I work in a trauma-rich environment. That's the actual phrase they use to describe my workplace. My work is not specifically "trauma-rich"--I'm the Business Manager. I handle Human Resources and budgeting and accounts payable and such. So it's not my job per se that is trauma-rich. It's the place where I work.
We provide services for children who have been sexually abused.
And here's the thing. Nationally, over 90% of children are sexually abused by someone they know, love, or trust. In my county, in the nearly 10 years I've tracked these stats, it's closer to 99%. Think on that for a minute. Ninety-nine percent of children are sexually abused by someone they know. Someone they trust. Someone they love. It might be a family member or a family friend, but it isn't a stranger hiding behind a bush to nab them. It's someone their parents have let into their lives. Or it's the parent him or herself.
That's trauma-rich for you.
Because of the nature of our workplace, and the space our therapists and interviewers and family advocate and intake coordinator hold for our children to tell their stories, we've been talking about self care. Self care really looks different for everyone . . . and most of us are better at declaring what it's not. At a recent staff meeting, we talked about how proper self care is built on a foundation of entering in. It's a foundation of feeling what there is to feel and then handling it appropriately (i.e. not drinking too much, swearing, yelling at everyone around you, or eating. I know, right?).
Entering in.
Experiencing the feelings.
Not numbing them.
Because numbing them means you aren't feeling them. And the drinking, swearing, yelling, eating, and escaping is all about numbing.
Well, great. Now what? Entering in feels very, very scary. And very painful. And the opposite of what I really want to do.
So I eat too much, or I yell, or I swear. And then I feel a bit better for a while. And then I go back to work or I have to "Mom" again or I somehow start to feel . . . and then I eat too much, or I yell, or I swear. And then the whole cycle starts over again.
And none of that is real or right or healthy or even all that helpful.
But there's a bigger problem. And the bigger problem is that when you numb what hurts you also numb what heals. Because numbing isn't self selective. You can't numb the bad without numbing the good. You can't escape the pain without also escaping the pleasure. At least that's what this TEDTalk lady said. She says humanity is about allowing yourself to be vulnerable. It's about entering in and sitting in the hurt and being honest about it. And she says it's impossible to connect without that.
As I sat there in our staff meeting and thinking about what she said (and how much I really wished someone had brought doughnuts to that staff meeting), I realized something. In the past I've written about my sensory processing disorder, and I've talked often about my own journey through postpartum depression and the meds and therapy that got me through that. What I maybe haven't mentioned is that for over a year I also took an antidepressant prescribed by my doctor simply because my sensory issues don't really lend themselves to having children and momming. Nice, right? So I dutifully took those pills, and I could make it through my days with work and kids and school and schedules.
And I made it through. And I didn't cry so much. And then I realized I didn't cry at all. And I didn't really laugh that much either. And I didn't really have a desire to write anymore or even the words to write. And I panicked when I realized I couldn't even really daydream. So I quit taking them. In my head I said, "Well, most writers are crazy. I'd rather have that crazy if it means I can create." But the truth was that I just wanted to cry again. I wanted to feel.
{Now I'm in no way advocating that everyone should get off their medication for depression or anxiety. I'm not even positive it was the right decision for me--and I definitely gained about 20 pounds, so one could argue I'm just doing a different kind of medicating--but it is something I needed to do. I needed to feel. BUT if you can't make it through your day and you can't enter in because you can't get out of bed, then you need to take something. If you can't enter in because all you can think about is hurting yourself or total escape, then you need to take something. If you can't enter in because you can't quiet your mind down enough to focus and breathe, then you need to take something. Please keep taking your something, but do it under a doctor's care and with a therapist who can help you safely enter in. And don't take yourself off your something without your doctor and your partner or close friends. Please.}
Our pastor is currently preaching through a series on The Lord's Prayer. A couple of weeks ago his message was on "Give us this day our daily bread." Our daily bread. What we need for today. He read Exodus 16 to us and preached about that manna. That "what is it?" That literal daily bread. Just enough for the one day.
I have so, so much. And I still want more. But He gave me Enough. Because that's who He is.
Enough.
Not more than I need. Not less than I need. Enough.
During the message, our pastor asked, "What do you complain about the most? What do you ask God for? A life of ease? A life of plenty? Or for your daily needs to be met?"
That really hit me.
Do I complain about not having enough? Do I complain about disappointment? Do I complain about discomfort? Or do I ask for my daily bread? Do I ask for justice? Do I ask for God's will? Do I simply ask for more God?
Do I ask for Ease?
Or do I ask for Enough?
When I ask for enough rather than ease or escape then I find that I had enough to begin with. That God, in His wisdom and knowing-all about my life, has already given me everything I need to enter in and rest in His enough.
Oh, it won't be easy. And I'll have to stop overeating or self medicating in whatever way is right in front of me. There will be pain, because that's what it means to be human. There will be vulnerability, and there will be times when it is so awful I want to stop. But when I enter in I will find that I have everything I need to make it through that day.
And I will laugh.
And I will cry.
And I will write.
And I will live.
(And hopefully I'll lose those 20 pounds.)
Showing posts with label honesty. Show all posts
Showing posts with label honesty. Show all posts
Monday, July 25, 2016
Wednesday, October 22, 2014
Reviewing: Steel Will
Steel Will
Staff Sgt (RET) Shilo Harris with Robin Overby Cox
Shilo Harris is one of the many veterans of the Iraq and Afghanistan wars who have come home with scars from wounds that anyone who comes across them can easily see. In fact, his scars are hard to avoid. Harris was riding in a Humvee that was blown up by an IED while he and his men were clearing a road referred to as Metallica. The blast caused his ears, part of his nose, and some of his fingers to be blown off, and the heat and flames from the ensuing fire burned much of his body. Due to the nature of these wars, wounds like this are nothing new. Harris and Cox detail many of them--all horrifying to imagine, but some gut wrenching to endure through Cox's almost too-vivid descriptions--in Steel Will.
What makes Staff Sgt. (RET) Shilo Harris different from many veterans is that he has chosen to talk about his journey. Steel Will is subtitled "My Journey Through Hell to Become the Man I was Meant to Be." This is an accurate description for the road he walked--he describes the flames and the heat so intense it caused ammunition in the Humvee to discharge and his uniform to melt into his body--and a figurative one as well. Harris doesn't shy away from sharing his own growing pains and mistakes as he grew up in the home of a Vietnam vet suffering from undiagnosed and self-medicated PTSD. He also doesn't shy away from his own selfishness as a young adult and the pain those choices caused for the people around him. So it's no surprise that he doesn't sugar coat the realities of living through his medically-induced coma as his body struggled to heal, the impact of his new life on his family, his guilt over surviving, the cost of his activism, and his children's desire to protect him from stares while they are together in public.
And, through it all, the missteps, the pain, the hell on earth, the hell in his mind, the suicidal thoughts, Harris credits God with helping him endure. I expected faith to play a bigger, more active role in the story Harris and Cox lay out in Steel Will. Instead, it is sort of an underlying theme. And, true to his willing transparency, the faith often belongs to Harris's wife. When he doesn't have his own, he draws on hers. When he can't draw on hers, he humbly draws on his young daughter's. In the end, the steel will to endure might not belong to Shilo Harris. It might belong instead to Kathreyn and Elizabeth Harris.
As the daughter of a former National Guard chaplain who survived my father's deployment to Iraq--a deployment that brought home a different father than he brought over--I can recognize that there are no unwounded soldiers. And there are no unwounded soldiers' families. Being one of those, this was a hard book to read. I read portions of it to my husband, and he asked me to stop. The descriptions turned his stomach. But you know what? Those are the costs of freedom. When we don't have family members or friends or neighbors who serve, it gets easy to debate the merits or horrors of war as theory. When we read a book like Steel Will we are forced to confront them. I think that even though it's hard, this is a book well worth reading. It's worth it to understand just a bit about where our soldiers and their families are and what they endure. It's also worth it to see that in our own ways, God brings each of us through a hell in order to make us into the people we were meant to be. And when it gets too hard to endure, He gives us the steel will of the faith of those around us to help us make it.
Disclosure: I received this book free from Baker Books through the Baker Books Bloggers program. The opinions I have expressed are my own, and I was not required to write a positive review. I am disclosing this in accordance with the Federal Trade Commission’s 16 CFR, Part 255.
Staff Sgt (RET) Shilo Harris with Robin Overby Cox
Shilo Harris is one of the many veterans of the Iraq and Afghanistan wars who have come home with scars from wounds that anyone who comes across them can easily see. In fact, his scars are hard to avoid. Harris was riding in a Humvee that was blown up by an IED while he and his men were clearing a road referred to as Metallica. The blast caused his ears, part of his nose, and some of his fingers to be blown off, and the heat and flames from the ensuing fire burned much of his body. Due to the nature of these wars, wounds like this are nothing new. Harris and Cox detail many of them--all horrifying to imagine, but some gut wrenching to endure through Cox's almost too-vivid descriptions--in Steel Will.
What makes Staff Sgt. (RET) Shilo Harris different from many veterans is that he has chosen to talk about his journey. Steel Will is subtitled "My Journey Through Hell to Become the Man I was Meant to Be." This is an accurate description for the road he walked--he describes the flames and the heat so intense it caused ammunition in the Humvee to discharge and his uniform to melt into his body--and a figurative one as well. Harris doesn't shy away from sharing his own growing pains and mistakes as he grew up in the home of a Vietnam vet suffering from undiagnosed and self-medicated PTSD. He also doesn't shy away from his own selfishness as a young adult and the pain those choices caused for the people around him. So it's no surprise that he doesn't sugar coat the realities of living through his medically-induced coma as his body struggled to heal, the impact of his new life on his family, his guilt over surviving, the cost of his activism, and his children's desire to protect him from stares while they are together in public.
And, through it all, the missteps, the pain, the hell on earth, the hell in his mind, the suicidal thoughts, Harris credits God with helping him endure. I expected faith to play a bigger, more active role in the story Harris and Cox lay out in Steel Will. Instead, it is sort of an underlying theme. And, true to his willing transparency, the faith often belongs to Harris's wife. When he doesn't have his own, he draws on hers. When he can't draw on hers, he humbly draws on his young daughter's. In the end, the steel will to endure might not belong to Shilo Harris. It might belong instead to Kathreyn and Elizabeth Harris.
As the daughter of a former National Guard chaplain who survived my father's deployment to Iraq--a deployment that brought home a different father than he brought over--I can recognize that there are no unwounded soldiers. And there are no unwounded soldiers' families. Being one of those, this was a hard book to read. I read portions of it to my husband, and he asked me to stop. The descriptions turned his stomach. But you know what? Those are the costs of freedom. When we don't have family members or friends or neighbors who serve, it gets easy to debate the merits or horrors of war as theory. When we read a book like Steel Will we are forced to confront them. I think that even though it's hard, this is a book well worth reading. It's worth it to understand just a bit about where our soldiers and their families are and what they endure. It's also worth it to see that in our own ways, God brings each of us through a hell in order to make us into the people we were meant to be. And when it gets too hard to endure, He gives us the steel will of the faith of those around us to help us make it.
Disclosure: I received this book free from Baker Books through the Baker Books Bloggers program. The opinions I have expressed are my own, and I was not required to write a positive review. I am disclosing this in accordance with the Federal Trade Commission’s 16 CFR, Part 255.
Monday, November 26, 2012
Overexposed
This is me. Baring my soul. It's easier to do when I'm sitting at Starbucks and you're wherever you are, and I don't need to look at you.
For a while now I have been thinking about writing this. Many of my friends have heard me share bits and pieces, and they take it with varying degrees of acceptance, humor, and belief. I love them anyway. Because it's weird. Like face blindness and other randommental disorders diseases conditions, a lot of people don't think I'm telling the truth or think it's just an excuse or something everyone lives with.
Here's my reality: It hurts to cut my toenails. I can't wear nylons. When headlights shine in my eyes when I'm driving at night, I want to hit something. I don't like the taste of the candy coating on brown M&Ms. When my kids are poking me and people are whispering and the overhead light is flickering and someone behind me is tapping his foot and my necklace is laying wrong on my neck, I feel like someone is inside me clawing to get out. I have a sensory processing disorder.
Most of my life was spent in the dark about it. I thought I was just sensitive. My parents thought I was just being dramatic. People saw me and thought I was fine, but I knew that I wanted to run and hide. Or hit someone. Or throw up. Or just sit down and cry.
Several years ago, my husband bought a book for me. It is called Too Loud, Too Bright, Too Fast, Too Tight. He bought it for me because he loves me and because he thought it sounded exactly like me. I read it. And I cried. For the first time, I discovered that it was real, that I was real. That I could trust what I was feeling. And I learned that while I couldn't cure it, I could cope with it. And I could tell people about it.
I've spent the last several years doing that. Telling people. Often it's in an apologetic way: "I'm sorry, but I can't eat that--it's too spicy for me." Sometimes it's in a defensive way: "Well, it's spicy to me." Other times it's in a pleading way: "Please. I'm overwhelmed right now. I need a break." For the most part, people are kind, and usually they want to learn more about it or say that maybe that's the same thing their nephew has. Some people even want to know how they can help. But there are others (of course there are) who say, "Yeah--those things bother me too. I just shut them out." or "Well, if you try hard enough you can get over it." or even "Right. You just always need things to be your way."
Listen, that's hurtful. I didn't choose to be this way, and I promise you that I would change it if I could. I wish I could eat spicy things or onions. It would make me feel like less of a problem. I wish I could sit in a hot tub. I wouldn't miss out on the fun or wreck other people's plans for the evening. I wish I could "tune out" the nylons or the necklace or the pretty sweater. I would be able to wear the latest fashions then. I wish I could be around my kids when they're "just being kids" and not feel overwhelmed. I would feel like a better mother.
At the same time, there are things about it that I would never give up. Did you know that Asiago Cheese Bread from D&W has so much flavor that it doesn't need butter or anything else? Do you know that the red M&Ms are actually a bit sweeter than any of the other colors? Do you recognize the smell of snow on the air days before it falls? Can you smell spring when the first thaw begins? Are you able to picture exactly where you set something down or the song that was playing the last time you were in this spot? Can you (almost always) notice when someone gets a haircut or new glasses?
When people ask me what it's like to have a sensory processing disorder, I never know what to say. I never know how to compare my response to a "normal" response, because I've never had a normal response. Everyone has days when they're overwhelmed, and Disney World puts everyone over the edge at some point in their stay. All I've ever known to say is that it's real, I have it, and I need a break.
Then I read The Lifeboat by Charlotte Rogan. Without knowing it, she gave me the words to explain--to myself and to the people around me--exactly what a sensory processing disorder does. On page 64, Grace Winter is recalling the Empress Alexandra and the passengers she met aboard. She writes about memory and refers to a scientific explanation for why memory is faulty. Then she suggests that "sometimes . . . the failure to remember is not so much a pathological tendency as a natural consequence of necessity, for at any one moment there are hundreds of things that could take a person's attention, but room for the senses to notice and process only one or two."
Ah. There you have it. That is normal. The senses notice and process only one or two of the things happening around them. But, in my "abnormal" brain, my disordered sensory processing system notices all of the hundreds and tries to process all of them at once. Then I have to shut down or explode or melt down.
It's real. And lately I've been overstimulated 99% of the time. Today I'm wearing my lightest necklace, and I still feel a bit panicky. My skin itches and my shoes feel like they're cutting off my circulation. Something burned in the kitchen at Starbucks and the coffee has been sitting in the carafe for too long. The guy next to me is wearing a cologne that doesn't suit me, and there's a drip in the sink. It would be helpful if they turned the music down and if the girls at the table over there stopped their chatting. The bathroom door needs to be oiled, and I wish the only open seat when I arrived didn't have windows on both sides of it. Oh, and to top it all off, the people waiting in line are kissing. Loudly. I'll manage--one of the open tabs on my browser will give instructions for a friend and me to make a weighted blanket to help me center again, and I found really great perfume that seems to get me back to zero--but it's a daily battle.
I nearly called this post "Living in This 'Too Loud Too Bright Too Fast Too Tight' World," but in the end I chose something even more appropriate. Overexposed--that's how my nerve endings and my brain feel every day. And that's especially how I feel now that I've shared all of this. I'm telling you it's hard to be a mom with a sensory processing disorder. It's hard when I recognize it in my middle daughter and when our responses clash. But I'm learning to cope. And I'm learning to share it with others just like I would tell them if I couldn't hear well and needed them to speak up. There's no cure for what I have, but if you'll be patient with me and if you'll believe me when I share my heart and if you'll ask me before you hug me, then maybe we'll both discover that there are so many wonderful things that my disordered brain can offer.
For a while now I have been thinking about writing this. Many of my friends have heard me share bits and pieces, and they take it with varying degrees of acceptance, humor, and belief. I love them anyway. Because it's weird. Like face blindness and other random
Here's my reality: It hurts to cut my toenails. I can't wear nylons. When headlights shine in my eyes when I'm driving at night, I want to hit something. I don't like the taste of the candy coating on brown M&Ms. When my kids are poking me and people are whispering and the overhead light is flickering and someone behind me is tapping his foot and my necklace is laying wrong on my neck, I feel like someone is inside me clawing to get out. I have a sensory processing disorder.
Most of my life was spent in the dark about it. I thought I was just sensitive. My parents thought I was just being dramatic. People saw me and thought I was fine, but I knew that I wanted to run and hide. Or hit someone. Or throw up. Or just sit down and cry.
Several years ago, my husband bought a book for me. It is called Too Loud, Too Bright, Too Fast, Too Tight. He bought it for me because he loves me and because he thought it sounded exactly like me. I read it. And I cried. For the first time, I discovered that it was real, that I was real. That I could trust what I was feeling. And I learned that while I couldn't cure it, I could cope with it. And I could tell people about it.
I've spent the last several years doing that. Telling people. Often it's in an apologetic way: "I'm sorry, but I can't eat that--it's too spicy for me." Sometimes it's in a defensive way: "Well, it's spicy to me." Other times it's in a pleading way: "Please. I'm overwhelmed right now. I need a break." For the most part, people are kind, and usually they want to learn more about it or say that maybe that's the same thing their nephew has. Some people even want to know how they can help. But there are others (of course there are) who say, "Yeah--those things bother me too. I just shut them out." or "Well, if you try hard enough you can get over it." or even "Right. You just always need things to be your way."
Listen, that's hurtful. I didn't choose to be this way, and I promise you that I would change it if I could. I wish I could eat spicy things or onions. It would make me feel like less of a problem. I wish I could sit in a hot tub. I wouldn't miss out on the fun or wreck other people's plans for the evening. I wish I could "tune out" the nylons or the necklace or the pretty sweater. I would be able to wear the latest fashions then. I wish I could be around my kids when they're "just being kids" and not feel overwhelmed. I would feel like a better mother.
At the same time, there are things about it that I would never give up. Did you know that Asiago Cheese Bread from D&W has so much flavor that it doesn't need butter or anything else? Do you know that the red M&Ms are actually a bit sweeter than any of the other colors? Do you recognize the smell of snow on the air days before it falls? Can you smell spring when the first thaw begins? Are you able to picture exactly where you set something down or the song that was playing the last time you were in this spot? Can you (almost always) notice when someone gets a haircut or new glasses?
When people ask me what it's like to have a sensory processing disorder, I never know what to say. I never know how to compare my response to a "normal" response, because I've never had a normal response. Everyone has days when they're overwhelmed, and Disney World puts everyone over the edge at some point in their stay. All I've ever known to say is that it's real, I have it, and I need a break.
Then I read The Lifeboat by Charlotte Rogan. Without knowing it, she gave me the words to explain--to myself and to the people around me--exactly what a sensory processing disorder does. On page 64, Grace Winter is recalling the Empress Alexandra and the passengers she met aboard. She writes about memory and refers to a scientific explanation for why memory is faulty. Then she suggests that "sometimes . . . the failure to remember is not so much a pathological tendency as a natural consequence of necessity, for at any one moment there are hundreds of things that could take a person's attention, but room for the senses to notice and process only one or two."
Ah. There you have it. That is normal. The senses notice and process only one or two of the things happening around them. But, in my "abnormal" brain, my disordered sensory processing system notices all of the hundreds and tries to process all of them at once. Then I have to shut down or explode or melt down.
It's real. And lately I've been overstimulated 99% of the time. Today I'm wearing my lightest necklace, and I still feel a bit panicky. My skin itches and my shoes feel like they're cutting off my circulation. Something burned in the kitchen at Starbucks and the coffee has been sitting in the carafe for too long. The guy next to me is wearing a cologne that doesn't suit me, and there's a drip in the sink. It would be helpful if they turned the music down and if the girls at the table over there stopped their chatting. The bathroom door needs to be oiled, and I wish the only open seat when I arrived didn't have windows on both sides of it. Oh, and to top it all off, the people waiting in line are kissing. Loudly. I'll manage--one of the open tabs on my browser will give instructions for a friend and me to make a weighted blanket to help me center again, and I found really great perfume that seems to get me back to zero--but it's a daily battle.
I nearly called this post "Living in This 'Too Loud Too Bright Too Fast Too Tight' World," but in the end I chose something even more appropriate. Overexposed--that's how my nerve endings and my brain feel every day. And that's especially how I feel now that I've shared all of this. I'm telling you it's hard to be a mom with a sensory processing disorder. It's hard when I recognize it in my middle daughter and when our responses clash. But I'm learning to cope. And I'm learning to share it with others just like I would tell them if I couldn't hear well and needed them to speak up. There's no cure for what I have, but if you'll be patient with me and if you'll believe me when I share my heart and if you'll ask me before you hug me, then maybe we'll both discover that there are so many wonderful things that my disordered brain can offer.
Saturday, February 18, 2012
The Reason
Recently a friend of mine sent me a text message. She wrote, "I am running errands and heard an Amy Grant song on the radio--what a great song and title for your blog."
This blog used to be called "Funny Writer Mommy." There's a joke between my Writer Friend and I that people like me because I'm funny. I used to be Funny Writer Girl, but then I became a mommy, and I thought I should grow up. But then one day I watched a slideshow depicting a day of radiation for the 10-year-old son of friends of mine from high school. Another former classmate of ours had taken the photos and put them into a slideshow with "Better Than a Hallelujah" playing in the background.
I couldn't think of a better sentiment either, especially for a life that seeks honest praise. So here it is. May my life truly be filled with hallelujahs and honesty that is sometimes better even than that.
This blog used to be called "Funny Writer Mommy." There's a joke between my Writer Friend and I that people like me because I'm funny. I used to be Funny Writer Girl, but then I became a mommy, and I thought I should grow up. But then one day I watched a slideshow depicting a day of radiation for the 10-year-old son of friends of mine from high school. Another former classmate of ours had taken the photos and put them into a slideshow with "Better Than a Hallelujah" playing in the background.
I couldn't think of a better sentiment either, especially for a life that seeks honest praise. So here it is. May my life truly be filled with hallelujahs and honesty that is sometimes better even than that.
God loves a lullaby"Better Than a Hallelujah," Sarah Hart and Chapin Hartford
In a mother's tears in the dead of night
Better than a Hallelujah sometimes
God loves the drunkard's cry
The soldier's plea not to let him die
Better than a Hallelujah sometimes
We pour out our miseries
God just hears a melody
Beautiful, the mess we are
The honest cries of breaking hearts
Are better than a Hallelujah
The woman holding on for life
The dying man giving up the fight
Are better than a Hallelujah sometimes
The tears of shame for what's been done
The silence when the words won't come
Are better than a Hallelujah sometimes
We pour out our miseries
God just hears a melody
Beautiful, the mess we are
The honest cries of breaking hearts
Are better than a Hallelujah
Better than a church bell ringing
Better than a choir singing out, singing out
We pour out our miseries
God just hears a melody
Beautiful, the mess we are
The honest cries of breaking hearts
Are better than a Hallelujah
We pour out our miseries
God just hears a melody
Beautiful, the mess we are
The honest cries of breaking hearts
Are better than a Hallelujah
(Better than a Hallelujah sometimes)
Better than a Hallelujah
(Better than a Hallelujah sometimes)
Monday, October 18, 2010
Where I Stand
A friend who has known me since college recently expressed surprise at learning some of my “social” (political) leanings. It was over Facebook, so I sat down to write a quick message back to her.
It happened to be right around National Coming Out Day, and it struck me that this was, for me, a bit of a coming out. I can’t possibly liken it completely to the coming out of our dear LGBTQ members of society, but it was still quite scary. I know that some in my circle wouldn’t look at me the same to know what really goes on in my head and why I struggle so much on the 1st Tuesday after the 1st Monday in November. I never know how to vote, because I never fit into one party. And I can hear the hateful talk from some people that I consider friends or at least close acquaintances. But I don’t think fear should keep anyone in the closet. Not the straight allies or the teenagers who realize they are gay or the politically moderate or the thoughtful followers of Christ. And I also think for me and the LGBTQ teens who are scared out of their minds about what will happen to them that there are more people than I think--and some of them will surprise me--who will fully support me and be proud of my courage. I also know that it really does get better.
So {breathes deeply}, here goes.
I have ALWAYS been a straight ally. :) I've just been closeted most of my life, because I get so sad when the debate comes into the church and the church is too often hateful. My cousin and one of my close friends (okay a couple) are gay, and I could be nothing but loving and supportive of them.
Beyond that, I would be a democrat if they believed in actually holding people accountable instead of just handing things out. I vote the issues, not the party. I didn't vote for Obama, but only because Beau and his gift of discernment didn't trust him. Now I'm glad I didn't. I'll be voting against Obama in 2012 (unless it's Sarah Palin, then I'm writing someone in), and I'll be voting mostly Republican in November, but not because they're Republicans. I'm an independent and would register that way if MI did that. I'm prolife, but pro all life in that I'm anti capital punishment and pro AIDS money and pro stem cell research. If I had to pick a hot-button issue, it's definitely not voting anti abortion, because I feel like we still don't offer enough support for young mothers and I believe that if you are going to vote against abortion then you damn well better be willing to love your daughter through her teen pregnancy or take in a child whose parents have decided to turn her out. And then, perhaps you should be willing to take on responsibility for that baby, too, so that the state doesn't have to. I don't think you can legislate morality. I think that parents who have extra embryos should be given the option to say they want them used for stem cell research instead of being "forced" to keep them frozen or adopt them out. And I'm pro civil union and same sex partner benefits. I think that there is no reason that uniting with a partner for life should be prohibited for those who are LGBTQ through no choice of their own. And, as someone once said, why should the heterosexuals have the market on getting divorced? Being gay isn't leading to the downfall of our society, but being stupid and ignorant and a workaholic and hateful and abusing your kids is. Legislate hate if you really want to make a difference. I don't think that if you hand out condoms in schools or offer a needle exchange program you are giving your blessing to premarital sex and IV drug use; I just think you're saving someone's life. And, at the end of the day, that's what I want to do. I'm sure that I'm "wrong" on some of this and that I don't understand fully what the Bible is saying. But if I'm going to err, which I am, because I'm human, then I'd rather err on the side of compassion. That's what Jesus did. And I'm an independent follower of Jesus. I was Conservative growing up, and then I became Liberal for a while. I've probably moved a bit more Conservative, but mostly I've become more gray. More gray for everyone else and more black and white for me. I was watching an old episode of The West Wing (best show ever) recently, and Bartlet says to Toby, "It's MY Catholicism." As in, the standards that God has for me are my standards to keep, not my standards to make sure everyone else keeps.
Whew. Feels good. Come what may.
It happened to be right around National Coming Out Day, and it struck me that this was, for me, a bit of a coming out. I can’t possibly liken it completely to the coming out of our dear LGBTQ members of society, but it was still quite scary. I know that some in my circle wouldn’t look at me the same to know what really goes on in my head and why I struggle so much on the 1st Tuesday after the 1st Monday in November. I never know how to vote, because I never fit into one party. And I can hear the hateful talk from some people that I consider friends or at least close acquaintances. But I don’t think fear should keep anyone in the closet. Not the straight allies or the teenagers who realize they are gay or the politically moderate or the thoughtful followers of Christ. And I also think for me and the LGBTQ teens who are scared out of their minds about what will happen to them that there are more people than I think--and some of them will surprise me--who will fully support me and be proud of my courage. I also know that it really does get better.
So {breathes deeply}, here goes.
I have ALWAYS been a straight ally. :) I've just been closeted most of my life, because I get so sad when the debate comes into the church and the church is too often hateful. My cousin and one of my close friends (okay a couple) are gay, and I could be nothing but loving and supportive of them.
Beyond that, I would be a democrat if they believed in actually holding people accountable instead of just handing things out. I vote the issues, not the party. I didn't vote for Obama, but only because Beau and his gift of discernment didn't trust him. Now I'm glad I didn't. I'll be voting against Obama in 2012 (unless it's Sarah Palin, then I'm writing someone in), and I'll be voting mostly Republican in November, but not because they're Republicans. I'm an independent and would register that way if MI did that. I'm prolife, but pro all life in that I'm anti capital punishment and pro AIDS money and pro stem cell research. If I had to pick a hot-button issue, it's definitely not voting anti abortion, because I feel like we still don't offer enough support for young mothers and I believe that if you are going to vote against abortion then you damn well better be willing to love your daughter through her teen pregnancy or take in a child whose parents have decided to turn her out. And then, perhaps you should be willing to take on responsibility for that baby, too, so that the state doesn't have to. I don't think you can legislate morality. I think that parents who have extra embryos should be given the option to say they want them used for stem cell research instead of being "forced" to keep them frozen or adopt them out. And I'm pro civil union and same sex partner benefits. I think that there is no reason that uniting with a partner for life should be prohibited for those who are LGBTQ through no choice of their own. And, as someone once said, why should the heterosexuals have the market on getting divorced? Being gay isn't leading to the downfall of our society, but being stupid and ignorant and a workaholic and hateful and abusing your kids is. Legislate hate if you really want to make a difference. I don't think that if you hand out condoms in schools or offer a needle exchange program you are giving your blessing to premarital sex and IV drug use; I just think you're saving someone's life. And, at the end of the day, that's what I want to do. I'm sure that I'm "wrong" on some of this and that I don't understand fully what the Bible is saying. But if I'm going to err, which I am, because I'm human, then I'd rather err on the side of compassion. That's what Jesus did. And I'm an independent follower of Jesus. I was Conservative growing up, and then I became Liberal for a while. I've probably moved a bit more Conservative, but mostly I've become more gray. More gray for everyone else and more black and white for me. I was watching an old episode of The West Wing (best show ever) recently, and Bartlet says to Toby, "It's MY Catholicism." As in, the standards that God has for me are my standards to keep, not my standards to make sure everyone else keeps.
Whew. Feels good. Come what may.
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