I had it all. I had any pastor's dream job in the perfect city, but I rarely saw my kids or husband and that wasn't what I envisioned as I began the process of ordination to serve the church.
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I almost titled this letter “Dear Man-child” or “Dear Boy with the Napoleon Complex…” but, like most people, I realize it’s hard to convince people to listen to my point of view if I start out by insulting them.
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I started meditating to try to get more focus and ease some of the edgy anxiety that’s always been native to my personality. I used HeadSpace, an app created by Andy Puddicome, to try to get a handle on it. I wasn’t a natural. I’d sit still. Breathe. But my brain jumped relentlessly from one set of thoughts to another.
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You write the thing in a flurry in November. You write it in response to a journal’s call for submissions. The journal has feminism in the name. You consider yourself feminist in the “women are equal (and also kickass)” way, but you’ve never written a *feminist* essay before.
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After working out at the gym for six months and shedding twenty pounds, I walked down the aisle wearing a mermaid style, off the shoulder, lace dress.
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The other day, I was walking outside to eat my lunch. I prefer to eat outside as it gives me an opportunity to see the sun, get some fresh air, and get away from the noise that permeates an open work space. The path I take to the outside takes me through the cafeteria/eating hall area.
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I was thirteen years old when problems with my family escalated and I was forced into a shell only music could pull me out of. Every time my mother raised a hand to me, I raced back to let my violin release the notes that I wished I could say to her.
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She had skin like honey. Drizzled over each limb, down the nape of her neck. My own, in comparison, is pale; my back is scarred with past acne, my thighs raked with thin white stretch marks and dull, greying bruises. For her, the sunlight clung, in sheets of golden gossamer, to each of her limbs.
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I don’t miss him, but what I do miss is sitting on the cold sand of the beach in October, when the wind shivered my young bones, and I would huddle against him, burying my face into his cigarette, scented pullover. He would cross his arms for his own warmth, with a Marlboro Gold hanging from his blue lips. He never wore a jacket and even after all this time, this is the only way I can remember him.
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Because maybe the truth isn't a narrative, which is an idea that's new and terrifying. Maybe it's something else. When I was on too many mushrooms, after the part I thought I was in an episode of Doctor Whoand before I almost called you, I went inside my head and tried to find something bigger and behind God, who I don't believe in.
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A few weeks after turning eighteen, I packed my belongings into my boyfriend’s car and left for Western Washington University. In a short year and a half, I would drop out after struggling with drug and alcohol abuse and an eating disorder, symptoms of mental health conditions that went undiagnosed until years after I left school.
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The beginning of the New Year is filled with urgent and strong worded resolutions. Weight loss is always at the top of the list for most Americans, especially women. That is why I was I surprised to experience the realization that my body is worth acceptance, no matter the size, in January of 2018. I can look in the mirror and accept myself.
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It was so hot, albeit a humid heat. Cockroaches the size of a baby’s hand were everywhere; I had never seen anything like it. Texas during the summer time was relentless. I had been there since the middle of March and had gotten married in May.
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From the time she was little, my mother knew she wanted to be a mom. But that didn't stop her from having other ambitions. She went to school and received her bachelors and masters degrees before marrying my father.
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On a hot summers day in June 1955 Molly, an unmarried mother, began bringing her child into the world. She cried bitterly whilst pleading to keep her child. There were no words of sympathy she was told simply to go home and forget all about it. As Molly’s child was taken from her she vowed never to forget.
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Just eight minutes, but it felt like forever. I sat there dumbfounded wondering if that really happened or if I was so drunk I had imagined it. I was sixteen years old at a party. Like always my boyfriend and I were in a huge fight, so I was flirting with a guy he hated.
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When I first began to tell people about my plans to take a solo trip to Iceland, I was met with a lot of surprise, and even a little resistance. I expected some of this. Almost as soon as I announced that I had booked my flight, people began to voice concern over my traveling alone—a young woman—to a foreign country.
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The woman sits crossed legged on the shore of the silent lake on a crisp spring morning. The lavender mist hovers above the water, as she watches a flock of brown and black birds bob along the surface.
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Most of us have scrolled past this quote on Facebook or Instagram. You may have liked it or re-posted it. If you are the strong one then you know how painstakingly true this is. Like, ugh. Why is there so much truth in this statement? Somehow the people around you have created the idea that you have traveled through a magical parallel universe that rendered you emotionally void. No feelings, no heart, just empty.
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So, the title is self-explanatory. However, this is a memo to all the up-and-comers and even those who are afraid of being told not to speak up.
Or maybe, I am just an asshole and want to set the record straight as a woman working behind-the-scenes in the entertainment world.
Oh, wait…
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