The M word

Oh dear. The temperatures are warming up.  It is the time of year that I start to see a renewed effort at making the world a bit more proper and respectable by writing and sharing a plethora of sermons on the importance of modesty.  So this year, I am joining in on the fun or lack thereof.

So...Gentlemen...here is a list of things I never need to witness from ya'all ever again.

1-Hitting the pause button on a movie that has a certain actress in it and groaning at it as if you were having an orgasm right then and there...in front of ladies and gentlemen.

2-Watching and sharing music videos of people sharing filthy/ misogynist/ chauvinist jokes, or dancing or dressing provocatively...and groaning and or cat-calling together as a group.

3-Street harassment. Catcalling, honking your car horn at, or calling out at women who are complete strangers to you and then driving away before you can face the consequences.

4-Commenting on a celebrities/ models/ "friends" body parts disrespectfully to communicate either disdainful scorn or disgust or objectifying, lustful, arrogant approval.

5-Verbally and socially objectifying the human person and the human body by looking at photos of your "friends" on Facebook and people you "follow" on Twitter and appraising them solely on terms of sexual attractiveness to you, and then sharing your opinion with everybody.

6-Announcing a particular fetish or sexual preference of yours to people. Especially if they did not ask. Especially since it is none of their business. I certainly never asked. What makes you think the world has an interest in your sexual preferences? Yeah, you definitely are never getting a second date...and if my girlfriends ask me how the date went I am going to pass your announcement on to them so they will never date you either and tell all their pretty friends not to date you...who will tell all their friends and relatives...yeah you better move to another parish...or else clean up your act. Which brings me to # 7.

7- Assuming that other women or men have a duty to conform to or care about whatever your particular fetish or sexual preference happens to be, no matter how racist/ unrealistic/ unattainable/ shallow/ demeaning/ filthy/disrespectful/ ageist /unhealthy/ sexist it is.

8- Telling blonde jokes/ fat jokes/ old lady jokes/ fat lady jokes/ fat old lady jokes/ fat old blonde lady jokes/ Hillary Clinton jokes/ pretty much any joke that suggests falsely that only a certain type of woman is a daughter of God whose body is a temple of the Holy Spirit but that any female who ages, looks a certain way, disagrees with your views, or acts in a way that you disapprove...is not.

9-Ever asking or answering the question, "Would you do her?"

10- Ever asking or answering the question, "Hot or Not?"

11-Ever asking or answering the question, "On a scale of one to ten, how do you rank her?" Because I have never heard it used for work performance...or for ranking mind or personality.

12- Okay, I take it back. I did hear this gem once, "I give her face a 5, her body a 4, her brain a 4 and her personality a 2." Um...that is demeaning, and objectifying. I will see you in the line for confession.

13-Saying that ladies do not curse, and then proceeding to curse in front of ladies.

14-Making obscene gestures at people, particularly at ladies, particularly because you know that they will not return the gesture because they are ladies.  That makes you cowardly as well as immodest and disrespectful.

15- Going to the beach, ogling a girl in a bikini until you are drooling with lust. Laughing at an older woman whose cover-up can't hide all of her baby-weight, varicose veins and cellulite. Teasing or touching inappropriately your date in the one piece that cost her 85 bucks plus shipping. Then proceeding to go on a rant as to why Christian girls don't cover up enough at the beach.

16-Calling women who do not dress or act in a way that you approve "sluts".

17-Calling men who do not dress or act in a way that you approve "fags".

18-Dating and heatedly making out with someone with no promise of or intention of marriage.

19-Running in public without a shirt on and then getting shocked and surprised when girls sharply avert their eyes from you and blush. Then proceeding to act shocked and surprised when you are visually assailed by a woman in running shorts and a sports bra.  But not averting your eyes. Again, hypocrisy alert.

20-Looking at a woman lustfully, getting caught at it by someone, and then blaming the girl for what she was wearing.

Oh, you were expecting this list to be directed at women? Perhaps you were expecting another sermon dictating a certain dress code as if it were gospel truth and deviation from it were heresy. Nope. I have heard dozens and dozens of sermons about modesty in my life. Before I hit puberty...all during my High School years...all throughout college I have heard them.  In fact, and let me really stress this part-I have heard more admonitions and sermonizing about the virtue of modesty than I have heard of ANY OTHER VIRTUE IN MY LIFE.

Because I was a young woman, the one thing that I was singled out for to get regularly reminded of the importance of was not courage, diligence, charity or wisdom.  Not even in college. And I went to two "Good Catholic Colleges".  No, the mandatory talks were about Modesty. Most of them were unsatisfying, because they talked so little about Modesty.  They talked about sleeve length. They talked about skirt length. They talked about necklines. They talked about rape. They talked about better attracting the "right kind of man". They talked about speaking and dancing and sitting and acting "like a lady".  Did the men get the mandatory monthly talks about the importance of modesty? No. Oh, if I am lucky, occasionally I will get a blog post or an article reminding men to avert their eyes. Sometimes they will even say that Modesty is not merely about a dress code. Sometimes they will actually give the definition of the Holy virtue from the Catechism of the Catholic Church. Tonight I was pleasantly surprised by reading one that called out the people who are treating modesty as if it were a feminine virtue and not a universal one. It was rare when I was growing up to find a sermon about modesty that did not place 95% of the responsibility for it upon women.  I remember once reading a "book of virtues for young women" as a teenager and when I got to "Purity" it read, "Purity is the most important virtue for women, along with Modesty, her handmaiden."

Purity and modesty were and still are, two of my most beloved, treasured and esteemed virtues. But I remember reading that and saying to myself "What?!" And then going down and showing my mother and my sister and my girlfriends and saying, "What about Charity? Isn't Charity the Queen of all virtues? Besides Purity IS Charity! It is seeing with God's eyes. But he does not say that anywhere? What about Humility, the mother of all virtues? What about Courage? What about Wisdom? Is what we heard before wrong? Why is he saying that?"

Then I read further and all that was left in the sermon were admonitions that if we "lost our virtue" we "lost what made us precious". Then it had cautionary tales about how we should avoid flatterers and mistrust men in general because they were probably trying to seduce us. Then it had more cautionary tales about how we should not ever be vain about ourselves because it would make us susceptible to seduction and immodesty. Adjurations to abstain from anything that could lead to fornication. Cautionary tales about girls who were raped by their uncles. Then blaming the girls for trusting their uncles.  It was a very eye-opening read for a fourteen year old girl and I never forgot it.  I will never forget how sick I felt afterwards. I felt sick like that many many times as I made that transition from girlhood into womanhood. I still see things every day that make me feel sick.  The behaviors I listed above are the things that most offend my modesty. They also offend my sense of the sacred, my respect for people, my respect for men, women, children, the elderly. They also offend my sense of justice.  They offend my sense of propriety. And the worst offenders I have seen are men.  Not women. Yes, I have seen immodest women on the internet, in movies, in TV...all sponsored by men, directed by men, watched by men, participated in by men. I have even witnessed some things from women that I knew that I thought unworthy of their dignity. But most of the offenders that I have met were men.  And yet it is women who get the majority of the sermons during the warm weather months. It is women who get told to respect themselves and act like ladies.

Fine, bring them on, I will keep listening to your complaints about strapless or sleeveless dresses, plunging necklines, bikinis, cut-offs, yoga pants, leggings worn as pants...fine.  But do it for the right reasons, and do not pretend that you are talking about modesty when you sermonize.  If all you talk about is rape prevention, that men are beasts (they are not! And I am sick of hearing it said! I love men!), that if we get treated like excrement it is because of how we dress, our demeanor or the way we talk or how much makeup we wear...do not pretend you are encouraging virtue.  "Do not advertise what is not for sale"? What does that even mean? NONE OF ME IS FOR SALE! Did you just compare my body with a commodity? I guess your hands are for sale then, because you are not wearing gloves.  "Don't show anything you would not want him to touch"? Oh is that why he keeps playing with my hair? Because I am not wearing a veil? And my body is up for grabs if I am not wearing a burka? You are not encouraging modesty with that kind of talk. You are enabling and justifying immodesty.

I want us to win this culture war, but we are not going to win it if people do not even know what Modesty is. We won't win it if any effort they make at encouraging or fostering lady-like behavior is only nurturing a sick false "purity culture".  We won't win it if we enable a culture that makes "purity" the only thing that makes a woman "worth it" and real purity is rejected by men as only for saints or would-be priests.  For that matter we are not going to win if sanctity or the priesthood are rejected as unattainable by the vast majority of our men.

My Wedding Day Part 2

I did not process down the aisle because there was no music and no crowd.  I just genuflected, strode up to the kneeler beside Ian and waited for our Mass to begin. Ian was being his stubborn, superstitious self and would not look directly at me until Mass had begun.  He made me smile and roll my eyes at the same time. That was my Ian. Father set up and then Mass began. I chanted as fervently as I ever had in my life.  Then the moment came.  We faced each other to offer each other our vows in the sight of God and the Church. Now he was looking directly at me. And suddenly everything was silent and still. The moment before our eyes and hands met, I was struck with a holy fear. It was like the fear and love I had felt every time I had held a new baby brother or sister for the first time. Or the fear I had felt the instant before the Sacred Host touched my tongue at my First Holy Communion.

God, Dear God...I have loved you all of my life and you have loved me all of my life. Help me to love him and love you as I should. Please sustain and strengthen my love every day. Help us to love you and to love each other more and more all of our lives and then forever in heaven. 

I looked into his eyes and saw his love for me. Those dear eyes, brimming with joyful tears, dark as midnight and often red from insomnia. Now they were clearer and brighter than the diamond on my engagement ring. They positively twinkled behind his glasses. Half the fun of getting married is seeing how happy it makes the man you love.  Today his shoulders were not heavy with the weight of a weary, wandering world.  Every familiar and adorable feature on his face was yearning for me. For us. I saw that he was taking his life and heart into his own hands and holding it out to me in offering. And I heard him speak the words.  That he would love me forever. That I had been chosen to be cherished by him for always. That he would "accept our children lovingly from God" whether they were boys or girls, healthy or handicapped, smart or slow, whether the world thought they were beautiful or ugly or whether they were "good" or "bad" or "easy" or "difficult".  That all of him wanted all of me.

And as I answered his vows with the old, familiar and beloved words "to have and to hold, from this day forward, to love and to cherish, for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, until death do us part" he knew the truth of my heart offered to him and to God. He heard it in my voice, he saw it in my eyes, he felt it in the touch of my hands.  And he smiled at me.

To be truthful, I hardly remember the rest. I was so dizzy with happiness and gratitude. I know we brought up the gifts. The miracle of consecration and transubstantiation happened in a trice. God himself came down on that inadequate altar to become food for us. He gave us His strength to empower our weakness, His life to save us from spiritual death. Ian said afterwards, "That was like a powerful three way hug...Being joined to you in marriage before God, then being united with God, He in Me and I in Him and also joined with you in Him."  And I recognized again, the joy of an orphan who has a Father in God, a Mother in Our Lady, a home in Mother Church, a place in the Mystical Body of Christ, a Lover and Savior and Lord in Christ, a Comforter in the Holy Spirit, and an angel as a guardian. And now Ian and I were a family, a domestic church. Now we were one. Now we were married.

And suddenly we were invited by the priest to kiss and we forgot how to.

Seriously, our first gesture of love as husband and wife and we both went white and froze for a second. We were so nervous as we leaned toward each other. (Are we doing this right? It has something to do with the lips, right?) We found each other of course and then we forgot to be nervous and self conscious in front of that massive crowd of four people. And everyone went "AWWWWWWWWW!" Which was exactly how we felt so we laughed against each other.

We were embraced and congratulated and we thanked everyone and embraced everyone. It felt like an instant and age and then Ian and I were alone together and tucking ourselves into what was now our car to go home. HOME. OUR home.

"I know you told me not to get my hopes up about how you would look," Ian said, "And that this was not the dress that you had hoped for your wedding day...But if you could only see yourself right now. You are radiant. You are so, so beautiful!"

Any trace of nervousness I had felt at my own insufficiency was now forgotten. All I knew was joy and peace and him.  "My husband," I pronounced with all my happy heart.
"Let's go home, my dear wife."

And there are so many other little details about that day that I hope I remember forever. I hope I remember skyping with Ian's brother Z, and his "best man toast" speech to us. I hope I remember the chocolate cake we ate at the lovely steakhouse when we blew out the candle and made our wish for our future happiness, holiness and prosperity. (I do remember it, and my mouth is watering. Velvety, moist, decadent, chocolate love...The champagne! The steak! The spiked mocha latte topped with whipped cream and chocolate curls in the sugar-rimmed giant glass! Wow!) Most of all, I hope that I will remember every smile on his face as clearly as I do now, as if it were yesterday. And I know that I will.  Because he smiles at me like that every day with the same love and longing, gratitude and wonder. But now with more comfort, ease and familiarity. That smile is a shadow of heaven.

My Wedding Day Part 1

My wedding day dawned with dove gray skies. I remember that I wore galoshes to the Navy Chapel because it rained so much prior. After all this time of waiting, I was finally going to marry Ian. I would have my own unbroken, stable, loving family and know that joy. Having not slept the night before, I was a messy combination of emotional rawness, jittery nervousness, melancholy and ecstasy.  I wondered which would look worse in the photos, my red eyes or my unbleached teeth or my humidity-frizzed hair.  I tried not to look too closely at the simple ivory dress that I had snagged on clearance from JCPenney.  It was worlds away from the dress I had dreamed, of course. I had to supplement it with an embroidered, lacy shrug of mine, to make it church-appropriate.  Oh well, I thought, It is all I could afford, and now I am out of time to come up with anything better.  Ian is already crazy enough to be wild about my looks. Let's just hope the insanity holds out.
Between finances, relocating and deployment, Ian and I had to get married as soon as we could. We could not have a big celebration with all of our friends. We would not get our High Tridentine Mass. There would be no organ or choir. There would be no reception. I had not even been able to ship my wedding veil to Washington. There would be no reception, no beautiful church, and nobody would be there except Ian's parents and a grandmother that I was still getting to know.
Ian just wore a suit for the ceremony instead of his dress uniform.  The little Navy Chapel still had poinsettias decorating the altar for us. After all, in the old calendar, it was still the Christmas Season. I bought the only other flowers from a grocery store that morning.  I bound together corsages for my grandmother and new mother in law, a button-hole for my new father in law, and one for Ian. Ian was so happy that he got the single red rose I had bought. He made me smile again and again and held me when I needed a hug. My in laws reactions were priceless and touching. I had wanted to give the new additions to my family a peace offering and gesture of filial love. It meant more to them somehow, that I had made them myself that morning.
 I managed to have enough white spray roses afterward to bind up a nosegay for myself. I used an old, celery colored, chiffon scarf to wrap it. As I assembled myself in the bathroom, and mentally prepared, I hoped that I still managed to look bridal. I thought about the wartime brides I had seen in 1940's movies, who wore suits with pencil skirts and covered their day hats with newspapers to shield them from the rain. I smiled. Every bride that I had ever known, said that their wedding day felt surreal. They were right. I was still pinching myself.

I thought about each of my friends with gratitude and regard. I tried not to be sad that they could not be there. Many brides have not had the luxury of being reunited with old friends when they wed.  I told myself again.  I thought about my father. My poor, beloved, abusive, estranged father. I said a prayer for him and thanked God for the gift of my life. And I was so relieved and grateful that he was far away and could never hurt me again.  I had said goodbye to him years ago. At my graduation, my relatives had played at a charade of us not being estranged from each other and that he was not an unrepentant, abusive predator. After enduring their antics and his with more grace than I should have, I promised myself that I would never again let them spoil a major event of my life with such a disgusting farce. Between his charade and my mothers antics it was almost more than I could bear.  He was not here, and my abusive, mentally ill mother was not here either. The relatives that had turned a blind eye to my pain who did not really know me were not there.  And I felt tremendous relief.  Now I could cry if I wanted  to. Now I did not have to make an apology for my tears or broken heart to anyone.  Now I could be happy and laugh without them. And there was nobody around to demand apology for that either. God and Ian both knew and loved my heart and they were the only ones there.
I thought of James, Margaret and Charlie, John, Thomas, Andrew, Elizabeth, Teresa, Elena, Peter and Catherine. My brothers and sisters. After growing up giving so much of myself to them, I had left for college. We had all missed so much of each other's lives. I was the first of the children to go to college and graduate. I was the first to truly break free from the domestic violence, emotional abuse, co-dependency and denial that was our lives before and after the divorce. Now I would be the first of our broken, dysfunctional family to get married.  A cold hand gripped at my heart. Everything in me ached for them. For all of us. We were eleven beautiful, bright, gifted children who were born to a psychotic father and a neurotic mother. Our parents were bitterly divorced and could not stand each other. We loved our parents, we loved each other, and we loved our Catholic faith. And now we had to pick up our cross and follow Christ. We had to find our path to follow Christ according to our vocations, not in imitation of our parents' example.  I was the eldest of them and the least of them.  I wished they could have been there and we could have been happy together. But it was impossible. And that was what heaven was for.   I prayed in my heart and spoke to them:  I love all of you so much. I wish you could all be here. But if we all make it to heaven, we will have all eternity to be together and be happy. 

During our marriage prep the priest had said to me and my prospective spouse "You know you are 50% more likely to divorce because her parents are divorced?" Haha. "Yes, father" we replied. "But we are not going to get divorced," Ian stated. "And of course I know that father",  I added. "Every child whose parents are divorced gets that statistic read to them. It is one of the hallmark joys of being a child of a broken home that you sometimes get treated like an unsafe bet, or damaged goods."

I wanted to tell my brothers and sisters that we had a choice. And a chance.  We could be loving, loyal, only slightly insane, semi-well adjusted people. We could be good and faithful Christians. And we could have happy, loving, lifelong marriages.

I fastened the string of pearls that Ian had bought me from Thailand as a Christmas present.  The words of another priest, a dear, very old, jokester and toughie of a retired Marine Irish priest came back to me. "You take good care of her! You, Mr. Scottish, Navy man, you! This girl right here! She is like a pearl of great price! A man sells everything that he has to have her!" I had laughed and blushed and Ian had turned to me and said, "He is right. You are my pearl. You are priceless."
Now I fastened the earrings that matched the necklace and admired them again. Somehow, now that I saw how gorgeous and expensive real pearls were, it made the memory of that pretty speech more loving. I hummed the tune to the chant I would sing for the responsorial psalm and thought of Ian.

Dear Ian. He was my hero and my comrade at arms. Brave Ian. Clever Ian. Wise Ian. Kind Ian. Crazy Ian. Silly Ian. Serious Ian. Melancholy Ian. Peaceful Ian. Quiet Ian. Noisy Ian. Loyal Ian. Steadfast Ian. Every beautiful gesture, gift and love-speech he had ever made me, every hug and kiss, every loving glance and gaze came rushing at my memory and overwhelmed me. I was too overwhelmed with emotion to weep joyful tears or talk coherently to my grandmother when she tumbled into the bathroom. I loved him so much and now I was finally going to be his life's companion forever.

"Stern as Death is love. Relentless as the Netherworld. Many waters cannot drown love."  I thought to myself.  I squeezed my bouquet, looked at myself in the mirror one last time, took a deep breath and walked to down the hall to the chapel to marry Ian.

When Life hands you spoiling bananas...fry them!

Today I had to go to the food bank because I had little to no food in the house and no money.  So I filled out the paperwork, presented two forms of identification and received a large box of goods.  On top of the box was a large bunch of brown bananas, falling away from their peeling, oozing next to the roll of toilet paper.  If you have ever received assistance from food banks you know that it is a blessing if they have vegetables and fruit of any kind, even from a can, much less whole produce! I needed the potassium those slimy brown fruits had to offer, but they would need to all be eaten fast or there would be nothing edible left.  Still as I lugged my burden the seven blocks to get home, I wondered to myself what to do with my treasure.

The prospect of eating them as they were was not very palatable.  Banana bread? They would be perfect for it, but I had almost no flour at home.  Fried bananas? They would never hold up their shape for traditional fried bananas...however...

So I got home, sank into the floor tiredly, got up, cooled off, put away my loot, and set about making my lunch out of my bruised tropical delights. 

I mashed them all up, saved most in the fridge for later, and kept the last three mashed bananas in a bowl for batter.  Now, how to make this into frying material? I had a little oil to cook with...so they would be fried somehow.  I had sugar in my room (I keep it on hand to use for exfoliation. It is effective and cheap.)  Two tablespoons of sugar went into the mashed bananas. I borrowed a pinch of table salt and threw that in too.  I had baking soda in my room (I use it for everything; cleaning, baking, deoderant, toothpaste...) I used a pinch of that.  I borrowed one egg and about a half a cup of flour. Beating the egg into the mixture with a fork, I gradually added the flour until it looked somewhat like pancake batter. 

Heating some oil in a pan, I plopped portions of the batter into the vessel and fried up "pancakes".  They were gooey and sweet in "banana pockets" in the cake. They were golden, crispy on the edges and had an uber-moist cakey texture.  They were very heart and filling as well.  Very satisfying. 

For the last week or so I had not been able to eat lunch, so this for me, was a much needed "pick-up" to my spirits.  Deo Gratias! Thanks food bank! 

Musings with My Morning Coffee

I am so nostalgic for those fabulous fifties fashions right now. I love how ladylike the looks are. I am also homesick for when I was living with my girlfriends. So much beauty! Everywhere! Whether we were gathered on the landing, under the stars, next to an outdoor fire, singing songs...or decorating a Christmas tree next to a roaring fire, or just drinking prosecco while watching an old movie, my friends had a way of bringing out the lady in me, of making everything more aesthetically pleasing, of spreading their pretty ways and gentility everywhere. There was such a comfort and familiarity within that environment.

I love dressing up for no reason at all. I love wearing baubles and playing with makeup. But now I live in an environment where everyone dresses down rather than up. Almost in reaction to the sloppiness and raggedness, I take special care to primp up on my walks. This makes me the object of some attention, needless to say. I am naturally a shy person, believe it or not, so at first this was met with mixed reactions. But as I pass by people on the sidewalk, crossing the street, or waiting to see the nurse and smile at them. They brighten up a little. One man that I passed while thrift store shopping, smiled, nodded respectfully and said, "Have a nice day, young lady." And when he said the word "lady" I smiled. Because we use the term "lady" two ways socially. One as an inoffensive way to refer to any woman, the second as a way to describe a woman who is gentle, polished and well-mannered. I think this time he meant it in the latter sense.

I suppose I would be the same person if I roamed around in my sweatpants. But I would not be making an effort to be pleasing a well-mannered about my presentation.  It is in that, I believe, that I have a chanceat exercising kindness to others as well as myself.

And now I am off to top of my coffee cup. Doo de doo di doo...

Morning Offering

O Blessed Trinity, Father, Son and Holy Spirit,

I offer you my thoughts, feelings, words and deeds of today, in union with the Holy Sacrifice of the Mass throughout the world. I offer you my anger, my hurt, my sadness and my sickness and I place them into your loving, pierced hands, My Jesus. Holy Spirit, take my foolishness and give me wisdom, take my weakness and give me fortitude. Father of Heaven, for the love of the Son, have mercy on me and on the whole world, for we do not know what we do. Mother Mary, be my mother, today and always. Teach me to love as you do. Amen.

Marriage and Romanticism

I have been called a romantic all of my adult life. At first I never argued with the statement.After all, I was in love with being in love. I waxed poetic about sunsets, babies and elderly couples kissing in public. I loved jewelry, silk, lace, flowers and the color pink. I loved old fashioned wicker baskets, sun-rooms, ball-gowns, bird-cages, linen handkerchiefs, dangling gypsy earrings and bohemian styled clothing. I believed in true love. I believed in love-at-first sight. I believed that it was more romantic if you married your first love and stayed married to them your whole life. I hoped to marry young and have many children. I was overjoyed at every romantic couple I met and wept each time they broke-up\separated/divorced. I proclaimed every kind of weather and every season as "romantic". I was rhapsodic about men. I memorized poetry. I sighed and wept happy tears at the sight of a Raphael painting. I knew who Laura and Petrarch were. I knew who Dante and Beatrice were. I knew who inspired Botticelli's Venus. I knew something about Romeo and Juliet other than the fact that they were teens who committed suicide. I sang the Nat King Cole song, "When I fall in love, it will be forever..." Isn't that what a "romantic" is?

But now that I enter my late twenties, though I am the same person that I am when I was young, and still do all of those things...I would not classify myself as a true Romantic in the old sense of the word. The school of romanticism is enamored of the aesthetic ideal and is in eternal pursuit of the perfect. The tragic tension of the romantic is in the pride of Byron, the shame of Coleridge, the melancholy of Keats and the ecstasy of Shelley. It is in Wordsworth's daffodils, in William Blake's angel-laden trees, and in Walter Scott's nostalgia for times and realms that he never knew. We live in a finite, temporary, imperfect world and our hearts were designed for the infinite, eternal and the perfect. So our hearts rejoice at the sight of shadows and dim reflections of that ideal and then weeps at the realization that it was only a shadow.

When you were a baby, you probably saw a brightly colored flower, decided that you wanted it, plucked it from the ground, delighted in its beauty, then learned sadly that if you plucked it, it would wither and die faster. I remember once when I was a child, being dazzled by the majesty of light sparkling on water, and perplexed that when I filled my cup with it, the light would not stay in my cup. I still feel that longing for the eternal and the perfect, as we all do. And like a true melancholic, I am often saddened by the discrepancy between what I long for and what I am actually capable of doing, experiencing, being. As a Catholic, I know that my heart's desire will be realized only by God and He alone can sate that hunger. This hope, and this resignation, is where I part ways with romanticism. Because I know that the perfect is coming and that the perfect is God, I do not have to worry about finding the perfect on earth.

Why am I talking about this? Because this fact is brought home to me as I am planning my wedding.
There is no other phenomenon in our culture more saturated with romanticism than wedding planning and celebration. Just look at the magazines. "The Perfect Wedding", "The perfect dress", "Romantic locations" , "Exotic destinations" "Finding the right florist" "The right planner" "The right location" "The right time" "The right man"...You starting to see a pattern? No matter how impoverished the couple, the dream of the bride reigns supreme on this special day. The parents might be divorced but they must be there and be nice to each other. This might be the bride's fifth wedding but she must have a three-tiered cake.  Because this time it really is forever. She might have had to ask two girls she does not like that much to be her bridesmaids because her sister is overweight and her best friend got pregnant and she MUST have six bridesmaids. In her ordinary life, she wears a pantsuit, her gym clothes, and blue jeans every single day, but this day she MUST have a designer gown that costs five thousand dollars for the church and another that costs ten thousand for the reception.

Do not get me wrong. I love cake. I love silk, satin, chiffon, lace. I wear attention-grabbing colors and floor skimming hemlines in my every day life (and am sometimes called eccentric for doing so). I have no qualms with spending my money. I love flowers and sometimes buy them for no reason at all. I believe that every sacrament deserves celebration and magnificentia. Get a florist for a baptism too! Get a three-tiered cake for a first Holy Communion reception too! Wear a long white gown for your sixteenth birthday too! Or for no reason at all! Just because you are beautiful! Because you deserve it! Because no woman ever needs to give an explanation to the world for looking regal, feminine and drawing attention to herself!

What I find objectionable about this whole wedding mania is the fixation with one day for everything to be a perfect fulfillment of universal ideal and a personal fantasy. And the demand that it be such and the sense of entitlement about it. We all know the cliche about the dreaded Bridezilla. If you think about it though, every woman in our culture is encouraged to pursue everything she wants and never settles for less than what she wants-EVER. Moreover she is instilled with the truly romanticist notion that all of her dreams are attainable if she only waits long enough, cries long enough, nags long enough, gets the right lawyer, the right boyfriend, the right job, the right college, the right friends, the right career-goals, the right gym instructor, the right counselor...if she only would wish upon the right star...or sadly, if she is Christian, if she only prays hard and long enough. Then we wonder why there are so many divorces. Then we wonder why there are so many women with eating disorders. Then we wonder why there are suicides. Then we wonder why so many people are on anti-depressants. Then we wonder why the world has turned so jaded and cynical. Then we wonder why innocence is lost so young. Then we wonder why Taylor Swift writes so many whiny songs.

I do not believe that the perfect is attainable in this life.
I do not insist upon finding perfect happiness in this life.
Up until recently, I expected nothing out of life except misery. And yes, this is the opposite extreme. But the point that I am trying to make is that the idea that you will be perfectly happy forever in this life is just as nonsensical even if it is more attractive.
I used to expect that like many girls who come from my situation, that I would die very young.
When I was a child I used to try to convince myself that everybody that you loved would stab you in the back and break your heart.
Now I know better. But all the same, this does not mean that I don't know that my friends will sometimes unintentionally hurt my feelings.
My family is still going to do things that drive me nuts.
My children (when I have them, if I am so blessed) will fight with me, argue with me, disagree with me, and quite frequently drive me crazy.
My husband (after I marry him) will alternate between being "The Best Husband Ever" and "You impossible, infuriating man!" on a daily basis. My husband will alternate between thinking me the most wonderful wife in the world and the most frustrating person imaginable. That is life.

Life is supremely romantic in the same way that "Pied Beauty" is the loveliest poem.
Life is beautiful in the way that hugging my baby sister Catherine after she almost fell off the second story of our condo is beautiful. Life is beautiful as the snot and drool my sister Margaret coughed up after I saved her from drowning. Life is beautiful like the smile of delight on Elena's face after she sprinkled the bread flour all over the living room carpet. Life is beautiful like the tears on a child's face when she hugs her soldier Dad returned from Iraq. Life is beautiful like the bouquet of flowers a child picked for his mother out of her forbidden, untouchable, prized begonias. Life is beautiful like the fragile hands of an elderly woman clutching a rosary. That is the sort of romantic beauty that I want on my wedding day and the kind that I know that I will have. Because it is the sort of happiness, beauty and romance that comes from love.

At the end of the day, it does not matter if the bakery makes a mistake on my cake order. It does not matter if somebody accidentally spills wine on my wedding dress. It does not matter if I can not afford to go away for my honeymoon. It does not matter if I lose the twenty pounds. It does not really matter if my dress is alencon or chantilly lace. It does not matter if the ring pillow was made in china. It does not matter if my wedding guest are too few for a guest book. It does not matter if one of the groom's men has scuffed shoes. It does not matter if my mother in law hates my shoes.

It does not matter because this is not supposed the be the perfect day or the perfect life. The only thing I want to do perfectly on my wedding day, is love my husband. For that matter I want to do that perfectly for the rest of my life. But I know that I am imperfect and he is imperfect and our love for each other falls short of the love that God has for each of us. And I am ok with that.

My future husband said to me once, "I love you. And want to be with you when you are sick...when you are angry...when you are sad...when you are wrong...because I want to be with you always. I do not love you only when you do exactly what I want, or when you say what I want or think what I want. I love you. And I choose to love you forever."

And to confess the truth...that is sublime in its romance.

Beauty Ritual Survey For The Ladies

Most ladies have a beauty ritual of some sort each morning.

If you are married, your husband has probably noticed that this ritual can 

lengthen up to three hours in duration if you really have somewhere to go and do where you will be seen.  So this one is for the ladies.... which of these rituals is the most important part of your beauty regimen?  In other words, which of these options would you rather die than neglect?

A-Eyebrow "tweezing"

B-Eyebrow "waxing"

C-Facial "waxing"

D- "Mustache" bleaching

E-Facial exfoliating

F-Facial moisturizing

G-Sunscreen application

H-Eye and hand cream application

I-Eye lubrication

J-All of the above (A-I)

Now which of these is the most indispensable of your cosmetics ritual?

K-Primer application

L-Just a tinted moisturizer

M-Lip balm with SPF

N-Eyelash curling

O-All of these (K-N)

P-Just L-N

Since we have come this far, for those of 

you ladies who like Elizabeth Taylor or Sophia Vergara

simply can't be seen without paint,

which is most important of these?

Q-Foundation

R-Concealer

S-"Highlighter"

T-Eyebrow pencil/gel

U-Sheer powder

V-Blush

W-Eyeliner pencil

X-Eyeshadow

Y-Mascara

Z-All of these (Q-Y)

Now, if you have made it this far, which of these 

is the most vital?

1-Lip pencil

2-Lipstick

3-Lip butter

4-Lip stain

5-Lip gloss

6-All of 1-5.

Now which of these would you make sure to incorporate into your pampering

if you were to give a speech/go to a fancy dinner/fundraiser/sing in a concert/compete in dance/board meeting?

7-False lashes

8-Straighten/curl/gel/spray hair

9-Dry shampoo

10-Deep conditioning

11-Manicure

12-Just file and clip my nails

13-Just remove peeling nail polish

14-Heavy camera-ready airbrushing mousse

15-More powder to "set" the make-up.

16-More blush

17-Illegal-to-buy-in-the-US-eye-whitening-drops (just kidding!)

18-Teeth whitening

19-Lip plumping products

20-All of these?Are you crazy? Who do you think I am? Kim Kardashian? Nobody except celebrities on the Red carpet go to such extreme lengths to look "perfect"!

Thanks ladies! And to all the gentlemen secretly reading this post...1-You were warned

2-Why are you reading this?

3-What? You didn't think the celebrities you drool over looked like that naturally did you?

4-What? If you drool over celebrities who can only look like 

that by sitting in a makeup chair for five hours, what do you expect us to do?

How else do you think women compete?

No matter how many times you say, "We don't like makeup"
those statements are contradicted every time you 

stop and stare at a woman that we know has spent hours of time and thousands of dollars on

maintaining her appearance. Just saying...

"Oh no! I am over forty!"

One day at my cash register, a woman came and bought some beer. She was quite beautiful, with large violet eyes and exquisite white hair.  When my scanner read the UPC code on the item, the machine asked me, "Is the customer under forty?"  Accordingly and correctly I hit the "no" button.  The woman sighed a little and lamented, "I am well over forty, unfortunately."

"Why is that unfortunate?" I queried with naivete.

With a bitter chuckle she replied, "Because it means that I am old."

I smiled reassuringly and said, "It means that you are lucky. It means that you have survived the great and terrible adventure that is life."  I added with a wink, "Besides, forty is the new thirty and thirty is the new twenty. What with the life expectancy rate expanding, forty does not even mean middle-aged anymore."

"You can say that because you are like 22 years old," she chuckled as she left.

Twenty-seven actually. I said silently to myself. Twenty-seven, and suffering from an illness that has been known to kill people. Twenty-seven, and a survivor of child abuse, Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, and currently living with Borderline Personality Disorder. Yes, I can say that every single day of your life is a gift, that your life does not become less important after your first gray hair, not because my life has not involved significant suffering or discomfort yet...but because every single day of my short life has been something for which I have had to fight.

Do not misunderstand me, I am all too painfully aware of the age-ism prevalent in today's world.  Just in case a 21st century person living in a first world country did not have enough to handle with Marxism and Hedonism. In the wealthiest, healthiest and most entertainment-glutted nations in the world, every average Joe on the street has to broadcast how healthy he is, what expensive toys he owns and how hard he partied last night and whether or not he got laid.  Ludicrous.
Then he gets some wrinkles around his eyes, the booze guzzling and four AM munchies have started to show around his middle, and he gets rejected by a couple college-age girls...and then he groans when the girl at the checkout counter does not ask to see his ID.  Then he starts to enter a "crisis" where he wonders where all of his youth and energy went and what he has done with the first fifty years of his life and whether or not his life has any meaning. Now he has to buy bigger toys. He needs to make more money. His dates and mistresses have to stay shamefully young.  For the man who is poorer? Well, all he can really do is keep drinking the cheap, rotten excuse for American beer, go play at the casinos when he can, and when the twenty-something at the checkout hands him his receipt and says "Have a nice day," in the tone that means, "Never in a million years, Buddy," just go home.  Just go home and regret that you can't be young forever.

There are cancer patients who know how to live.
There are children in war torn countries who may never live to see their 20th birthday.
In India there is a catastrophic infant fatality rate.
In the US alone we have lost MILLIONS of children to the tragedy of abortion. These did not even live to see the light of day.

There are nine year old girls forced into "marriages" and eleven year old boys being kidnapped and trained to steal, kill and be killed. It would be a little difficult to explain to them this first world, 21st century malady called "Being Over Forty."

Growing up in the environment that I did, I can safely tell you that youth can be hellish. Not according to the natural order of things, but when youth is surrounded by violence, terror, tears and instability, yes, quite hellish. Every moment that I have spent freed from that environment has been a miracle. I am grateful for it. I know why 10% of people who suffer from BPD end in suicide, yet I also know that I will never be one of them.
I have survived too much, come too far and labored to long to give up now.
And you have too. That is what it means when you reach that milestone. It means "I made it! I survived! I have been given a great gift! I am strong. My life is precious. The lines around my eyes are beautiful. The touch of gray on my sideburns bespeak the wisdom I have acquired. I am over forty. Thanks be to God. Hurray for me!"

I look forward to reaching that milestone someday myself. Every new birthday I have, I get a little more excited. You see, when I was a child, I always expected that I would die very young. Twenty years ago, I never would have expected to live this long to celebrate so much. Deo Gratias.

Reflections on 2012-Feast of the Mother of God

One of the things that I am most grateful for happening to me in 2012 was that I found out for sure that I was sick.  I had been afraid that I was sick all of my adult life, but did not know what it was. It is called Borderline Personality Disorder. It develops in early adulthood, so I have been sick for well over a decade. Now at the ripe old age of 27 I have finally discovered that what I have has a name, and that my fits of self-rage, lonesome blues, extreme self-devaluation and intense fear of abandonment are symptoms.

While I am not my illness, understanding the nature of it has helped me to understand and forgive myself. It has helped me come to grips with my life and have hope and courage to face what will come. It has also broadened my awareness of the many people suffering from mental health issues. This has been a very formative year for me. Difficult, intense, painful at times, but beautiful and necessary.

Without a doubt, though, the most beautiful and wonderful thing that happened to me this year was discovering that I had never stopped loving my ex-fiance. That we loved each other regardless of any illness. Whatever happens now, I know that I will not walk through life alone. And that is because of God, and my best friends and the man I love.

Reflections on 2012-The birth of Our Lord, The Flight into Egypt, The Holy Innocents

Merry Christmas Everybody! Wow...2012 is almost over already. Why does it seem like the more I mature, the faster the time escapes me? Anyhow, 2012 has been a very eventful year for me.  It was a difficult and sad year in many respects. Yet it was joyful and wondrous and full of love and learning as well.

One of the things that happened that was sad was that at the beginning of the year I had begun a new life in a strange new place with a person who was untrustworthy. Then I had to run away from that family member and flee in the night and seek refuge in a women's shelter and aid from a convent of nuns. It is a very lonely feeling, running into the darkness, dragging your suitcase over the icy sidewalk, avoiding the gaze of drunks stumbling out of bars, and hearing only the moan and wail of the nearby railroad yard to drown out the ponderous silence...There is a special vulnerability to being a homeless young woman and being so alone. Hence, there is a special kind of courage that to which God calls me and all of the other ladies-young and old, from every race and social class and creed-who sheltered with me in that Safe-House, during that cold winter.  I do not think I will ever forget that experience.

One of the graces that came from that experience blossomed this Advent Season. We all remember the horror as children, at the first mention of poor baby Jesus having no place to stay in Bethlehem. I remember telling the story to one of my baby siblings and she burst into tears. Another child looked at the infant  Jesus doll nestled under the tree, picked it up, carried it to her room and set it in her doll's bed and covered it with blankets.  I have always felt so sorry for St. Joseph at that moment in time. He had this unplanned responsibility of taking care of and protecting the Mother of God. Now he arrives in his town of Familial origin, obediently awaiting the census, Mary is big with child, and probably senses through the Holy Spirit that this will be the night that her Lord will be born! So he runs around knocking on inn doors and looking for a place to shelter the Queen and the infant King placed in his care and everywhere he goes people say, "I'm sorry, we simply have no more room. Try someplace else."
"No room for them in the Inn?" Really?
There is a young man standing out in the winter night with a pregnant teenager and NOBODY in all of Bethlehem can take notice of them or give them a safe place to give birth? Really?
The King of Kings has to be born in a heap of hay in a cattle stall and laid in a feed-box. Woo Hoo. Great job, world.
The memory of Christmas was still in the winter air as I called the Women's Shelter and explained that I had been assaulted and needed a safe place to stay until I could find a permanent place. "I have a job," I explained, "I am not on drugs, I have no criminal record and I am starting to get to know people in this parish, it will not be for long. The parish priest knows me! Please!"

"I am sorry. We simply have no room. Try someplace else," said the cordial sounding lady on the phone.

"I understand, thank you, anyway." I sighed and tried hard not to cry.  My nose was running from the cold and I took off one mitten and used it as a handkerchief and felt very unladylike. "God," I prayed, "Help me! I can't go back to where I was. I won't go back. But I can't stay out here all day and all night! Please help me!"  I walked to the public housing, and they were all full up too, with a looooooonnnnnggg waiting list. "In the winter, every place is always overflowing," They said, "Good luck finding ANYTHNG ANYWHERE!"

I kept walking to stay warm and tried to think of what place to try next. I called the social worker again and she was out of ideas. I called my parish priest again and explained my lack of success with him. "I feel so terrible about causing you all of this trouble, father! I am sorry!" "No!" the kind old, Irish priest said, "You need some help right now, and this is my job. Do not worry. Pray and don't worry. Keep being brave. God will find a place for you to stay tonight one way or another. There has to be room, somewhere!"

I walked to the other end of town to the Adoration Chapel and waited with Jesus. In the half hour or so that passed I though of Our Blessed Lady, expecting baby Jesus, waiting with St. Joseph for some place to open up. Finally having to walk to the outskirts to shelter in a cave. Then I thought about the other homeless outcasts who would be out on the street this cold winter night,  or shivering in their car somewhere or huddled next to dozens of other strangers in a Salvation Army shelter. I thought of the ones who were struggling with mental health problems, ones who had abused with drugs and were haunted by criminal pasts.   Compared to them, I was still very fortunate. Now it would be very hard for them to earn anybody's trust or charm the charity out of anyone. And they felt the cold the same as I did. They were as lonely as I. Except that I had a warm coat. I felt very sad for them and utterly powerless to help them when I could not even help myself. I prayed to God for them again. And then I kept praying for me. Then my cell phone rang.

It was Father A who had spoken to Sister B and Sister B wanted to meet me and see if she could help me.  I  blew my nose in my mitten again, stuffed it into my pocket and shuffled back outside to meet Father A and be driven to the convent. Sister B, it turned out, was on the board for the same Women's Shelter that I had called earlier. So after seeing me and hearing about my predicament, she called the Women's Shelter and informed them that they did have room for me. That they would have to make room on the couch if they had to. She said that she would put me up in a motel room herself, using her own precious savings, for three nights to give them time to make the necessary arrangements. I gave that dear old nun a big hug and thanked her with all of my heart.

This Advent, I was remembering all of this. Remembering the nights in the motel room, the flight in the dark, and the nine days that I spent in the Shelter before I found a home. Poor Baby Jesus. He was abandoned by the world and left out in the cold. For my sake, for the sake of us all, He willed to come into the world and be born in a barn. He chose to come into the world, when He knew, as God, that the wicked King would hunt him down and try to murder him. Poor St. Joseph and Our Blessed Lady! No sooner had they settled into a safe place, they had to arise, grab their things and flee into the night to an unfamiliar land.

One of the sorrows of the Immaculate Heart of Mary is the Flight Into Egypt. Did she know about the mothers who would weep for their murdered babies and toddlers when that fearful dawn broke to greet the Church's First Martyrs? Did she weep for her poor little son, who had to be plucked from His cradle and jostled on the back of a donkey across the desert because a ruthless tyrant wanted His infant blood? Did she  feel a loneliness a thousand times greater than the loneliness I felt as I ran into the darkness toward the motel on the side of the highway. When she guided my steps on the icy road, had my Heavenly Mother's heart ached again for her adopted child (who was not nearly as brave and trusting as she had been in obeying God's command)? I ponder all of these things in my heart as I lift them up to God who has preserved me in all my adventures and upheld me in existence. I am so filled with gratitude in remembering all of this now. I am so grateful to God for the graces He gave me and the joys and sorrows that He lived within me. "The Almighty Has done great things for me. And Holy is His Name."

On The Third Day of Christmas

1-Talking to my darling boyfriend.
2-Taking a friend out for coffee.
3-Getting a ride home.

On The Second Day of Christmas...

Okay, so the things that I am grateful for that happened today/yesterday/during this season are as follows:

1-I got to sing at Midnight Mass on Christmas Eve in the choir.
2-Caroling party on Christmas Day. There is nothing like singing around a piano with a steady alto, two valiant basses and a virtuoso tenor when you are a soprano. ;)
3-I got lots of books to read as presents! Just the thing for a bibliophile like me!

What are you thanking the Christ Child for today?

On the First Day of Christmas...

Merry Christmas ya'all!

Even though everybody expects you to be happy around the holidays, those of us struggling with our mental health know that  it is not always that simple. But we are not the only ones, lots of folks get the Holiday Blues. It's okay. You are not an evil person because you cried on Christmas Day.

Maybe you miss your family because you could not afford to go visit them.

Maybe you lost your job recently and could not afford to buy your loved ones any gifts.

Maybe you work hard every day at a thankless job that does not pay well so you still could not afford to buy your loved ones gifts.

Maybe you just broke up with someone.

Maybe you are going through a divorce.

Maybe this time of year reminds you of a loved one who has passed away.

Maybe you don't even know why you are supposed to be happy during Christmas and you are depressed by the rabid displays of materialism, greed and hedonism that abounds this time of year. ("It's alright, Charlie Brown, I'll tell you what Christmas is all about.")

Maybe you are fighting depression, feel like a failure and are wondering if your life has any meaning. ("Get me back to my wife and kids! Help me Clarence, Please! I want to live again! I want to live again! I want to live again...Please, God...let me live again...")

Maybe somebody at school is bullying you and casting a shadow on your celebration. (In which case, don't make like Rudolph and just run away. Tell a Teacher, your parents, the School Counselor, your pastor, or your physical ed coach!)

You are all not alone, whichever the case may be. While gratitude is not the same thing as happiness and one does not follow automatically upon the other, it helps sometimes to start your day with three things that you are grateful for that happened in the last 24 hours. So for each of the 12 days of Christmas, I am going to share some of mine, in the hope that it will remind you of something that you can be glad about. ("Don't let's be gloomy! Let's play the 'glad game'!)

(singing) On the First Day of Christmas Baby Jesus Gave To Me...(hehe)

1. All the little children that I gave gifts to loved the small gifts of candy that I gave them! Yay! Gotta love unspoiled children!

2. A chance to go caroling for the elderly in my home town. I wanted to visit some people who might be lonely around Christmas or in pain. So I went with my choir from my parish and sang up and down the corridors and in the rooms in all the resting homes I knew about. You should have seen the smiles on their faces...it moved me to happy tears.

3. Lots of Ham, Turkey, Mashed Potatoes and Homemade Toffee!

Thank you Baby Jesus! Merry Christmas to All, God Bless you and go drink some Hot Cocoa with Peppermint Schnapps! Go eat some more turkey and ham! Go hug a relative you hardly know! Go kiss your  loved one under a mistletoe! Go have a caroling party! Go eat a sugar cookie! Go build a Gingerbread house! Or just curl up on the couch with a blanket, put on a pair of silly-looking fuzzy socks and watch the Christmas movies that warmed your heart when you were younger and wiser. Sending everyone in the whole world lots of love and wishing you all peace and joy this holy season.

You Are Not Abandoned

Probably the most common trait of BPD (Borderline Personality Disorder) is the disproportionate fear of abandonment.
Now to those of you healthy people, people like me seem unstable and unbalanced to you (and rightly) because of the drastic measures that people like me take to avoid real or imagined abandonment.
To us, however, our extreme behavior makes perfect sense (that is why we are sick). For many people with BPD, one of the things that goes hand in hand with an unstable self image, is the frequent devaluation of self.  Let me put it to you this way; if you believed in the depths of your being that you were unlovable (that you were a waste of everyone else's space, that you had no worth, that your face was a blight of nature, that God      Himself could not bear the sight of you) then you would also know that abandonment was inevitable. Nobody stays with what they don't love. Nobody loves what is not loveable.

"But how in the world could ANYBODY think that about themselves? That your life has no worth! That you have no value as a person!? How could anybody think that about themselves?!"

Well...(wry smile)...that is why they call it a disorder. We are sick. I am sick.
And how do we get that way? There has been a lot of study that suggests that child abuse and neglect is linked to people who develop this disorder. You have to get warped and carefully trained to develop  this emotional core belief about yourself.

So today is Sunday, and that is always a difficult day for me. Because it is a day I set aside to not drown myself in work and think about God. But if I think about God I need to think about my relationship with him.
I need to reaffirm to myself mentally that He is upholding me in existence at this moment. That He created me with LOVE and continues to uphold me in existence. He created by loveable and beautiful and good and with a purpose in mind.  This to me is mind-boggling. And wonderful. And almost too good to be true. Almost too painful to think about.  Thinking about God's love for me not being dependent upon or conditional of anything that I do is mind-blowing!

What is more familiar to me, hence less frightening, is attention-seeking.  Doing good deeds to earn God's love. Wearing beautiful clothing to gain approval from my girlfriends, wearing "modest" clothing to gain "respect" from Christian families, wearing attractive colors to gain attention from men. Praising people so that they will tolerate your presence because you make them feel good about  themselves. Never complaining or criticizing because then they won't like you anymore. Smiling so that you will make other people feel more at ease. Buying people gifts and picking up the tab so that you will not feel like you burdened people by spending time with them. Being "low maintenance" so they will leave you alone if they are mean, and not leave you alone if they are kind.

The idea of someone whose love I could NEVER EARN but who loves me ANYWAY is something very difficult to imagine.  But it is something that I desperately want and need. It is what we all want and need, no matter how healthy, wealthy or wise we are.

Dear Lord,
Please touch us with Your healing hand. Help us to believe that You are always with us. Help us to know that we will never be completely abandoned. Please let me briefly feel a little of Your love so that I will feel a little safer.  Today I resolve again to rest secure in Your love, and to resist to urge to try to gain your love and be dependent on the attention or approval that I get from others. Please help me. Amen.

God bless and keep us all.

How to Make the Most of a Low Day

If you have dealt with depression (and let's face it, a staggering number of us have, at one point or another) you know what I am talking about when I say "I am having a low day".

You can't move. You can't think. Your mind is a fuzzy, sad mess, as though you had the weight of a head cold, but only with emotional congestion. Wooziness, anxiety, extreme fatigue and sorrow are your constant companions.

Here is a list to abide by, if you can possibly.

1-Sleep.
Go back to bed. At least for a little while, if you can. If you have the leisure, sleep in as long as you need to, even if you have to sleep until four in the afternoon (I have).

2-Do not guilt yourself.
Don't say "But I am not doing anything!" You are doing something. You are taking care of yourself. You are recuperating. This part of the process cannot simply be will-powered away and cannot be rushed. Sleep and giving yourself permission to rest is one of the most important things you can do for your recovery.

3-Take your medication.
And a mutivitamin. Take every pill you need to perscribed by your health care provider. Boom! There, you just accomplished one of the most important tasks of the day! Hooray for you! (happy dance)

4-Pray when you wake up.
Sure, some days you wake up and say, "Good morning,God!"
Others you wake up and say, "Oh God! It's morning!" Either way, at least He is your first thought when you wake up. ;)
Some days we wake up and kneel down by the beds others we pray from on our backs in bed because we are so weakened. Even if you can't get up, at least roll over onto your back and look out a window to look for God in the beauty of the morning, or to the crucifix on your nightstand, or the picture on your wall. Heck, look up at the ceiling fan. He will know that you are talking to Him.  And if you can, say to Him, "God, today I give you my life. I give you my whole day. All of my sufferings, all my sadness, all my weakness, because those are the gifts you want right now.  Because I love you. Because you gave yourself a heart so that you could bleed with me. I believe that  you are fighting this battle with me."
Now, from here, your day is already a whole lot better.

4-Get up. Never mind when.
You will eventually. Try again and get up. You will feel better, I promise.

5-Wash your face.
Brush your teeth. Put on moisturizer and sunscreen.  Sunscreen especially. Because now you won't stay indoors all day because you did not put sunscreen on. Hehe. Look at you go!

6-Look at yourself in the mirror. And do not be negative about how you look. Say out loud to yourself in the mirror, "I am a precious, loveable son/daughter of God. I am fearfully and wonderfully made. Christ purchased my life and hope for my soul with every drop of His blood."
Repeat this again and again if neccessary, until you believe it in your heart.

7-Get out of your room, go down to the kitchen and brew yourself a nice hot cup of tea or coffee. Or pour yourself some milk or orange juice. Sit down and drink it. Open the window and let some fresh air and morning light in (or afternoon light in). If you are like me, you probably will not be able to think about eating, or will have no appetite, or you will just hardly be able to think. So drink the juice or milk  or tea or coffee. The juice will give your brain the sugar and vitamin boost it needs to start the thinking going. Protein from the milk will give your body lasting energy to propel you forward. Tea is very good for you. Especially green tea, echinacea, chamomile and other such herbal delights. Wrap your hands around your mug and let it warm your hands. If you are a coffee drinker like me, the caffiene will trick you into alertness, while calming you down a little. Which is good if you suffer from anxiety.

8. Eat.
This is another important job that nobody else can do for you. Eat something simple and comforting and nourishing. I like oatmeal because I make it hot and fresh on the stovetop and it is so filling and comforting. Grits are good too though, or Cream of Wheat. Eating hot things are good for your stomach. Eat some fresh fruit with your oatmeal. I like mine with cinnamon and a fresh apple or just bananas and milk. Avoid adding sugar, if you can. That will make you feel worse, in the long run.  Or if you don't know how to cook cereal, eat some whole wheat toast instead, and spread some greek yogurt on top with some fresh fruit.

9. Talk.
If you live with somebody, talk to them. Especially if you are feeling anxious or extremely depressed. Talk therapy is wonderful. Sometimes voicing your fears will make you see how unlikely they are to happen. Sometimes ennunciating your sorrow to an understanding person or a good listener will help get some of it out of your system. This is hard work and it is important. Call a trusted friend. Or a family member if one can be had. If none are to be had, call your spiritual director and your counselor. Schedule an appointment if needed.

10-Get dressed.
Because you are stepping out of the house for at least a few minutes.
Shower if you need to, get your teeth brushed again. Get all sunscreenized and mousturized again. This time it will be easier because the second time of the day is always easier. Everybody has jeans and a shirt. Put on a colorful scarf for comfort and style. Maybe it will make somebody smile. Put your shoes on because you are going outside.

11-Put your sunglasses on and step outside.  Take some deep breaths. Look at the sky. If it is bright, take note of that wondrous shade of blue, a shade that stimulates as it soothes simultaneously. If it is cloudy note the different colors in the clouds, so illusive at first glance. If it is gray and overcast, ponder how marvelous it is that something can be so dark and yet so full of light at the same time. Look at the trees. Watch a squirrel. Stretch.

12.Go take a walk. For fifteen minutes at least to a half an hour. But do not overwork yourself, especially if you are prone to fainting. A small grocery store and a dollar store are about a five minute walk from my house, so when I am one that walk, I stop there. If I remember something I need while I am there, I pick it up. Look, now you just got some exercise, and you got some shopping done. You probably needed toilet paper. Who doesn't need more celery and cucumbers? Milk! You can never have too much milk! While you are at the dollar store, look at the greeting card section. If you see something that catches your eye, buy it for a friend.

13. Stop and rest. Sit on a bench. Sit in the  store if you need to. But don't push yourself too hard when you are already tired. Go at a steady relaxed pace. Avoid frenzied places like supermarkets and overly noisy places. For that matter, do not listen to any heavy metal, rap or any music that is angry, moody or sad.  If a car zooms by spewing hatespeech or obscenities, cover your ears. Reject it in that very physical way.

14. Do a good deed. Do you know where the women's shelter is in your neighborhood? How about a food pantry. If it is not too far from your walk, go there and drop off some groceries that you just got from the store. If you need to, get your car. It takes almost no money and almost no effort. Heck, if it is walking  distance, you do not even need to spend gas money. You just get a little more air in your lungs and stretch your legs a little further.

15. Go home and do another good deed.
Get a pen and a stamp. Write a message of encouragement on the card to a friend or an aquaintence or family member that you know is struggling too. Now put it in the mailbox. You just might brighten their day. And look, you just brightened yours!

16-Go look at your closet.
Pick out your outfit for tomorrow.
This will help you remember what you need to do. If you get sad thinking about it, get some more tea going, and another healthy snack. Pick something to wear that is comfortable that has a bit of color to make you smile.

17-Step into the laundry room.
Just one load, I promise. Just one load. Just pick the whites out of the hamper and wash them. You will need whites. If you don't have clean underwear to wear, you are going to be miserable, and our goal here is keep misery at bay! Now while that is in the wash...

18-Empty the dishwasher.
It is super easy.  If you need to take a break while you are doing it, go ahead. If you need to turn on some cheery music while you are doing it, go ahead! Move your feet to the beat. Nobody is watching.  Sing if you know the words. Keep drinking water. Shoot, I forgot to mention...

19-Drink at least eight glasses of water today. One glass when you wake up. Another after you have brushed your teeth and washed your face. Another after breakfast. Another after you have showered. One big one before your walk, another big one after your walk. That is six right there. You are almost there. Then there is after dinner and dishes doing. Dehydration is a big factor in daytime fatigue. You need to stay well lubricated ESPECIALLY if you have low energy. Also it will be good for your skin so your lovely face will greet you fresh in the morning. Keep emptying the dishwasher. Now are there any dishes in the sink. Put em in. The kitchen looks worlds better. Good for you!  Do not worry about the rest. You can fix it tomorrow.

20. By now your day is ending, because your energy is spent and so is the daylight (because you did not have much to begin with and that is okay). So go to your room, get ready for bed (lather on night cream and hand cream and body butter and everything. It will make you look and feel so much better in the morning.) Now relax. If you are on your bed, let your muscels go all limp. Now breathe deeply, and with each breath you take, push away all negative thoughts. Exhale the negative, inhale the positive. Reject the negativity. As you breathe, focus on relaxing the muscles in your face...and then your neck, and your shoulders...and so on down...all the while breathing deeply and inhaling positive thoughts and pushing out the negatives with every exhale.  Place all of your sorrows into the wounded side of Christ. He is carrying your cross with you. Now when you are relaxed at length, say to yourself, "Tomorrow is going to be a good day."

21-Pray one more time.
Dear God, I gave you my day today. Today I loved you as hard as I could. Help me to love you more every day and do a little more every day. I love you. Thank you for today. Thank you for my life.

There you go. Even if you can't do everything on this list yet on your low days, don't worry, you will. And you are not behind. One of the most important things to do is to not let perfectionism or our own ideas of what productivity is ruin our day. No "compare and despair" please! You did the job that God wanted you to do today. Today He wanted you to take care of yourself, and you did. You have had a productive day. The secret is not to panic. To trust in God. He has a plan. He knows what to do. You do not need to carry the weight of the whole world on your shoulders. You do not even have to carry your weight alone. God will carry it with you. Exercising trust, when it is emotionally very difficult, will make all of the difference between a good day and a bad day. God be with us all!

Coffee Shop Joys

Yesterday, I resolved to do something nice for somebody, so I bought them a little present (scented soap in the shape of a rose, a little box of chocolates, two girly pens and vanilla orchid spa lotion mini kit, to be exact).  Today, I thought I should do something nice for me too, so I stopped at my favorite little coffee shop for lunch on a beautiful autumn day in my home town.

I love this little place because it is privately owned and not a big chain coffee shop. I savored the moments as I wrote in my eco-friendly mauve journal, drinking my bourbon pecan coffee, sitting under a large black and white photograph of Audrey Hepburn, and listened to Adele on the radio, I felt supremely and delightfully spoiled.

It is amazing how taking a few moments out of a busy day to enjoy something beautiful can make the whole world seem better and life seem more steady.  That I believe, is the real appeal of the coffee shop phenomenon. Of course, they are also a reactionary symptom of our post-modern, over-worked and under-meditated society. Putting that aside, though, there is something compelling about the  notion of taking a few moments and just sit somewhere where the music is not blasting too loudly and people are speaking more quietly (because they are sitting more close to strangers in a small space).  Maybe that is the real reason why we pay for the extra dollars and cents for our soy-milk lattes.

Sure, I could have fixed myself a cup of coffee at home. I make a lovely brew of coffee and I have Lactaid to go with it. I can listen to Adele at home, and I frequently do. There is even a lovely view from my kitchen window out into the peach and apple trees and herb garden outside. But if I had walked home and attempted to relax in my kitchen as I brewed myself a cup of coffee, I know what would have happened. I would have noticed a dirty dish in the sink and washed it, or gone upstairs to do my laundry or tidy my room, then I would have gotten distracted by something online, and forgoten about the coffee. After I had tidied up and attempted to sit down again, I would have thought to myself, "There is still time to work out and shower before my Shakespeare pupils arrive!" and set off into belly-dancing heaven. But belly-dancing heaven is a very different heaven from the coffee shop heaven I experienced around lunchtime.  I would not have taken the time to enjoy my lunch because I would not have been setting the time aside to go and do just that. I am so glad that I went. Even though I was tempted several times to text my boyfriend, to share my pleasures with him, I am very glad I did not bring my phone or netbook with me. The best way to savor a coffee shop experience is without any other distractions. Because even though I was not sitting in silence, my soul sipped something that tasted almost like silence and quenched a little of its thirst for it.  It is those delicious, fleeting moments of mundane yet unearthly pleasure that drive my imagination and nurture my soul. It is that which reminds me of all the things that I have to be grateful for; like my ability to see the cold beauty of an October morning, or smell coffee, or taste some soothing, hot bisque, or hear music.

Today I am more disposed to thank God for the gift that is my life than I would have been had I not stopped walking, gone into the shop and sat down to think.  So thank you, God, for life. And everyone else, go sit down for a few minutes, or a half an hour, and pour yourself some good coffee.

Weariness, Burdens and Hunger

"Come to me, all you who labor and are heavily burdened, and I will give you rest. Come, oh blessed of my Father! For I was hungry, and you gave me food."

"I am the Bread of Life...He who eats of this bread shall not hunger."

"Let the little children come to me, the kingdom of God belongs to such as these."

"By His wounds we are healed."

It occurs to me that in the Scriptures, and in particular, the New Testament, God the Son frequently refers to us as desperately in need of Him.  He calls us "weary", "burdened" and "hungry" and tells us that He can give us rest, refresh us, comfort us, strengthen us or feed us.

To somebody like me...to all people who are like me...and there are many, many, more than I wish that there were...this is a source of acute confusion and profound consolation.

To those who read this, who are like me, you know who we are.
We are children.
We are weary.
We are burdened.
We are wounded.
We are hungry.

In this society, in this country, in this century...these are not welcome things to be.  In the land of independence, we seem to have forgotten what to do with children. We alternate between wanting to prolong their adolescence and wanting them to "grow up" prematurely. That is, when they are allowed to live at all. And they not always are. Health has become a bit of an obsession in our age, like most things we have found that are natural goods. It has reached the point where the sick man is nearly as intolerable as the disease.
In an age where there is such a fixation with violence, there is a contradictory fear of human passion and human suffering or of having to truly enter into that mystery with a person. And in the United States especially, "the land of plenty", who would have thought that one could be so hungry?  There is food everywhere! Yet there is hunger. I know.

I do not remember at what point in my childhood it all began. I was so young when that blinding, breaking, unnatural hunger started knawing at me.  My mother used to jokingly say, "The first time I held you after you were born, you looked me right in the eye with this look that said, 'I know who you are, and it's time to eat!"
I was born fat.
I was long overdue, after all. The umbilical cord nearly strangled me.
I had to be cut out of my mother's body, weighing at nearly ten pounds.

My aunts looked at me and warned my mother, "Christina! She is such a HUGE baby! I can barely lift her up, and she is an infant! So dense! She weighs even heavier than she looks! You will have to be careful of her! So she will be more normal looking when she grows!"

My mother would nod nervously or sniff defensively depending upon how confident she felt each particular family reunion of her ability to dutifully cure me of my "density".

Maybe it started when she started cutting down my portion sizes. She would dutifully give me a portion each meal, half the size of those being given my younger siblings and informed me that it needed to be done because "I had a slower metabolism".  I was perhaps the only four year old on my block who could say "slow metabolism." When that did not seem to give her the results she desired she started givin me smaller portions of desserts, and less frequent sweets. Not my younger siblings. They could eat as much as they wanted. One by one, ten children came after me. And no matter what age I was, it never had to be explained why Maria had to eat less or why Maria could not have a cookie.  Maybe that was one of the reasons why it happened, maybe seeing my siblings eat so much of all the foods that I craved that were denied me, and having them leave the table satisfied, while I still felt hungry, made me even hungrier. Or maybe it was how she kept telling me that I needed to lose weight and be thinner and kept telling me to eat less so I would be "slender and graceful". "Don't you want to grow up to be beautiful? You will be so unhappy if you grow up to be ugly and fat!"

But I don't think that that was it by itself. It made me hungrier, but I think it all started the day I first saw my father scream at and hit my Mom and call her a bitch.

That might have been how it started.

Then it all got worse. Everything got worse.

"Don't grow up to be a stupid bitch like your mother. Grow up to be a smart, obedient woman!"

"Don't ever marry a man like your father! I will disown you! You are not my daughter if you marry a bum like him!"

"Don't eat that cookie, Maria, it will make you fat! No man will love you if you are fat!"

"You will grow up to be beautiful, so long as you work hard to maintain your beauty."

"Your mother is a fat, stupid, ugly bitch! She is not loveable. You have to be loveable for people to love you. Do not be like her."

"Is that a double chin! Oh no! It is not beautiful!"

"I guess God gave you that nose to keep you humble."

"You inherited your mother's ugly chin. But the rest of you is beautiful, even if you are a little overweight."

"Turn around and let me look at you! Hold still and let me see!...Yes...you will need to work on that. If you were just a little thinner...you would be beautiful."

Looking back at old photos of my childhood I am always surprised to see how slender I actually was. I was not skinny, but I was certainly not a chubby child between the ages of  4-14. I thought that I was though. I was informed nearly daily that I was. Children believe about themselves what you say. It is part of the responsibility of parenting. In time, I learned to stop complaining about how hungry I felt all the time.

Emotional eating is one of the most common symptoms of child abuse. The other most common symptom is bed-wetting.  My mother saw that most of my ten younger siblings wet the bed.  But I never did. I guess she mistakenly thought that it was because I was not afraid, like the rest of the children. Because she never "had to spank me, such a good girl" and my father "did not hit me very often". 

He did not as often as he did the others. It was true. He did not beat me mercilessly with that huge handmade plywood paddle or whip me until I got welts on my back with belts and rubber sticks. He did that to his sons mostly, after they turned six or seven. Instead he made me watch. I can still hear their pleas. I can still hear the howls or pain. I can hear my father's screams of rage as clearly as though it were yesterday and I don't think anyone in that neighborhood was ever able to forget that sound. But he did not beat me that way. Because I was "the good child". I used to wish that he would. So it would take away the guilt of not having shared the pain.

But I still had to be "the good child". Nobody loves what is not loveable. Both of my parents told me, at separate instances, between the time that I was seven and ten, that they had nearly left. That they had almost left that good for nothing forever. But that they had stayed because they 'remembered my sweet little face."

It was a very big responsibility for a child of seven or a child of ten. I took my burden very seriously, for you see, I loved my parents.
I loved them so much. I wanted to be with them. I wanted to obey them because I wanted to please them. I wanted to make them happy. They were so unhappy.Poor Dada! Poor Mama! So angry. Had I done something wrong? Was it my fault? Hadn't I done a good job?
Yes, it was my fault. That was made clear to me too.
If she had screamed at me and called me names, it was because I had deserved them.
If he screamed at me and slapped my little face it was because I had not been paying close enough attention for the sound of his voice.

The babies kept coming. We got poorer.
I got busier and busier.
Around the age of nine is when I remember the weariness coming upon me.

The fatigue, the constant ceasless work and the exhaustion. My quest for sanctity became inexorably tied to my struggle for absolute perfection in everything.

Washing, drying, folding laundry. So much, so much laundry.

Endless dishwashing. Cooking, scrubbing floors, changing diapers, wiping noses and bottoms. Dusting, moving furniture, teaching children, studying. There was so much food to cook, so many mouths to feed. Except mine. I was still so hungry! When I reached the age of fifteen I encountered a few more problems.

"Maria, you have really hit a growth spurt!" My mother said, "I need to put you on a stricter diet. We will take long walks every day...and here are some weights to lift. Try to do at least a hundred sit-ups every day! Don't you want to be beautiful?"


My father started appraising me and saying, "You are growing into quite a voluptuous young woman. You have such soft arms and such big,beautiful breasts...What is wrong with you? Can't you take a compliment? Come sit on my lap for a minute! Haha! Silly girl!Fine, you don't want to sit on my lap, go be a recluse up in your room as usual! You are turning into such a rebellious teenager!"

My mother was afraid of the traits that my father made me ashamed of, thus confirming that I should be ashamed of it. "Have you ever considered breast reduction surgery?"
"Where a bulkier sweater! Your chest is too big!"
"Wear skirts, you do not want to draw any more attention to your butt!"
"That dress is indecent, you immodest girl! Have you no sense!? Wear dresses that hide your shape. You are disproportionate anyway!"

"I should have beaten you more when you were a kid! Then you would not give me that silent face! That look you give me! You don't say anything! But I know what you are thinking, you evil, proud, rebellious girl! Go ahead and keep smearing that paint on your face! All the makeup in the world will not cover up your ugly soul!"

Now the burden of guilt was greater than ever, growing like cancers in my psyche like my hunger, my desire for love, my terror of abandonment and my weariness. By the time I was fifteen I began to pray regularly for death.  At the age of sixteen I tried to run away from home to join a convent. (Needless to say, the sisters made me come back.)  At the age of seventeen my growing strengths and mind were noticing more than ever the inconsistencies and untruths that infested my life and the lives my parents lived. I had always known that they were not always right, and told myself to depend upon God more than them. But at the age of seventeen, it reached a pitch. My parents did not know who I was, and I was determined to leave it that way. I left for college.

College is too much to sum up, but I will try.

College is where I learned the full meaning of the terms "divorce", "annullment", "assualt and battery", "child abuse", "truama" and "emotional binge eating". The college years were very eventful and my parents were very active in trying to exert control over my life. Only now it was Dad trying to buy my love and not me trying to earn his. My mother also taught me the full meaning of the words "delusional" "nuerotic" and "verbal cruelty".

Most Freshmen gain fifteen pounds. I gained at least twenty. And I did not lose it. Most victims of abuse, no matter how bright, suffer academically through loss of sleep, inability to concentrate and emotional baggage. Many do not survive college. I failed out of one college. Had to live some months with my mother. She brought my self esteem low enough to ensure that when by the time a transferred as a sophmore to another college, I gained a sophmore fifteen. In college, I learned that I was strange. I learned that I was afraid. The hunger and weariness were my constant companions whatever friends or admirers came and went. I learned new levels of loneliness. It is a miracle I graduated. Also, several undiagnosed food allergies help speed up my weight gain even after my binge eating desisted.

I did.

I was lucky.

And I was ill. I had still not been properly treated. I had recieved some brief counseling from a series of well-meaing, but clueless, damaging people.

I was hesitant to reveal my burdens to healers even though discovery was inevitable. In some places I was met with a kind of morbid fascination, like one has when one meets a very exotic, ugly new animal. In others I was met with horror and accused of hatred and unnatural, prideful attitudes. Which is very strange, because I have never hated anybody in my life. The pain would be less if I could.  In still other places I was met with a kind of piteous contempt.  In most places the response was well-meaning, useless, clueless "sympathy". And, miraculously, in one place or two, I did meet people who seemed to understand and empathize. 

This is why I must write this. Because of the paucity and the value of those genuinely kindly people who cared about me when my own parents did not.
I must raise awareness so that you who read do not duplicate those cold looks I have recieved or say those cutting words to one who already prays for death.

I have graduated from college and have attempted with limited success to heal and go on working a fighting for life. I have cut off ties from both parents, who are still blindly intent upon hurting me and others. I have lived to see some of my abused siblings become abusive and have had to escape them too.

But I have made friends along the way. Though in my moments of darkness, I forget. They do not live near me now.  I was always privately afraid of becoming a burden to them.  I have, after all, been a burdensome thing if my parents are to be believed.

I am still tired.
I am still hungry.
I am still wounded.
I am still afraid.

In the years following college, my eating habits became healthier. I did not binge eat anymore, but damage to my body image had been done.

I was now a "larger woman".

In this society, that is code for "a person that you can be rude toward because they are too stupid and lazy to do anything about it. Because if they are fat, they MUST be stupid or lazy, obviously."

In this society "fat" is synonymous with "unloveable".

"Nobody will love you if you are fat".

Nobody

Nobody

Nobody will love you

From the ages of eight to seventeen I had dieted constantly. Between the ages of eighteen and 21 I was an emotional binge eater. Thus at age 22, size 16, my old enemy, hunger, took on a new form. I began to willfully starve myself.

You see, I had it in my head that I did not deserve to eat. I was too ugly and fat to eat too much. I ate normally and heartily around my friends of course. One meal a day. One good sized meal. They did not even suspect. I was too fat. Besides, maybe even some of my close friends had gotten a little too used to seeing me unwell.  At times I fought this self-destruction, told myself I was not that fat, that I should not want to be thin just because a misogynist society said that I was supposed to look a certain way. That it was not going to make me happy, that I should not buy into a false notion of self-worth based upon "beauty", "productivity" and "sucess". That I should not desire to be seen as a good toy as opposed to a bad toy, when I was not a toy at all.

I told myself all those things, and tried to crawl out of the grave I had dug for myself.

Some days were high and others were low.
Some days I would know that I was good and valued and beautiful and loved.
Then other days, one of my friends would invite to give one more person a ride, and tell me to move to the front seat. "So that there would be more room. We can fit four in the back seat that way, if you are in the front".

I would not eat for days after one good comment like that.

My combination of depression, the inactivity that usually accompanies it, lask of enough employment, and my mistreatment of myself resulted in me going up to a size 20.

Now at the age of 26, events were happening to bring about a renewed desire to die, deeper depression, and heavier weariness.

Now the weariness reached a head. I found work and worked physically very hard again. And now I ate less than ever. But now I had found a counselor and was seeking help.

"Maria, have you ever heard of Borderline Personality Disorder? It is characterized by an unstable sense of self, usually an unstable sense of self worth, and self-image. The usual symptoms include...

Desparate attempts to avoid real or imagined abandonment...

Sometimes binge eating...sometimes eating disorders and starvation...

Depression and extreme anxiety are also two common symptoms...You say you always suffer guilt and you don't know what it is that you have done. That you see yourself as a bad person even though all your friends say that you are good. That you hate yourself when your friends love you. That you would rather die than be "fat" again. That you do not like to be looked at because you are afraid of scrutiny and judgement. "

"Are you saying that I have a mental illness?"

"I am saying that you have been hurt. You have been terribly, horribly hurt and you did not do anything to deserve it. You need to see yourself as loveable and worth while and good. I think you have been fighting for that truth all of your life, but you have been hurt, never healed, and now your wounds are starting to cripple you. Maria, you ate nothing but one banana, two slices of lunchmeat and a handful of spinach today. This is how you have been eating for a while now. This month alone, you lost ten pounds. The month before that, you went down two sizes. When you first moved to this town eight months ago, you were a size 20, now you are a size 10."  my counselor says!

"People tell me that I look better now. They treat me like I am a better person. Like I am smarter, healthier, faster, stronger and more beautiful."

"But you were healthier before, when you were eating better!" My boyfriend exclaims, "You were always ALWAYS beautiful! You were always strong, always smart! If some people did not always see that, that was their loss! You are NOT more beautiful now! You can't make yourself more beautiful than you already are! You are the most beautiful woman in the world! You need to eat. You deserve to eat. Please eat!"

All of my short and long life has been a battle, and I am starting to see that the battle for my life is just begun. Some days I win it, and some days I lose it. Some days I know that God is fighting with me and loves me and created me for a purpose. Other days the darkness closes in upon me and I cry out to God begging him to let me die and asking Him why He ever created such a worthless person.

This is not an easy story to share. But I had an idea that maybe it would be cathartic to a degree and that maybe it could help somebody to understand what this kind of struggle is like. Or if they already know it by experience (God forbid) to be encouraged to seek help for themselves. To not give up the battle for their lives. There is a loving God in heaven.  Nobdoy had to tell me that demons existed. That I knew. The single most difficult thing for me to accept in Christianity is that God loves us. Or more to the point, that God loves me. Not only that, that God would become MAN for US. For ME.

First, he let himself become a vulnerable little child, just like us.

Then he grew up, and made friends who did not understand Him and enemies that He did not deserve.

Then He let Himself get beaten, crowned with thorns, nailed to a cross and peirced in the heart with a lance. He gave His life to save us. And He said, "Father, Forgive them, for they know not what they do."

"Maria, you MUST forgive!"

"But I did forgive me parents! I have forgiven them! It hurts me that I cannot be with them because they will try to hurt me again!"

"No, no. I meant yourself. You have to forgive yourself. You blame yourself for wrongs that you never did. And you need to let go of that guilt. God does not blame you. He does not look at you and say, "Evil girl!" He sees you and knows you, and loves you. Forgive yourself."

"I will try. I will. I must."

"You must believe!" cries another friend.

Today I choose to believe.