it is, maybe it isn't. But it's something that needs to be brought out in the open and talked about, because once the thoughts are put into words and those words are said outloud, they lose their power.
The last couple of years have held some crazy painful experiences, and I honestly have no idea if I've dealt with them or not. I do know, however, they've left me hardened and braced for the next huge secret to come out, the skeleton in the closet that was buried under years of bad advice, bad decisions, and promises to never tell. My heart feels so hard. I doubt a million times a minute, and I have little faith that these trials serve a purpose. However, another friend of mine believes they do, and it's good to be reminded of that, especially if I have difficulty believing it myself. Sometimes all we need is someone else to believe in us. I don't want to be hardened forever, but honestly, I'm afraid of what God will do to soften my heart again... What will he take away this time? What will he ask me to give up? What new trial will bring me to my knees before him? I honestly don't know if I can take anything else.
Wednesday, August 08, 2012
Give Me Your Glue
I think it really began four years ago in Kenya when I realized I was wrong for trying to trade a street kid bread for his glue. I thought I was doing the right thing by taking it away, after all, what does an uneducated street kid know? However, as he walked away with bread in his hand and his glue in mine, I realized my own ignorance. The bread would be gone in less than 5 minutes, and it wouldn't be enough to satisfy him. He would have more glue in probably less than 30 minutes. So really, what was the point of taking it away?
The point, I think, was to make myself feel okay about giving him bread. Heaven forbid he ever expect handouts from someone, especially a white tourist. Heaven forbid I ever give him food just because he's hungry. I knew pretty quickly that I was wrong. Jesus' love for me never came with conditions, so why should I set conditions on this homeless child?
There's something about coming face to face with the "beast inside myself", as Donald Miller so aptly describes, that makes me beyond ashamed of myself. For the first time in my life I was exposed to white priveledge, which was uncomfortable enough, but also the reality that I really did believe I knew better. Seriously? What the hell do I know about survival? I've never lived on the streets a day in my life, so how could I pretend to know better? In the end, I kept the bottle of glue to remind me of the look in the boy's eyes as he hid the glue in his shirt and told me it was "his health". His health, meaning it satisfies him. It keeps him warm at night. It curbs the hunger pains. It keeps reality at bay so he doesn't feel the pang of survival.
My perspective changed each time I came into contact with the street boys in Kapsabet. One boy Collins especially had a hand in the change. I was collecting bottle caps for a school project, and I told him if he helped me collect some I would buy him something to eat. He quickly picked up a few bottle caps off the ground, so I took him to our favorite hole-in-the-wall restaurant. He ordered some chapati and orange Fanta. As I paid for the food, my team member asked if we should ask for his glue. I told her she could try if she wanted. She knelt down in front of him and asked for his glue, her hand held out. He shook his head and hid the glue in his shirt. "Give me your glue. No glue, no bread." Again he shook his head. People were beginning to watch. Again, "no glue, no bread!" Collins looked at me with panic in his eyes, and I knew he was ready to bolt. And the words just came out.. "It's okay. Don't worry about it. Keep your glue," I said, knowing full well I had just embarrassed my teammate upfront of everyone. His face relaxed and he continued eating. People continued to stare. My teammate stormed out. I felt bad for making her look bad, but I knew at that moment in time, Collins needed to experience unconditional love more than she needed to save face.
"Come to Me all who are weary, and I will give you rest." Or in this case, bread and orange Fanta. I felt like God had just shown me what he does for me every day. He never says "Gloria, come to me and I'll give you rest... but only if you leave your pride at the door. Only if you leave your judgement at the door... Only if you give me your glue."
The point, I think, was to make myself feel okay about giving him bread. Heaven forbid he ever expect handouts from someone, especially a white tourist. Heaven forbid I ever give him food just because he's hungry. I knew pretty quickly that I was wrong. Jesus' love for me never came with conditions, so why should I set conditions on this homeless child?
There's something about coming face to face with the "beast inside myself", as Donald Miller so aptly describes, that makes me beyond ashamed of myself. For the first time in my life I was exposed to white priveledge, which was uncomfortable enough, but also the reality that I really did believe I knew better. Seriously? What the hell do I know about survival? I've never lived on the streets a day in my life, so how could I pretend to know better? In the end, I kept the bottle of glue to remind me of the look in the boy's eyes as he hid the glue in his shirt and told me it was "his health". His health, meaning it satisfies him. It keeps him warm at night. It curbs the hunger pains. It keeps reality at bay so he doesn't feel the pang of survival.
My perspective changed each time I came into contact with the street boys in Kapsabet. One boy Collins especially had a hand in the change. I was collecting bottle caps for a school project, and I told him if he helped me collect some I would buy him something to eat. He quickly picked up a few bottle caps off the ground, so I took him to our favorite hole-in-the-wall restaurant. He ordered some chapati and orange Fanta. As I paid for the food, my team member asked if we should ask for his glue. I told her she could try if she wanted. She knelt down in front of him and asked for his glue, her hand held out. He shook his head and hid the glue in his shirt. "Give me your glue. No glue, no bread." Again he shook his head. People were beginning to watch. Again, "no glue, no bread!" Collins looked at me with panic in his eyes, and I knew he was ready to bolt. And the words just came out.. "It's okay. Don't worry about it. Keep your glue," I said, knowing full well I had just embarrassed my teammate upfront of everyone. His face relaxed and he continued eating. People continued to stare. My teammate stormed out. I felt bad for making her look bad, but I knew at that moment in time, Collins needed to experience unconditional love more than she needed to save face.
"Come to Me all who are weary, and I will give you rest." Or in this case, bread and orange Fanta. I felt like God had just shown me what he does for me every day. He never says "Gloria, come to me and I'll give you rest... but only if you leave your pride at the door. Only if you leave your judgement at the door... Only if you give me your glue."
Thursday, April 26, 2012
¿De Qué Me Sirve La Vida? / What Good Is Life to Me?
Estoy a punto de emprender un viaje con rumbo hacia lo desconocido
I'm about to embark on a journey with a course into the unknown.
no se si algún día vuelva a verte, no es fácil aceptar haber perdido.
I don't know if I will ever see you again. To have lost is not easy to accept.
Por más que suplique no me abandones, dijiste no soy yo es el destino
However much I may beg, do not leave me. You said it's not me, it's fate
Y entonces entendí que aunque te amaba, tenia que elegir otro camino.
And then i understood that even though I loved you, I had to choose another way
De que me sirve la vida si eres lo que yo pido,
What good is life to me if you are what I need?
los recuerdos no me alcanzan pero me mantienen vivo
The memories aren't enough for me, but they keep me alive
De que me sirve la vida si no la vivo contigo
What good is life to me if I do not live through it with you?
de que me sirve la esperanza si es lo ultimo que muere
What good is hope to me if it's the last thing to die?
y sin ti ya la he perdido.
And without you I have already lost it.
Escucha bien amor lo que te digo, pues creo no habrá otra ocasión
Listen to me carefully, my love, for I do not think there will be another chance
para decirte que no me arrepiento de haberte entregado el corazón.
to tell you that I'm not sorry for having given you my heart.
De que me sirve la vida si eres lo que yo pido,
What good is life to me if you are what I need?
los recuerdos no me alcanzan pero me mantienen vivo
The memories aren't enough for me but they keep me alive
De que me sirve la vida
What good is life to me
de que me sirve la esperanza si es lo ultimo que muere
What good is hope to me if its the last thing to die?
y sin ti ya la he perdido.
And without you I have already lost it.
I'm about to embark on a journey with a course into the unknown.
no se si algún día vuelva a verte, no es fácil aceptar haber perdido.
I don't know if I will ever see you again. To have lost is not easy to accept.
Por más que suplique no me abandones, dijiste no soy yo es el destino
However much I may beg, do not leave me. You said it's not me, it's fate
Y entonces entendí que aunque te amaba, tenia que elegir otro camino.
And then i understood that even though I loved you, I had to choose another way
De que me sirve la vida si eres lo que yo pido,
What good is life to me if you are what I need?
los recuerdos no me alcanzan pero me mantienen vivo
The memories aren't enough for me, but they keep me alive
De que me sirve la vida si no la vivo contigo
What good is life to me if I do not live through it with you?
de que me sirve la esperanza si es lo ultimo que muere
What good is hope to me if it's the last thing to die?
y sin ti ya la he perdido.
And without you I have already lost it.
Escucha bien amor lo que te digo, pues creo no habrá otra ocasión
Listen to me carefully, my love, for I do not think there will be another chance
para decirte que no me arrepiento de haberte entregado el corazón.
to tell you that I'm not sorry for having given you my heart.
De que me sirve la vida si eres lo que yo pido,
What good is life to me if you are what I need?
los recuerdos no me alcanzan pero me mantienen vivo
The memories aren't enough for me but they keep me alive
De que me sirve la vida
What good is life to me
de que me sirve la esperanza si es lo ultimo que muere
What good is hope to me if its the last thing to die?
y sin ti ya la he perdido.
And without you I have already lost it.
Saturday, February 18, 2012
It's Been a Long Time Coming...
It's been a pensive night, as they all are when I sit down to think through writing. I've had a song running through my head for days now that pretty much sums up this past year. I'm not gonna lie, it's been a tough one. Really tough. Things that I never thought would happen in a million years happened. They happened to me, to my family, and it sent me reeling. I think it sent all of us reeling.
What do you do with dreams when they come crashing down around you? I definitely don't know, so honestly, I haven't done anything. It used to be that whenever I didn't know how to deal with something, I would shut down. So its a sign of growth for me that instead of shutting down, I can fully admit that I just don't know. I don't know how to deal with everything that's happened over the past year, so I just keep going day by day. Wake up. Do the day. Go to bed. Wake up. Do the day. Go to bed. Sometimes that's all you can do. But after a while, a little bit of light starts to shine back through. Wake up. Notice the way the sunrise lights the clouds and the sky, and the city skyline looks breathtaking. Do the day. Go to bed. Even when life is trudgery, eventually our step will become a little more firm.
I can't say what's gone on this past year, but I can say that if I were to be totally, one hundred percent honest, I'd have to say that I've stopped talking to God. I might throw out a quick one-liner prayer for someone if its something really important, but other than that, it's been silent. You see, I've been left pretty disillusioned by life and the way things have turned out. Dreams that I once had, dreams that I was sure God had given me, all crashed down around me. I think I've been sitting there for a really long time just staring at the pieces, not even necessarily trying to sweep them up or wishing that I could glue them back together. I knew that those dreams had to change because they were making me discontent with where I was in the moment. "If only I could move back overseas to work with street kids, then I would be fulfilling God's purpose for my life." "I don't belong here. I never have. The only time I've ever felt at home was when I lived overseas." All these thoughts that had been running through my mind for ten long years left me in the deepest depression I've ever been in. I'd come to accept my depression as something that I'd deal with for the rest of my life, but it had never been like this before. I was so afraid that it would feel like that for the rest of my life... just so dark and hopeless. I had no idea what hope even was. It was such a foreign concept to me, like asking me to describe the Middle East or Asia or Russia when I've never been there. Hope was for people lucky enough to hear God, but not for me. He'd led me on with the promise of mission work overseas.
I don't exactly remember when those black days started getting lighter. It was such a gradual thing. Laughing a little bit more, smiling at quirky roommates, and eventually feeling free to be stupid-crazy goofy and totally not caring. What a freedom to be known as you really are! One day I turned around and I wasn't afraid of being by myself anymore. I could handle being alone in the house. I could cope with the thoughts inside my head and the weight in my heart. I can't tell you the day that the load got lighter, but it did. And even though I still wasn't speaking to God and definitely couldn't hear him or feel him, I saw that he was still taking care of me. I found strong, solid people in my church that I could be blatantly honest with, I could tell them that I didn't want to talk to God, and they weren't phased. They didn't condemn me, they didn't try to tell me it would get better. (There's something so infuriating about someone telling you that it's gonna get better when they haven't even really listened to what's been going on. It's a patronizing pat on the hand.) Most of the time, all we really need is for someone to listen, to accept us where we are in that single moment and to love us just the same, someone to sit there in the darkness with us for as long as it takes to see the daylight again.
What do you do with dreams when they come crashing down around you? I definitely don't know, so honestly, I haven't done anything. It used to be that whenever I didn't know how to deal with something, I would shut down. So its a sign of growth for me that instead of shutting down, I can fully admit that I just don't know. I don't know how to deal with everything that's happened over the past year, so I just keep going day by day. Wake up. Do the day. Go to bed. Wake up. Do the day. Go to bed. Sometimes that's all you can do. But after a while, a little bit of light starts to shine back through. Wake up. Notice the way the sunrise lights the clouds and the sky, and the city skyline looks breathtaking. Do the day. Go to bed. Even when life is trudgery, eventually our step will become a little more firm.
I can't say what's gone on this past year, but I can say that if I were to be totally, one hundred percent honest, I'd have to say that I've stopped talking to God. I might throw out a quick one-liner prayer for someone if its something really important, but other than that, it's been silent. You see, I've been left pretty disillusioned by life and the way things have turned out. Dreams that I once had, dreams that I was sure God had given me, all crashed down around me. I think I've been sitting there for a really long time just staring at the pieces, not even necessarily trying to sweep them up or wishing that I could glue them back together. I knew that those dreams had to change because they were making me discontent with where I was in the moment. "If only I could move back overseas to work with street kids, then I would be fulfilling God's purpose for my life." "I don't belong here. I never have. The only time I've ever felt at home was when I lived overseas." All these thoughts that had been running through my mind for ten long years left me in the deepest depression I've ever been in. I'd come to accept my depression as something that I'd deal with for the rest of my life, but it had never been like this before. I was so afraid that it would feel like that for the rest of my life... just so dark and hopeless. I had no idea what hope even was. It was such a foreign concept to me, like asking me to describe the Middle East or Asia or Russia when I've never been there. Hope was for people lucky enough to hear God, but not for me. He'd led me on with the promise of mission work overseas.
I don't exactly remember when those black days started getting lighter. It was such a gradual thing. Laughing a little bit more, smiling at quirky roommates, and eventually feeling free to be stupid-crazy goofy and totally not caring. What a freedom to be known as you really are! One day I turned around and I wasn't afraid of being by myself anymore. I could handle being alone in the house. I could cope with the thoughts inside my head and the weight in my heart. I can't tell you the day that the load got lighter, but it did. And even though I still wasn't speaking to God and definitely couldn't hear him or feel him, I saw that he was still taking care of me. I found strong, solid people in my church that I could be blatantly honest with, I could tell them that I didn't want to talk to God, and they weren't phased. They didn't condemn me, they didn't try to tell me it would get better. (There's something so infuriating about someone telling you that it's gonna get better when they haven't even really listened to what's been going on. It's a patronizing pat on the hand.) Most of the time, all we really need is for someone to listen, to accept us where we are in that single moment and to love us just the same, someone to sit there in the darkness with us for as long as it takes to see the daylight again.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)