Compassion is Revolution

I love stickers. I love bumper stickers, laptop stickers, stars for good grades, decals... ALL the stickers. This summer I bought several stickers to put on my laptop. One of them says "Compassion is Revolution." I liked it at the time because I really like the word compassion. It's under-utilized, I think. It is a pretty-sounding word, and its relative connotations give me a warm feeling. Compassion. It's great. But the sticker didn't mean much more to me than that word. I was happy with that word and hadn't really put meaningful thought into is revolution.

But wow is that a powerful statement.

The other day my professor saw it on my laptop in class and said she liked it. As is expected, when someone draws attention to something, you see it again when your eyes had become too accustomed to its presence. And so I looked at it, smiled at her, and said thank you. I began to think about those words, because a part of me was very interested in what had drawn her attention to it. Perhaps she too has a bit of an attachment to the word compassion. Or maybe she had really considered the whole body of the sentence. So I decided the latter was probably more accurate because, really?, she is a nazi grader and the woman misses nothing.

So I felt the need to reevaluate that yellow and purple sticker. Compassion is Revolution. I wanted to know what exactly that meant to me.

At first I thought of a pay-it-forward kind of response, but somehow that felt too obvious and novel to be right. So I reconsidered my interpretation. What I decided on was this: Compassion is more than an individual act. Compassion is not just being kind to someone when you know they're struggling. Compassion is being a whole person who is in touch with their inter-connectedness with the world. Compassion is feeling pain because someone--anyone--else is suffering. Compassion is knowing a person's crimes and loving them without condition. Compassion is pain and it is joy. It is the pain of accepting the evils of the world. It is the joy of feeling connected to all other beings. It's a comfort. Each of us is compassionate, but not each of us is in touch without our compassion or ready to act upon it for whatever reason. The inability to express compassion is a sickness.

Enlightenment is a kind of revolution. When I make a lifestyle change, I have called for revolution within my own self as an individual. But if each of us is connected. If we are a greater being as residents of this big, blue planet... then that revolution within me is a revolution within all. Now, when I first had that thought, I was quick to correct myself. Just because I have done something kind does not mean that someone else will choose not to rape or murder or assault. I am smart enough to know that a single action does not save the world, no matter how we wish it would. But then I chose a different angle. When I commit an act of kindness, I am acknowledging that I have that capacity. That is the revolution.

Compassion is revolution only when you become aware that it is. You are revolutionizing yourself, which in turn creates a tiny revolution in this greater world. Each act of compassion will affect someone new. And if, now that we've dug a litter deeper, you would like to implement pay-it-forward into the theory, feel free. Feel free to do so, loves. Because honestly, there isn't much hope in the statement as I have perceived it. It is more of a demand or expectation than a soft statement. Revolution is personal, but our interconnectedness means it matters to the whole world. Perhaps for every door I hold or smile I wear, I will spur revolution within someone else. There is hope in that. There is hope in thinking that we can fix the world with individual acts of compassion. I'm not sure I really believe that. There will always be evil. There will always be debilitating pain that sickens a person and creates evil within their heart. Always always. But there will always be goodness in the world if we can find it within ourselves. It is our human responsibility to revolutionize our hearts to compassion.

I can't fix this world, but if I'm dying anyway, then I will die trying.

After the shooting in Connecticut, I didn't want to post hastily about gun control and mental health and the shallowness of people on Facebook and Twitter about the whole tragedy. I didn't want to write insensitively about something so painful, so real when the child who is most precious to me is in kindergarten now. I didn't want to write with a reactive vendetta for all the wrongs in this world. I've done that before, and there are consequences for thoughtlessness. But I've had time to sort through those feelings, and I'm as ready as I'll ever be to speak about it.

Tanglewood Press has made a really beautiful statement with the help of a Connecticut mom and Audrey Penn. Go to the link to be a part of that.
That whole project inspired me from speechless disbelief to hopeful action. The only way to confront Evil is the produce Good. "Be the change you want to see in the world," right? But I feel only a hate that I don't even try to drive away when those bastards at Westboro Baptist capitalize on people's pain. But the public support gathered to block their idiot cries trying to make their statement of hate gave me hope. Hope has been in short supply lately. (Quite literally, as the One Hope United employees will tell you. My mom collects hope trinkets and ornaments that are only sold this time of year among peace and love items. But for some reason, in cruel irony, the have been nearly impossible to find this year.)

But I found it.

I've looked to the things that make me feel better. I paid for the guy behind me in the drive-thru at Starbucks today--a guy in a piece of shit car, smoking a cigarette, and petting a cat sitting on the console. That made me feel better. Being a part of giving those kids at One Hope the best fucking Christmas of their lives... that made me feel better. It's not that I'm a saint or anything. I'm doing this to prove to myself that enough Good will drive out Evil. The generosity of those who donated to One Hope brought on a regular flood of tears. It's as if those people were doing what I was doing--they were proving to themselves that the world doesn't suck. The world has been acting shitty lately, you know? But even with the lack of hope, in the way that I sought hope, so have so many others. Among Mom's gifts from coworkers, hope was bountiful. It was nearly, but not quite impossible to find.

That's my sweater, bitch ;)

When a mom smacks her kid in Wal Mart, Kayla is tickling the piss out of Julian. For every child (and parent) at Sandy Hook, The Kissing Hand will provide much needed comfort. There is plenty of Evil in the world. Plenty, plenty. But there are good, good people. And we can make a difference. You don't have to save all the starving children in Africa to do that, though. You can just wrap presents for kids who don't have a family to spend the holiday with. You can help out at a soup kitchen (props to Noah), and you can forgive that dude that cut you off on your way to work.

I just read John Green's The Fault in Our Stars (you can stop judging me for dropping the ball on reading. I'm catching up, okay?) and I finished it in a night. I stayed up past my self-designated bedtime to finish it, sobbing alone in my room. The world is trying to prove its fragility to me. Hazel Grace is telling me, Connecticut is telling me, Hurricane Sandy is telling me... You can't turn on the television (something I gave up a long time ago) without those images forcing themselves into your conscious. The Fault in Our Stars hit me hard, probably because I'm already in an estrogen-induced, emotional break down, but it knocked me on my ass. Hazel is me if I were dying. Which, she would point out, I am. But if I was made more aware of my dying, I think I would be a lot like Hazel. Or maybe I have a flawed view of myself--I tend to judge others more accurately than myself. But in her voice I heard myself. Fragility. That's the word ringing in my head. I'm living a very fragile life. There's only a few cancerous tumors between Hazel Grace and I. There's only a few states between my precious babies and Sandy Hook. I can't fix this world, but if I'm dying anyway, then I will die trying.

How do you define success?

So, I got out all my frustration on the subject of Kyle. I was personally offended, and I shouldn't have been. It isn't my life. Our lives have been so thoroughly intertwined for so long that is seems like a personal thing. Of course I think it's a bad decision. The people from whom I'd take advice think so too. Until recently, Kyle would have asked me first. Instead he acted quickly before I could change his mind. These are the facts. And I don't care about the finer details, because oftentimes the closer we look at things, the less of them we see.

1. He was a junior in college and dropped out.
2. He tried to get a job from the time he entered college, never getting a real one that he could hold down. He finally got a job at a gas station near his Terre Haute house. He missed the first day and was fired.
3. He doesn't have a job now. He plans to look for one in Marshall--but the job market is slim, and without an education, there isn't much for him.
4. He is living with his sister's boyfriend in an apartment. Clearly he is not paying rent.
5. He is smoking pot regularly--with money he can't afford to spend; with money he didn't spend on school. He plans on buying his childhood home--which will put him in debt. But he was morally opposed to the debt school put him in. Life is full of debt. It's inescapable.

Perhaps I just measure success differently than he does. Perhaps I see success as getting an education. As getting a job in a field of your study that you're interested in and care about. As making your voice heard. As being a good role model to children. I measure those things that I do at Waycross as success. I measure my current job as success. I measure the hard work I'm putting into this degree as success. And sometimes I get sad. I do. Sometimes I get so overwhelmed I feel like I'll never get out. I do. But I'm smart enough to know that so does everyone else. And we're all in this together. When Shannon had a ton to do last week, I sat with her in the library and entertained myself. And as I study for my big German exam, she is designing her Halloween costume right beside me. German is hard. But when I get those grades back, I'm proud of myself. I work my ass off and I see something for it. That is success to me.

So. Maybe that's just me. I'd say it's most people, honestly. But Kyle isn't most people. He's never going to be. He's more concerned with the way things should be than the way they are. He's gets so lost in his thoughts that he can't see what's in front of them. He is an extremist. He is so opposed to our societal structure that he's just opted out of it. But you can't ever really opt out of it. You still have to pay for your food. You still have to wear clothes when it's cold. You still have to pay for a house.You still have to pay taxes. You still have to pay for the gas to meet those you love (assuming you have a car).

The rules don't change. You can't get out of those things. All you can legitimately opt out of is a job that requires an education. You still have to pay to feed your drug habit. Money has to come from somewhere. Now it will just come from a job that doesn't involve writing, or thinking, or relationships, or art, and will start off at minimum wage. But again. Maybe that's what he wants. Maybe he's okay with getting a fast food job and writing blog posts. If that makes him happy, then so be it. It's just not what I'd expected from him. I saw a different path for him. But it's not my story to write.

There are times that I've wished I could just ditch these rigid structures of school. job. family. house... I understand that feeling. But school is my favorite part of all that. I like the discussions I have in classes. I like what I'm learning. There will be classes I don't like--but you can't always get what you want. I love school. I'd love to live more freely--but I'll make that happen. I'm going to create a kind of happiness and freedom in my life based on those things that I learn on this campus. I'm figuring out with the people here what my options are--how I can turn the things I love into a career. And I can't wait. I can't wait to graduate and find a grad school. I can't wait to figure out what I'm going to do. I can't wait to travel and see the world. ISU is practically PAYING me to do it!

I measure success as trial and triumph. I think in a phrase, that's how I'd describe it. Trial and Triumph. I want to know how y'all define success. Comment me, bitches. :)

Also: These pictures don't have a lot to do with the rest of the post. I know. But they were hysterical, and even a moderate connection was worth sharing them.

On Compassion, Self Love, and Roadkill

The air smells of pleasant decay—the pleasant smell of dying trees. I often say road kill smells good. I get looks. It’s not that I want to bottle it and replace my Chanel, no. I just acknowledge the inevitability of death. I don’t think it’s gross. It doesn’t even make me that sad anymore (although I still hold a soft spot for cats), because that animal meant nothing to me in its life, and it doesn’t mean anything to me in its death. That comes up often in my mind. 9/11 was no exception to my confusion. So, distorted faces and that quickly drawn air held tightly in our lungs comes from… nothing real. Breathe it in. I breathe that body in the same way I take in the smell of drying leaves. Neither could have lived forever, and that would be an exhausting life indeed.

Roadkill

 I have to remind myself constantly that much of what I “hate,” or “dislike,” or “find unattractive,” is culturally instilled and doesn’t much reflect the way I really feel. Culture is inescapable—we are influenced by where we come from and who has ever meant anything to us. That is part of what makes all of us so interesting. There is a culture within my household that can never be replicated anywhere. That’s brilliant. But yet: I find that I’m getting to a point in my life in which the harm of value judgments is becoming apparent. Just as culture is inescapable, so is judgment. But for years I used that as an excuse for being an insecure bitch. (I was pretty normal in that regard.) That insecurity was masked by my ability to focus the attention on someone else; on someone with pants that are too tight, or someone who is awkward, or even someone who is unkind to others. That’s an interesting concept. Two wrongs, eh?

 Judgment isn’t all that inescapable—it’s just really fucking hard. It’s that hard for three reasons, I think. 1) I do it all the time, and it’s hard to catch. 2) I’m mortified at how often I do it. 3) I force myself to consider why I was thinking or saying that—about others or myself.

I’d say number three is the hardest. It’s exhausting to delve into my insecurities all the time. It’s exhausting to figure out where they come from. And more than exhausting it’s painful.

I’m trying really hard. It’s going to make me a better, happier person. Just like deciding road kill doesn’t actually smell that bad and daddy longlegs are acceptable snacks, and that I should not be sad for the loss of someone I don’t know; most of the parts of our world that we think are bad, are not a big deal, and we'd be happier if we stopped hating. I assert that everyone is good. Every single person is good. Everyone does bad things. Sometimes those bad things are unforgiveable—that’s the nature of human relationships: feelings get hurt. But behind those bad things are feelings of inadequacy or pain. You can’t tell me that in a moment of sadness you’ve never lashed out at someone. Sometimes that’s all I ever see of someone. That happens to all of us. We have one interaction with someone, and it was bad—so we assume we don’t like them, right? And it’s not that I pity them. I don’t pity my “enemies.” I just acknowledge their goodness. I’d want someone to do the same for me.

I hate what religion does to people oftentimes. I hate that the goodness of a person is masked by the hate they’ve been taught. And you know what? That is a lot bigger than ignorance. There are things I know nothing about, that I’m ignorant to, but because compassion is already within us, I can be kind to them. Ignorance isn’t the problem—it’s learning the wrong thing. And still. I don’t pity those people. I will still be kind to them, as hard as it is for me. I will be kind to the goodness in them, and as it arises, I will be honest about my distaste for what I know is incorrect in them. Hate is taught.

Lately this has been on my mind. Actually, it’s on my mind all the time, because apparently I am ruthless in there. And I wanted to share it. I know I talk about this a lot in a lot of different ways. But it took a few different takes for me to finally understand what it means to be compassionate. And I’ve made it clear that I believe we all have it in us. Based on your culture of home, it’s harder for some to get there, but I know it’s possible. And compassion towards others and yourself is the only way to learn to love yourself. The only way. I repeat that statement with an emphasis I can’t give you with the written word.

Love the shit out of yourself. Look (really, really hard if necessary) for the good in others. Tell that voice that tells you that you look fat in that dress you love to shut the hell up. Because you know that hearing it from someone else does nothing. You have to believe it yourself. I just talked to Sara about this, which is why I decided to make a post. I think Sara and I are kicking our own asses, and one another’s. Let me know if you want in on the love.

Lord I'm 500 miles from my home.

I'm really sad today. I'm just sad in general right now. I'm thinking about a lot of things--dwelling really. I think I'm getting depressed again. I want to fight it, but I'm getting to that place where fighting it hurts more than living it. All I can do is keep going and keep on top of the things that need done. I'm kind of happy I have Chi Omega right now, because I have a reason to wake up and actually shower and take care of myself. Through recruitment we need to represent Chi Omega well. All I want to do is sleep.

So, apparently I wasn't a rebound. But the fact of the matter is I was too much for him. Right now he needs someone that doesn't need to be taken care of because he needs to take care of himself... whatever. It made me think, though: am I just too messed up for a relationship? I've already cut myself off from boys for a while now. I know how bad they are for me, and I know I was looking, which is never good. Love should come to me, I think. Today James said, "My grandma used to say that we live to find love, we don't love to find life. I think that's what you need." He's so right. And that resonated with me after a little time in the car gave me time to process that. I was looking. But I couldn't help but wonder if I am just too much for someone else to take care of. Am I so difficult that I'm one of those project relationships--will people take me on to try to fix me? Because I know how poorly those turn out. So, after that thought, the first thing I considered was just waiting. Maybe in time I'll have my life better together and I'll be good for someone. But then that disquieting word--maybe--slapped me in the face. What if I'm never better than I am right now? What if my whole life will be this roller coaster of ups and downs? What if when I need medication adjustments I become too much to take? What if I always struggle with self harm? What if I spend my whole life falling in love with people who are scared of me?

I thought of all these things as I was driving away from camp with NPR playing quietly in the background, only to make me feel less alone. I've never known someone with bipolar that had a positive, healthy romantic relationship. Bipolar people are great for some things. They are writers and actors. They're movers and shakers... but they never seem to have love. And that thought scares me. I'm working on being okay alone, which is hard, but I can't help but try to look to the future and hope that I find someone. I can't help but hope that I'll have that camp wedding I always dream of, and that I'll have babies that don't have to have bipolar disorder. I wouldn't wish this feeling on anyone right now.

He wanted me back Friday, after he dumped me Thursday. He told me that he missed me, Madeline Webster, Queen of the Gollywhops. He said I made him believe in love again. He said he'd made a terrible mistake, and he couldn't believe he'd let me go. But Wednesday night... he was with someone else. So I knew those feelings had to have a parallel conflict he didn't want me to see. So, against the calls of my heart, I said no. I said no even though he wanted me to believe that he wanted me. And today, Labor Day, four days later, he again doesn't want me. I see it was a wise decision to hold strong. Because no matter how much he "loves me," he doesn't love me enough to withstand my bipolar disorder. And maybe it's just the place he is in his life--I can accept that. But when love is real, none of that matters. When love is real, you can't imagine your life without someone. When love is real, you don't even consider loving someone else. When love is real, you're willing to take anything thrown your way: distance, stress, mental illness...

So, he dumped me Thursday. I'd planned on meeting his family this weekend, and so I hadn't signed up to work at Waycross for Family Camp. But when it happened, I knew I needed camp. I knew that I needed support, distraction, exercise, and music. So I emailed Eric, and he let me work, but I didn't get paid. I spent a total of $65 dollars in gas to get there and back and make my runs in Brown County. But I didn't even care. I was just so happy to be there. It was so good for me. The thought of Jacob still hurt a lot, but I managed to make it through the weekend with growth and a greater sense of peace. I think it'll take a while to heal now. I'm still very hateful towards him.

I'm maddest because he was the one that wanted to look so far ahead. Somehow that assured me, because he was willing to believe in long term when Drew wouldn't even commit to now. We seemed so good for each other. He promised to love me despite everything I was afraid he'd leave me for; everything I'm still afraid I'll be left for. And after rushing so quickly into things, he dumped me so quickly. I'm mad because even after he played on my emotions trying to get me back, he managed to change his mind so quickly again. I can exist as a fleeting thing. He can want me and not want me three times in the course of a weekend. I was mad because I felt deceived. But I have to catch myself when I'm mad at him for not wanting me. That really isn't fair. In that instance I'm not mad at him. I'm mad at my fear that no one will look far enough past my crazy to love me. Because honestly, at this point I'm not grieving him.

If he doesn't want me, he doesn't. And I have almost entirely retrained my brain to not want him anymore too. I can't even imagine myself ever being desperate enough to make that mistake. But I am grieving the hope I've lost. I think when I was looking, like I'd said before, I was looking for assurance that I was lovable despite my mood swings, and my scars, and my depression... and I thought I'd found that in Jacob. But I was wrong. And that's why it hurt so much. Because the very thing I was looking for in love, was the very reason I lost it.

I'm getting sick. My throat is sore, my head hurts... I'm just miserable really. I'm disgusting and I need a shower. I miss camp. But here I am, back at school, fretting about this homework I need to scan and email, and looking at the mess in my room fearing that I don't have the will to pick it up. It's going to take everything I have to shower and get to the library. I'm listening to Peter Paul & Mary, which is practically my camp soundtrack. 500 Miles just played. And I think it's true. I have no idea how many miles camp is from me right now, but it's too many. And not just camp, but those people who make camp what it is. They're my home too. And it's all so far away that it physically hurts. I feel it in my bones that there is where I belong. And soon I'll return to clear trails, or fix bikes, or work on the new archery field... and I'll find peace again. And maybe someday I'll learn to bring that peace home.

Deciding to Be Happy

It's that easy really. It's no different than deciding to wear flats as opposed to flip flops or to read instead of play video games. We spend a lot of time convincing ourselves that emotion is a matter of conditions and that God helps us to find happiness. Only through Him can we find true happiness. And I believed that. I really did. I thought spirituality and fixing everything in my life would make me happy. So I tried to always get things right. I tried to get everything done all the time on time, I tried to be on-time everywhere I went, I tried to make everyone happy, I tried to be perfect.

Now I call bull shit.

Happiness came from within me. It was just a realization. I cannot base it on God; because of that I'm uncertain. I need something a little more substantial. The God that could make me happy was also the God that put me in a position in which I felt the pain for which I was asking relief. That was too complex a circular argument for me to really see the light at the end of the tunnel.

And perfection? It's impossible. The people I wanted to emulate were also imperfect. And many of my "imperfections" were rather insecurities. Every person has a purpose. Every person is unique and important. And I don't need a divine plan to believe that. I just do. I assert that every person wants to do the right thing. Perhaps I'm too optimistic, but it's a genuine belief of mine. And it's one I cannot abandon, no matter what system of Truth I do or do not adhere to. I have chosen to love without condition--especially those who have felt the slap of condition in play. It's stupid. I love you, dammit. I do. All of you, because you're all important.

And so am I. I cannot believe that every person has importance and value and include the greatest offenders yet not include myself. And on that point: I said without condition, and I meant it. But I do not mean that I do not get angry. I get angry all the time. I get sad all the time. But I'm careful about what I choose to be angry or sad about. I choose to be angry when someone has purposefully hurt me or another. I choose to be sad when I see suffering. I think we need to be angry and sad. But again, I choose to be. I could be numb instead, but I don't think that accomplishes much. Maybe nothing accomplishes anything. Maybe there is some "divine plan" that will play out no matter my decisions. But I have no reason to believe that. So instead I focus on what I can do to make the world a better place. I focus on being just angry enough to be a soldier on the side of good. I am just sad enough to empathize with people in pain. (<--Those apply to myself as well. Things happen to me to make me angry and sad. Obviously.) But I am happy enough to grasp tightly to that weighted word, the word of the moment: hope. I am happy enough to believe that happiness is possible for everyone who is informed enough to see it.

I love everyone because I want everyone to find this palpable happiness as I have. I genuinely care that everyone gets there. Even the hardest people to love... it is no effort. I've simply decided to love them in spite of their flaws. Because who ever got better by being sad? Who ever got better by condemnation? Hm?! The world won't get better until we love regardless of a person's flaws... especially those "flaws" that are unimportant: "She stole my boyfriend." "She wore the same prom dress as me." "He likes Justin Bieber?!" "He was lookin' at my girl." <--I believe those are just distractions. They are distractions from a person's own unhappiness. They are not problems that really mean anything to a person's life or happiness. It's so easy to pick on those things that don't matter to give your life a little more meaning--to make yourself right and better in some capacity; when all you've done is harm yourself. You've distracted yourself from self-discovery, afraid of what you might find.

And here's a little secret from a former-self-loathing-depressed-chica: You are just fine. If you really look at yourself, there's nothing there that's that scary. If you decide before you walk in, that you're going to love yourself regardless of what you find, and that fixing anything you aren't proud of is as easy as putting on a damn pair of flip flops, then you're going to be okay. Addiction is as easy as treatment and self-love. Arrogance is as easy as humility... and a greater sense of self-love. (I have a theory that most arrogant people pretty much hate themselves as much as most people.) Everything is as easy as a decision, and the decision is as hard as you make it.

You know. I used to say I was a humanist and a realist. I used to think those contradicted, which was hard on me, because I believed two things that put me at war with myself. But I wasn't sure how to define that contradiction, so in order to prove my point, I looked up humanism in the dictionary.

"A variety of ethical theory and practice that emphasizes reason, scientific inquiry, and human fulfillment in the natural world and often rejects the importance of a belief in God."

I kind of laughed when I read it. I don't think I'd ever actually known what all of that really meant. I just agreed with a lot of humanists whom I'd read quotes by on captioned photos on the internet. I seriously need to do my homework more. But it wasn't funny because I hadn't really known the definition. It was funny because I didn't fit the description until I'd felt unsure enough to look it up. There was a special kind of irony there that I simply could not overlook.

I had initially decided not to look up the definition of realism, but later went back to do that. I found this:

"Interest or concern for the actual or real, as distinguished from the abstract, speculative, etc."

So, as I understand it, it's completely semantics as to whether or not these can coexist harmoniously. So I'm still going to say I'm both. Because I believe that things are as they are. They are not cosmically inspired or magically created to pave a road to a greater life. I believe firmly that things occur in our life not for any reason, but that reason comes from things that occur. God did not make Kairyn born without fingers. Genetics did. There was no good reason for that. But now that she has her beautiful, scarred fingers to show us, she's going to teach us a lot about strength, acceptance, and the capacity for cruelty in our elementary school children. I choose to believe that she has given us a gift with her trials, and not that her trials were a gift.

And that is the secret of happiness. I don't look for a reason for occurrences. I don't look to a plan for the future. I focus on here and now. One foot in front of the other. I'm worried about where I am and the people I'm with. I'm interested in what they have to teach me. I'm interested in what these people say and believe and do in spite of those. I want to make people happy, not by altering myself, but by showing them how easy that decision is. I want to introduce hope to a blind populace. That is my responsibility and I accept it wholeheartedly.

WIND CHIME IN MY EYEBALL!

*Disclaimer: I feel comfortable giving my grandma this much shit because these are all things I would have (or already have) said to her. Because we love each other a lot, I can get away with making fun of her hoarding tendencies.

My grandma, like most old ladies, loves wind chimes. She loves all lawn ornaments and porcelain collectors' items that collect dust, bird shit, and that attack my face. But I’m pretty sure my grandma likes them more than the average bionic woman. Our cat, Maybeline, jumped up on my lap while I was chatting her up as she tried to ignore me so she could watch reruns of Criminal Minds (which I happen to know she’s seen every episode of because we watched them at the same time in different rooms and yelled comments to one another over the TV during commercials), and broke one of her thousands of porcelain angels. The wing fell somewhere into the chair I was sitting in, and when I found it I was all, “which trash do you want her in?” and she flipped, telling me she liked the angel to smile at her while she watched TV.

I think if an angel has a painted smile on her face, then she’s not actually smiling at anyone. Maybe she’s actually miserable inside and hates our house, but because the smile is painted there she can never express her true feelings. But Grandma doesn’t know that. She chooses to believe that the angel actually represents the person who gave it to her (whose name escapes her). SHE BELIEVES A LIE! So I just put the angel back on her Bose stereo (for her audio books. She actually asked us if it was a good one, and we were like, “No, Grandma. A Bose stereo is shitty,” and when we saw the lack of recognition on her face we said, “yes, Grandma. That’s a very, very good stereo.” She doesn’t know what to believe anymore.). Mom figured we could just put tape on the back because she only ever looks at the smiling side anyway. Only guests have to look at her ass. But we left that decision to her.

And then there are the wind chimes. They are everywhere. And they have taken over the porch and have circled the entire house. And I’ve never minded that much because, although aesthetically awkward, they do make pretty sounds and it is her house. But my sister Kayla just got her a new one. Wind chimes are kind of a fallback gift for Grandma. If you have no idea what the hell to get her for Christmas, just walk around Cracker Barrel with a blindfold on and pick something up. You’ll make her day.

So because there’s literally no more room to hang something up outside, she hung it from the fan in our living room, something she’s always done. That would be fine if the metal rods were a few inches long. But they’re not. Duh. The title can tell you that much. This particular one is long enough to hit myself in the forehead if I’m walking normally. And long enough for Jim to eat if he’s walking normally.

The other night I took Grandma’s dogs for a walk with Kyle, and because I’m a total athlete, I jogged into Mom and Jim’s room to tell them something that probably wasn’t that important, and midstride a wooden oval drove itself into my eye—or rather my eye drove itself into a wooden oval because I’m the only animate being in that scenario, but I wanted it to be the wind chime’s fault, so I flipped it around a bit. And it hurt way more than it should have. I seriously wanted to yell at grandma, but I realized that that would have been pointless.

Grandma is not going to stop liking wind chimes at this place in her life. And she’s not going to stop hoarding them. She’ll collect more and more and more and more until she dies. And at that point I’m going to cry when I pull that damn wind chime off the fan, so I decided not to complain, because she’s going to die someday? I think a better way of putting it is just like those angels mean something to her, those wind chimes have started to represent my grandma for me, and if they were gone I know she’d miss them. So I smile a little when I pass them, even if I don’t actually like them.

This afternoon I put the leashes on the dogs to take them on a walk. They always jump up on Grandma’s bed so I can reach their tiny, little necks easier. And when Millie jumped on the bed she hit her eye on a new wind chime I’d somehow missed, hanging directly over her bed, about a foot from the mattress. And Millie kind of yelped and I smiled and said to her, “If you had the cognitive ability that I did, then you would appreciate that wooden oval to the eye.”

I still hate wind chimes.

I still love my hoarder grandma.

WIND CHIMES!!!!!!!!!

The end.

Epiphany Post

by Laurie Lipton

I don't really care what other people think. My entire life I've spent time trying to be someone I'm not. I've become so accustomed to code switching that I've lost myself. I let reality television, pop stars, and my peers tell me what was cool. But now? The stuff I thought was cool back then is cool now. So really? There was nothing wrong with who I was. There's nothing wrong with who I am. There's nothing wrong with being as many people as I want to be. There is never anything wrong about being. That's simply my existence.

I try to be kind to people. I try to treat people like I'd like to be treated. I try to take the concerns of others seriously. I try to respect different cultures as different as opposed to wrong. I don't judge a person based on their religion, sexual orientation, age, sex or gender, or political beliefs, even if I don't agree with everything. (If you know me, the only things in there I really take issue with are opposing political beliefs (although I'm working for a better adjective than opposing) and a person who denies their own pleasure by forcing themselves into a relationship that is untrue to their emotional and physical desires, when someone uses age as an excuse to close their eyes, when someone sees their sex or gender as superior to that of another...). Basically I don't like when people make other people's business their own or when someone isn't true to themselves. Other than that I try to accept people as they come and to judge by a person's true merit: the way in which they treat others; and yet to understand and coach those who don't treat others well. It's my duty, and it's yours too.

Those things are things I'm proud of. Those are my values. I think it's important to define our beliefs and values in our ceaseless journey to self-discovery. I'm still finding a belief secure enough to follow blindly besides that of love. Love is the only religion I trust entirely. But my values? I've got them down. I don't always adhere to them. I'm not perfect. But the way I treat other people is a direct reflection of how I feel about myself.

And here comes the epiphany: It's not a bad thing to be happy.

I used to have such an aversion to happiness. I felt guilty in happiness. I didn't like myself well enough for happiness. Whatever. Now I don't. I don't know if it's the meds, the mere knowledge of my condition, or if I'm just finally embracing a journey to enlightenment. I don't know if I care. I'm here anyway.

I love this. I don't know if I've ever embraced life this way. I'm so okay with myself. I'm okay with my body. I'd like to lose some weight, but hey! If I don't I don't care that much. I wish I'd managed better than a 3.5 this semester, but with everything I was up against, I'm really proud of that GPA.

I still have heartache. Happiness is a state of being and it doesn't mean I don't get sad or lonely or disappointed or frustrated or angry... my feelings are still very real and present. I worry about Ian all the time, and I have both nightmares and dreams concerning him. I miss my family in southern Illinois and I want to make more of a difference in the lives of the children of my family. I still get really insecure at times, and I have to remind myself that there's nothing wrong with me being myself. There's something wrong with a person feeling the right to judge me for being me. There's something wrong with society for condoning that arrogance and entitlement and standard of "normal." It's still hard. But I'm choosing to live in happiness and feel those hard feelings as they come, rather than feeling nothing until those feelings break me. It's a conscious decision that I have to work to keep to--just like giving up meat and soda.

I love everyone. I love the idiot drivers I cuss at behind the wheel. I love the most annoying child you've ever met. I love the people who have hurt me--some more than others. Speaking of which: I've gotten over the Sarah Simpson thing (Go ahead and Google yourself! I have nothing to be ashamed of, and there's no teacher or principal to run to now that we're adults.) She was a nasty, cruel little girl, and I'm sure she's a cruel young woman. But I'm sure she had her own heartache; heartache I'll never know. And at the time I was not confident or secure enough to handle her bullying. Who is in junior high?!

But now I am. I dooooon't really care what she had to say. Because I was a badass back then, just like I am now. I was still kind as often as I felt I could be. I was still doing my best with what I had. I have nothing to be ashamed of, just like I don't now. Just because I didn't fit Sarah's idea of physical beauty did not mean I was not beautiful. And I'm disappointed in myself that I ever let her childish comments wreck me the way they did. But it is what it is. We all have a bully who breaks us. We are defined by the way we put ourselves back together. I've grown up since then. I just don't care what she (really she just represents all the people who have hurt me) think.

It's so freeing to wake up knowing that if she were to call me today and call me Weight Watchers Dancer again--something that used to have me crying in the bathrooms at Marshall Junior High, I wouldn't care. I would feel bad for her that she still felt the need to bring people down to feel good about herself. <-- That's something I used to think was just something grown ups said to make you feel better, but it's so true! People only hurt people when they are hurting. But I wouldn't really let that change the way I see myself. Really, at the time she was just affirming all of my greatest insecurities and making very real for me a truth I tried to hide and ignore. But now I've displayed that vulnerability. I've learned to accept myself as I am. And bullying words can only hurt me if I think they're true! Since I love myself as I am, and I accept and forgive my own faults, no one will have that power over me now. I do not judge myself based on the opinions of those I do not respect.

I've done things I'm not proud of. I could list them, but most of you know them already. Instead I'll say a big I'M SORRY. I'm sorry to the people I'll never see again. I'm sorry to the girls I may have been unkind to. I'm sorry to the boys whose hearts I've broken. I'm sorry to the family I've said hurtful things to. I'm sorry to those I respect that I may have disappointed. I'm sorry. I know I'm not perfect. But the only thing I can really do to make it better is to live well. I will take this summer by storm and I will make those children my own. I will fill them with so much love they won't know what to do with themselves. They won't understand why someone can love them so much, because they still see their flaws so clearly... but I don't overlook them. I love them anyway. Because there are some really, really beautiful people that loved me anyway. And I would do them a disservice not to carry on that legacy of love.

On family, broken hearts, and conflict--both internal and not

The sad stories aren't necessary to talk about the themes which they support. My family is tumultuous right now. I've always lived in a kind of bubble, free from the horrors my siblings had faced, and the bull that still occurred. I was left a little scarred by the near tangible absences in my childhood and the abuses I experienced--being a sensitive kid. But I never felt the pain of a neglectful mother. My mother loved me very much. And for all the craziness that happened around me, she was so strong. And then Jim came, and his love permeated my wall of hesitancy and guilt--Dad issues. I've never been much good with transitions. But through every transition, my mom and step-(now adoptive)dad were there for me. Mama and Papa. Through my bipolar messes, they helped me pick up the pieces--never judging or condemning me. It was always about the next step. My parents aren't the type to dwell on the past. The point of that really long paragraph: Although my family is a little jacked up, my immediate family protected me from much of the drama.

But I'm a grown up now.

My brother needed his family. I'd heard of his struggles in Texas, but there was a strong disconnect. I didn't know him. My biggest fear when he came home, was that I would love him--I would become accompanied and comfortable with him in my life, and then I'd watch him fall apart. There's nothing harder, really. Watching someone you love fall apart. And although that was a thought it my mind, I still wasn't in touch with what that meant to me. But then I watched him fall. He slipped first. And I wanted to be done. I wanted to back out completely, because I knew what came next... and it would be hard. But when I really had to, I tried to step up. I've listened to calls that I'm thankful I didn't have to make. I've heard my sister cry. I've seen my mother question herself, which has been hard. She always seems so confident and sure. I've seen Jim play a very new role. No one put a deadbolt on the door for me. My bipolar shit pales in comparison.

But we're dealing with an addict. Addiction is a deadly, deadly disease. It maims judgment, causes you to say things you don't mean, and it teaches you to lie to yourself and those you love. And here's the thing: I still have it easiest. I'm not the one making those hard calls. I'm not the one installing locks in the doors and rewriting the rules of my home. I'm not the one who has been berated on the phone by a crazed and false version of the brother whom I love. So I've tried to be strong. I've tried to speak kindly to my mama, who is conflicted and suffering while her clinical mind beats down the mother within her. I've tried to thank my papa again and again. I've tried to listen to my sister. Because there is nothing to say. We're all well aware of addiction and are well-acquainted with the mental health community. We know what's real. We know what to expect and what has to be done. But that doesn't make it hurt any less. Kayla feels so strongly. She feels everything on a greater scale than I do. The pain of others so greatly affects her.

And I've allowed myself to be woken up in the night. And I've talked my grandma down from many an anxious state. And I've faced locking him out in the rain or letting him back in. I've ignored him when he knocked on my window when he came home after his clearly-set curfew. I've handled situations my grandmother is too weak to face. And all the while I've suffered in my own way. But it's my responsibility, I think. Because everyone else is dealing with a very different part of his addiction. They utilize the powers they have, and I'm discovering the ones I have. And it's sad, but it's comforting in a way. I'm finding myself in this. It's such a cliche, but I'm building character. I'm looking for my boundaries--for what will drive me over the edge--and I haven't found it yet. I'm a lot stronger than I ever knew.

Today I picked up a homeless man. I was driving Kyle to school, and I probably wouldn't have done it alone. But I decided if I was strong enough to watch my brother die, then I was strong enough to give a guy a ride and buy him a cup of coffee from Burger King. And I'm learning that the career I've been considering is so much better suited for me than I had even known. Mental health is where I belong. I think all of this would have pushed me one way or the other.

But I love my brother so, so much. And I don't know where he is. And I don't know what he's doing. And I don't know if he'll ever come home. But I do want to know that he's okay. But I can't. I can only hope. And Kayla said it best: Now hearts are breaking. And the only way to build up a muscle that has been injured is the let it rest, and then use it again. It needs to practice. I need to love people I've never met, and to care about the people on whom I've wished ill. I need to feel compassion. I need to build my heart up again, because otherwise it's going to sit there and it's going to rot. It will become bitter and will stink with a putrid hatefulness that will permeate my whole body... my face. :/ And I just can't let that happen. Because I'm responsible for making sure that doesn't happen to anyone else. While they're handling addiction, I'm going to play lifeguard. I don't want anyone to slip under. I can't lose anyone else.

On Mindfulness, Structure, and Where They Fit

This came up in therapy: Mindfulness and Structure.

A description of my train of thought leading to these topics, and the way in which I've decided to apply them to my life, will follow.

I was talking about camp. I talk about camp all the time, because camp is wonderful. Camp is magic to everyone, but I wanted to explore why I am so happy at camp so that I can try to recreate that in the real world. It's a nearly impossible feat, but recreating moments that make sense in my home environment could make my life better.

I noted that at camp things slow down. I'm aware that's an everyone-thing. Nature slows you down. Just smelling camp (the septic tank included), my heart rate slows a little, and parts of my body, which I had been unconsciously tightening, released and the whole of my psyche sighs with relief--slowly, and calmly.

Camp is also a place (nearly) free of technology and social media. My phone is usually glued to my hand. Ignoring it for more than an hour is nearly impossible. Even in class, I have to put it on vibrate in my pocket so I'm aware of emails, facebook notifications, twitter notifications, texts, and calls. Putting it away is hard at first, but eventually, I feel freed. A ball and chain removed. And I'm running, exercising legs--sleeping from the weight of it.

What about those things make me happy? What about nature and the freedom from technology makes me so happy? It is mindfulness. I'm more aware of my body. I can tell you how I'm feeling with greater insight and honesty than I'm willing to give in the "real world." I can experience joy fully without another task hanging over my head; which brings me to my next topic.

I thrive on structure. I'm bipolar, dammit. I need to know when I'm supposed to be present and when I'm supposed to leave. I need to know when each task before me is going to be completed. At camp our time is strictly scheduled, counselors agree on times to complete tasks. I don't even mind volunteering for extra tasks in that kind of environment, because I don't feel intimidated by what's before me. I'm more scared of the things I'll have to face when I get home. But that's the thing: I don't have to face them until I get home.

But when all my work has been done, I need a clean and quite sparse area to calm down at the end of the day. I need ritual to slow down and settle my racing thoughts. (I need my stack to lay flat.) Chapel. At the end of every day, we take the campers to Chapel. I get a lesson. I sing. I hold still. I give kind looks to campers (favorite hobby--I always loved when people smiled at me). This gives me a chance to breathe. Then I go back to my cabin. I definitely prefer the whole area to be clean, but if it's not? I just want my things organized. That's it really. I need to keep myself together. I need to keep my self together. And camp creates a near-perfect environment to put me in a good frame of mind.

In my life. That mindfulness is hard to recreate. My mother lives on crisis. She works well under pressure. She moves quickly, she talks quickly, and she expects that from the people around her. But, although I can do all those things, I cannot do them and remain fully self-aware. I panic in crisis. Under pressure, I crumble. I move too quickly, and it puts me on edge. I talk too fast, and I don't have time to evaluate the things I say before they come out. All of that works for Mom. It just doesn't for me. She was the model I used for even the simplest of behaviors (like putting my clothes away), and it was a model that did not match my own needs.

Elaborating on the prior example: I find that I don't put my clothes away for a long time. The idea of putting them away overwhelms me, and even causes minor physical panic. But why? It's not a difficult task. It doesn't really take that long. But that panic scares me out of the task. I know that as I put my clothes away, I'm going to feel that panic full-force, and I'm scared of it. When I practice self-awareness, I can begin to realize that when I put clothes away, I do it too quickly. I do it sloppily because my muscles tense and I just want to stop; I treat it like a race. The panic will end if I can just finish. And when Mom nags me about it, it gets harder, because the pressure which I've already placed upon myself, has been doubled. Now I need to do it for someone else too.

I'm not mad at Mom for nagging me. I used to think I was. But I wasn't. I was mad at my own suppressed panic that rose to the surface with the reminder. I just wanted to forget it. And sadly, I try to combine those things. I pitifully try to create structure in my home. But everyone has to be in on that, and I just don't live among people who rely on structure the way I do. So I get grumpy and nervous when I'm reminded of the lack of structure. Not because I'm mad at my parents for lacking structure. But because I hate that I get panicked over something so silly. I try to do one thing at a time, because my bipolar mind wants so badly to place everything in order and live a more moderate life. But I live among people who want me to do what needs done when they need it done. In structured, Maddie-Land, we don't do that. We have a detailed to-do list, and no item below those before it is performed. We complete homework before we switch the wash, because we've already done the math to know that it will be done before I leave for my next activity. But here, no one knows when they're leaving. They wing it. Ugh.

But again. It's not their fault. It's a different lifestyle. It's a lifestyle that is almost detrimental to me, though. I cannot ask of someone to change their entire personality to suit my needs. Although I do in my frustration. And this doing of one thing to the next, hinders my ability to achieve mindfulness.  I'm really trying (okay this is the first day I've tried) to carry out my general tasks more thoughtfully. Like making my bed. I'd left it unmade this morning, and I wanted it fixed. I found that it didn't take any more time to do it slowly than it did when I rushed through, hardly breathing. I put away my clothes in that way as well. Again--same time. There's no reason for me to rush. It accomplishes nothing beyond seriously wearing on my mental health. Epiphany much? I got a lot done in my room, actually, because it didn't scare me anymore. Actually. Nothing really scared me.

Well. That's a lie. I'm always scared of things, just like anyone else. I worry about my brother, I worry about my sister, (both of them have a significant amount of my worry these days), I worry about Grandma, I worry that Mom bites off more than she can chew, I worry Jim doesn't feel heard, I worry about the election, and I worry that Kayla's children are going to grow up without me there. Because I miss them so much. And I worry I'm going to fail. But those are all things that feel out of my control. That's reasonable. Worrying about putting away my clothes was irrational; I see that now. But it will get better. Mostly because I'm aware of a significant issue. If I find myself getting irritable or anxious, I know one thing I can do to help myself. There's nothing I can do about the structure. There just isn't. But perhaps if I'm more mindful, then pushing through the discomfort of the uncertainty of my unstructured household will be a little easier.

Peace.