this was written in the middle of cutting a significant number of pages from my manuscript, after several negative interactions with men who had expressed an interest in getting to know me.

i can't for the life of me figure out why the hell you want a man. you can't care for one. you've no concept of how to love one, of how to accept any positive attention they might throw your way. you can't love, jennifer. you can't. and all you want from a man, anyway, is to be held, which is absolutely the last thing any man wants to do. they can't stand that shit. 

remember when adam was holding you while yall were watching a movie? he was so bored he turned the movie off, and when you balked, he said he'd done it because he'd thought you'd fallen asleep. so obviously he wasn't so pleased to be in that situation.

you can't stand the way they look at you. the way they talk to you. you don't feel comfortable in their presence.

why in hell do you continually open yourself up to the scrutiny? you will never be seen as desirable by one. you will never be told you're beautiful by a man who honestly believes you to be so. you are not the girl a guy wants. can you please, please, please let go of this delusion? PLEASE.

it's so incredibly unhealthy for you to have it. they will never see you the way you want to be seen.

i'm trying to finish this story of mine. i think part of the reason it's taken so long is because i feel this way. this is where my head is, even with the medication i'm taking, so... i could use some prayers that the light will win out over the dark... that my mind could stop fixating on this hole, for lack of a better word.

random quarter

one. so...we're back to the true spirit of these posts because i've used up all the prompts from that question and answer book. you're thrilled, i'm sure.

two. the houston cougars defeat of the oklahoma sooners might be the most impressive football game i'll see this month. BECAUSE THIS:

three. NEVER DOUBT THE POWER OF THE TWELFTH MAN. BECAUSE THIS:

Here it is: Texas A&M student section chanting "Fifty thousand!" after another Rosen 3rd down incompletion pic.twitter.com/Xw2Kt6HSFF

— Sean Lester (@s_lester14) September 3, 2016

i love how big it gets. it starts out kind of small, and then it resonates so well throughout the stadium that there's a GLORIOUS echo. good stuff.

AND THIS:

 

rosen. what a dumbfuck. here's a tip, all you quarterbacks out there, don't say shit like after fifty thousand it doesn't make a difference. because CLEARLY in kyle field, IT DOES.

four. i've said it before. i'm going to say it again. i hate html code.

five. the irish are playing the longhorns tonight. should be fun. I. AM. STOKED. GO IRISH. BEAT texas.

Game day 🍀🍀🍀🍀 #BeatTexas pic.twitter.com/L8MTsioTVt

— James Riley Barron (@JRiley_81) September 4, 2016

six. i have spent the past few weeks poring over my manuscript. yes, some of it is crap. i spent about nine hours cutting out the majority of that crap on monday of this past week so there are GAPING, HIDEOUS holes in the thing. but the absence of that crap has made me better appreciate the good. so i'm feeling pretty good about the thing, which hasn't been the case for quite some time. that feeling, paired with this compliment and two others i've received this month from fellow writers (one said something about how my writing reminded her of rainbow rowell's, one of my favorite authors; another said she was crushing on one of my characters, reese. as she should. he's a pretty awesome guy) has me clinging, maybe a little too desperately, to the notion that this story of mine is good and worthy. that i CAN finish polishing it. that people WILL love it.

seven. the woman to whom my brother was previously married has remarried and relocated to mississippi. for the past year, i have had to listen to my nephew tell me he likes mississippi state better than a&m. because that's the team his stepfather likes. i. am. dying.

MISSISSIPPI STATE. FUCK. NO. that child will NOT be going there. he will not root for the blasted bulldogs. if that boy HAS to like a team from mississippi it's going to be ole miss. but by god, the aggies will prevail. i will see to it. if i have to mail him aggie paraphernalia EVERY WEEK, then so be it. MISSISSIPPI STATE. that's the WRONG GODDAMNED SHADE OF MAROON, BOY. there can be only one.

eight. yesterday, i spent the entire day in my pajamas. i've spent the majority of this one in them. it is almost three p.m. (or at least it was when i wrote this particular entry) texas time. i should probably get dressed. i did take a shower. i am clean. i'm just slovenly. depressed? nah. why would i be depressed? i'm unemployed and living with my parents. and the boys... 

nine. one of them stopped talking to me because i wouldn't send him a picture of my naked breasts. i'm not sad about this. i'm actually damned glad that he revealed his dickishness so well and so soon. there's not much i like about my body. but... i've a pretty good rack. so i've heard, anyway. i know... you're loving this bit. the point is... it's good. boys? i'm not going to show it to you just because you've asked to see it. i'm gonna be like amy schumer. you can holler show me your tits in the parking lot. as i'm driving away from your dumb ass.

and boys? PLEASE. STOP sending us shit like dick picks. that thing dangling between your legs... ain't NOTHING pretty about that. generally as a rule, that's a SUREFIRE way to get us to LOATHE you.

ten. another boy... this one had been badgering me for a good while to give him the time of day. not in some scary way. just... every few months, he'd shoot me an email. after the third one, i was like... you know what? he might be nice. you should maybe give him a better look. so i asked him what it was about me that inspired his persistence...

and i get this shit in reply: oh gawd. forget it. i'd rather go park my car on a train track than deal with your egotistical narcissism.

yeah. okay. you go do that.

eleven. i'd wash my hands of men completely, except i see things like anthony mason interviewing rory feek about the loss of his wife. and i cry.

twelve. and then i wish that i could be as good, as sweet, as kind as joey. and i've to remind myself that i am those things... just differently.

thirteen. there are so many ways i could be better, though. i just don't have the heart to bother with any of them. some of them are so simple, like bagging up all the clothes i don't wear and donating them so that someone else who needs them more than me might be able to. like walking. i used to take walks every day when i was younger; i'd make up stories or listen to music or just look at the world around me. i don't do that anymore.

fourteen. the fall film challenge started THREE DAYS AGO, and someone's already seen TEN FLICKS. i am impressed. i have yet to watch one. 

fifteen. portishead's roads is a beautiful song. if i ever finish fucking with this damned novel of mine and yall buy it and read it, the tune isabel's listening to in the first chapter? it's that one. actually that whole album, called dummy, is pretty badass. you should download it. now.

sixteen. i'm so old school with music, yall, that i had to correct cd to album in the previous entry.

seventeen. once upon a time i had about seven hundred cds. then i got my heart broken and quit my job and my brother died, and i did things like hock eighty percent of my collection. because who needs music in their lives? stupid. girl.

eighteen. i started this post at about half past two. it's now nearing four. just so you know... i invest in these here posts. probably much more time than i should. also... i'm still in my jammies.

nineteen. i've gotten a manicure and pedicure twice in the past month. that's double the number of times i've gotten such things in the past year. my hands are prettier when the nails are polished, though. i can see why girls make a habit of this. but man... the time it takes to get this shit done. ugh.

twenty. i think i'm kind of burned out on dr. pepper, which feels almost blasphemous.

twenty-one. i know i'm burned out on life, which also feels almost blasphemous.

twenty-two. i think balloon releases are stupid. why do people do them? because sending a balloon up in the air isn't going to make me feel any better about the fact that my brother no longer inhabits this earth or that my other brother's children now reside two states away. for those of you unfamiliar with the breadth of the state of texas, it takes the better part, if not all, of a day to get out of it. those children are like my own. my heart is sick, i tell you. letting go of a piece of rubber filled with gas and a string tied around it isn't going to make that sickness and sadness any better.

twenty-three. football, though. that will.

twenty-four. the other day i bought harry potter trivial pursuit. and yall, it is HARD.

twenty-five. i'm gonna go get dressed now. because the irish are playing in two hours. i have to get my green on. :]

the fall film challenge: my list

one. about adolescence. the outsiders.

two. about a character's rebirth or rite of passage. a guide to recognizing your saints.

three. about a comic book character. deadpool.

four. shot or set in washington, d.c. jason bourne.

five. set in an academic environment. clueless.

six. about failure. take this waltz.

seven. about a man vs. god or gods. the trojan women.

eight. about a man vs. himself. the big chill.

nine. about an invention or an ingenuous individual. flash of genius.

ten. set in a jail or prison. american history x.

eleven. about a dog. red dog.

twelve. about loss. truly madly deeply.

thirteen. about man vs. man. unbroken.

fourteen. about man vs. nature. deepwater horizon.

fifteen. one that has a monster or monstrous individual. the hobbit: the desolation of smaug.

sixteen. shot or set in pennsylvania. flashdance.

seventeen. about a character's quest of some kind. the hobbit: battle of the five armies.

eighteen. about a character who goes from rags to riches. joy.

nineteen. about a man. vs. society. allied.

twenty. originally released in the thirties. mr. deeds goes to town.

twenty-one. about undesirable individuals or elements. ghostbusters.

twenty-two. about a voyage and return. the martian.

twenty-three. about wizards or witchcraft. fantastic beasts and where to find them.

twenty-four. originally released in the sixties. tom jones.

twenty-five. about a yearning or obsession. hugo.

wanna play along? details are here.

in response to anar nafisi's reading lolita in tehran

some twelve years ago, while hiding out in academia recovering from three dramatic events that occurred within a twelve month period, the greatest of which was the death of my older brother, i took a creative nonfiction writing course in which we were to write responses to the stories we read. one of those stories was reading lolita in tehran, which i strongly suggest you read if you've not already done so. this is what came from that:

I see myself as both villain and victim.

My apartment, and I’ve lost count as to how many of them in which I have lived, is lined with boxes of various sizes and misplaced furniture. I do not know if I move because the villain knows the victim is getting too close to knowing herself and insists that this not be the case. Or because the victim is too afraid of what and who she is. Or because she struggles to be free of the villain’s constraints and thinks, foolishly, if she moves, she will be rid of them.

I take them both with me—the villain and the victim.

The only thing I do here in this cell, with its pricey kitchen appliances, garden-style tub and Berber carpet, this cell I have stuffed with pieces from Restoration Hardware and Storehouse Furniture—I do not know who chooses the pieces, whether it’s the villain or victim attempting to make my prison seem more livable—the only thing I do here is sleep.

I am like the butterfly—or moth—nailed to a wall. For awhile, I was innocent, carefree, happy, beautiful. Then, at the age of eight, I became aware that I was not beautiful, because my peers were kind enough to point out my many physical short-comings. I became aware that I was fragile, clumsy, easily scarred both mentally and physically. I learned that my body was not made like everyone else’s and being different, however unintentional, was wrong.

Eventually, I learned not to wonder at the differences. I learned to hide them as best I could. I learned what things I should like and what things I shouldn’t. That even if one has all of the things that are “cool”, she is not necessarily so.

Nabokov wrote: “Curiosity is insubordination in its purest form.” Why is it, upon reading this sentence, curiosity immediately seems wrong? Then, I think about it further and realize it isn’t wrong at all. It’s fabulous, really. My mother jokes that the first words I learned weren’t “Mama” or “Dada”, but “What would happen if…?”

To this day, I wonder.

I wonder what it would be like to be better. To be some character in one of my idol’s romance novels, like Margo, whose perfectly sculpted physique hides an amazing amount of insecurity, or Laura, whose femininity hides an amazing amount of strength, or Kate, whose abrasive persona hides an amazing amount of femininity. I have reread the tales of these three women numerous times, not because I see myself in any of the characters, but because I like them the best and because, just for a second, I can escape the monotony and ugliness of my own colorless world.

But I am not myself when I read. I am a ghost, a shadow, a voyeur of some contrived reality.

I am only myself when I write. But the villain only lets me see so much of me at once. Or is it the victim that does?

You describe Lolita as a “small, vulgar, poetic, and defiant, orphaned heroine.” I read that and thought, briefly, you might be describing me. I can’t be certain, because, of course, I am not certain of who I am, but there are times I would use most of those words to describe me. I am small. Not physically, really. I am nearly 5’8, which is fairly tall for a woman. But I am* the smallest person in my family—the shortest, the lightest—and so I feel small. Few people in this world could doubt the vulgarity of my tongue and actions. I have done things in my life I feel an immense hatred towards myself for doing, the most vulgar of which is having given in to the constraints of society’s whims and, thus, losing myself. I like to think of myself as poetic, though I wonder if this is true. Defiant? Sometimes, I am certain I can be. Orphaned? I would say yes to this as well, though my parents still inhabit this Earth, still claim me as their own. But the world has rejected me and I have rejected myself. So, I am no heroine.

Manna identified Nassrin as a “contradiction of terms”. I am a contradiction, too, but only because I do not know who I am, and, thus, my identity changes, as do my moods, on a daily basis. You describe Nassrin as a Cheshire cat. And so am I.

You say a person becomes a villain because he or she never wonders, never is curious about anything but himself. That is another reason why I say I am a villain. Because I can be selfish. Because my curiosity can be quite limited to things that concern me and only me. I do not wonder why the world turns so much as why mine turns in such an ugly way. I have to remind myself to ask my friends how their worlds turn after having vented for many minutes as to how mine does.

You write: “They invaded all private spaces and tried to shape every gesture, to force us to become one of them, and that in itself was another form of execution.” I feel, much of the time that I died many years ago. That my body clings to this Earth simply because it is stronger than my soul. I died because I forgot what it was to be myself. Because I chose to value others’ definitions of me as opposed to my own. I was talking to my mother about this book earlier. Asked her to pick one word to define me that encompassed every aspect of my personality. Her word was “effervescent”, because when I’m in a good mood, I’m bubbly. When I’m in a bad one, I’m still bubbly, but the bottle is corked and bound to explode. I told her that I didn’t know if I could choose one word that sufficiently described me because I don’t know me. She reminded me that a counselor I’d seen in the seventh grade had said I knew myself. Maybe I did then. Maybe. But somewhere along the way, I’ve forgotten. Somewhere along the way, my soul grew weary and eventually slept.

You say, often, throughout the second part of the book that you felt irrelevant. I have felt irrelevant since I was eight years old. Nothing, nothing I do seems to matter. Nothing inspires me to feel that my life is worthwhile. For twenty-two years I have struggled to find some reason for my being here. Always trying, always reaching. Always falling short, always failing. How does one cope with this? 

“Whoever fights monsters should see to it that in the process he does not become a monster”—Nietzsche. I fought monsters as a child: my peers, who thought I was worthless and told me so at every opportunity, that the world would be better off without me in it; my teachers, who had no idea how to reach me and, sometimes, gave up, recommending that I be placed in special education classes. Had I not been so intelligent, had my parents not had so much faith in me, those few teachers would have gotten their way, and I would never have graduated from high school, never gotten a college degree, never had the opportunity to consider going to graduate school. I would have found a way to let my body sleep with my soul a long time ago. But I forced myself to go to school every day and fought them. I was not so careful, though, in protecting myself from becoming one, for I am as judgmental, as shallow as my peers were, and bitter, too.

Now, I see myself as an irrelevant, monstrous, villainous victim.

Perhaps the only reason my body survives is because somewhere, in some cell, there is this notion that eventually, my soul will wake and rejoice. But as I grow older, I become more resolved to my former peers’ insistence that I am, in fact, worthless.

I take these thoughts home, to my cell, each night.

And the only way I sleep is by taking two Tylenol PM tablets.

*at the time this was written, this was true. now? not so much.

i was thirty-one then. i am forty-three now. i wish i could say i felt differently about life but the only difference between that version of myself and this one is that my cell is now a room in my parents' house because solitary confinement was killing me.

a room without windows

my mother says that i am the strongest woman she knows. she is not the sort of woman who is biased where her children are concerned. she could tell you, with absolutely no effort or remorse, of every flaw and failure in her sons and daughter. she would have no trouble doing this. none. she will tell you that i will lie to your face, that i am frivolous with money, that i am crude and irresponsible and selfish and lazy... she can rattle off with great ease every shortcoming, every negative attribute i possess. that one compliment, though... that's like hope amid all the ugliness in pandora's box.

i bruise easily. it's almost pathetic how quickly and marvelously those bruises will form. and i know there are times where i've thought that perhaps some of those bruises were caused by brokenness. maybe they were.

i keep thinking of what my friend minn told me once, long ago, that a broken bone tends to heal so that it is stronger than it had been before.

another door has closed for me. another person has deemed me insufficient in some capacity. and so i am here again... in a room that seems to have no windows. a box, like the one my third grade teacher put me in so she wouldn't have to see me. 

too often i feel as though the world doesn't want me in it. i'm tired of fighting. i'm tired of having to prove myself. to convince someone that i'm worthy. i'm tired of trying to find and claim a place. and i know that i will get up again tomorrow and make as concerted effort as i can to fulfill the obligations that are expected of me. sometimes i'm just tired of being strong. i really just want to lean for a while. 

praise and gratitude

let's start with the boy i knew in high school freshman year. one of the girls in my art class, which was right before lunch, had noticed that if i ate in the cafeteria, i was always by myself, and if i wasn't in the cafeteria, i was hiding in the band hall. so she invited me to sit at her table. she was a senior, a very popular girl, and of course all the others girls at the table were seniors and very popular, too. and of course, of course, the table next to theirs was where some of the most popular senior boys sat. sometimes i liked sitting with them. i loved their conversations. i loved that they included me. sometimes i hated it because it felt more like pity than friendship.

one of those boys owns a business in which he makes signs and trophies for the community. i'd gone by his shop the other day because i was in need businesses to feature, and i knew that he knew lots of people.

the shrink i'm seeing had recommended a while back that i have an object at my desk, something of sentimental value, something i could hold on to when i was troubled to help center me. for some reason, i thought to ask this man if he could make me something.

the next day, i went by his shop again because i was in need of a business sooner than i'd anticipated. and he had just boxed up the thing he'd made for me, was just about to send me an email.

it's a trophy. on the plaque at the base, there's my name, orhs alum, aggie lover... and writer of the year.

it was perfect. it made me so happy to have it. makes me so happy to have it.

tonight i hosted the bible study group. the closer it got to seven, the more i thought they're not coming--they all live west of conroe, and i am south of it. takes too long to get to my house... and it's my house. it's been ages since i've had friends over. but they came. i'd worried for nothing and am a little ashamed that i had thought so little of myself, of them. they showed up, and we had some pretty good discussion. i'm grateful for that. i'm grateful for their friendship. i wish i didn't have to doubt it so much. but i very much loved having them in my house. mostly, i loved knowing that some of the struggles i have are the same as theirs.

the fall film challenge

the first rule about film challenge: you do not change your film choices.

not after the thing's started, anyway. 

begins one minute past twelve a.m. september first / concludes midnight november thirtieth. you may NOT use a film you have already seen, even in part (excluding trailers), for this challenge. all films MUST be new to you. each film chosen for the challenge may be used ONLY ONCE, i.e. a film used for the adolescence category may not be used for the character's rebirth or rite of passage one as well. all films selected for the challenge MUST have a page on the internet movie database. films can be viewed in the theater or at home, but all films must have (had) a theatrical release; made-for-television movies are not eligible.

the first three people to complete the challenge prior to november thirtieth will each receive a redbox gift card valued at twenty dollars. the one person to accumulate the most points at the contest's conclusion will receive an amazon gift card valued at fifty dollars. each film is valued at ten points, yielding a total points of two hundred fifty. details of a bonus round will be revealed october fifteenth. 

to be eligible for prizes, you MUST be a member of the fall film challenge facebook group. once you have joined and chosen your films to fit the below categories, post your list to the page. changes may NOT be made to the list after the challenge begins september first, so choose wisely.

one. about adolescence.

two. about a character's rebirth or rite of passage

three. about a comic book character.

four. shot or set in washington, d.c.

five. set in an academic environment

six. about failure.

seven. about a man vs. god or gods.

eight. about a man vs. himself.

nine. about an invention or an ingenuous individual.

ten. set in a jail or prison.

eleven. about a dog.

twelve. about loss.

thirteen. about man vs. man.

fourteen. about man vs. nature.

fifteen. one that has a monster or monstrous individual.

sixteen. shot or set in pennsylvania.

seventeen. about a character's quest of some kind.

eighteen. about a character who goes from rags to riches.

nineteen. about a man. vs. society.

twenty. originally released in the thirties.

twenty-one. about undesirable individuals or elements.

twenty-two. about a voyage and return.

twenty-three. about wizards or witchcraft.

twenty-four. originally released in the sixties.

twenty-five. about a yearning or obsession.

helpful links:
the fifty greatest teen movies.
wikipedia - category: films shot in washington, dc.
wikipedia - category: films set in washington, d.c.
twenty movies every educator should see.
fifty inspiring films you should show your students.
wikipedia - category: prison films.
the fifty scariest monsters in movie history.
wikipedia - category: films set in pennsylvania.
imdb: most popular feature films released nineteen thirty to thirty-nine.
imdb: most popular feature films released sixty to sixty-nine.

today's a fucking ugly day

(yesterday... the twenty-seventh)

pardon the vocabulary. if you've read picky before, yall know i can be crass like that.

the therapist is putting me on meds. i am kicking and screaming because they kill my creativity. but living with the crazy right now is killing any love i have for life. 

so tomorrow... i go to a doctor and tell him why i need the drugs. the pills i don't want to have to take.

because the hate and the rage and shame and inadequacy and despair and frustration and impotence were so strong in me today i damned near clawed my face off. and the guilt... let's not forget the guilt.

. . .

(today... the twenty-eighth)

the doctor i saw today, by the way, is an old friend of my family. he's known me since i was about ten. he's never known of how fucked up my head is because, contrary to what it may seem here... i don't broadcast that shit. i do it here, truth be told, for two reasons: one, and this one's much more selfish) to remind me that i've lived through this bullshit before and i can do it again... and again... and again... two) to let others know that they are not alone in battling the bullshit. misery loves company, yeah?

anyway...

thirty minutes i sat in this man's office, and for much of that time, i kept thinking of his lovely, lovely wife who passed away a few years ago, of the scarf of hers i carry in my purse, have carried every day since the service. this sweet, sweet woman who, while i'm certain could scold her daughters into submission just as well as the next mother, this woman who never seemed to show anything but goodness and kindness and thoughfulness. the good lord took her, of course. robbed a man of his happily ever after a little too soon, really. deprived her of the privilege of doting on her granddaughters. she had a life. a good one.

i have a life, too. but the world could use more people like her in it and fewer people like me.

so i'm sitting in his office crying about the rage and shame and guilt and the fact that i don't want to need this help but am so clearly very much in need of it.

zoloft... that one made me crazier. prozac... that one made me a void. so now it's wellbutrin.

and some other thing called clonazepam...for when i've fallen off the rocker completely and am bashing it against the walls of my psyche. he calls it the nine one one drug.

i don't like feeling that my life is so precarious.

i don't like thinking i've shredded my strength.

random quarter: the q&a edition-june

one. today you cancelled a date with a douchebag.

two. what was the last beach you went to? myrtle beach, south carolina.

three. my nephew is funny.

four. what's the next book you want to read? after you by jojo moyes.

five. what do you have to lose? not much.

six. today was delightful because of lunch with cameron.

seven. when was the last time you spoke to your parents? this morning.

eight. are you wearing socks? no.

nine. how can you help? writing to raise awareness.

ten. what do you need to throw away? the trash in my car.

eleven. does anything hurt today? yes.

twelve. who was the last person to make you angry? myself.

thirteen. where do you go for good ideas? the movies.

fourteen. are you working hard or hardly working? at the moment? hardly working.

fifteen. what was the last road trip you took? north carolina in november 'fifteen.

sixteen. nothing is perfect.

seventeen. what was the last thing you baked or cooked? i boiled lipton noodles.

eighteen. if you could hire any artist (living or dead) to paint your portrait, who would you pick? vincent van gogh.

nineteen. write a phrase to describe your year so far. exhausting.

twenty. today were you a wallflower or social butterfly? wallflower. always the wallflower.

twenty-one. do you have a secret? more than one? who doesn't?

twenty-two. what is your heroic downfall? your achilles heel? my brain.

twenty-three. today was unusual because i had lunch with someone.

twenty-four. if you were a literary character who would you be? mary bennett.

twenty-five. what are you sentimental about? st. patrick's day.

for better highway vision

Philippians 4:8New International Version (NIV)

8 Finally, brothers and sisters, whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable—if anything is excellent or praiseworthy—think about such things.

one of my oldest friends, a girl i'd met not long after my family had moved to conroe, had mentioned a few weeks ago that she was participating in a bible study. i'd done a couple of these with her in the past, though i'd never completed either of them because they didn't speak to me.

this time we're doing priscilla schirer's the armor of god, and i am loving it so far. i was going to share with yall the reactions i've had to the text but decided against it because, for the moment at least, i'd like to keep them somewhat private. i've shared some of them with my mother and some of them with the others in our study's small group of women.

the other day, we were doing prayer requests. and when i'd said mine, one of the ladies immediately jumped in with a passage that had helped her -- she could recall the sentiment, but the not the place in the bible, and so there was a few minutes debate of whether it was phillippians or corinthians or maybe... but eventually they found it. phillippians four: eight. i loved that she was so quick to think of it. that others were so quick to help find it. i'm putting it here so i can hang on to it. kind of like when minn (i miss that lady. SO much. damn i wish she were here. today is one of those days i'd be on her doorstep, seeking her wise and kind counsel.) shared with me her beloved psalm forty.

i will share, however, one bit with you from that study. we'd talked about how the devil works his magic so that we see what he wants us to see. he's damned talented at that where i'm concerned. i look in the mirror and instead of seeing the fantastic complexion, for example, for which i am so frequently complimented (my skincare regimen, in case you're curious, is washing with dove pink once, sometimes twice a day -- depending on whether i'd worn make-up, the incredibly rare use of cosmetics, the sporadic use of olay regenerist advanced anti-aging cream cleanser and the infrequent, though liberal, application of aveeno's skin relief twenty-four moisturizing lotion... that's it), the way my face feels to me distorts how i view my reflection, and if i'm depressed or haven't slept well, i'm more likely to notice the palor, my hair has more grays in it than it did the other day and could use a good washing, my eyes are drifting more than usual, my chin is way too pronounced, my neck's gotten fatter... whatever. so i see that instead of the good. i see what my peers made sure i saw in my youth, and my psyche, under satan's influence, echoes those sentiments, which, of course, robs me of any confidence i might have because how can i, a girl so far removed from beauty, ever hope to have a beautiful life?

this is what his influence does.

i keep thinking of those words from me before you... that hashtag. #liveboldly. that is not a thing i know to do. i, an aries. bold is supposed to be my business. my m.o. but far too often i cower in the corner and feed on scraps instead of ramming my way to where the sustenance is. because i've been telling myself for years, that's for the pretty ones. you've to wait your turn. you should be content with what you've been given.

the study urged us to pray for vision and to seek the light, to use the truth of god's word. so that is what i am praying for... better highway vision so i can choose the right paths. and if you've got a prayer to spare, i sure could use it. thanks.

me before you

why i wanted to read it: i'd assumed that because so many were appreciative of the thing, it must be good. and so i bought it and tried it and set it aside because it bored me. and then for erin's book challenge (if you've not signed up for that thing yet, you should totally do it), one of the categories one time was a book with a pronoun in the title, so i tried again and set it aside again. and then i saw the trailer several weeks ago, and hearing the actors' voices in my head made it a little easier to get through the thing.

what i liked: from louisa's perspective: i watched relationships begin and end across those tables... (p. 8).

"black and yellow stripes."

"gorgeous."

"that's a bit harsh."

"well, it's true. they sound revolting."

"they might sound revolting to you, but astonishingly, will traynor, not all girls get dressed just to please men."

"bullshit."

"no, it's not."

"everything women do is with men in mind. everything anyone does is with sex in mind. haven't you read 'the red queen'?"

"i have no idea what you're talking about. but i can assure you, i'm not sitting on your bed singing the 'molahonkey song' because i'm trying to get my leg over" (p. 84).

the first time we went out on a date, a little voice in my head said: this man will never hurt you. and nothing he had done in the seven years since had lead me to doubt it. 

and then he turned into marathon man.

patrick's stomach no longer gave when i nestled into him; it was a hard, unforgiving thing, like a sideboard... (p. 89).

i wanted him to be happy -- for his face to lose that haunted, watchful look. i gabbled. i told jokes. i started to hum. anything to prolong the moment before he looked grim again (97).

i thought about the warm skin and soft hair and hands of someone living, someone who was far cleverer and funnier than i would ever be and who still couldn't see a better future than to obliterate himself (p. 123).

from camilla's: after will's accident i didn't garden for a year. it wasn't just the time... it was that i could see no point. i paid a gardener to come and keep the garden tidy, and i don't think i gave it anything but the most cursory of looks for the better part of a year.

it was only when we brought will back home, once the annex was adapted and ready, that i could see a point in making it beautiful again. i needed to give my son something to look at. i needed to tell him, silently, that things might change, grow, or fail, but that life did go on. that we were all part of some great cycle, some pattern that it was only god's purpose to understand. i couldn't say that to him, of course -- will and i have never been able to say much to each other -- but i wanted to show him. a silent promise, if you like, that there was a bigger picture, a brighter future (pp. 106-107).

when will first told me what he wanted, he had to tell me twice, as i was quite sure i could not have have heard him correctly the first time. i stayed quite calm when i realized what it was he was proposing, and then i told him he was being ridiculous and i walked straight out of the room. it's an unfair advantage, being able to walk away from a man in a wheelchair... i shut the door of the annex and i stood in my own hallway with the calmly spoken words of my son still ringing in my ears.

i'm not sure i moved for half an hour.

he refused to let it go... he repeated his request every time i went in to see him until i almost had to persuade myself to go in each day...

it's just that the thing you never understand about being a mother, until you are one, is that it is not the grown man -- the galumphing, unshaven, stinking, opinionated offspring -- you see before you, with his parking tickets and his unpolished shoes and complicated love life. you see all the people he has ever been all rolled up into one.

i looked at will and i saw the baby i held in my arms... i saw the toddler reaching for my hand... the schoolboy weeping tears of fury after being bullied by some other child. i saw the vulnerabilities, the love, the history. that's what he was asking me to extinguish -- the small child he was as well as the man -- all that love, all that history.

he had located a rusty nail, barely half an inch emerging from some hurriedly finished woodwork in the back lobby, and, pressing his wrist against it, had moved his wheelchair backward and forward until his flesh was sliced to ribbons. i cannot to this day imagine the determination that kept him going, even though he must have been half delirious from the pain.

when they told me at the hospital that will would live, i walked outside into my garden and i raged at god, at nature, at whatever fate had brought our family to such depths... i was so furious, you see, that all around me were things that could move and bend and grow and reproduce, and my son -- my vital, charismatic, beautiful boy -- was just this thing. immobile, wilted, bloodied, suffering. their beauty seemed like an obscenity. i screamed and i screamed and i swore -- words i didn't know i knew -- until steven came out and stood, his hand resting on my shoulder, waiting until he could be sure that i would be silent again.

he didn't understand, you see. he hadn't worked it out yet. that will would try again. that our lives would have to be spent in a state of constant vigilance, waiting for the next time, waiting to see what horror he would inflict upon himself. we would have to see the world through his eyes -- the potential poisons, the sharp objects, the inventiveness with which he could finish the job that damned motorcyclist had started. our lives had to shrink to fit around the potential for that one act. and he had the advantage -- he had nothing else to think about, you see.

two weeks later, i told will, "yes."

of course i did.

what else could i have done (pp. 109-111).

what sucked: it's about a hundred pages longer than it needs to be, and, this is a personal preference, i would've rather the novel have more dialogue, that moyes would've used more of that tool as a mechanism for telling the story.

having said that: it's alright. i liked the movie better...

side note: in one of the concluding chapters, moyes includes a report detailing the legal ramifications of will's choice: there is no evidence of mental illness... (p. 363).

the surgeries i've had in my life have blinded me... i've had three on my eyes, and while i don't know the duration of the recovery period for the first two because they'd occurred in infancy, the third had only blinded me for a period of twenty-four hours, but toward the end of that period, i was bordering on delusional. three other surgeries have severely affected the use of my legs. two of them have resulted in my having to learn to walk and ride a bicycle and do all sorts of other things again and again. and i'm sure at some point, i'll have to do it again, and it will be worse, because i was in my twenties then... my body was in much better shape.

i'm limited, physically, in other ways, but they are so, so slight. they are not things i can't live with.

these physical things i endure, they're not tragic.

i read that line, though... no evidence of mental illness... and was put off by it.

as if the brain can't be in pain. the mind can't. as if a person's life can't be horribly, monumentally crippled in ways unseen by others. as if post traumatic stress disorder and post concussive disorder and traumatic brain injury and depression aren't godawful, debilitating forces. as if these things can't mentally paralyze a person.

i'm tired of people thinking just because someone can get up out of bed, put on some clothes, get in a car, go to work and come home in the evening to family and friends... that because their bodies can physically function, they shouldn't be afforded the same consideration as those who bodies don't.

i am sick to death of this society that belittles mental illness.

it's perfectly okay to put a dog or a horse down... but a human, we'd prefer they suffer in a physical or mental hell... because only god can decide when a man should die. i call bullshit.

the old schoolyard

summer before freshman year

like erin, i attended oak ridge high school. i was a nerd: overly intellectual, obsessive and horribly, HORRIBLY lacking in social skills. i was the scrawniest (sixty-eight pounds, dressing in either a child's sixteen x or a junior's size zero), shortest (five foot one) and most developmentally delayed (flat-chest, straight hips, and yes, BRACES... still) in the freshman class (three hundred twenty-one students). by the time we'd reached senior year, i believe our class size had dwindled to two hundred forty. the mascot was the war eagle. the school colors were red, white and blue.

the most popular tunes of the year i began high school included: the bangles' walk like an egyptian, heart's alone, whitney houston's i wanna dance with somebody, starship's nothing's gonna stop us now, whitesnake's here i go again, bon jovi's livin' on a prayer and u2's with or without you. films released that year were: the princess bride, dirty dancing, full metal jacket, the untouchables, fatal attraction, less than zero, lethal weapon, good morning vietnam and the lost boys. among the new york times bestsellers were the tommyknockers and misery by stephen king, presumed innocent by scott turow and patriot games by tom clancy.

i was binging on def leppard, van halen and u2, dirty dancing and the sweet valley high series. and, of course, star wars. 

my extracurricular activities included art club and swim team. in swim practice, i never used a cap because i hated wearing the things and my hair was short enough that i could do without it. my hair, which was black at the roots, then brown, then orange, then blonde and finally green at the tips from the chlorine. so there's my freshman swim team photo. with the hair and the braces and the hose that are too dark because i'm welsh and english and can't tan worth a damn, and i hated wearing flats without hose because i was also a prude. my father was the school superintendent, and i was a new kid at school. i had no chance whatsover of forging any kind of friendships. at this point in my life, i'd been suicidal for six years. i took my rage out on the water.

some swim meet freshman year

if i wasn't swimming, i was walking or riding my bicycle around my neighborhood or in my room listening to music or watching movies on the television. i didn't get out much. i didn't want to. this was steady behavior all four years.

sophomore year

sophomore year i didn't get to swim much because my younger brother broke my collar bone while playing football a few weeks before school'd begun. this photo was taken by the district's communications director as she made her rounds to campuses one day. if you look close, you can see the sling.

i retired from swimming at the conclusion of my junior year. we'd gotten a new coach, whom i didn't like. and i'd been competing since i was ten. i was exhausted. i think i'd cut art club at the end of my sophomore year.

at sixteen

i've vision troubles and was terrified of driving. i didn't get my license until after i'd graduated. i road the bus all four years.

the only pictures i liked of me were the ones my mother insisted upon when i turned sixteen and my senior photos.

senior year

the most popular songs the year i graduated were bryan adams' (everything i do) i do it for you, c and c music factory's gonna make you sweat (everybody dance now), emf's unbelievable, damn yankees' high enough, jesus jones' right here, right now, janet jackson's love will never do (without you) and good vibrations by "marky mark" wahlberg. films: terminator two: judgement day, the silence of the lambs, robin hood: prince of thieves, point break, thelma and louise, fried green tomatoes, drop dead fred, sleeping with the enemy, my girl and curly sue (this would be the one in which this year's winner of the voice starred). the new york times bestsellers included plains of passage by jean auel, heartbeat by danielle steel, heir to the empire by timothy zahn (that's star wars, in case you didn't know), the sum of all fears by tom clancy and scarlett by alexandra ripley.

i was binging on queensryche and nelson, the two terminator films, robin hood: prince of thieves and drop dead fred (LOVE that movie) and thomas harris and judith mcnaught novels. and star wars. still. always and forever.

me with butchered bangs and the principal, mr. york

i don't have good memories from then. i was pretty much focused on not dying. that took quite a bit of my energy. favorite teachers were the ones who taught english and history because they showed me kindness, and they didn't expect me to be awesome just because my dad was. they weren't intimidated by him, by my being in their classrooms.

to the nerd entering high school, i'd say don't let your peers define you. don't let them determine your worth. don't blow off your assignments just because they're easy and you think they're pointless. if you're smart enough to be an a student, BE AN A STUDENT. i could've been in the top five percent of my class. instead i was at the bottom of the first third. why? because i didn't do my homework.

to the nerds who have graduated high school, those punks who picked on you? they don't outgrow that shit. if you were like me and battled depression with delusions that as adults your peers would be kinder to you, it doesn't work that way. i waited almost three decades to use my voice because i thought no one would want to listen. i waited for the days to get better... and i wasted decades doing that. i beseech you... don't make that mistake.

go on with your overly intellectual, obsessive, socially inept selves.

audrey louise blogged about this. go on over to her page and say howdy.

mama's gonna keep you right here under her wing

oh. dear. god. i have seen it all now. i have seen. it. all.

my facebook feed, like yours i'm sure, is filled with posts about that stanford swimmer. i haven't wanted to share my thoughts because mine certainly won't be so different from yours, but... i could not help myself after having read what that boy's mother wrote. i expected the father's attitude. i expected to read of his pathetic pleas for his son. i expected the father to view women with similar disdain.

but surely... the mother would not do so. surely not.

and yet, it is decidedly so that she is just as pathetic, if not more so, than the man she married and the child she bore.

she wrote this shit. about how her son shies away from any attention or recognition. about how he's endearing and kind. considerate and respectful.

she can't bear to decorate the new home she and her husband purchased the day before their beloved son--her heart and soul--used and abused an unconscious, intoxicated woman (the ten syllables by which the victim was known in media reports) beside a dumpster. she couldn't decorate it because she associates that home with the horror her son has been facing since dealing with the repercussions of his twenty minutes of action, as his father so eloquently put it.

this woman is appalled that her son will have to register as a sex offender for the rest of his life. he'll never get to take his children to the park.

wake up, lady. the chances of this boy EVER HAVING children are about as good as my chances of flying to the moon.

she whines about how her family now knows only despair, fear, depression, anger, doubt, anxiety and dread.

the victim came to in a hospital with pine needles in her vagina. she'd gone to a party with her sister, who was in town for the weekend, from what i understand. she'd gone to have a good time. i'm pretty sure being tossed on the ground beside a dumpster and violated, treated as though she is nothing more than a rag doll, is not quite what she'd had in mind. i imagine her understanding of despair, fear, depression, anger, doubt, anxiety and dread is a thousand... a million times better than this mother's.

how awful that this boy, WHO IS A SEX OFFENDER, has been tried and convicted as one, should have to register as one.

she has cried every single day since january eighteenth. i'd cry every day, too, if my loins had produced that spawn.

he was a shy and awkward nineteen-year-old, far away from home trying to fit in with the swimmers he idolized.

so the swimmers at stanford are rapists, are they? the olympians are, too?

he's lost everything?

and this woman he's violated has lost nothing, i take it... at least as far this mother's concerned.

i do not have children, but i imagine the inclination to protect a child is fiercely powerful.

two men happened upon this boy as he raped this woman. two men saved her from god knows what else this so-called kind, considerate and respectful boy would've done had they not done so.

i don't have children, but were that to have been the case... should i have had a son who made such an unspeakable, unbearable, GODAWFUL choice and witnesses could corroborate the occurrence, i would haul my boy's butt to the nearest hospital and emasculate the idiot. and then i would spend the rest of my days doing whatever the hell i could for the unfortunate soul who'd fallen victim to his callousness.

i cannot fathom how any woman could defend this boy.

me before you

so i bought moyes' book me before you quite some time ago to read for book challenge by erin (i believe i'd selected it for the book with a pronoun in the title category?) i couldn't get into it, and so it sat on my bookcase, untouched, for months. every now and then, its red cover would sort of call out to me: look at me! look at me! but i refused.

partly because it's about a quadriplegic, confined to a wheelchair. partly because it's a story about a girl who is hired to care for him, and of course, they fall in love. it's a little too pat for my tastes, to be honest. or maybe i just didn't want to believe in the possibility of it.

i watched the trailer for it the other day--because i like emilia clarke, and sam claflin reminds me of a young hugh grant. watching the trailer inspired me to pick up the book again. i'm about halfway through. i'd hoped to have the thing finished before watching the movie, but that didn't happen. i watched it twice yesterday. i'd only intended to see it once--the early bird matinee--and then get some errands and some writing done. i managed all of the errands and some of the writing, but the story'd distracted me... it's still doing so because i'm sitting here, the next day, writing this post when i should be working on other things. but yesterday... after a long while i gave up and went back to theater and watched it again.

there's a scene in which claflin's character, will, is trying to tell clarke's character, louisa, that were he not in that wheel chair, he would've noticed her. but she--and i--know differently. he would've been drawn to the leggy blondes whose radars are tuned to sizable expense accounts, and she would've been invisible in the corner, serving the drinks.

i'm like louisa in that respect. the men i find attractive... they don't see me. i can't blame them. hell, i sometimes have trouble seeing me. 

and i'm a little bit like will, too. no. i'm not in some wheel chair, but i could be... at some point. the older i get the harder it is for my my mind to get my muscles to do what i want them to do. my shoulders are in constant spasms it seems. my hands cramp a lot more frequently now. my legs--they're just about useless, really. most of that, though, is because i'm a lazy cow who loathes exercise. i've been lucky so far. i've had good surgeons. i've had a mind that's been able to say screw you, body, i'm doing this. several years ago, when given the opportunity to tour europe for two weeks with my much younger, incredibly athletic cousins, i made myself walk five miles every day for weeks prior to departure in hopes that i could keep up. it still wasn't enough. we could've climbed higher, and much more quickly on the steps of the eiffel tower, for example, were it not for me. i've got my dnr. i'm set, assuming my wishes are heeded when that time comes.

there are people, countless others, whose bodies are so much more affected by their disabilities than i am by mine. i wouldn't dare to presume to tell them them how to live, to judge them for the choices they make.

in the film will tells louisa that while this could be a good life, it's not the one he wants--for him or for her. that he wakes up every morning wanting it to be over. i know that desire. i know it quite well. 

i don't want to know what sixty, seventy and eighty are going to look like. i don't want to know. i pray all the time that god will grant me mercy so that i don't have to know. i've been doing that since i was eight, actually, since i first learned i wasn't quite right. that said... some of those prayers have been born from mental instability than out of rational thought. most of them have been born of exhaustion and despair.

today, i came across an article in the telegraph that expresses the notions that disabled rights groups are angered by this film, that it is offensive to disabled people. 

for christ's sake, it's a damned movie. get the hell off your high horse, people. if a man who is bound to a wheelchair, unable to move pretty much any part of his body and suffering from excruciating, debilitating, persistent pain and discomfort... if he wants to end his life and the option is available to him... so be it.

if he wants to take advantage of the talents and skills that remain in his possession, if he wants to enjoy the abilities and options that are left to him, then so be that, too.

i can identify with louisa's despair at will's choice. were i to find myself involved with a man like will, i wouldn't want to lose him. but i can identify with will's despair, too. i wouldn't want the people for whom i care to be burdened.