blogisastrongword

[blogisastrongword]

Thinking For Myself

**I originally published this on Medium here but decided it should also live in this oft-neglected corner of the internet.**

When I was growing up, I didn’t go to church on Sundays. There was a short period of time when I was about 13 or 14 that my parents started taking me and my brother to church on Sundays, and that lasted for about a year, maybe two. When I was younger I would sometimes go with a girlfriend of mine when I stayed over at her house on the weekend, which I thought was a little strange, but at the time I kind of liked going. It was different and I got to dress up, so that was cool. In my freshman year of college, I tried going to church with a group of people I had become friends with (you know the way college freshman never seem to do anything alone?), and that actually stuck for a little while, but I eventually dropped that too after it became what church had always been for me: invasive, exclusive, and judgmental. I didn’t lose a lot of sleep over quitting church altogether. I say all of this to say that I am not a particularly religious person now, nor did I grow up in a super religious home. In fact, though I still believe in God, I am someone who harbors a lot of resentment toward the church and Christianity*.

The thing is, I didn’t grow up going to church on Sundays the way most kids I know did, but I went to church every other day of the week. I went to a small private Christian school, in Texas, from Kindergarten through 12th grade. What does this mean? Well, first of all it means I went to chapel once a week, every week, for the entirety of my education. I had a bible class every single year, and in high school I had two because I was on the worship team and we had our own “worship class” we attended on non-chapel days. It also means things like I wore a uniform to school and graduated in a class of only 62 kids, but those things are less unique than some of the other stuff. One thing I’ve learned in the last few years is that when you tell someone who didn’t go to Christian school that you went to one, they just kind of nod and say “oh, okay.” and that’s it. But if you meet someone who also went to Christian school, congratulations, you have just found someone to talk to for the rest of the night. Suddenly, you’ve found someone who also knows all the words to literally 100 hymns and worship songs, and who also had to memorize passages of scripture for a grade. It’s going to bore the people around you, but the two of you don’t care, you have so much to talk about!

The thing is, other people just don’t really get it. And that’s not me trying to say “I’m so misunderstood!” I’m saying that there’s no way someone outside of the experience could get it because it’s so, well, outside of their experience. But also, I don’t really think to explain it to other people because it was my normal. So when I casually mention something about reading C.S. Lewis in English classes, or the time one of my math teachers spent an entire class period talking about the evils of witchcraft instead of, you know, algebra, I forget that those things didn’t really happen to other kids as much (or…at all). For me, that was an ordinary school day.

When I got to be a certain age, I think part of me knew it was weird, but it was also the only thing I had ever known. I was happy to be in a Christian environment because it was the best place to be — everyone kept saying so. It wasn’t until college that I really started reflecting on it with any kind of perspective, and it took me awhile to recognize that some of the things I had been taught were not only batshit insane, but damaging on a deeper level.

As I got into my 20s, I would sometimes notice the way my religious background influenced my life in not-so-positive ways. It created difficulties for me in my relationships, both romantic and platonic, and in my social life in general, as well the way I thought about and treated myself in my own mind. In the last year-ish, I’ve really started examining this influence, and I’ve discovered a couple of things (which yes, I am talking about with my therapist). There’s so many things I could list and stories I could share that are bizarre, funny, even inappropriate about my christian education, but for now, I’ll list the three things my Christian education did not teach me:

how to think for myself

to trust in myself

to be kind, both to myself and to others

A lot of people I went to school with and definitely a lot of my teachers would probably be shocked and upset to hear me say this, but it’s true. More than that, it’s taken me years to realize it.

Christianity doesn’t teach you to think for yourself because you don’t have to think for yourself; it’s called the Inerrancy of Scripture (seriously, you can google that) and it makes everything super easy. If the Bible says it, it’s true and you believe it, or you go to hell. The end.

You don’t trust yourself because your trust is in God — and in your pastor, or your parents. Usually, in my case, it was in my teachers. They were right and I was wrong if I disagreed. This issue of trust also has a special significance for women, especially young women, because we often receive a rather mixed message from Christianity regarding our worth as human beings. And if you’re constantly questioning your worth, how are you ever supposed to start learning to trust your own mind?

Lastly, and this is the thing I almost didn’t say because I recognize that it is harsh, but Christianity doesn’t teach you how to be kind. You don’t learn to be kind to yourself, a sinner, for whom there is no hope of salvation, or life worth living, without God. And you certainly don’t learn to be kind to others. This was especially true in the place I come from. You know those places you hear about where shout about homosexuality being a sin and an abomination? And about how Muslims will kill us all, and there’s a war on Christmas? Yeah. I went to school there. These are people who preach kindness and do not practice it themselves. And look, I know this is harsh and not totally fair — churches and Christian organizations do a lot of good. They do. But you can’t ignore, or I can’t ignore, the unkindness they have also perpetrated, some of it through me as a young person.

Because guess what? When you’re 13 and it’s your normal, and no one is ever telling you anything different, and the only internet is dial-up that you can only use when your mom doesn’t need the phone? You believe all that shit. People want to believe, kids especially I think, and when you combine that with not being taught how to think for yourself? It’s kind of a perfect storm. I look back on some of the things I believed at 14, 15, 16, and I’m ashamed of that girl. But I’m also trying now to cut her a little slack. Because even now, when my beliefs have changed so drastically for the better, I am still a victim to that system in some ways. A lot of them are subconscious — I don’t even realize where a feeling or attitude formed until I have it pointed out to me (did I mention I’m seeing a therapist?), but I’m making a real effort to examine and reprogram some of those negative influences. Only time will tell, of course, how successful I am and how it affects my eventual relationship to faith and Christianity, but I think it’s going to be a healthy thing for me in the long run.

So that’s what I’m thinking about right now.

Talk to me about religion — I’m weirdly obsessed and I won’t judge you!

*In case it isn’t clear throughout here, I’m speaking specifically about white, southern, evangelical Christianity. I don’t want to type this out every time, but it’s important to note because I do recognize that there is a huge variety of experiences just within Christianity alone. This is mine.

[blogisastrongword]

It is so completely fucked up what I am about to tell you but in the most garbage, anti-feminist, self-loathing move possibly of all time, my professional life is actually imploding around me and the thing upsetting me the most at this very moment is the fact that my mascara has been rubbing off under my eyes recently which it has never done before and I don't know what’s causing it or how to make it stop. If you have a solution, hmu.

[blogisastrongword]

I feel obligated to point out that this would be more like the Elder Toothpick.

Submitted by sunnyxstars.

[blogisastrongword]

Books I Would Recommend to Anyone Who Likes to Read, Regardless of What You Like to Read

Hello Friends.

As anyone who likes to read knows, if your friends know you’ve read a lot they will inevitably ask you at some point “what should I read next?” This question inspires fear in many of us because (a) you immediately forget everything you’ve ever read in your life that is not terribly embarrassing, and (b) it can be a little bit like setting someone up with a friend: what if they don’t like it? Will it ruin the friendship? Will they judge you for liking this book? There are some people I feel more comfortable recommending things too than others, simply because they are also readers and I have an idea of what they like to read. But I find that most people who ask for a recommendation either don’t read as often (hence they don’t have a stack of to-be-reads next to their bed that is threatening to topple over onto their head in the night), or they’re looking for something “different” from their usual fare and I am the poor soul who has to help them fix their reader’s block. The first group I find it more easy to recommend things, but they’re frequently things I wouldn’t recommend to just anyone. Over the years, however, I’ve come across a few things I would recommend to absolutely anyone. This is that list. Some fiction, some non-fiction, and in no particular order. I even included links so you don’t have to ask if you can borrow them (and yes they’re all to Barnes & Noble because Amazon is the god damn devil).

Ready Player One, Ernest Cline. This book is just fun. Cline’s writing style is engaging and easy to read, and all the pop culture references (a lot of 80s nostalgia going on here) should make it feel like reading a BuzzFeed article but somehow doesn’t. Honestly, a lot of this book shouldn’t work—there’s so much going on, and so many goofy, nerdy things, and a little bit of wish-fulfillment—but it just comes out so charming and funny and great. It helps that Cline’s main character is less than a hero and even has some moments of intense un-likability, but he’s aware of that, and that’s always better than an author who doesn’t realize their character is being kind of a dick. Also, if you like audiobooks, Wil Wheaton reads this one and I’m led to believe it’s good.

The Fold, Peter Clines. I read this last year and again within the same year. It blew my mind how compelling it was. It���s pretty bizarre, but in the way I think most people enjoy—weird in the way TV shows can get away with weird. If you’re like me, you’ll fly through this practically without stopping, simply because there are no good stopping points. That’s not a negative commentary on the writing—it’s just a non-stop story from start to finish. Also, whatever you think is going on in the first 50 pages, and even the first 100 pages, get ready to be wrong. So wrong.

The Marriage Plot, Jeffrey Eugenides. This one is very different from the first two—no sci-fi here, you’re welcome—and definitely a slower read. Eugenides writing is dense, and the characters so relateable that at times I had to set this aside just from the weight of feeling the book elicits. In a good way, though. Anyone who has ever been in their twenties or is in their twenties now or has had a relationship of any kind will love this, and probably see a lot of themselves reflected in at least one, if not all, of the three main characters.

American Gods, Neil Gaiman. This book. I don’t even really know what to say about this book except that it’s my favorite book of all time and I’ve read it six times, twice immediately back-to-back. Gaiman’s writing is off-the-charts amazing and the story is so weird and wonderful and just, ugh. Read this book. Also a longer read, but so worth it. Don’t be put off by the weirdness—it doesn’t get any less weird, but it does get more amazing. There’s not a lot more I can say about this without giving away everything, so just read it. Go, now.

Gone, Baby, Gone; Dennis Lehane. This is a dark one, but especially with all the Serial and Making A Murderer craze right now, I think the story would appeal to a lot of people. I also cannot emphasize enough that you must NOT judge this book on the movie. If you’ve seen the movie, pretend you haven’t, and if you haven’t seen the movie, don’t watch it. Just read this book. Again, it’s a dark one—it’s about a little girl who gets kidnapped—but it’s also an interesting view of people and the celebrity that often comes with high-media-coverage kidnappings like this one.

Faithful Place, Tana French. Tana French is an author I recommend to a lot of people by saying this: I read her first book and thought I don’t think I liked that, then I bought her second book and thought, I’m not sure I liked that, then I bought her third book and thought, shit, I think I love these books. She writes the some of the most compelling characters I’ve ever read, and they won’t always be characters you even like but you will still find yourself captivated by them. This is that third book—I would recommend the first two as well, but start with this one if you’re unsure. For the record, all the books are set in the same “universe,” if you will, of a police department in Scotland, but this one is really, really good. And one of the final scenes of this book, I will never be able to forget as long as I live. Equal parts smart, emotional, and terrifying. If you wanted to like Gone Girl but couldn’t stomach the poor writing and boring characters, this is the book you want.

The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo, Stieg Larsson. I know, I know. But seriously, this book is really good. The second one is even better, but you really have to read the first one to follow the story. The first one could also stand alone, so you’re not left feeling frustrated at the end when it just cuts off without any kind of resolution. And honestly the third one is a bitch to get through so I wouldn’t even recommend that one. But this one, definitely read this one. Don’t worry that you’ll keep mixing up all the Swedish names (it’s a lot of Js and Ks where you wouldn’t expect them), you really only need to know Lisbeth and Mikael.

There Goes Gravity, Lisa Robinson. Lisa Robinson is a music journalist whose work you have probably read if you’ve read a musician profile in Vanity Fair in the last few years, which I’m assuming is just me. In the 70s, she toured with both the Rolling Stones and Led Zeppelin, both of which are discussed at length here, but she’s also interviewed Michael Jackson, Lady Gaga, Elton John, Jay-Z, Madonna, and Eminem, to name a few. All are some of the best profiles I’ve ever read, and Robinson is both smart and gentle with them—except when she’s not gentle, like in the case of Madonna, which is also fantastic. I think the thing that makes this book such a great read is that it reads almost like a memoir. Robinson doesn’t talk to the artists like they’re artists; she talks to them like they’re people. This is one you could read straight through, or you could pick around and read the ones you like first, but you should definitely read all of them.

Best American Non-Required Reading, any year. This comes out every year and is put together by a group of high school students with an author as their sort of Editor-in-Chief (it’s changed hands a few times in recent years, but it was Dave Eggers for many years). Because it’s a different group of kids every year, it’s a completely different book every year. For obvious reasons, in that different writing gets included every year, but also because each group of students brings their own sort of interests and styles to the book and choose to focus on different kinds of writing. One year they did a whole bunch of texts and tweets and emails and other “internet-ish” type writing at the beginning, which was great, another year there was a big chunk of science-fiction. This year there’s a good dose of work by graphic novelists. You get what I’m saying. I can’t recommend just one because it’s different every time, but they’re always great.

#GIRLBOSS, Sophia Amoruso. YEP, I’M PUTTING IT ON HERE, HASHTAG TITLE AND ALL. For real, if you have ever had a job, plan on having a job, or like funny things that are also smart and happen to be filled with good advice for your career/life, read this book. Guys too. Seriously.

Okay folks. That’s ten things you can read. So stop asking me. (Unless you read one of these and want to tell me how brilliant I am for recommending it, or you’ve read it already and want to talk about it, or you want to get weird and hear some of those strange recommendations I mentioned up top, in which case, HMU.)

xx Katie

[blogisastrongword]

What do I think? I think you're an excellent, engaging writer, and I always look forward to reading more from you. I also relate SO hard (as I think many people would). I'm constantly afraid my writing will seem amateurish, or stupid, or will attract negative attention, etc etc etc. But at some point, I decided that, for me, the only thing scarier than writing was not writing at all. Here's to dreams taking shape! <3

ilysm <3

[blogisastrongword]

Hello Friends.

 Recently, I’ve been thinking a lot about fear. Specifically, my own fear when it comes to writing. If you were to ask most of my friends, I think they’d be surprised to learn that my dream job is to be writing. This is partly because my real “dream” job is to be a back-up dancer in rap videos, but mostly because it’s not something I share with anyone. I’ve always kept my writing very private, which of course is counter-productive if one eventually wants to become a writer. So lately I’ve been ruminating on why this is, exactly, and what my real fears are when it comes to writing. And I think I can finally pinpoint my two main fears when it comes to writing, and more specifically sharing my writing in a public space, in the following two way:

Fear of being known.

Fear of being misunderstood.

Anyone who writes, and even people who don’t, might understand what I mean by those two things, especially the first one, fear of being known. This is something I have struggled with in relationships—both friendly and romantic—for most of my life. On some level I understood that real, lasting relationships involved opening up to another person on a much deeper level than I was currently doing, but I also was certain that this could only result in also opening oneself up to pain, judgement, and the eventual end of the relationship, so why even bother? I have, in recent years, slowly learned that this is not the case. Well, it isn’t always the case. There are of course going to be relationships where we allow ourselves to open up to someone only to be deeply hurt by that person, but it has been my experience now that opening up—allowing myself to be known—leads to stronger, more fulfilling relationships than if you remain private and closed off. These relationships are with people who see you exactly as you are and do more than just accept you; they push you, encourage you, and help you to know yourself. Writing is one of the ultimate exercises in getting to know oneself, and thus allowing someone else to read your writing can be revealing, in a way I was not formerly comfortable with. There are still a limited number of people that I feel this with, but I am beginning to see the merit in letting go of this fear if it can help me to grow as a person and a writer.

The second, fear of being misunderstood, took me a little longer to work out. First, how could I simultaneously be afraid of people knowing me, but also afraid that they won’t understand me perfectly? If I insist on being private, how can I expect anyone to understand me all the time? But it’s really more than just being misunderstood. The second part is being misunderstood and being judged for it. Or, perhaps worse, being understood and still judged for it. The thing about writing—and especially writing on the internet—is that it is both extremely personal and extremely impersonal. It is personal in the sense that I am frequently sharing with you my deepest thoughts and feelings on things like God, sex, and depression, which are personal subjects. But there’s something about reading someone’s words, as opposed to hearing them in person, than can cause a sort of disconnect. Even if you know what I look like and what my voice sounds like, reading my words on the screen, while I am not there to say them to you directly, allows your brain to separate me from those words. This, I think, is how so many people are so often accused of trying to speak on behalf of others they have no right speaking on behalf of, when really they were just speaking of their own personal experience and someone took and separated it from them and applied it to someone else. Of course, being able to write something that people can identify with even when it’s not their own experience is a wonderful thing, especially if it brings them comfort or help in some way. But the danger is that you can also be misunderstood and thought to be speaking out of turn, and we all know how the internet deals with people it thinks have overstepped their bounds. I am so afraid of writing something and being, to put it lightly, torn to shreds by someone who feels I am trying to speak for them when in actuality, I would only ever attempt to speak for myself and my experience. So really, this is not just a fear of being misunderstood, but of being judged. To quote one of my favorite movies, to have been “weighed, measured, and found wanting.”

What if the people who read my writing don’t agree with my ideas on sex and relationships?

What if someone is offended by my thoughts on God and spirituality?

What if I upset someone by talking about my depression because it’s not as serious theirs?

Will people think I’m shallow or vain for wanting to talk about clothes and makeup?

What if my opinions on culture seem uneducated or stupid to someone with more experience than me?

These are the questions my brain fires at me every time I sit down to write something, and for years I have let them stop me from writing. But then, just the other day, I started trying to answer them and found I had some questions of my own.

Do you think less of people whose ideas on sex and relationships don’t align with yours? No, not at all—in fact I frequently find it makes me look seriously at my own ideas and evaluate them in a positive way.

Are you offended by people who disagree with your thoughts on God and spirituality? I am only offended by people who use God and religion as means to spread hatred; I love to talk to people about different belief systems—or lack thereof.

Have you ever been upset with someone for telling their truth about their experience with depression or anxiety? Of course not. Do you think people who talk about clothes are shallow? Good grief, I’ve only had a subscription to Vogue for 15 years. Do you ever read someone’s honest opinion of something they enjoyed and think “that’s stupid”? Why would I think negatively of someone just for enjoying a book, or a movie, or a song that I don’t personally like?

So when these answers started to form themselves in my head, they became like electrical shocks. Suddenly, I realized that everyone who is writing in a public space must suffer from these fears now and then—maybe all the time—and they’re still writing. So why am I letting them stop me? And then I remembered something a former boss asked me in my job interview with him, and how I answered. He asked me if I was afraid of taking on the position because it was something I had never done before. I answered him, of course I’m nervous about it, but if I never did any of the things that scared me, I wouldn’t be where I am now, and I wouldn’t have had so many of the great experiences I’ve had.

He told me months later that when I said that, when I confessed to being nervous and not letting it hold me back, that was when he knew I was right for the job.

So this is me, confessing to myself that I am still afraid. I am still scared of sharing my writing with the people who know me and the people who don’t. But if I never do it, I’m never going to be a writer. So I’m going to do my best to take the same leap of faith with myself that my boss did that day and trust that by acknowledging that fear and setting it aside, I can slowly start to see that dream take shape.

This was a bit of a long one, so if you stayed to the end I appreciate it. And you should let me know what you think :)

xx Katie

[blogisastrongword]

When I pictured my life at 25, it didn’t involve leaning out of my open car door coughing up and choking on mucus in the parking lot of a grocery store at nine in the evening on a Sunday, but here I am.

In fact, the life I’m living right now doesn’t look even remotely like I thought it was going to just a few short years ago. And if I’m being completely honest? I have no idea how I got here.

As I was leaning out of my car, snot pouring out of my nose and mouth, gagging and gasping for air as I spit onto the ground, I realized a few things:

This isn’t what I wanted from my life, but now that I’m here, I don’t know what I want.

This sickness I have been fighting for a month is more than just a cold. This is physical and mental.

If I don’t make a change (or changes) I’m afraid things will only continue to get worse.

I have no idea what to do about any of this.

All of these hit me like a wave, and I’m still dissecting them and trying to work out what to do about each one. The second one in particular had been sort of growing in the back of my mind for a while, so it seemed like as good a place to start as any.

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I am depressed; I suffer from depression and have for many years now, but in my recent history it has gotten worse. Changed into something I no longer know how to handle or manage. I also have asthma. Having asthma is a lot like having depression. There is no “curing” either one, there is only managing. Sometimes when I am having a mild bout of asthma—when it feels like just a slight hitch in my breath—instead of reaching automatically for my inhaler, I will spend a minute trying to talk my body off the ledge. I try to get comfortable, straighten my back so my chest is not caved in, breathe carefully and evenly. Often, this works and the moment passes, and I have no need for the inhaler. Occasionally, it doesn’t work and the situation worsens. My chest grows tight, it becomes more of an effort to breathe. My chest doesn’t rise and fall like it should, as if there is a weight resting on it. When this happens, I reach for the inhaler, which acts quickly to remove the weight and my throat opens and my lungs expand and all of a sudden breathing is easy again. With depression, there are times when I can feel it creeping in to my brain, like shadows quietly unfolding in my mind, creeping out of the corners. Sometimes, I can keep the shadows at bay, even banish them temporarily. But the thing about shadows is that even when we can’t see them, the thing that casts them is still there—just like my asthma is always there. Sometimes, I can’t push the shadows back and they continue to grow, lengthening and unfolding in my mind, casting my mind into a poisonous kind of darkness. Strong arms press down on my chest and wrap around my brain and fill it with doubts and despair. The problem I face when this happens is that, unlike an asthma attack, there is no inhaler to reach for. There isn’t a fast-acting solution to help me manage my feelings of hopelessness, of apathy. I can take medication, which I do, and I can seek counselling, which I am, but these things can feel a little like trying to find your way in a dark forest with only a box of matches. Not only that, but frequently the coping strategies for managing depression can be exhausting—not least because depression is already exhausting, and trying to force your way out of it just emphasizes that. It’s a vicious, draining cycle that feeds on itself.

The thing that a lot of people miss about depression is how difficult it can make it to go through mundanities of everyday life. When I’m depressed, my apartment gets messy. I’m not as active because all I want to do—and really, all I even feel capable of doing most days—is lay in my bed or on my couch and do nothing. I don’t read, I don’t watch TV, I certainly don’t do household chores. I come home from work and struggle to stay awake until at least 9, at which point I can justify going to bed. Sometimes I fall asleep on the couch anyway and sleep for 2 or 3 hours, then get up and go straight to bed. You would think this means I have no trouble getting up on time for work in the morning, but it almost seems like the earlier I go to bed, the harder it is to wake up on time in the morning. So then I am perpetually late for work, which is frustrating too. I know that to a lot of people, this just sounds like laziness or lack of motivation. And you know what? Maybe they’re right. But they probably have also never experienced the feeling of feeling literally unable to command your body to do the things you need to do. It’s like your mind and body are not even connected—they can hear each other but refuse to work together. And if you let yourself think “I’m just being lazy,” you’ll also be inviting guilt to the party, which just adds another layer of bad feeling to the mix. When someone says to me—and I would like to point out that I know people do not mean this maliciously, it simply comes from a place of not fully understanding and I am passing no judgement here—that I should just try “doing one thing at a time” or that if I could “just motivate myself,” I would feel so much better, it is akin to me showing up at the ER having an asthma attack and the doctor looking at me and saying “have you tried just breathing?” Breathing is the easiest thing to do in the entire world—we all do it constantly without even thinking about it—but in the moment of an attack, every breath is the hardest won battle of my life. In the throes of depression, getting out of bed each day can seem like a battle. Frequently, to my mind, a battle not even worth winning.

-----------------

Unfortunately, these moments of deep darkness have been coming more and more, and I am finding it more difficult than ever to fight them off. My old coping strategies aren’t having the effect they once were and that’s scary and upsetting. And when I’m trying not to vomit in a parking lot on a Sunday night, I have to ask myself if my sickness is not somehow tied up in this as well. I have been sick for almost a month. If I were happier, or better able to manage my depression, would my body be struggling so much to recover from this? Is my depression now affecting not just my mental health but my physical health as well? And if there is no cure, how do I find a way to manage my depression in the same way that I manage my asthma?

As far as the other three things on that list, I still don’t know what I want, nor do I have any idea what changes I should be making or what to do about getting my life back on a track I feel good about. I know that where I am isn’t where I want to be, but I hope learning to manage my depression more, however I am able to do that, is a starting point. Maybe if I can do that, I can start working out what it is I do want and find a way to get there.

[blogisastrongword]

You Will Meet Someone Who Makes Sense.

One day in the course of your life, you will meet someone. He'll be average-looking, and maybe a little against type for you, but something about him will click for you right away. He'll make you laugh harder than you've laughed maybe in your whole life. He'll pay you all the compliments you always longed to hear but thought were only lines in movies--but in a good way, not in a cheesy way. You'll meet his family and they will love you and you will love them. He will meet your family and he will love them and they will love him. He will love you, so much that you can actually feel it when you're together. And you will want so painfully to love him that much in return. But when the night is over, and you're leaving his house and he kisses you, you will feel…nothing. Maybe not nothing. But it will not be the love that he feels for you. And you will hate yourself for it because in your head you keep saying to yourself "this makes sense, we make sense" and you will cry because you fear that something is wrong with you that you are unable to love him back. You will decide to be friends, and it takes a lot of work, but in the end, you are so much closer than you ever were when you were in a one-sided love affair. And then he will meet her, The One, and in your head you will say that makes sense, they make sense, and your heart will be full of love because now you understand.

 Someday in the course of your life, you will meet someone. He will be handsome, charming, and sweet. He will love his family and spending time with them the same way you love your family and spending time with them. You will like the same books, the same movies, the same almost-everything--and the things you don't like, you will gently tease the other one for liking. You will start out as friends, mostly because the timing never seems to be right. But one day, it will be, for the briefest of moments…and neither of you will have the courage to move. So you remain friends, but that moment will live in the back of your head. This one, he makes sense, you'll think, and you know that if it's meant to be, which of course it is, it will happen. You grow closer in your friendship, and become confidantes. He tells you about his relationships and you tell him about yours and you talk about what you both want for your lives, for your futures…and you realize this doesn't make sense. You remain friends, because the moment you thought you missed? It was the missing that counted.

 One day in the course of your life, you met someone. And you were the best of friends until one day he says to you, shouts to you THIS MAKES SENSE! And you are afraid because he is your best friend and what will you do when it doesn't work out. But later, when you are alone, you will remember that he knows you better than almost anyone. That he has seen you at your highest and your lowest and all the middle-est, too. And you will think this could make sense. And you will try it, but it won't fit. Things will be uncomfortable. It will be a long road back, and you'll never be what you were in the beginning, but now when you are together you think this makes sense.

 Someday in the course of your life, you will meet someone. He will be different. He will make you angry, and then briefly, he will make you happy. And then he will break you. He doesn't mean to do it--he doesn't know he's doing it. How could he? He doesn't know the stories, your stories. So you pick up your pieces and you put yourself back together and when he tries to make it right you tell him you are tired. You don't have the energy to be angry. For a long time, you don't speak. Then one day, you do. Tentatively, you open yourself up to him, and he to you. More than before, but still mindful of the past. You make him happy, and he makes you happy, but he also makes you angry, and afraid, because he keeps asking for more and the voice in your head keeps whispering this doesn't make sense. Sometimes, you still manage to ignore that voice, because it's very quiet and easy to tune out… for a night. But in your heart, you know the voice is right.

 In your heart, you know that one day, in the course of your life, you will meet someone. You don't know what he will look like. You don't know what he will say, or what you will say, or how or when it will happen. But what you do know is that you will ask yourself does this make sense? And your heart will answer back yes, this one, and you will realize that none of the others ever made sense and you can't believe you didn't see it all along.

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I would.

I can’t handle this website anymore

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Me every time

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me: hello dear brain, do you think we can get started on that thing we wanted to do today

brain: no :)

me: ah, you're right, as usual, thank you

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Fellas

single and ready 2 flamingle

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Dear Neil, I am a horrible person. How to be kinder, please?

Sometimes I suspect we are all horrible people. Or at least, we are human people. Same thing. We are impatient, judgmental, irritating and irritated, grumpy, easily offended and the rest of it.

So how to be kinder if it doesn’t come naturally? 

Fake it. 

Fake it a little bit at a time. 

Because there isn’t actually any difference between doing something nice for someone because you are naturally saintly and perfect, and doing something nice for someone because you are secretly demonic and trying to cover it up. It’s still an act of kindness either way, and you still made their lives better.

Smile at people. Say hullo. Ask about their lives. Remember what they’ve told you about their lives. Do small things to try and help them. (They will not know you are horrible, do not worry. They will just perceive that you are helping.)

Give people the benefit of the doubt. Remember that it’s more often stupidity to blame than evil, that everyone can screw up (including you) and what’s important is learning from that.

Think “What would an actually kind person do now?” – and do that. Don’t beat yourself up when you fail. Just be as kind to yourself as you will be to others – even if you have to fake that.

And good luck.

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For real though

And that’s what you missed on Orphan Black.

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Yesterday, I was changing a display at work, which means I was changing the table and the two mannequins next to it. I was having a really hard time because I didn’t like any outfit I put together on the mannequins until finally I realized “oh, it’s because the outfits I’m putting together would look good on my body, and I am a size-six woman with curves, and are not going to look the same on a size-one, stick-straight mannequin.” And considering how often the idea among women seems to be “that looks way better on the mannequin than on me,” suddenly realizing that I liked the way clothes look on my body better was pretty fucking cool.

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When you realize you can totally wear hats.

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BLOSSOM

BUBBLES

AND BUTTERCUP

HAVE DEDICATED THEIR LIVES TO FIGHTING CRIME 

AND THE

FORCES

OF

EVIL