(There WAS Love.)

So.

You may know I have a person in my past who was, to put it tastefully, very bad.

If you didn't know that, you probably haven't been here before, and so you wouldn't know that I started this blog in order to give myself a creative outlet to help me recover from a long-term, ugly relationship with a person who is, I repeat, very bad.

(Welcome, by the way!)

I carelessly refer to him as Jerkface in conversation with those who know the backstory. But the truth is, he's more than just a jerk. He's dark. Twisted. Charming. Sneaky. Smart. Compelling. Abusive.

And the worst part is that you can add to the list:

Loved.

There it is. *ugh*

People usually just say, "Wow! What an awful guy. I'm sorry that happened to you" and I say, "I'm sorry it happened too" and it ends there.

But what I desperately want to add to the sentence is "I'm sorry it happened... I'm sorry I still care."

It's scary and upsetting and uncomfortable to care. But I do.

And you know... it's okay. Because that's love.

Despite the fact this is now my (however you slice it) abuse story, it was also my love story. I'm sorry if that makes you throw up (I'm talking to you, mom) or get mad. But it was love. It was loss. And I need to be sad about it sometimes.

So sometimes I'll admit it. And if you listen, thank you.

* * * * * *

     He was punching holes in walls and I was making 911 calls.

(We were holding hands and making jokes and cooking casseroles.)

     He swerved off the road screaming "I oughtta kill us both!"

(He massaged my aching neck when we got home.)

     There was cursing.

           (There was loving.)

                  There was abusing. 
                       
                       (There was loving.)
   
                             There was hurting.

                                  (THERE WAS LOVING.)

          There was choosing.

               (And I know he chose wrong.)

          But it's so confusing.

               (My enemy held me all night long.)
     
          And I'm still losing...

              (I'm still fighting a war that can never be won.)

               But I still love love.

               And love is never done.

A Comprehensive Life Update in Three Parts

I have good news and bad news.

THE BAD NEWS: I have nothing to write about.

THE OTHER BAD NEWS: I'm writing anyway.

THE GOOD NEWS: ...

So, let's get started. Today we have three topics I'd like to update you on:

PART ONE: My dating life.
PART TWO: My academics.
PART THREE: My mental health.

PART ONE: Dating

I'd like to provide you with some completely made-up statistics about UNCA, the kinda weird wonderful school I attend.

40% of UNCA students are men.

39.5% of UNCA students have "man buns".

98% of men with man buns are un-datable by Sarah Kane approved standards.

So you see, that means only 0.0001% of UNCA men ARE datable by my standards, which leaves me in a bit of pickle.

END OF PART ONE.

PART TWO: Academics

Well, I'd like to say there's a glimmer of hope in this section!

I've tried a new technique called "getting by by the seat of my pants".

IT WORKS PEOPLE, IT WORKS!

My grades are down, but so are my stress levels, and REALLY, which is going to shave more years off of my life? A "C" in astronomy or a mental breakdown? YOU TELL ME.

PART THREE: Mental Health

Again, glimmers of hope here folks! I've been going to therapy every other week for about two months now and I am absolutely stunned by the progress I've made. I recommend it to anyone. I'd like to do an illustration of me before and after therapy drawn by yours' truly.

BEFORE:                                                             AFTER:

 

So, you could say things are going A-okay over here in Sarah-ville.

Each day is a learning process.

Things have been hard. Good. Scary. Productive. Important. Interesting.

I wouldn't change a thing.

God is Dead. (At least, the one I made up in my head is.)

Today I had therapy. My counselor came out to the lobby to collect me where I was pretending to read a magazine, but was really waiting anxiously.

"How are you?" He asked on the pilgrimage back to his office, and I just laughed. 

"How are YOU?" I threw back, and he laughed, harder than I did.

"Have a seat," my counselor began.

"I've had a spiritual breakthrough," I immediately confessed as I flopped onto his office couch, stretching out in the stereotypical languid patient position. (I enjoy playing the part on that blue couch, I must say.)

"Ah," he said. "Go on."

"I think I've been doing my faith... All wrong."

"Is faith something you DO?" He asked.

"It was something I THOUGHT," I said. "It was all a mental game."

My counselor looks intrigued and interested, something that during our first sessions made me uneasy. He seems caring, even admiring, in a way that made me nervous. I didn't like how friendly and open he was in offering himself as not only a professional but a sympathetic audience. I wanted a doctor, not an carer. But in time, I've come to appreciate the organic conversations that lead to honest thoughts from us both. 

This man occasionally checks out from the role of counselor, and becomes a fellow soldier in the battle of "figuring this shit out". 

"Yeah. Mental games." I repeat. "It's all been mental games I play with myself, not real FAITH. Mental games."

He starts to open his mouth, then stops. Then starts, finally.  "I was raised Catholic," he says. He waits for my nod of understanding before continuing. "And it was a lot of mental games. We had catechisms. A literal list of questions and answers and it was a mental game for me too. It takes a long time to separate the mental games you learned to play from the reality of what you believe."

I stare at the bright painting on the wall over his head. "What I believe..." I trail off. "I've always believed what I believe now, but something... Clicked. About God."

He puts down his pen and I feel as if our therapy session is on pause (at least usual trauma/drama/nightmare stuff that brought me to therapy in the first place). 

"You may have always had a cerebral faith." He says. "A faith that you comprehended and evaluated mentally, and accepted. But perhaps there's a true, spiritual knowledge of God you've experienced now."

I nod. 

"What has changed with God?" He asks softly.

I reflect, and finally begin. "I used to feel constant guilt. There was a constant judge breathing down my neck. I used to always feel a giant 'to-do' list looming in the
background. And I felt like he was always disappointed in me. I was never enough for
him. I never cared enough. Did enough. Thought about him enough. Prayed enough. You know."

"And how do you feel now?"

"I feel... Like I have space." I laugh. "I took a bath the other night and for the first time in years I felt truly alone. I felt peace. I felt like there wasn't anybody with me... Even Him. And I only say that because... I didn't feel scared of Hell or God or Satan or anything... I just felt... Calm."

My counselor nods. "God is love. Do you believe that?"

I shrug. "If He's there, which... I want him to be... Because if He's not then I don't even see the point of life..." I stop myself from rambling. "Yes. If He's there, He's love." 

"So what are you SCARED of?" My counselor asks. "He's love. He is love. What's scary about love? Isn't love what you want?"

"Perfect love casts out fear," I recite from the depths of my mind. "Do I really believe that? Because... I've been secretly scared of him for all these years." 

"Fear and love are opposites." My counselor holds his fists as far apart as they will reach. "They can't exist on the same plane. You can't have perfect love when you're secretly stuck in fear. You just can't. And maybe what's gone now is your fear."

"God was always just so... Mean!" I burst out. "I've just wanted him to shut up for years! I've been in trapped in a constant conversation with him that makes me feel horrible about myself, and I can't ever escape because the conversation is INSIDE ME, but now..." I want to cry right there on the blue couch. "Now he's quiet. The room feels empty when I'm alone. And I like it." I pause and make eye contact with my counselor. "So... I guess what I'm saying is, I'm not sure if God is even there anymore. And I don't feel terrible or guilty. I just feel relieved."

My counselor begins delicately, "I don't think it's that he's not there. I think you're seeing him in a new way. Maybe he's speaking in ways beyond words. In a way that goes your cerebral knowledge of him. If you're finding peace..." He shrugs. "Maybe you're finding God. In a new way. In the right way."

I nod, overwhelmed with the fact that since I've quieted my brain and my judgements and my self-criticism and my pre-conceived ideas and my habitual GUILT... I've quieted God. 

But not the real God. 

I've quieted a god I made up, who is really just a version of myself that is almost.... A bit abusive. Confusing. Scary. Mean. Loud.

And now that THAT made-up-God is out of the picture (or at least, on his way out of the picture) maybe I'll find out what the God I TRULY believe in, believe in through faith, not mind-games, has to say.  

My counselor gives me a big "thumbs up" at the end of our time. 

"This was a good shift." He says. "The trauma will be waiting for us next week. Try and keep up this whole 'not being scared' thing," he finishes with a smile.

I swing my feet off the blue couch and walk out the door. I don't feel an instant flood of anxiety, regret, or guilt. I don't wonder what I said wrong or didn't say well or what God is thinking of the fact I said I want him to shut up. No. No judge breathing down my neck. 

Just a sense of calm. A sense of being. A sense of love. 

Be Quiet

I arrived home moments ago from the loud, intense world I revolve in and ran a hot bath. As I sank into the water I felt a feeling that eluded me for years. Peace. Serenity. True and utter quiet. 

Growing up I had these moments. I remember them. Being nine years old, reading a hardcover copy of an old book before bed and flicking out the lamp, sliding under the cool sheets. Feeling my eyes close over a brain that had no worries, no stress, no on-going trauma to survive. Just drifting and resting in a state of peace and calm.

The years following slowly taught me to slip into a state of constant turmoil. Dark middle school days had me trapped in a cycle of guilt, confession, and relapse. Repeat. It doesn't matter what the subject was. I felt guilty about everything. I distinctly remember feeling deep pangs of conviction while putting on mascara at age 15, because I felt vain for liking it. By the age of 17, I found myself a stressed, complex, guilt-ridden girl. Maybe the pressure was self-induced. Maybe it was a product of the Christian doctrine I was fed by so called Christian leaders in my life. 

Regardless, a pattern began early on that trained me to keep my brain in a state of turmoil, problem-solving, and self-improvement. 

Every action became spiritual, and thus, a mental game of motive analysis. Makeup became vanity. Boys became lust. Clothes became low self-esteem. Homework became laziness. Words on the radio became messages, convictions. 

Everything was taken seriously, as an indicator for something spiritual.

It was to the point where, at 17, when I closed the bedroom door at night I no longer felt that sense of calm I did as a child; I felt a spiritual battleground that was waiting for me to wrestle with my sin. Any thought was a spiritual entity, of course. Any thought against God was a doubt, any thought for God was faith, and any guilt was obviously the Holy Spirit working in me. And so I listened to every single thought- every single glimmer of idea in my brain- and immediately categorized them in some spiritual way. 

And this was not healthy.

Somewhere along the way I forgot how to be still.

My human mind, which is soft and fragile, was fighting to understand and analyze every part of itself.

I forgot how to be quiet.

I forgot how to be alone.

I learned how to live under the constant scrutiny of my own judgement and opinion. Under the spiritual forces that I so strongly believed dictated my every thought and move. I was never alone, because I was always being JUDGED. (By.... Me.) 

And my brain has learned how to carry on I this manner, keeping me trapped in a cycle of chaotic anxiety.

And of course, a sizable trauma in my life has only made things worse. A giant, "big deal" problem that my mind blames myself for has only served to strengthen this habit of constant self-analysis to the point where for the first time in my life I've experienced panic attacks, paranoia, and much more! *excited jazz hands*

So I've been going to therapy.

And something my counselor said on the very first day struck me. 

"Is your brain ever quiet?" 

I said, "no. It's not." 

"It can be," he smiled. "But you're going to have to teach it how, and that's going to be really hard."

I had never thought I could control what was going on up there *glances up into own brain*. I thought you could only stress about it.

But I'm awfully exhausted with the pattern. I've grown terrible tired of this three ring circus of anxiety, guilt, and paralysis. 

And I'm learning, slowly, how to be quiet again. 

It takes practice. There are techniques. 

But the most important thing was for me to realize that my brain can be quiet - my self analysis and critique can cease for however many minutes - and my world won't implode.

Lightening hasn't struck me.

The heavens haven't opened up and swallowed me.

I haven't become a wretchedly lost sinner.

In fact, in those hard-earned moments when I achieve true quiet, I sense God with me so much more than I do when my own brain is desperately fighting and panicking to make sense of Him and His ways through all my thoughts and feelings. 

Being quiet (truly, truly quiet) is nice.

It's important.

You should try it.

I am. 

Crying In Offices: PLANS CHANGE

So, this week was an emotional one for old SK.

Monday began with very little sleep after a long (fun... but long) weekend. I was late to my advising meeting, and arrived out of breath and lugging all my school supplies on one shoulder. I threw myself down and unrolled my MASTER PLAN FOR GRADUATING ON TIME and my advisor did something I didn't expect her to...

SHE LAUGHED AND LAUGHED AND LAUGHED.

"You're not graduating in a year!" She chortled. "It'll be at least THREE!"

And I cried and cried and cried.

"I'LL BE DEAD BY THEN," I wailed in anguish. "I'LL HAVE GRAY HAIR AND GRANDKIDS BY THEN! WHY MUST IT TAKE SO LONG!!"

"Because these classes," my advisor said gracefully, "....ALL HAVE PRE-REQS."

...and I cried... and I cried... and I cried...

"MOM!" I bellowed into the phone as I stormed out of the building. "IT'S GOING TO TAKE ME 17 MORE YEARS TO GRADUATE!" *tears upon tears upon tears*

I then explained to her that because of the nature of the classes in my major, I'm going to only need 6 more classes, but they are set up in a linear manner and can only be taken one after the other, THUS meaning while it will take me three years to graduate, I will only have one or two classes I need at a time, THUS meaning I'll be a part-time student.

MEH.

After some more weeping and gnashing of the teeth my mom said the dreaded words that no one wants to hear when they feel unjustly persecuted by cruel fate:

"Maybe it's all for the best."

BUT MOM, I LIKE BEING MAD ABOUT THIS!

"Maybe you can work more hours at the Y, save up money, have an interesting minor or something. Maybe it's for the best."

BUT

Maybe...

Yeah. That. 

Maybe it is for the best. 

And so, as my seething anger dissipated under my mother's soothing rationale, I realized:

MAYBE IT IS FOR THE BEST!

And so, this post serves not only as a public announcement that I'm going to be "in the area" for a whiiiiile... it also serves as a beautiful reminder of what we all should do in these kinds of situations.

CALL OUR MOMS!

Thank you, and goodnight.

The Practical Girl's Guide to Creeps

*sips mimosa* Oh - hello there, Reader. *rises from lounge chair and strolls towards you in a floor length white gown* 

Today, we're going to talk about the unwanted attentions of attractive, classy men. Something I know ALL about. *flips hair, lighthearted laughter*

Well, actually, no... I don't know about that. But what I do know about is what EVERY woman knows about.

CREEPS.

This post is not a serious one on the nature of horrible, evil men. No. I've written other posts on that topic *laughs bitterly*. Rather, I'd like to offer a few casual ideas to implement into your "you're creepy, stop it" arsenal. That's why today I'm here to give you:

THE PRACTICAL WOMAN'S GUIDE TO DEALING WITH BUMPTIOUS MALES

*applause*

And, I'd like you to notice how this article is not just about creepy people, but rather - bumptious creepy people. It's one thing to deal with slightly unnervingly weird people, but those suitors who may also be "self-assertive or proud to an irritating degree; pushy, pompous, overbearing, cocky, swaggering" are an entirely different matter, and these tips are tailored specifically for these kinds of people.

TIP #0: Avoid people!

This is a guaranteed way to get creepy people to leave you alone, butttttttt granted, it's probably not what you came here to hear, thus the designation as tip #0. But really, I recommend avoiding people whenever possible! It works.


TIP #1: Make use of less creepy people in order to combat the creepier ones.

For example - if a super creepy guy is trying to talk to you at a party (I wouldn't know, I don't go to parties...) you just need to find someone slightly less creepy who is willing to provide an escape from the creepiest person. So, the situation would look something like this...

Creepiest Person: Hey baaaaabe, you want to dance?
You: Oh, wow... I'd love to, but... *sights only moderately creepy person* Gotta go! *runs to creepy person*
Creepy Person: Hey!
You: HEYYY BEST FRIEND
Creepiest Person: Well, time to move on...

And then, once Creepiest Person is eliminated from the situation, all you need to do is ditch Creepy Person and, well, you're done! No more Creeps!

Capiche? Capiche. 


TIP #2: Let your friends handle it.

This means, upon receipt of an unwanted advance whether over phone call or text, handing the mobile device to a well-trusted friend. (Preferably one with a sense of humor.) Friends LOVE handling other people's bumptious males. It gives them a sense of fulfillment and also makes them feel trusted and included in your problems. It's a win-win!


TIP #3: Employ the "Mall Kiosk" principle. (AKA "Be Rude")

This isn't going to be easy for you pushovers well-mannered ladies, but I can assure you with practice you will get better. I want you to imagine that every creepy person who approaches you in a social setting is actually a man at a mall kiosk. Guy says, "hey can I get yo numbah?" and you might feel a sense of - well - pity, and... obligation. You might start to ramble about how you're sort of single but blah blah blah, and before you know it, Creepo has moved in for the kill. FAIL!

However. If a guy says, "hey can I sell you this overpriced flat-iron?", you KNOW your money is in grave danger and you put your shades over your eyes and speed-walk away. So just remember: if it works at the mall, it'll work anywhere. USE THE MALL-KIOSK PRINCIPLE WHENEVER POSSIBLE! Especially when there's more at stake than a flat-iron, ladies. THIS IS YOUR REPUTATION!


TIP #4: Give them your father's phone number.

This one is just for your own amusement.


TIP #5: Lie.

Do I need to explain this? Tell him you're engaged. MARRIED. Have herpes. No speak English. WHATEVER IT TAKES. Girl, I want your creative writing skills to SHINE. Trust me, I've seen my blogging greatly benefit from situations where I've had to employ falsehood. Some helpful examples of how to lie your way out of creeps are as follows:

Question: "Hey girl, you single?"
LIE: "No, well kinda, well - he gets of prison really soon - so I'm gonna go with no!"

Question: "Hey girl, wanna come over?"
LIE: "Yeah! Let me ask my dad if he'll bring me since I don't have my after-nines yet!"

Question: "Hey girl, can I take you to dinner?"
LIE: "Sorry, I'm not allowed to eat dinner! It's part of my religion. We have lotsssss of rules. I can't use utensils orhavesexbeforemarriagehahaha... But maybe we can get breakfast sometime!"

Question: "Hey girl, you looking for a good time?"
LIE: "Yeah, I need a distraction. Living with a highly contagious and crippling disease is really getting me down!"

Feel free to use these! I won't even ask for royalties.



*scene shimmers back into introductory setting*

*Sarah strolls toward you sipping on a mimosa*

And so, this brings us to the end of the Practical Girl's Guide to Creeps. I hope this helps. Just remember, for every good-looking, classy, well-mannered man, there's approximately 3874926862937281953 creeps out there.

Be careful ladies.

AND GOOD LUCK