beautifully unbalanced.

Or maybe innapropriately crazy. Or downright absurd. I don't know. My life, though, as I've come to accept that I'll never accept - is sort of a wreck sometimes. As I come to terms with the "highly moderate to severe depression" (as my doctor calls it) and figure out what my medicine means for me, I still suffer bouts of horrendous saddness, where I think I'm going to die. Many situations and circumstances will bring this on. Most of them are arbitary or obscure and make no sense. Like television commericals, or finishing a book. Some are real. Like feeling insecure. Or unworthy. Or not close to God. Or thinking about my Dad. I want to take this chance to open up to anyone who reads this thing (anyone?) a look into what depression is like. I want to be open about it. Sorry if it makes you uncomfortable.

Here is something rare that I more than likely will never do again. These are journal entries.

December 6th
Why is it me who is sad? During Christmas time? Why aren't I laughing with my roommates? Decorating the tree? Why am I empty? Lonely. Unlike anything else that exists on this planet?

I check the inside of my bible to see the words are still inside and that I am not in hell.

They are.

But I don't read them. Instead, I imagine what a relief it would feel to slice open m veins and watch the blood pour out. It is itching to come out, I am certain. It needs air.

Christmas time. While I hope every year it is the other way around, the lonely just feel more lonely. The lights are beautiful, the snow is magic. Yet, I still manage to be dying.

They don't understand. "Follow Him" they say. "Life is what you make it." "YOU choose to feel this way."

Oh, if it were only that simple.

Oh, if I could stich my life back together, transform the texture of my heart, and feel God again, I would. They don't understand.

So they keep their distance. Afraid of me. I could snap at any moment, right? Fuck. What do they think I'm going to do?

I just need to be held like any other child. Like any other little thing who has fallen down on the pavement is and is just certain they have ruined their whole life.

It feels like falling apart.

But don't take my word for it, I am dramatic. Delusional. Selfish.

I. JUST. DON'T. CARE.

Now, to be honest. I am a little embarassed by this. But it was SO real. It was the realest thing I have ever felt. I freak out like this, sometimes. I lose it. I get very, very sad. But there was some redemption. My roommate Katie prayed for me, and told me she had a feeling I'd feel better soon. And she was right.

December 7th
Things get better. (A letter to me.)

Remember the night after the night you lost your shit. You ate starbursts and wrote a letter to Kate. You loved a Christmas tree and you are about to read the bible. You had genuine laughs at your lifegroup's Christmas party. You got a Rugrat's pillowcase. You did your homework. Please remember this. Remember that you don't want to kill your self and that you love your bed and your room is warm and that you are warm.

25 things I am thankful for:

1. Jesus
2. GeoJourney
3. Nature- mountains, ocean, green grass, the dessert, trees, anything.
4. The Seifferts
5. My family in BG and my family at home (even though both can be really difficult.)
6. Friends getting engaged. Christie and Josh. What cuties.
7. Going to Mumbai, India.
8. Art.
9. My bed and relaxing in it.
10. Laughter.
11. Refreshing cries.
12. Friendships that have grown this year mostly Lindsay, Grace and Cholena. I love those three so much.
13. My roommates. I love them all dearly even sometimes it's hard for me to live there. They each have amazing qualities. How much Beth and I can relate to eachother, Katie's listening ear, Christie's sweetness, Sarah's adventurous spirit, Cassy's childlike faith. It's really great.
14. The fact that I am able to feed myself. A lot.
15. Learning new things, learning how to do things, learning how to do things better, learning from mistakes, learning about eachother, learning the hard way, learning.
16. The smell after it rains.
17. 70 degree weather in November.
18. Good conversation.
19. Good hugs.
20. Sweaters and tea
21. Books. I love books.
22. How much in my life God has redeemed and how much if it He is working on.
23. Poetry.
24. Black Raspberry Chip.
25. Cities.

what do you think makes someone intelligent?

where my words went.

I'm sort of in this chapter of my life where I keep trying to open the box that holds my creativity and it's only filled with a bunch of used paints and broken crayons. Embarrassed and sort of disappointed, I usually close the box, slide it under my bed and act as if I had never seen it in the first place. The state of me breaks my heart.

Do you remember the time, about one year ago, that I wrote about myself as if I were a tree? A tree that got to shed it's leaves, and go through seasons and show my vulnerability in all my nakedness but show my newness when new leaves grew back? Well, right now I feel less like a tree and more like a leaf that fell quietly and unnoticed to the ground. Just another crushed up leaf among all the other crushed up leaves.

I deeply associate my entire being with my writings. My stories, my poetry, my words. Now that they are rare, who am I? I am boring. I am empty. I am speechless. I am tired. I am numb. I am a dead leaf, among all the other dead leaves. Not anything special, beautiful, or meaningful. Words no longer flow out of my hands into short streams of metaphoric lines and bone breaking beats. They don't even rest in my soul anymore. My box is almost empty.

Recently, a lot of people have been coming to me with this question, "when are you going to write again?" and each time it's like they're punching my soul and breaking my nose. What do I say when I feel as though my words have gone missing? That I have none because I am quite the opposite of alive? That I'm so angry because I thought with Christ I was supposed to be alive?

I guess for now it's a whole lot of waiting. It's the tapping of the pen waiting for the words to come back. It's the tapping of the watch waiting for the adventure. The adventure that makes my heart come barrelling out of my chest and makes my palms sweaty with impulse. My mind an utter commotion. I miss that. I crave it so badly. And even the most precise recipes I have been able to imagine do not produce the aliveness I once had.

Right now, I'm trying to have faith. I'm trying to hope that one day, I'll be alive again. I'll have it back. I can tell you one thing, though...I want to be off these meds soon. I'm positive they are numbing me. They are destroying my poetic self. They are destroying my preserved metaphors and language and rhythmic alliteration. Everything I had held so deep as my artistic way to deal with it all .

But for right now, this moment, it's empty and straining. It's difficult and enduring. It's broken-nosed faith.

I can't write anymore. I don't know what happened.

what do you value?

kamikaze

First of all, the poem I am about to present is tough. Being on anti-depressants has caused me to feel well enough to deal with issues I typically stuff away. One being my tendency to have sucidal thoughts and desires. This is what those feelings are. I would love to be able to walk in the light with these things, and that you may have a better understanding of what those are. But I don't want to unintentionally make you carry a burden you are not prepared or willing to carry. In that case, please don't read this.


I know, first hand, what causes
a grown man
to tip toe down into his basement,
gently press his knees into the floor,
feel the cold barrel of a gun at his temple

It's what a jelly fish goes through
from ocean to glass cage.
It's tentacles buried in the sand
of a retched place she was forced to call
"home."

It's when the last leaf falls from the tree,
and the last beat
hits your last nerve.

It's the train wreck that makes the sound
of his bloody shirt tumbling in the dryer.

It's the tap tap tap
of your shoes on the pavement
going, or leaving, it doesn't matter
because each breath feels like thorns in your lungs
and you pray to God you don't have to do it
one
more
time.

Because you're bored.

You're bored of the same old shit
that weighs too heavy on your eyelids.
The same old shit
and pushes the knife to your wrist and says,

drag.

It's the time between
stepping over used condoms
to get to your after morning shower
the time between walking to the liquor store,
(listening to the
tap tap tap
of your shoes on the pavement)
and watching the cork
fall into a bottle of wine.

It's how the beard of the man
who beat the hell out of you
can smell exactly the same
as the beard of the man you love,
who hurt you just as much.
so you start to beg
to see your blood glistening in the sun
You start to beg
that you would just have the fucking nerve
to not come back up
after diving in the ocean.


But you always come back up.
You always do.

Women's Studies Bar Crawl

Every year, the nursing department has a bar crawl. They have clever t-shirts.

this year, the women's studies department will do the same (hopefully).

I am making tshirts. I need a witty saying for these t-shirts. Any ideas?

Poetry.

I LOVE spoken word poetry. I love it. Especcially when it's as good as Andrea Gibson. She is my favorite. Please check this out. It's so raw but so, so, so good.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-kBU7xTS1Ss

Just a different medium.

I think I'm into cakes right now. Not necessarily baking them (all though, I enjoy that part too) but decorating them. That's my favorite. I used to be an art major, so really it just feels like I'm using a different medium to work with. Icing. I think I want to get serious about it one day. Not ace of cakes serious...but I'd do it for a living. Hells yeah, I would.


I made this cake for my friend, Amy's birthday. Which was today. ( :) ).

I made this cake for my friend Grace. It's an african safari. She said she liked giraffes.

paralyzed

I was twenty years old when I saw my first dying man.
He was hunched over, in the fetal position, on his bed at the nursing home.
His fingers were knotted and wrinkled, much like my own.
The sound of his slow and heavy breath,
like the waves hitting the shore after a thunderstorm,
haunted my dreams.
Breathing like someone told him the rhythm would launch him to God-
He yearned to burst of his body.

I could relate.

Because, I swear, every time I hear your voice I die.
and the only feasible cure
is to sever my soul out from it's cell.
to slice my skin from ankle to thigh,
from wrist to torso,
like the time I butchered a bison in South Dakota.
I'd peel back my ribs and hold my breath
because I've never seen anything so close to reprieve before.

and I imagined the sky breaking away from the stars,
and my soul floating back into the Womb.
and they say, in heaven, there is no pain.
your heart mended, and your skeleton reset.

It's hard to imagine
from the bed in your nursing home.
Yearning to hear your mothers voice,
and to feel your wife's breath on your neck.
wanting to be able to sit up and take a drink from your cup
without someone you barely know putting the straw to your lips.
Craving to skip rocks across the Atlantic ocean
and to see what Utah looks like from the top of a mountain.

I think all I know is pain.
I think, every year, I'm afraid the trees wont replenish in the spring

what if someone told you, you could never sing?

and I imagine him,
soul cut free,
standing at the shore of the sea,
chest expanding with salty air.
His arms stretched out,
like it was the first time he'd ever seen the ocean.
He can't think of anything more perfect.

I prayed that night I'd see him in heaven.
That God would hear his rhythmic breathing.
That the angels in heaven breathed that rhythm with him,
welcoming him home.

Ever since I was little, I imagined Jesus to be the face on the moon.
And I hoped so hard my lungs burst that he could see Jesus, too.
out the tiny window in his room at the nursing home.
That the illumination would at least make his heart warm.

and there was so much hope that night,
that for a moment,
I swore we were both already in hell.

But, I like to think every time God says, "well done my good and faithful servant."
He gets so excited he forgets to breathe.
that His heart swells so big, sunsets couldn't even compare.

and I hope he's there.

What's the first thing you remember creating?

I distinctly remember when I was a child drawing myself as someone I'd rather be or someone I wanted to be. Sometimes it was me, but somewhere else. It's a funny thing that no one ever questioned that. But, I think it said a lot for where I was as a child. The things I dealt with. What I saw. Heard.

What's the first thing you remember creating?

Disc golf if this thing I've been playing recently and I think it's pretty great and I'm glad I gave it a chance.

The Stars.

Monday my friend Libby, Alesia and I embarked on a road trip to New Hampshire and Conneticut. We began the adventure with a trip to Manhatten, stayed at Libby's parents in Conneticut then made it to New Hampshire. Today, we expolored a little bit of nature. Libby and I found some beaver dams by this small marsh which was ABSOLUTLEY beautiful. The water was reflecting the sky in such detail you couldn't tell what was up and what was down. The green mountains in the landscape made it even more amazing. The feeling of travel, the feeling of GeoJourney came rushing back in. It all hit me tonight, though.

The stars in New Hampshire are incredible. I missed those stars SO much since GeoJourney. There's something about a Bowling Green sky that just doesn't cut it. It's just not there. But tonight, the stars. They just splattered the sky so beautifully and perfectly. They were abundant and the composition was spot on. It was a masterpiece.

When I was staring at them (which I could have done forever) I felt like I couldn't make reason of it. I am so small yet God cares about me so much that my very eyes get to see this beauty. It brought me great joy. My joy was as vast as the sky.

It's what I've been waiting for. The whole fucking shitty winter. My soul was tired and craving this so much it hurt. It pained me to the core. It made me crumple like napkin poetry that wasn't good enough. But, this time, what I've been waiting for came. Tonight. And it was so good.

I very much needed the reminder. I needed the reminder of vastness and freedom and beauty. I know because it is not so often that I get to see the stars like that, it makes it so much sweeter. I will mourn the loss of these stars for the next few months when I get back to Ohio. But, I'll be back to a place where you can see them. Where they are bright and vibrant and abuandant and scattered across the sky in such perfection that it almost hurts to look at because it's so beautiful. And you yell "THIS IS INSANE!" and your heart feels squeezed and your stomach turns like a crush and it is just so wonderful.

I loved tonight. I tried to soak it up the best I could. I need these nights of nature.

victorious failure.

Addiction is a funny thing.

Just when you think you've beaten it, just when you think you've distance yourself just enough it comes back at a barreling and untameable force. I mean, I guess I should have known quitting cold turkey is not exactly normal. But, it seems great doesn't it? To just one day decide you're not going to do it and never do it again? It's all very appealing.

But it doesn't really work like that. It never has, and probably never will.

But this morning, after a week of total relapse, I got this sense that I was going to be ok. That maybe it'll take a while, and take a few falls, but I'm gonna get through this. I'm slowly learning to accept grace. If there was no grace, what Jesus am I following anyway? If there was no grace why would I even quit drinking in the first place? An unforgiving God is not the God I came to know and love. So I'm going to try and trust His grace. For some reason, it's hard. A set of rules seems easier than to forgive myself when I feel like a total irresponsible, unworthy, failure.

But, I'm going to get through this.

I have to. Sure, right now the very thought of never having another drink again in my whole life sents me into immediate panic. But, the thought of not having a drink today ain't so bad. I just have to think that everyday. And I'll fall. And I'll give in.

But, sometimes I'll fight it. And have victory.

Regardless of what happens I'm doing this with God, in this beautiful community.

I'm going to get through this.

I don't have much to say other than I am very blessed to have the friends I do. Tonight, God met me where I was at. Like He always does. This time, though, I let Him.

Back to getting a hold of my life. It was a big night for me.

I am very much loved and cared about. Even though I'm an addict. And struggle. I'm loved. Cool.

Goodnight.

the past few days have felt a lot like watching a star die.

My night last night felt like a huge tragic plane crash that made the sound of a moth fluttering around a light bulb.

I settled for feeling content in my unwillingness to process life, when in reality I was attempting to tight rope the wire between keeping it all together and completely losing it. And when you're running you're bound to trip over the line. I tripped all over it. I took the entire line with me when I went down, too. I tore apart the entire mechanism.

A huge part of me wants to just stay curled up in the fetal position at the bottom and wait till it's all over. I sort of just want to dig a hole in the sand and lay in it and feel the ocean tide pull in and carry me away forever. I could kind of just close my eyes and wait till it's over.

The relentless rebel in me wants to run the fuck away. Far, far, far away. Run where mountains dominate the landscape and you can actually see stars (dying or not). I often fantasize about becoming a true vagabond. All the freedom, none of the responsibility. Just me and my dirty bag pack. And a knife in my boots.

The alcoholic in me...well...you know what the alcoholic in me wants to do.

And I have to wonder- again? Why is this happening again? I had almost three solid tearless weeks. The sun was putting freckles on my face, people were outside making music, I didn't really have to wear shoes.

I should be happy, dammit.

I didn't mean to trip. It just sort of happened. I need to pull myself together. Seriously.

The saddest part in all of this is that God provided me this perfectly comfortable landing space among uneven concrete with rusty nails sticking up from it. I chose the concrete. I chose the freaking concrete. Almost every time I choose the concrete.

Why did I choose the concrete?

Again.

And it seems like every time I land hard on the concrete, I wake up the next morning to rain.

For some reason, it's a whole hell of a lot harder to accept grace to a grey sky.


I just pray that God keeps the safe landing there for me even when I refuse to fix my eyes on it. So at least when I trip and fall, I'm not landing on concrete. I just want to be ok. I'm tired of throwing darts at the map and always having it land in the middle of the ocean.

So, I'm not giving into any of the aforementioned options. I'm back to losing my life to Him again. All over again. It's a difficult thing, you know. Sometimes it feels like walking uphill through sand. And thankfully, God is making it impossible for me to keep ignoring Him. He's all up in my grill. Telling me once again to quit walking the line and to quit choosing broken bones over a soft heart.

Lord, stay close to me. Stay obvious to me. And bring me out of the desert...again.

Beautiful Joy, Brutal Pain. Beautiful Pain, Brutal Joy.

I got to spend my Easter weekend with a dear friend, Katie. It was a beautiful, full yet relaxing weekend. Nice to get out of flat Bowling Green. Did you guys know Cincinatti has HILLS? Hills, you guys.

Katie and I got to play outside lots, going to the parks with the puppies and to play on the swingsets. We had a picnick, and watched the sunset at her secret sunset spot. We went to a cute little vintage shop. We got Graeter's....twice. We also had a campfire with her brother and made hotdogs. (I ate three. and about a million marshmellows.) I ate dinner with her family and had my toes painted by a five year old. All around it was pretty great.

But, now that I am home and writing I'm finding it difficult to figure out what my first Easter meant for me. I guess when I really think about it, the whole ressurection thing sort of got lost. For some reason the fact that he died on the cross for us, completley consumes my mind and I forget the He rose from the grave. Just has He said he would.

Lately, I'm having a difficult time deciphering weather or not I've been really dead to Christ since I've come back from India or if I'm just content. If my severe winter blues and borderline psychotic emotions have leveled out as the sun comes out. It's sort of confusing that I haven't cried in three weeks. (With the exception of the time I watched Steel Magnolias. Sally Fields after the funeral....holy shit.) I sort of feel as if I need a really good cry but, it just wont come out. Or I've been too busy. Or I'm deadened. Or If I'm really just content with my God these days.

Who knows. But I'm going to chose content with this one and run with it. This weekend I couldn't stop thinking....how great is it that I get to spend my first easter with my beautiful, sweet sister in Christ?

This. This crazy realm of beautiful joy, brutal pain, beautiful pain, and brutal joy. This life. This living God that you can see in my eyes would not even be existant without the ressurection. I know my thoughts seem a bit scatterbrained right now but, I'm having a really hard time wrapping my head around this. I try to imagine our beautiful amazing God coming to life. I can't because it starts to get really zombie like and sort of ridiculous. Instead, I'm trying to focus on the early morning of August 10th. When I became alive. When Jesus came to life inside of my heart. And people saw it in my eyes. and I felt it in my soul.

I think of my brothers and sisters. How Christ not only lives in me but, my whole family, too. The whole thing. The whole body. Just living in us. Breathing air into our lungs. Quenching our thirst. Feeding our hunger. Loving us.

Jesus came back to life so I could come to life and I think that's such an exciting part of things. I'm so content in the Lord right now. Sure, I'm not used to the lack of winter blues. The extreame crying fits. The screaming. The anger. The plate breaking. But, the Lord is just chillin' with me in the sunshine and that makes my heart jump.



"He has risen, just as He said"




p.s.....even with all that said, I sort of, just a little bit, wish I got an easter basket this morning.

Nothing could prepare me.

I would like to talk about a specific moment during my trip to India that I think hit me the hardest.

It's strange, and feels wrong because I'm struggling to find the words to describe the moment. It feels like I'm pulling word after word off the racks and it just doesn't look right or doesn't quite fit. And it certainly doesn't do anything justice. The problem is endless, and I'll never figure out the words. Because they're aren't any. They don't exsist. The only possible way for you to know is if you were there.

I've been through 2 years of pursuing my women's studies degree. Reading about forced prostiution and sex trafficking. Seeing documentaries. Looking at women in pictures. I thought I knew. My heart broke for the women. I cared about them. I wanted to do something about it.

But, then, I was actually there. I was with the women. She put her hand on my leg as she painted flowers. Modeled after mine. She held my hand. She smiled, laughed. Sipped chai tea. Enjoyed life with me. Her eyes connected to mine like oceans to rivers. The women were so beautiful.

My heart didn't just break, it landed on the floor with a loud crash into millions of pieces when I remembered. When I realized, after they were done enjoying life with us, after they were done sipping chai, painting flowers, eating chocolate and laughing -they had to go work.

When we left the building, and quietly grabbed cabs to go back to the YMCA, I lost it. Tears were abundant and words were gone.

The words were gone. Because there were none anymore. They didn't exist.

I remember the cab ride back was extreamly quiet. Which is a strange occurence in Mumbai, India. Where people are abundant and cars are honking and noise levels are always on high. But, it's like all sound just dropped off the face of the earth. It was just my breaking heart and God. Even my crying wasn't making much noise. Their lives, were unimaginable to me, I thought. But, they've endured it all their lives. It's sort of all they know. The robbery of their very being is all they know. Knowing that made it worse. Made the tears flow more heavily.

I'll never forget these women. Ever. I constantly wonder what they are doing throughout the day. Are they working? Or are they getting the opprotunity to live today? To paint? To laugh? To sing? To pray? And I have never been so urgant and yearning to continue loving these women. Even with the language barrier, the love was universal. I know it sounds cliche and like a badly written song. But seriously, the love language was understood by all that day.

For a while, it seemed to helpless. I was so angry at God for letting this happen. How could he allow millions of women get raped everyday for their jobs? How could he.

and I realized, even among this horrible puzzle of an issue God was there. These women aren't completely enslaved or depressed or trapped or helpless. God is still with them. And God is calling me. Little, nearly useless me to finish my degree so I can keep loving them. How blessed am I? And I have to do this. It's so important. I'm not living for me anymore. I want my life to be about serving them. I absolutley love these women. With all of my shattered heart.

There are no words. Because God is the word. And words for something like that don't exist.

He's too big.




I asked the Lord to break my heart over this. Thankfully, He did.

Holding it together

After I came back from India, I made a pack with myself that I would not let it get to me when I came home. I wept for the things I saw there, but that was over with in Bowling Green. Which meant for a week straight, I barely processed anything that happened to me and kept most things with people in the surface.

I was afraid, that if I had my heart broken and had a hard time with it, I and my supporters would think, "maybe she shouldn't have gone."

Well, I am beginning the processing. Which means, I am allowing my heart to finish breaking. I want to be messed up over this. I am messed up over this.

It's not easy, and it shouldn't be. The lives of some of the people I have encountered are not easy. The very least I could do is break my heart for them. To let it seep into the cracks of my soul so I never stop thinking about them and never stop praying for them.

I feel it's important.

and I wanna talk about it. I wanna talk about it endlessly. Because stories are important, too.

and it's the morning so I'm rambling and somewhat confused but, I want you all to know this.

Left my heart in India.

A few people have asked me when I'm going to make a blog update on my trip to India. I have to say, I'm struggling with the right words to say. As I think about my week there is just no possible to way to condense 10 days of amazing, brutal, life-changing, eye-opening, heart-breaking occurences. There is so much to say, so much to talk about. Where do I even begin?

I guess I can start with the big stuff, the important stuff. The stuff God has taught me throught this trip.

1. God is everywhere. Even when it may not seem like it amongst the poverty, the sex trafficking, the obvious brokeness.

2. Humanity is the same. No matter what culture you are in, we are each made in His image. We all experience love, joy, pain. And we all crave God. On the same note, our sin is the same. A Hindu person worshiping Annapurna is no different than when I worship a bottle of Sailor Jerry's. I am no better and need Jesus just as much.

3. No culture is ever content, even my own.

4. Jesus is the answer.

Here's where I'll start. I'll try to keep writing for the next few days. Like I said, it's so difficult.

But, Mumbai is amazing. The colorful saris hanging out of rustic apartment buildings, the honking horns, the crazy traffic, the people just covering every inch of the city. The Chai tea, the music, the aliveness of it all. What's even sweeter is that I got to share it with a group of my wonderful family.

I left a huge part of my heart in India. I can tell you that. I will never forget it, and always be thinking and praying about it.

I'd love to talk about it sometime. Coffee? Chai? Phone date?

Like a gutted animal.

I just finished reading a book called "Bastard Out of Carolina." We read it for my feminist lit class. The book (fairly accurately, if I may say) touches on three main themes: race, class and gender. Pretty standard for most feminist literature, I would say. The author tells a story of a poor, white, girl with a neglecting mother and an extremely abusive step-father.

As I try to write my paper for this book, I'm having trouble getting past my emotions. Some of you may know, I suffered abuse in my family. It's weird to type out because it doesn't really seem that real most of the time. And I don't really talk about it much. I don't like to talk about it much. When I even allude to it, I go numb. I feel like I'm talking underwater. I feel like my voice is hoarser than normal and my vision goes grey. My heart doesn't make much sense anymore.

Some might say this is a defense mechanism to keep me from getting too sad or angry or remembering too much. Maybe so. Apparently, it's not really healthy but I guess I'm not really sure what is.

When I was little, I didn't know that hitting, punching, shaking and calling your daughter a "little bitch" or "worthless" or an "idiot" was wrong. When I found it out was wrong, my entire world and everything I knew came crashing down right before my eyes. Everything I knew about love, everything I knew about God. Everything. If my father gave me a closed fist blow to the back of my spine, or a hard smack across my face for something as simple as leaving the refrigerator door open what does that say about the Father, God? If my own father, my own fucking flesh and blood could tell me with his slate grey eyes directly on mine, "I never wanted these goddamn kids in the first place." What does that say about God?

he ruined me.

Every time he hit me, every time he jerked me around like I was nothing more than a bag of bones, every time he called me worthless, I went numb. I felt like I was screaming at him underwater. My voice went hoarser than normal. My vision went grey. My heart didn't make sense.

Nothing made sense.

I was only a kid.

I guess the book brought out a lot out of me that I had put in a box and locked up and buried because I don't want to think about it anymore. I don't want it in my heart anymore. I don't want to be bitter about it anymore. I don't want it a part of my story. I don't want it a part of my life. I want it to go away.

It's so hard, you guys. This is raw and real, I know. It feels almost too raw to me to even be writing about. It feels like the image of a dead animal. Split open down the middle. It's rib cage gleaming in the sunlight. It's intestines spilling out on the asphalt. Everything fresh and bloody and raw. It makes you cringe. It makes you close your eyes.

Please don't close your eyes.

I'm pulling up the roots of abuse right out of my heart. It feels like I'm gutting myself. It feels gory and gruesome and brutal.

But luckily, I know that God is not like my dad. God loves me and would never hurt me and that's hard to grasp most of the time.

It's about to be literally, the hardest thing I have ever done.

Because I love my dad.

But, I also love God, and I know the past couple of days God has been telling me to walk in the light. With everything. And the light is bright and sometimes I want to go back inside or put on a pair of sunglasses or go hide in the shade somewhere. But I'm not doing that anymore. And God has given me an amazing body to open up to. So I'm doing it. Right here, right now. I need you guys.

Typing that didn't feel real. Please don't close your eyes.

A Saturday Night.

Last night, my dear friends Amy and Rob had a house show. Fun. I took the weekend off work, so I was luckily able to go and I had an absolutely fantastic time. It was such a warm, loving, foody, musical, calm evening with some of my most favorite people on earth packed into their living and dining room tapping our feet to the beat of a fantastic band, Ellery. (check 'em out if you haven't all ready...they RULE.) Everything was all candle lit and christmas lighty. It was so good.

Anyway, it was a nice break from February blues and definitely what I needed that day. Man, as I looked around that room at the people I hold closest to my heart, seeing them moving their heads to the music with smiles on their faces accentuated by candle light, I was overwhelmed with joy. I love our BG community. I love these people.

What a great night.

you are of more value than the sparrows.

I named my blog after a phrase in one of my favorite songs and also after an art project I've been created for my friend Lori.

I like the idea of birds, in theory. I like the way they migrate in a flock. I like the way they work together to get to places that are at a perfect temperature that season. I like the way they enjoy the sky. I like their feathers.

I like the way they hang out on a telephone wire, so nonchelant. It reminds me of middle aged people lined up on bar stools in a hole in the wall bar in some obscure town. They all have stories to tell.

I feel like a bird on a wire, a lot. I can relate.

There's something about birds that my friend reminded me about, though. It's the fact that I fucking hate them if they get too close. Pet stores give me an absolute panic attack. They squack in your ear and shit all over you. They look like freakish, tiny dinosaurs up close. I fully expect one to attack my face with it's claws and spit fire at me.

If we're comparing birds to people in the metephorical sense, which I have illuded to, I used to view people the latter. They looked nice from a distance. I liked to watch them, see what they were about. I didn't like it when they got close. If I let them, they squaked at me and shit all over me. They ruffled their feathers and flew away too fast.

But, as I follow Christ, people seem more like people and less like birds. Sure, I've encountered the person that you get close to and they shit all over you and leave but, I've let people get close. And it turns out, that's not a common reaction in the Body. I think it's beautiful.

after all,

"you are of more value than a flock of sparrows." matthew 10:31.

What do you call your very first blog without sounding ridiculous?

I decided to graduate my usual facebook notes to a blog. I've actually had this blog for months before I could figure out how it works. I still don't really understand. But, I'm trying. It seemed fun at the time.

The thing is my life works like this: I don't really have hobbies. I try something once then I never touch it again. We'll see how long this lasts.