i've never been good at praying. ever. i know how it should be done: you're supposed to express gratitude for the good, which i do; you're supposed to ask for help with things that hurt and are in need of healing, so i pray for my friends. i'm good with all that... until i get to what's hurting me, to how i've hurt myself, to how i'd like it to be healed. i don't know what to pray for anymore.

every well woman exam i've had has come back normal, save for the last. i've lesions, abnormal cells that may need special attention. i go back in march for another exam, and if they're still there... well, then...

i'm trying not to think anything of it. for the past month, i've managed to roll with this well enough. apparently they're rather common. they're caused by human papillomavirus, which i got from that douchebag i dated last year. i got it because i'd lowered my standards, because i relented. because i'd thought a lot of things i didn't like to think.

it's probably nothing, this... i'll probably go back, and they'll do their thing, whatever it is, and i'll be fine. this is probably just me freaking out because that's what i do best.

i am a strong woman. i know this. i might not always act as though i've got a backbone. i might use bitchy and bluster as a defense mechanism a little too often. i'm horribly passive aggressive. but i can take a ton of shit. you can poke and prod at me until you can't find a vein anymore, like doctors did when i was a baby...

whatever this is, i'll deal with it. that's been my thought process for the past month, since i got those abnormal results. hell, for the past eighteen months since all this shit really began. whatever this is, i'll deal with it, like i've done a thousand times before.

curious, though, isn't it, that i would feel compelled to go see that movie to joey with love. i went because she was gifted with a beautiful voice and seems to have had a beautiful heart and soul, and i wanted to know that beauty a little better.

halfway through the film, though, i thought... this could be you a year from now. this struggle she endured, this battle she fought and lost... leaving behind a man who loved her and a daughter who needed her. this could be your struggle... only you don't have as many reasons to fight as she did. all because you relented, because you gave up. you who makes a point to hold her ground, even if holding it means to curl up in a ball, to dig a trench, to bury yourself. well... you're running out of trenches... you can only build so many before the ground gives way.

six impossible things

so yeah. these are just a few of the dozens of books i've purchased or, as is the case with the help and dearly beloved, been given in the past decade or so that i've been meaning to read. that pink one third from the right? landline? i've read that one at least a dozen times. i'm obsessed with that one. like OBSESSED. if there were only one book i could read for the rest of my life, that one's on a VERY short list of titles from which i would choose. the one two doors down from that one? the brown leather one? that should probably be the ONLY one on that list. that's the bible, yall. and shock of all shocks, i've read some of it. like i've read a few pages in most of the books on this shelf. (there's two more rows of books behind that one... just so you know. i've read a few pages in a few of them, too.)

two doors down from that bible is a young adult novel i picked up a few years ago... another selection for erin's book challenge that, also shocking, i have yet to finish. it's called six impossible things. 

i see it every morning when i wake and every night before i sleep. i see it and remember that quote of the queen's in alice and wonderland. most of the time i look at those words and see shortcomings because all too often, i can't even find the courage or the strength or the passion to strive to believe in one thing. shortcomings because i can think of six impossible things with such ease. IMPOSSIBLE THINGS like looking in the mirror and not feeling about my face today like i did when i was thirteen. sure, the face staring back at me is different. but the girl's the same. the girl knows that the reason the face is different is because surgeons had to make it so. HAD to or her teachers would continue to treat her as though she belonged in a special education environment rather than a mainstream classroom. had to or she probably would've died not long after. i can tell you all about impossible things.

i was gonna make a list of the worst of those things, the ones that i needed to believe i could overcome. and then it occurred to me, that's just enabling the ugliness.

so let me tell you instead of some other, more uplifting impossible things i've known.

one. the love my parents have for me. i don't make it easy, yall. i've not made it easy for them since birth, practically. they've had to fight harder for me than i've ever fought for myself. they'd do it with their dying breaths. i've said before how easy it would be for my mother to tell you of the flaws of her children... but she sees such goodness in us, in each of us, no matter how uncouthly and idiotically we may behave... my brother drank himself to death. my other brother was unfaithful to his wife. and i've relied so heavily on their financial assistance for so long that they can't provide for their grandchildren's college education like i'm sure they'd hoped to do. we are gifted in so many ways, and not all of them are good. but when i'm despaired and drowning because of it, when there is no light in me and i ask her why she loves me, she holds on and says it's because i bring her joy and there is such goodness in me... that they could love me despite how ugly i can be to them, how frequently i take advantage of them... that their love for me can be so boundless seems so impossible to me, and yet, there it is. and i know it to be true.

two. the worst years of my academic studies were from fifth to seventh grade, and right smack dab in the middle of them was this wonderful teacher named pauline elliott. during this time of my life i was convinced death was the best way my story could possibly end. i've never prayed so hard in my life as i did then, and my prayers, they were not good. they lacked any gratitude or praise, any hope or faith, any kind of light. my pysche was similarly constructed. and one day, this woman pulled me aside after class and said i had a talent for writing. that one compliment... to this day it makes me cry recalling it because of the kindness she showed me, because of the good she saw in me when so many saw such ruin, such waste. i'm sure i've blogged about this before, but that compliment could not have come at a more crucial time in my life. it was just the right thing to say, at just the right time... and it seemed so impossible to me that any teacher could care for me because they had not done so in years... and yet... there. she did. she's gone now. she died this year. i don't think i ever told her how valuable her words were to me. they were like hope in pandora's box. i walked into that school every day and heard every hideous thing you could imagine... and there in all that ugliness, was that one shining sentiment.

three. the worst year of my adult life was from spring to spring 'two to 'three, and right smack dab in the middle of that was this wonderful professor named janevelyn tillery. i was in the throes of some pretty impressive depression when i met this woman. i'd enrolled in one of her linguistics courses at the university of texas at san antonio. i'd had my heart broken just a few months before. i'd quit my job and spent the majority of my summer holed up in my apartment, rarely bothering to change out of my pajamas and the only time i'd left the house was to buy cigarettes and food. somehow, by august, i'd decided i need to do something with myself, so i enrolled in english classes and hid out in academia. toward the end of the semester, tillery had asked her students to fill out index cards detailing the classes we were taking in the spring. i loved how invested she was in her students, in their education and aspirations. i didn't fill out a card because i wasn't going to be taking classes next semester. she noticed that i'd not submitted one, and when class had concluded she confronted me about it. when i'd said i wasn't enrolling for spring classes, she looked shocked and sad. she said, but you're so bright! you should be in school! i almost cried right there. not because i couldn't be in school, but because here, yet again, impossibly, someone saw good in me when i could not see it in myself. someone outside my family loved me when i felt so horribly unlovable.

four. i can laugh. a few months ago when we were at the monastery, my brother's friend adam remarked at how it pleased him when i'd laugh one of those full belly laughs. i think it surprises people when i do. i am so serious, so guarded, so besieged on so many fronts by so many things that laughter is as foreign to me as the french tube system. there are times when i think there's no way i could manage laughter while feeling like i do, and then... there it is. someone, something will strike just the right chord...

five. getting up out of bed every morning. often before i go to bed, i think, there's another day like today just around the corner. and even though i've gotten through thousands of those days... getting up out of bed each morning, planting my feet and putting one before the other again and again... that i have the energy, the capability to get through it astounds me.

six. i can sing and write and speak my mind. because i'm convinced i should've lost my voice decades ago, and yet, here it is...

by the way... at some point, i'll get all those books read.

siren songs

show of hands: how many of yall have seen an affair to remember? (if you haven't, don't. it sucks.) how many have seen sleepless in seattle? (if you haven't, and you're single, that film will make you depressed as shit. don't watch it alone, don't drink adult beverages while you watch cause that could just make you more depressed, and do have some ice cream on hand. do watch it. it's good).

i ask because i'm working on a particular chapter of my manuscript that involves my gals and their viewing of the former of the two films. two of them love it. one of them doesn't. the viewing comes at a fairly crucial point in the story. i've got the thing broken down into thirds, and this particular chapter falls right around the conclusion of the second third. the gal who doesn't like it is about to crumple under the weight of all the bullshit in her head, unbeknownst to the other two.

after they've left, she burns some sad songs to a cd and goes for a drive (my girl's old school, okay?) because she's upset and needs to cry. her friends, unknowingly, have put an idea in her head, more bullshit onto the heap, and a good jag would be helpful. only she can't cry. she should be able to because yall, the tunes on that cd, they're pretty sad shit:

the chain (live from webster hall). ingrid michaelson. be ok.

do what you have to do. sarah mclachlan. surfacing.

vienna. the fray. how to save a life.

gravity. sara bareilles. little voice.

every rose has its thorn. poison. open up and say ahh.

ashes and wine. a fine frenzy. one cell in the sea.

doughnut song. tori amos. boys for pele.

happiness. abra moore. strangest places.

almost lover. a fine frenzy. one cell in the sea.

sullivan street. counting crows. august and everything after.

nothingman. pearl jam. vitalogy.

tear in your hand. tori amos. little earthquakes.

with or without you. u2. the joshua tree.

sometime around midnight. the airborne toxic event's self-titled album.

roads. portishead. dummy.

bend and not break. dashboard confessional. a mark, a mission, a brand, a scar.

reason why. rachael yamagata. happenstance.

i wanna talk to yall today about the second one by tori amos, tear in your hand. first of all, that song's on one of the best albums ever recorded, and if you don't own it, i must insist that you stop reading this and go do whatever it is you do when you buy music and get it now. thanks. (you should get baker baker from under the pink, too. and that album by a fine frenzy. and that song by ingrid michaelson.)

the album was released in nineteen ninety-two. i was nineteen. i read, just today actually, an article in rolling stone in which amos offers a track-by-track guide to the songs released then. in that she said tear in your hand was nostalgic, about separating from family and high-school friends. but for me, i've always seen it as a really good song about a break-up: you don't know the power that you have with that tear in your hand. 

for twenty-four years i've thought, erroneously, that the tear might've been the man's, and that he was both sad and convinced that ending things had to be done, and that the girl was rendered powerless by the sight. even after i'd endured heartbreak, i still thought this. 

the other day i was listening to this song because whenever a scene involves music i make myself listen to it to help me get the thing right, to immerse myself in whatever my character might be feeling.

i was driving. i think i was coming back from a writing session at pappadeaux's when a memory surfaced. it involves that electrical engineer i'd mentioned in this post (he's in this one, too, by the way).

i wouldn't've thought of it, except that i've dreamed of him twice in the past month. people aren't often in my dreams. he's never been in them, not even when we were dating. not even after i'd ruined things. never. in fourteen years. that's how long it's been. that's how much the bastard impressed me. but then again, i'm a supremely impressionable gal. anyway. i'm confident that had i not had those dreams, this memory would never have been stirred so well.

when i was a kid, i cried in school in front of my classmates. it was pathetic. eventually i learned how to rein it in until i could hide somewhere to get it out. i hid a lot. since grade school i think the only time i've been unable to keep the tears at bay in front of other men, excluding those in my family, was with him. in that second post, the one referenced in the parentheses, i mentioned that i couldn't let him see me cry. i'm talking about ugly cry, yall. full on misery.

but... we were laying (lying? i can never fucking remember) on his sofa, and he was telling me how much he liked me and enjoyed spending time with me, but... i knew what he was saying. i heard it. i understood it. i was in one hundred percent complete agreement with him on it. he wasn't ready for serious, and he felt we were headed in that direction. i wasn't ready for it either. i was perfectly content with how things were because i could go home at the end of the night. (dammit. he's in this one, too.) i was listening, but all the hideous things were swirling around inside my head. one tear fell onto his shirt. one. so i sat up, wiped my face. told him i needed a kleenex. he went to get one, only he didn't have any, so he brought back a bit of bathroom tissue. i wiped my eyes. he was crouching before me, so his eyes, that gorgeous green, were level with mine. he gave me this hint of a smile, took the tissue and said he was going to frame it and call it jenn's tears. i got the hell out of there.

that song of tori's was ten years old at the time. it took me another fourteen to really understand it. i'm a writer. i'm supposed to pick up on this shit pretty quick. and yall, i pray i never know that power again.

if you don't stand for something...

during the olympics last month, gabby douglas didn't put her hand on her heart while the national anthem played...

colin kaepernick sits on a bench or takes a knee while it's played, and the same damned shit happens. do i personally like that this was so? no. not so much. because to me that song is beautiful. do i personally like it that john legend tweets things like this:

 

John LegendVerified account‏@johnlegend

For those defending the current anthem, do you really truly love that song? I don't and I'm very good at singing it. Like, one of the best

no. not so much. because i truly love that song. i've stood at kyle field with my hand on my heart and the line, o, say does that star-spangled banner yet wave, there's a surge of emotion in me... nothing big, just a little ebb and flow of pride at how that might have looked to those men on the night of that perilous fight. how beautiful the flag was to them in that moment. and that happens every time. EVERY time. how beautiful that flag is to me, always, when the wind catches it. hell, i was at some event at one of the parks in the woodlands a couple of months ago that involved skydivers and some flags, one of which was the stars and stripes, and when the last one landed, when that glorious red, white and blue hit the ground, i instinctively took a step forward, put a hand to my heart and said aloud: get it off the ground. he was quick to gather it up because it was precious to him, too.

that anthem is precious to me. if i'm at an event and it's playing, i will not sit and my hand will be on my heart.

but damned if this ain't the land of the free and home of the brave. gabby douglas didn't put her hand on her heart. so what? SO WHAT? she's free to put her hand where she pleases. colin kaepernick chose to sit. HE HAS EVERY RIGHT TO DO SO. he knew the shit was gonna hit the fan, but HE DID IT ANYWAY. that's courage, yall. that's the kind of bravery francis scott key had in mind when he wrote those words. no, it's not some galant act. he didn't enlist in our armed forces and fight alongside those in iraq and afghanistan. he didn't pull a child from a burning building or save a woman from the violence caused by some pitiful excuse for a man.

but there are people who have called his actions pitiful. there are folks setting fire to his jersey. i've heard endless bitching from almost every direction about how stupid it looks that a man who makes so many millions a year playing a game, whose black parents gave him up, who was raised in a white family has the audacity to say black men are oppressed in this country. heads up, people, plenty of them ARE OPPRESSED. still. it's a damned disgrace. and if you don't think it's in your neck of the woods, go drive around the lesser affluent neighborhoods of your community... i guarantee you there are wards not so very far from you that are comprised of houses barely standing because the boards are so ancient, the materials so corroded by weather and time. there are people living in those homes, or trying to. some of them are scraping an existence with three jobs and the skin of their teeth. you can tell because their yards are tidy and those boards, as beaten as they are... the windows are clean and there are potted plants on the porch. others... you know the people inside are as dilapidated as the building in which they reside. they are bitter and full of blame; that's their right.

there was an instance last summer in which a man was offended that i'd asked him not to stand so close to me. i needed distance because of my own limitations. he'd thought i'd wanted distance because he was black and i was white. my mother had to point this out to me. i reread that post, and not once did i mention color. because my parents made damned sure their children didn't judge people by the color of their skin. i didn't see a black man that day. i saw a man standing too close to me. for me, that's all it was. but because of how i was raised, i forget to consider that others haven't been raised that way. so for him... white privilege raising its head again. i was oblivious to it. to this day, i'm ashamed of my behavior. still. it had NOTHING to do with who he was, but my panic made it appear otherwise.

sure, maybe there's a better way kaepernick could've said his piece. i understand and can respect what he's doing and why. he's standing for something. not literally. it's a fucking metaphor, folks. but this cause of his, it's good and deserving of the attention.

and as much as i don't like that john legend said he doesn't like the song... posting that on twitter's maybe a little courageous.

christine teigenVerified account‏@chrissyteigen

@johnlegend settle down, you're okay at it

god love chrissy for her sense of humor. the world needs more of that.

the things i tell myself

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.