lizzizzie-blog

[lizzizzie-blog]

251 mass shootings in 216 days

This morning, I woke up on an air mattress in the converted-attic-loft of an Airbnb, at which I was staying with a group of women for a friend’s bachelorette party. I reached for my phone immediately, as one does, and saw the news of yet another mass shooting overnight in Dayton. It was particularly striking because of how close to home it is, but also because we’d been out in a busy area of Detroit the night before. It could easily have happened to us. On the way there the afternoon before, we’d all talked about how all our parents were worried about us going to Detroit, and we laughed, since we are fully grown adults and “Detroit is just a place like anywhere else.” The sad truth that we live with is that we can never be certain of our own safety - that a random dude can open fire at any moment in any crowd, not to mention the reality of the vigilance necessary to exist as a woman in our world. We’re always scared, but we laugh it off, because in truth, it’s hard for my generation to remember a time when we weren’t scared - Columbine happened when I was in 5th grade; 911 happened my first year of high school - and we’ve learned to cope. We live for the moment.

I woke up to the news of this tragedy, and yet I didn’t participate in or overhear a single conversation about it with one of the 9 other women in the Airbnb throughout the course of the morning, nor did I talk to my husband about it when I saw him. None of my friends that I text with regularly have mentioned it, and neither have I. But one of my Norwegian Internet friends texted me to say she heard it happened in Ohio and she thought of me. It’s absurd to me that we who live our lives here, a few hours away, barely even reacted, but it rattled and concerned my pal across the world enough that she reached out. I’ve felt shame all day about this, but I am trying to be kind to myself.

How sad is it that we are so used to this, or so desensitized, or simply can’t bear to go through the motions of the same depressing conversation, again and again? ...About how sad it is. About how frustrating it is that this keeps happening and nothing changes. We are despondent - we don’t know how to process the massive number of senseless, preventable deaths. And we feel inadequate - we don’t know what we can say to each other, let alone what we can do as individual citizens, to make it any damn better. 

I sure as hell don’t. I’m just a person. I don’t know the answers. And nothing is simple. But I do know that gun violence in our country is a PUBLIC HEALTH ISSUE of epidemic proportions, not a political one, and it ought to be addressed as such. I also know that civil society has literally always involved 1) groups of people making decisions on behalf of the public for the betterment of everyone, and 2) individuals foregoing certain freedoms to cooperate in favor of the greater good. These are not radical concepts!

It’s so hard. It’s exhausting to live with an open heart when there are so many things that keep hurting it. I feel the instinct to check out - to attempt to ignore it all and try to feel as little as possible to protect myself from the pain of reality. But I know that shutting out the pain keeps the joy out too. And the fact remains, beautiful human moments happen every day. People are helping each other in incredible ways at every moment. And “life doesn’t stop for anyone.” We will keep showing up. We will keep going out. We were raised with this knowledge of the fleeting nature of our time on this earth. We know the world is dangerous. Of course we acknowledge that. But we refuse to let it control us. And we refuse to live by fear. At this point, simply showing up feels like a brave and radical act. 

I wish I could do something more impactful, but I know that I can at least keep being me. I’ll keep living with an open heart and I’ll keep seeing the good in people. I’ll keep trusting in that good and I’ll keep sticking up for it when I hear the doubt of others. I will keep working in this field that upholds the potential and worth of all people. I will keep championing all of us. It’s what I have to give.

[lizzizzie-blog]

At the Bottom of Everything

Well, Saturday the 10th was my 31st birthday. I am officially in my thirties. Last year, my unexpected existential angst about turning 30 drove me to write the first post for this thing, and like I wrote in the last post before this one, a lot happened in 2017. Too much.

In my first post, I wrote some thoughts about what I might accomplish in year 30. Let’s review:

“Maybe 30 will be the year that I grow up and address my physical health.”  Nope.

“Maybe 30 will be the year that I get it together enough to clean my shower with minimally acceptable frequency.”  Also no. Oh well.

“Maybe 30 will be the year during which I finally give in and start budgeting like a responsible person should.”  This is a yes, but only because things got tighter than ever with purchasing a business, and we haven’t had a choice. It’s still not even budgeting, though. I’m great at expense tracking, but my version of budgeting is just… not buying anything except food.

“Maybe 30 will be the year I stop spilling shit and running into shit all. the. time.”  NOPE, definitely not. I am currently rocking eight bruises on one leg, from thigh to foot. Six of them are from one fall (I failed to notice a step), and the other two are from running into the edge of same glass-top desk two days in a row last week.

“Maybe 30 will be the year I will give myself permission to do less.”  I actually did pretty well with this one. I’ve gotten better at making decisions based on what I actually need and want, rather than what I feel I should do. I’ve started to say no when I can’t do things. This has been partly out of necessity, but also partly out of my commitment to (try to) love and forgive and not judge myself the way I easily love and forgive and don’t judge others. I’m doing what I need to do, and I’m saying no… I’m doing those things, but it still feels wrong. It still hurts and still makes me feel guilty and like a shitty friend/family member. But… baby steps. I’m working on it.

“Maybe 30 will be the year during which I grow completely out of trying to guess what my mom would think (but not actually asking her because I’m a #grownasswoman who values her own opinions) as a means of decision-making.”  I’m getting better at this, too! Not just with my mom (whose opinions are still usually right), but in general. Related to the above, I’m valuing my own opinions and instincts more highly than I ever have, and I’m getting better at not apologizing for having them.

...So, I don’t know. I guess I was hoping for better/more personal improvement, but really I’m just proud I survived this year. It was hard. It was exhausting. It still is. I am so, so tired. There is way too much happening. My husband is working his ass off to make our store work, making difficult decisions and stressing, and I don’t see him very much. My job is still fully overwhelming and way too much for one person, and it’s totally kicking my ass. I’m always behind and the deadlines keep coming and more work keeps getting added and I feel like I’m failing all the time. I don’t have as much time or money or energy for my friends and family as I once did, and I feel like I’m letting everyone down. But I’m surviving, and I’m trying to take it one day at a time. And life keeps happening.

Saturday, March 10th was my 31st birthday. On Sunday the 11th, I got sick. I slept all day Sunday, and took the day off work on Monday. We also experienced a really shitty setback with the store on Monday (which I will leave cryptically vague because that’s not my story to tell). On Tuesday, I flew to Puerto Rico for work. If you’ve ever traveled while sick, you know just how awful it is. It was not a good day. Tuesday afternoon, after my coworker (who had to put up with my pathetic ass all week; she’s the best) and I found our way to our Airbnb (which didn’t have power) is when I missed the step and fell. It hurt. I was so tired, but I couldn’t sleep that night. Wednesday afternoon, I lost my voice. I spent all of Thursday and Friday fully unable to communicate above a whisper, which was incredibly frustrating since I was supposed to be training people and just, you know, functioning as a human person. We were staying in San Juan overnight on Friday to catch early flights on Saturday, and I tried to remain pleasant with my coworkers as we hung out and went out to eat, which was exhausting in itself. But then the week was finally over.

Saturday the 17th, I got on a plane to Atlanta at 6:20am. I dozed on and off throughout most of the flight in my well-earned Comfort Plus seat just behind first class. When I woke up the final time, I checked the flight tracker on the in-flight entertainment screen, and noticed we only had 20 minutes left in flight. That struck me as bizarre, because there hadn’t been any announcements about beginning our initial descent or returning our tray tables to the upright and locked position etc etc. As soon as I had that thought, the pilot came over the speaker and told us we’d be landing shortly, but that they would need us all to remain seated for a while after because they were “dealing with an issue onboard.” Oh shit. Then the flight attendant came over the speaker to repeat the message and clarify that they were “assisting a passenger who wasn’t feeling well” which, in retrospect, is a ridiculous euphemism. Then I noticed the relative commotion in first class, and the beeping of what turned out to be an oxygen machine. I noticed a passenger standing in his seat, looking concernedly at his seatmate and speaking with the flight attendant in the aisle. Then I saw another passenger from first class stand up from where he’d been crouching in the aisle, stethoscope around his neck. His expression was morose. It became clear that this passenger who was “not feeling well” was traveling alone and not doing well.

Next, the flight attendant looked around first class and said, to no one and everyone, “we’re going to need to lay him down in the aisle for landing.” I watched as several first class passengers stood up immediately and gathered around the person’s seat. There was suddenly a “we” as they all helped to lower the person (who I could now see was a man) to the floor. The flight attendant continued to crouch with him in the aisle, presumably holding the oxygen in place. I overheard the woman across from me turn to the person she was with and report to them that he was “an enormous man,” as if that was a relevant piece of information.

We landed and sped to the gate. The paramedics entered the plane and immediately began CPR. I heard the flight attendant tell them that he’d had no pulse for 25-30 minutes and that “the machine wasn’t working.” The pilots and all the flight attendants were gathered watching, some comforting one another. After a few minutes, they lifted the man and took him off the plane. The pilot came over the speaker again and told us they were continuing to do CPR in the jet bridge and asked for our continued patience. We sat for another ten or fifteen minutes. The two men in my row were talking to one another (but not me), criticizing the way the flight attendants had handled the situation, and swapping medical-situations-they’d-witnessed stories. The woman across from me reiterated how large the man was, and asked her travel companion two different times when their connecting flight was and whether they could make it, after he’d assured her the first time that they’d be fine. I was keeping to myself, taking deep breaths, hoping like hell that they’d revive the man, and steeling myself for news to the contrary.

Eventually, the pilot came over the speaker again. He mumbled a bit, and then sighed and said, “I don’t know what to say. I’m really at a loss for words over this tragic situation” (at which point the tears I’d been holding in finally spilled over) and thanked us again for our patience and cooperation. I sniffled and cried my way off the plane, and one person from the row in front of me kindly asked if I was okay. I said “of course I’m fine, it’s not about me, it’s just really sad.” I cried my way through the Atlanta airport to my connecting gate, including hiding in two different restrooms to sob. After I got to my gate and sat down and continued to cry into my hands, a woman offered me tissues. She must have noticed I’d used them, because she also went and got me napkins from the restaurant across from our gate. It was really kind of her. I was surrounded by people. But no one said anything to me.

I cried for a lot of reasons. I felt so awfully for the flight attendants who tried to save him, and for the pilots who likely felt responsible but were powerless to help, and for the random strangers in first class who tried to help and had to see all of that up close, especially for the person in the seat next to him who was so intimately involved the entire time. I felt so badly for the man’s family and friends who’d have to find out that their loved one had died alone… tragically, publicly. I felt angry that while he was dying, strangers discussed his weight and turned it into a pissing contest about other things they’d seen and worried about their connecting flights. I felt confused because, although two people showed me kindness, I was politely ignored by countless others while in obvious emotional distress. I felt upset with myself that I was allowing it to affect me so much, when it didn’t even really happen to me. I felt resentful of my overly empathetic nature. I felt tired. I felt really, really sad. (I still feel all these things.)

Anyway, I managed to make it through my last flight, to baggage claim, and out to my car, and cried again on the drive home, while listening to Bright Eyes. Because obviously. It’s always events like this that shake us up and remind us of how focused we are on the day to day, on getting our jobs done and planning for the future. Right when life is totally overwhelming me, when I’m caught up in resenting how hard it all is, I’m reminded again that the future is not promised. That all the day to day BS is really pretty meaningless in the grand scheme of things.

We must blend into the choir, sing as static with the whole We must memorize nine numbers and deny we have a soul And in this endless race for property and privilege to be won We must run, we must run, we must run

We must hang up in the belfry where the bats and moonlight laugh We must stare into a crystal ball and only see the past Into the caverns of tomorrow with just our flashlights and our love We must plunge, we must plunge, we must plunge

(And then we'll get down there, way down to the bottom of everything And then we'll see it, we'll see it, we'll see it)

Oh my morning's coming back The whole world's waking up All the city buses swimming past I'm happy just because I found out I am really no one

As of today (Monday the 19th), I finally have a little bit of my voice back. I’m not coughing up green stuff as much, and my nose is not quite so raw from blowing it. There is work to be done, meetings to be facilitated, and deadlines to be met, and I don’t have time to take time off, but… it’s too much. I woke up and I couldn’t do it. I’m too exhausted, physically and emotionally. I was in tears before 9am. I had to tell my boss everything and, thankfully, she is wonderful and took pity on me. She offered to help with my work and told me to take the time I need to rest and process. So that means I took this afternoon off. And while I realistically need more than half a day off work, this is what I can get, and I am making the most of it. So… I guess this is processing? It’s definitely resting. I’m on my laptop in my bed, with my sweet kitty curled up next to me. My eyes are finally clear of tears because I’m focused on writing this instead of just thinking all these thoughts to myself.

It was a horrible week. Life is hard. I am tired, and this post was mostly a huge bummer. But… for once, I’m not going to apologize for it. It’s true. And it is what it is.

Take care. I love you.

[lizzizzie-blog]

d) all of the above

Today is a the anniversary of a significant event in my life. I am resultingly (I might have made this word up but I’m sticking with it) emotional, and instead of baking cookies or wrapping presents or taking a shower or doing laundry or actually getting caught up with my work-work, I am feeling my feelings and I’ve been reflecting on what has been an incredibly intense year. 

Things that happened in 2017:

In the last few days of 2016, I fell in love so hard with a TV show about Norwegian teens. I’ve made friends as a result who I talk to regularly and are super important to me. I’ve taken two trips to meet them (Boston and Philly) and I’ve planned my first real international trip/vacation (Oslo, Norway, January 2018) as a result. Honestly, nobody saw this one coming. 

January: I officially started my new job that it turns out is really really hard and stressful and exhilarating and kicks my ass. I mostly work from home (an adjustment in itself) but also travel frequently. This year I’ve been to: Monroe, Louisiana; Louisville, Kentucky; Atlanta and Newnan, Georgia; Selma, Alabama; Bay City, Texas; Austin, Texas; New York City; Freehold, New Jersey; Milwaukee, Wisconsin; and Las Vegas - some more than once.

In February, I experienced hot springs for the first time in Colorado for my sister-in-law-to-be’s bachelorette party.  

In March, I turned 30. My husband and friends threw a perfect, stupid, fun, whimsical, casual party for me and I felt so lucky. There were Harry Potter puns. There were buttons with my bitmoji on them. There was a dinosaur beer luge ice sculpture and many delicious beers. I got to play and dance to “I Feel It Coming” twice.

In April, I officiated the wedding ceremony of my brother and the aforementioned sister-in-law, in Maryland.

In May, the husband quit his job and we bought a record store. I mean, what?! What!!!

In June, the husband almost cut off his fingers in a hedge trimmers vs. hand incident, resulting in us missing another wedding. That was fun

In July, I married another of my best friends as a co-officiant with another of our best friends, in Michigan.

In August, I saw the total solar eclipse in St. Louis! It was the coolest, spookiest, most amazing thing. Bizarrely moving. During that trip, I also:

Met and held and loved on the baby of someone I grew up with/a childhood bestie, for the first time. Wow. 

Felt a fetus kick inside of a human tummy for the first time ever, and it happened to be my very best friend. A small moment of magic.

In August, I got a tattoo. My first. Possibly only. I’m not sure.

In October, I told myself, and then my husband, and then the internet / People of Facebook, that I’m pansexual, because it’s not a secret. And I was met with all the both incredible support and curious and/or confused questions that people who do that sort of thing are met with. This has been bizarre. 

A few times, I wrote things about myself and published them in a blog and told actual people I know about it. This one is still a struggle too. 

And that’s not an exhaustive list. Plenty of other significant and joyful moments happened with other people I love, as well, including 30th birthday parties and pregnancy announcements and engagements and even a anniversary / birthday / retirement party for the in-laws. I also learned that another of our couple-friends are getting a divorce. The point is... it’s been SO much of significance in so little time. I’ve never been so stressed and scared and tired, but I’ve also never been so thrilled and inspired and in love with other people. I’ve never felt more overwhelmed with life, but I’ve also never been this accepting of myself. It’s been a lot. It’s still a lot. It always is. When I was little, I think I thought that joy and love were the antidote to grief and pain. Or that sadness and stress negated happiness and laughter and light. That these things were mutually exclusive. Now, I’m still constantly struck by how MUCH life is. How many different things I feel during any given year, month, week, day, or moment. But when I reflect, I think I actually learned this early. Joy and pain don’t cancel each other out; they complement and amplify each other. They make each other real, and the reality of life is that we will experience both, and feeling one doesn’t invalidate feeling the other.   I learned this in October of my senior year of high school when I was having the time of my life with my friends in band, dance team, show choir, and the senior play, and then my cousin died, out of nowhere. It was awful and I was confused and angry and devastated, but life didn’t stop. It didn’t stop me loving my friends or having fun in my various activities or falling in love with a boy over the next several months. It was all of that, all at once. It affected me profoundly, every day, but life didn’t stop. My junior year of college, a friend of mine had a really intense health scare that involved passing out followed by emergency surgery, and eventual diagnosis with a genetic disorder that made it very dangerous to operate on her and would mean precarious health going forward. She was my “Partner,” as we were co-Morale-Captains of the Red team for our college’s Dance Marathon event in April, which raised money for Children’s Miracle Network. Planning and organizing for the event began with weekly meetings in the fall, and this committee was incredibly close knit, with Partners put together and assigned colors based on specific shared traits. So, this happened in February, the night before my boyfriend’s birthday. We found out during our weekly meeting, and we left to go to her apartment, where all her sorority sisters were, and essentially held vigil until the surgery was over. It was days before we really knew if she was going to be okay, including Valentine’s Day. I ate a Dove chocolate heart with the message “discover how much your heart can hold.” And that resonated with me so much. I was feeling so much. I kept the wrapper. Taped it to a piece of index card. I still carry it in my wallet. I turned 21 in March, while she was home recovering. I was so sad to be without my Partner on the committee and so worried about her. She, somewhat miraculously, did get to come to Dance Marathon, in her wheelchair. I was so happy she was there. It was such a relief. She got better, and graduated and got a job and got married and bought a house and got a dog. Then, years later, she had another complication, and after multiple attempts to save her, she died. This was a week after my wedding and the day after we got home from our honeymoon. It was horrible, of course, and right in the middle of one of the most loving and joyous times in my life. Again, it was all happening at once. More than I thought my heart could hold. (She was one of the funniest people I’ve ever known. Her humor was clever and quick and biting. So charismatic. Her attention made you feel special and people adored her.) To conclude this meandering, self-involved mess, I need to flash back again. To my senior year of college, fall semester 2008. Dance Marathon had finished the previous spring, and I’d tried out to be my college’s mascot, and gotten it. It was amazing. But it was a secret. Part of our tradition was that nobody is supposed to know who the humans inside the costume were. And so naturally that leads to much speculation about who they are, and we had to be careful to avoid being found out. I was dating a person who’d been the mascot the year before, and we didn’t have any reason to know each other in real life, so we were dating in secret, essentially, as well.

He happened to be best friends with a girl from my hometown, who I’d been friends with in high school, who also went to our college. She’d graduated that spring and was in Cincinnati for her master’s. She invited us down to see her perform in a play for the church she’d joined there - serious production value - 9 years ago today. We were going to stay with her for the weekend, too. At the play, she was flying around suspended on a harness high up in the air for her role as a wise man. Maybe 20 minutes in, at the end of a song, she struck a pose, her hardness malfunctioned, and she fell to the floor. I don’t remember much of what happened next, but our seats were very high up and we could not see at all what was happening. Somehow they stopped and everyone filed out and they called an ambulance. Somehow her friends found us and we got to the hospital with them. We waited hours. Eventually her parents arrived, met with doctors, and asked us to leave. We drove all the way back to our college town and crashed. A few hours later, her friend called my boyfriend, waking us up, to tell her they had removed her from life support and she had died. It was, of course, traumatic, tragic, and devastating. It was such a bizarre time. So hard, and so painful. Some of my worst days ever. But at the same time, set during the backdrop what was objectively the time of my life. I was a senior in college and I was the mascot. Literally living a dream of mine, having an absolute blast. Then this, in the middle of finals …  having to tell my professors what had happened and why I needed extra time. I skipped my only mascot event the night of the day we found out she died.

After that, mascotting became an escape from it. A place where I could go for a few hours and forget my shit. I could focus on entertaining others, on nothing but being an anonymous vessel of enthusiasm and joy and love, on the eventual physical exhaustion of it. A way to clear my head. And then Christmas was happening, and right back to the next semester. Life didn’t slow down. It was everything at once. Horrific and traumatic and devastating, but the love I experienced in speaking with other people who knew her after she died, of meeting people she knew who looked up to her the same way that I did, the joy of living my dream and escaping reality as the mascot, the way my boyfriend and I somehow got each other through that time ... all of it was real and valid and happening, too. Looking back on that time 9 years ago, I don’t know how I survived. But, that’s sort of what we always do, isn’t it? We love the shit out of each other and we get by. And the weird thing is, December and the holidays are still the same now… the circumstances are ever-changing, of course, but there’s always the painful melancholy of missing people that you love, coupled with the stress of it all, then combined with so much warmth and comfort. It’s a lot. It’s all of it at once. And we’re doing it together. Life is rich, y’all. <3

“So, this is my life. And I want you to know that I am both happy and sad and I'm still trying to figure out how that could be.”  ― The Perks of Being a Wallflower

[lizzizzie-blog]

Remember that time when society made you think you were straight?

So, it’s been more than a month since I posted anything. As my 30th birthday looms (3 days and counting), I’ve been spending a lot of time thinking about who I am. I’ve been reflecting nostalgically on my youth (i.e., listening to early 2000′s emo). I’ve had so many threads of ideas for post topics floating around my brain, and I’ve wanted to sit down and get into all of them, but... I’ve been utterly stuck on this one idea, and I’ve been stalling. I’ve been going back and forth in my head over whether it’s important enough to write about this. Questioning the validity of something I know to be true about me.

I’m afraid to say (write) these things. I’m afraid that people won’t understand. That’s one reason not to write this. Also, this feels self-indulgent. Nobody asked. I’m not sure anybody cares. I feel silly shouting “me too!” when friends of mine have been out - have had to be out - for years now. It’s moot as far as others are because I’m married. I've already “settled down,” so why does it matter? Those are additional reasons not to write this. But, it does matter.

Because I’ve learned that research shows learning the story of someone who’s a member of an oppressed group can help change people’s minds. And I know that sometimes people change their minds when they realize someone they know is LGBTetc. And maybe I can be that person.

Because bi erasure is real and harmful and I don’t want to implicitly contribute to it.

Because it’s not fair that, because I am married to a man, I shouldn’t have to be open about my sexuality as a prerequisite to living my authentic life, when so many LGBTetc people that I love don’t have that option.

Because every moment that passes that I don’t share this, I feel less authentic. And it hurts to be inauthentic.

Because self-love and self-acceptance are my main goals for my 30th year.

Because maybe I can help young people.

Because it’s true. (And the truth is always a gift). 

Those are all my reasons to write this. And today they outweigh the reasons not to.

In early December of 2016, I went out with some girlfriends. We ended up huddled around somebody’s kitchen island, wine tipsy, chatty, giggly… all wearing incredibly immature “ugly Christmas sweaters.” I had a warm glowy feeling going. We were discussing our husbands when the conversation took a stereotypical turn in the “men - can’t live with ‘em, can’t live without ‘em” direction, and then we were on the subject of kissing women. Someone said, “I could definitely kiss a girl,” to which I shrugged “I mean, course!” in agreement. Then they qualified with, “but that’s probably it - I could never go down on a girl,” to which the rest of the girls agreed with varying degrees of enthusiasm. I shrugged and let the subject naturally change. This is the most recent in a series of conversations throughout my life, where I’ve found myself realizing that the way I feel is not the way the majority of straight women I know feel. This was the first time I noticed it in real time, though, rather than in hindsight.

It’s taken the better part of 30 years, and the happy accident of discovering Skam - and the incredible Skam fandom (Skam Fam - more on that later) - but I am finally in a place where I consciously know what I am: bisexual. Or possibly-probably pansexual. I’m not sure. Labels are tricky, as we’ve discussed. Anyway...

Growing up godless, I didn’t have any religiously rooted shame to overcome. I’ve always been emphatically pro-LGBT rights, ever since learning the meaning of the word “gay” and the concept of “same-sex marriage.” That’s always felt intensely personal to me. I’ve always felt a connection to LGBT stories in (pop) culture. They’re always the stories I latch onto and obsess over. I’ve always felt attracted to girls/women. I’ve always flirted with boys/men and girls/women, and I’ve always meant it. And yet… somehow, at the same time, I had no idea that meant I wasn’t straight. I didn’t know that what I was feeling for girls and women was different from what my straight friends were feeling. I assumed that everyone must be feeling what I was feeling, and since I was attracted to boys and men, too, I ignored that part of me. I received no messages that it was a valid option, and so I didn’t even consider it. I had trouble distinguishing between friendship feelings and romantic/sexual feelings, with girls and boys, so the confusing jumbled mess all felt normal to me. I dated boys by default, and nobody ever really asked, so I never really thought much about it.

When I was 18 and 19, I did the stereotypical “drunkenly make out with other girls at parties to get guys’ attention” thing. Only, it was mostly just one girl. And I’ve never been an attention-seeker. Looking back, I just really enjoyed making out with my best friend. And so I was happy to play along with the default narrative. ...I didn’t understand any of this at the time.

During the summer before my senior year of college, I developed real - or at least closer to conscious - feelings for a girl for the first time. We met working a nerdy biology summer job together. I knew I thought she was beautiful and elegant and stylish. I knew I thought she was smart and funny. I knew I thought she was incredibly pretentious and kind of irritating, and my straight male roommate who also worked with us couldn’t really stand her. I knew that, objectively, she was not someone I’d be expected to befriend. I knew I couldn’t get enough of her anyway. I knew that when we roomed together at a hotel during a work trip, I enjoyed the intimacy of it more than she did. And I knew that when we each slipped pantless into the sheets of our respective beds, and talked until the middle of the night, I felt fizzy. I knew that she annoyed the shit out of me, but I missed her when we were apart. I knew all these things, and yet at the same time, I didn’t totally know why I felt all these things. I chalked it up to quick, intense friendship. I didn’t think much about it, because we both had boyfriends at the time. (Not to mention, I was also developing an increasingly flirtatious texting relationship with her male roommate, and harboring a secret identify as my university’s mascot. I had a lot going on at the time.)

The summer ended and I didn’t see her any longer. I broke up with the boyfriend and jumped quickly into a circumstantially intense relationship with a new guy. My year as a mascot, my senior year of college, was a total whirlwind of mascotting and one incredibly unexpected, devastating, formative experience that I shared with the new guy (a topic for another time). The point is, I had no time for self-reflection with regard to sexuality.

Fast forward to the following fall, I met and fell in love with my now husband, quickly and completely. I was 22. Since then, I haven’t really had much cause to consider or think about my sexual and romantic orientations. Fast forward to age 29, and here I am.

I’ve never been particularly secretive about my crushes and attraction to women. I talk about my crushes on women with my husband, my gay girl friends, and my guy friends regularly. It’s something I’ve never felt any shame about. Shame is not what’s taken me so long to get to this point. It’s repression. It’s socialization. It’s a lack of representation in the media. I assumed I was straight, that my feelings for women were “phases,” outliers in my otherwise straight existence, just like everyone else had, because that’s the default option. Sexuality is fluid, and experimentation is totally normal, but eventually most people choose a “side.” That’s the story we’re told.

My story picks up in late December of 2016, a few weeks after the “I could never go down on a girl” incident during which I’d clammed up (and no one noticed). I was sick with the flu over the holidays. I was looking for something to distract me from my nausea and my incapability to spend time with family in my gross state, and I discovered Skam. In a matter of days, I binged through all three seasons, and it became my favorite show ever. I became more attached to fictional characters than I’ve ever been (which is saying something for those of you who know my heart). The show’s target audience is Norwegian teenagers, but its themes of self-acceptance, internalized homophobia, mental illness, feminism, and friendship (plus many more) are universal. The most recent season follows the story of closeted Isak, who meets and falls in love with a bisexual (presumably), bipolar Even. As they learn to love and accept one another, they learn to love and accept themselves. It’s a portrayal of a realistic, soft, healthy relationship between Isak and Even. It’s something I’ve never seen before, and it was so... refreshing, clarifying, to see. It is incredibly realistic, beautiful, and moving, and it touched me. I became obsessed with this show and these boys.

As a total fangirl, I needed an outlet for this new love. Unsurprisingly, I couldn’t convince any of my IRL friends/family to watch a Norwegian show about teenagers accessible only through fan-made subtitled files on Google Drive. My husband got tired of me blathering on about the amazing editing, clever and moving soundtrack choices, and witty, subversive dialogue. So, I took to the internet. I found my way into the fandom on Tumblr. I met a bunch of young, gay (a catch-all term) as hell Skam fans, and I began talking to them. Each new person I met, I felt immediately connected to them. I felt at home among this group. They are incredibly kind and accepting. They are so far ahead of where I was at their age, in terms of knowing and accepting who they are. It makes me so proud and thrilled for them, and so glad they have each other. And at the same time, it makes me sad for myself when I was their age, and jealous that I didn’t have a similar outlet.

In the last few months, I’ve learned so much from Skam and them. I’ve made impactful, real friendships with people all over the world. They feel like my people, and I’ve come to realize, it’s because they are. Their struggles, and their futures, are a big part of the reason I feel compelled to put this out there.

So, here I am. Validating myself. Accepting myself. Taking my own advice - that I don’t have to be able to explain this to people who won’t understand in order for it to be true. I am Not Straight in 2017. I am Not Straight at age 30. I guess it doesn’t really matter. Then again, it really does matter.

[lizzizzie-blog]

on Long Distance Friendships

I have a bone to pick.

If there’s one thing nobody warned me about with respect to adulthood, it’s the pain of Long Distance Friendships. They warned me that real life isn’t fair. They warned me that adult responsibilities are hard. They warned me that going to work every single day can be kind of shitty.

They did not warm me that such a large portion of my mental energy would be spent on missing people, every single day.

They did not warn me that I would find people to grow up with who would show me who I am, who would become my gravity … and that I would have to find a way to live without those people nearby, because we would grow up, and go to school in different cities, and scatter across the country from there. Nobody told me what that was going to feel like.

My 5 best friends in high school were my whole world. We were incredibly tight. We raised each other as much as our parents did. They were the first group of people with whom I felt like me. They were the first place I felt accepted and understood. And I understood myself through them, as young people are wont to do.  

Nobody told me that being away from them was going to feel wrong and out of the ordinary for many years after we all left home, like it was still the exception to the rule, despite the fact that we were not together more often than we were. I didn’t know that gradually, I was going to get used to the feeling of being away from my absolute favorite people.

That such a large slice of me would become Missing People. That Missing People would get built into my heart and brain and all the new things I loved and learned from that point would have to fit in around it.

I didn’t know the same thing would happen with the incredible people I would meet in college (roommates, mascot fam), with my husbands’ high school friends who would become Framily, with my brother- and sisters-in-law, with work friends who live across the country, or with my internet friends, who live literally across the world, whom I have never met IRL. 

I didn’t know how much work it was going to be to keep in touch. I didn’t know how impossible it was going to be for everyone to find the time and money to visit each other with any regularity, let alone to convene groups of people. I didn’t know that one day “visits” would become all I would ever get with these people who are so vital to me.

I certainly didn’t know that this would apply to the friends who live less than five minutes from me now, because although we are geographically convenient to one another, we all have a lot going on, and life is hard, and we are tired.

I learned early that loving people would mean losing people. I anticipated that brand of pain.

I didn’t know that loving people would come with so much of Missing People, though. I didn’t know that it would always be there.

I was not prepared for the constant, dull ache of it. The radio static that I can turn down, but never off.

Maybe I should have seen it coming. #unprepared

[lizzizzie-blog]

On contradictions, labels, and love

As time continues to hurl me toward “Adulthood,” I keep thinking about all the parts of me that feel at odds. I feel so old and so young. I feel so tired and so energized. I feel so scared and so certain. I feel so lonely and so loved.

Everybody talks about how much they hated high school. About how terrible and hard it was to be a young person. On the one hand, I am with my peers in that I am so glad to be past all the nervous awkward sweatiness and tragic romantic drama of young adulthood, and yet I can’t help but miss being young. I can’t help but long for that headspace. When I was broken hearted and flailing, and my greatest concern was falling in and out of young love and learning to tell it apart from young lust.

And yet, at the same time, I love where I am. I have liked every year of life better than the last.

Seeing people I love marry people who make them happy. Seeing people I love advance in their careers. Seeing people I love follow their dreams. Seeing people I love buy homes and create families. My heart nearly bursts with pride when I think of the things my besties are doing, the people they’ve become.

I love the place my local friend group is in - most everyone is “settled down” - and therefore we can all be just buddies. I have a job I love that challenges me and affords me the opportunity to work with people I respect, admire, and, very importantly, like. And I have loved every moment of figuring out this life with my husband.

How can both be true? How can I have this incredibly present achey nostalgia for 2005 when I am utterly thrilled with my 2017 circumstances? Honestly, I feel ashamed that I feel both, that I can’t pick a side, and I’ve been wondering where that shame is coming from. It’s not a lack of gratitude. I absolutely am a “count my blessings” type.

When I really think about it, though, this isn’t new. This is yet another moment in life where I feel unable to unequivocally assert that it’s this or it’s that, that I’m this or I’m that.

Why do we feel the need to find labels that work? Why do we have to learn how to define and describe our sexuality, our gender? Whether we’re an introvert or an extrovert? Whether we’re cat people or dog people, sincere or sarcastic, artsy or sciencey?

...Who fits neatly into these boxes? Is there a lonelier feeling than searching a classification system for a reflection of yourself and seeing nothing you quite recognize, nothing that feels like you? Nothing you can claim?

But still, we do it. I’ve done it. I’m still doing it. I feel some invisible pressure to be ready to answer all of those questions, and so many more. I am ashamed of my contradictions and feel the need to be able to explain myself, to be able to articulate what I am and why. Why do we do this to ourselves?

Outside of societal pressure, I think a lot of it has to do with our need to be known. We want to be able to explain ourselves to others. So we can tell them, “this is who I am” - so they can know us and so that we can feel known.

The thing is, it’s a trap. You don’t HAVE to do any of that.

You don’t HAVE to be able to confidently say I’m this or I’m that to be worthy of love. No one is owed a succinct distillation of you. You are not an Elevator Speech.

The people who deserve you, they won’t need the neat and tidy labels to know you. The best kind of love is never contingent upon an accounting of who you are. Your People will will see you and love you for what you are, whatever you are, and everything you are, without expectation of reconciliation. The best kind of love is total acceptance.

I know this because I extend this version of love to My People, and they to me. I know this because I married the person who made me feel completely known, fully accepted, and even revered for all of my complications and idiosyncrasies, in a way that required nothing of me.

I know this.

This year, and this blogging thing, I think, will be an exercise in honesty and self acceptance. In giving myself the same nonjudgmental space, understanding, and acceptance that I give to others. In tolerating my contradictions.

I’m going to try to allow myself to be both fully okay and a little bit scared at the same time. I’m going to work on feeling okay with the juxtaposition. I’m hoping to subvert the pressure to say I’m this or I’m that.

It’s about letting other people see this reality. It’s about owning my shit. It’s about screaming into the void and trusting that it will mean something to someone. It’s about growing up. It’s for me.

But, of course, it’s also a little bit for you. ;) #alwaysboth

[lizzizzie-blog]

So this is the New Year.

It’s the New Year. We rang in 2017 with a quiet sleepover with our Framily (friends-family) - a couple who were my husband’s friends from high school, and their sweet kiddo. They are the best. It was a lovely time. There were snacks, and a special cocktail made with my tastes in mind. There was coloring, dancing, and gaming, and mirth and joy and laughter. Most of all, there was love. Mature, comfortable, stable, steady, twinkly love. It was perfect.

We have an incredible friend group in the suburb where we bought our house. These are the people with whom I hang out regularly at this phase of my life, and I am so lucky. They’re a bunch of adult sweethearts and we have so much fun together. Before everybody parted ways to see family for the holiday, we had an impromptu Game Night Christmas party with all of them at our house (though one had to stay home with her ill baby). We drank drinks and ate snacks. We played the new Oregon Trail card game and reminisced about having to set it to the “aggressive pace” to maximize gameplay when we’d play at elementary school. We made jokes about dysentery and oxen and fording the river. We agreed that hunting was always the best part. We made up a stupid game that involved throwing shit from the top of the stairs into other shit at the bottom of the stairs. We played Adult Hide and Seek. We played Trivia Murder Party. There were stupid prizes at stake that our friends took way too seriously. There was laughter, there was singing, and there was love. Silly, easy, funny, understanding, reliable love. It was perfect.

And it feels like only yesterday that it was New Year’s Eve 2005. I can conjure the emotions and mood of that night effortlessly. I was 18, home for Winter Break from my first semester at college. And I was getting drunk at my still-high-school-sweetheart-boyfriend’s best friend’s house, taking pictures of me kissing one of (all of) my besties. My roomie and I called our moms from the stairs just after midnight, and one of my besties made out with a dude AFTER puking and we all gave them shit. There was a Buzz Lightyear costume, and trick Jell-O shots (surprise! just Jell-O!), and weed that I was too afraid to smoke. Most of all, there was love. Young, sloppy, insecure, vibrant, loud love. It was also perfect.

I’ve been especially reflective this New Year, as 2017 is the year I will turn 30. Usually I don’t build up the new year thing all that much in terms of making resolutions and self-reflection. Until recently, I hadn’t given turning 30 much thought. Getting older has never concerned me (I’ve always felt older than my age, and I happen to be in the “life is long” camp as opposed to the “life is short” camp, usually), and most of my friends with whom I hang out regularly are past 30, so it doesn’t feel like so big of a deal. Turning 30 will just make me feel like one of the cool kids… which is, ironic.

But, today is my last day of Winter Break, and I am feeling sad about that. Yes, as a 29 year old woman, I have a real, grown up, adult job in which I get to work from home and have a Winter Break. #blessed 

I should be making a meal plan, and a grocery list, and catching up on the work I’m behind on from before Winter Break, but instead I am being still… sitting, feeling, writing.

Over this break, I fell deeply madly in love with a Norwegian TV series about teens. I love stories about young people… TV shows about kids in high school, YA novels. Maybe this is something I should grow out of, but I always go back to it. There is something so compelling about coming of age stories. Maybe it’s related to my ability to instantly replay all the feelings and emotion of that time in my life. Anyway, I can’t stop watching this show. I binged it, and virtually overnight it became my favorite show, ever. And I keep watching it over again. And following Instagram and Tumblr accounts about it. On this break, I felt like I was a young person again…I stayed up late obsessively watching TV, and I slept in without an alarm. Several days passed without a schedule, and I didn’t bother to get dressed for many of them. (I also had a cold/flu thing going on for several days, so I will justify it with that.) It felt so good to forget my everyday stresses and get sucked into stories about young love… It felt so good to just be a person, and it has made me nostalgic for the time when I was younger and every day felt that way, and the weight of my responsibilities wasn’t with me all of the all the time. It felt so incredible to allow myself the feeling of joy without the inner monologue of worry, stress, guilt, and fear that I typically carry every day because I am a human person. It’s been so long since I was in such a head space, and I feel lighter. And afraid of going back to the daily routine tomorrow.

Our friends and family are having kids. We’re thinking about having one, and I am so back and forth about it. Not because I am unsure whether I want to be a parent. Not because I doubt my or my husband’s ability to love and rear a child. Maybe because I still feel like one. Maybe because I feel like I am JUST on the cusp of learning how to prioritize myself and treat myself with the same love I give so freely and easily to others.

Maybe 30 will be the year that I grow up and address my physical health. Maybe 30 will be the year that I get it together enough to clean my shower with minimally acceptable frequency. Maybe 30 will be the year during which I finally give in and start budgeting like a responsible person should. Maybe 30 will be the year I stop spilling shit and running into shit all. the. time. Maybe 30 will be the year I will give myself permission to do less. Maybe 30 will be the year during which I grow completely out of trying to guess what my mom would think (but not actually asking her because I’m a #grownasswoman who values her own opinions) as a means of decision-making. Here’s hoping.

As I write this, my husband is organizing the garage. Which apparently includes hacking apart a rotting wooden step ladder and burning it in the fire pit out back, because I’ve been watching him do that, out the back window, as I sit at my dining room table (shout out to Art Van 0% financing).

A few minutes ago I texted him, “Be careful, dear. Don’t impale yourself.” Just now I looked up to find him sitting fire-adjacent in a lawn chair, sawing through a rung. I watched him take his phone out of his hoodie pocket, read my text, and shrug at it. My heart swelled.

Right now my best friend’s husband is marching with the Air Force Band in the Rose Bowl parade. My besties (yes, the same besties from NYE 2005) group chat is talking about how we’re seeing him on TV, sending screenshots of flashes of him from the Rose Bowl’s Facebook coverage. My heart is so warm.

How did I get here so quickly? The first of my besties is pregnant (eeee!!!!). I have a mortgage. And plenty of student loan debt. And a (beautiful) cat. And a husband. A salary, a retirement plan that I don’t understand, a niece, in-laws. I will inherit our friends’ child if they die at the same time tragically. I’ve given a eulogy. I’ve been to too many funerals. I’ve presided over the marriage of several friends, and over one divorce. It’s all happening, and sometimes it all still feels really weird. #stillfightingit