and now for our regularly scheduled programming

So, I've had a hard time writing lately because there's so much that I don't feel 100% comfortable sharing on this blog. Not because of my readers, but because of family or acquaintances from my past who may be judgmental or gossipy. I worry a lot about what would happen if someone were to find this blog and tell my parents about it.

I mean, I've told them about it. At some point, before I started sharing personal stuff that went against their beliefs, I even gave my dad the link. But, clueless as he can oftentimes be, he lost it, and my secrets have been safe.

That said, I have relatives who are friends with me on Facebook, and my blog used to feed directly onto my Facebook. My greatest fear is that someone will decide that it's their business to gossip to my parents.

This used to happen to me all the time as a kid. Obviously, it made more sense then. But, if you knew me, it didn't. See, telling my parents just drove me to hide things more. They were the worst people to tell. Now, it really doesn't matter what they know or how they'll react because I can leave. I have a safe place. I should own up to everything I don't want to tell them because it would make me stronger. . 

But I'd rather not. I'm a pussy. I don't want judgement, or tears, or talks, or having to get mad at them, or having to try to reason with them, or getting up and exercising my right to leave. It makes things messy.

I am my mother's lifeline. I hate it. But, I can honestly say that she very well might die with out me. Like, if I were to say, "hey, mom, you kind of fucked my life up a lot and I hate how you excuse it by saying that everyone makes mistakes", and then I left, she'd curl up on the couch and probably never move. I hope I'm exaggerating. I might be making this up. But I have seen her fall apart and I have heard her tell me that I will be the death of her, and that I will cause her heart to stop and her mind to break too many times to dismiss her words. 

So, to recap, I am terrified of my parents finding out about my blog and "you like girls?" "you smoke weed?" "you hate us?". . But, that said, it's really hard for me to not say what's on my heart. And there's a lot on my heart.

This blog is sort of my sounding board. I love it when people read it but I would keep writing if no one saw it but me. This is how I straighten my ideas out. This is how the clusterfuck tumbleweed that is my brain starts unraveling. I get stuck when I can't blog about things. 

So, for my own sort of peace of mind, I'm going to offer a disclaimer here: If you don't want to read about my fuckedupness, leave. If you're related to me, you do not want to be reading this. Why would you even be here in the first place? This is the corner of Bad Childhood and WTF Boulevard. If you decide this makes good gossip and I hear about it, then karma. Don't fuck with it. Also, I might just fucking decide to go all Kali witchy on you and if I do, it will not be pretty. 

I've been debating writing this blog for about a year and a half. Forgive me if I stall or repeat myself.

Lately I've been feeling broken. Abnormal. Even unfixable. I see the world and how it reacts to things and I feel so far removed. I don't/can't enjoy sex. 

Let me pause a moment and elaborate on how fucking embarrassed this makes me feel. As I mentioned, it makes me feel broken, but to make matters worse it's not a normal type of broken. When I was depressed or suicidal or had an eating disorder I guess I subconsciously took some sort of solace in the fact that this was normal. . At least for people my age. It wasn't that wierd. But this is. 

I sat on the exam table at my gynecologist and tried and tried to figure out some way to mention it offhandedly or even grow the balls to mention it straight up, but instead I just made small talk and told her that next time she should take me out to dinner first.

I pride myself in being an open book to pretty much anyone but my parents, people who tell my parents things, and my relatives. Anything. Seriously. Rape? Cutting? The shame I felt while binging? I find that the less secrets I have the less complicated life is. I also find that it opens people up to me and allows them to feel more comfortable asking for help or relating their own horror, or not horror, stories.

But this is haaaaaard. This is the first time I've really had to force myself to share. 

I'm not going to get into the details, because that's fucking weird, but it's forced JP and I to take a step back. Before we even started talking about marriage, we knew that we had backed ourselves up into a corner, and the only steps were to take the exit door or fight the Orc with the bulging forehead veins. So, we're at this point where we're fighting for our relationship. We're either going to fix our problems and start fucking like bunnies and get married, or we're going to take a step back in our relationship, at least for a period of time.

This has caused me a lot of anxiety. I realize that there's really no way out of this. I also realize that it isn't either of our faults. But it breaks my heart because my romantic, air balloon dreams of the pre-engagement, engagement and wedding period of my life have turned into this weird, awkward ultimatum. 

Sometimes I think we're being too intense. I've had people tell me that sex isn't everything, and I wholeheartedly agree! But, promising to be with someone for 80 years without an orgasm is daunting. There are greater women than me out there, obviously, because I couldn't do it. I would try, and I would, but after a few years I would get bitter and frustrated and we'd end up leaving each other anyways. 

We're young. And though we're each others best friends, partners, confidantes, and are always there for each other, there has to be more than that. At least for me. . .

I've struggled a lot about why I don't enjoy sex. I started going back to counseling, and ultimately have been dragging JP with me every week. There has been some talk of going from a regular ole grad-student-in-psych-interning-at-the-local-health-department to a full fledged sex therapist. 

There have been theories tossed around, from plain jane trust issues to remnants of sexual abuse to the weird way my parents raised me and how they completely refused to tell me that humans are sexual beings. Who knows what caused it? All I know it sucks really, really huge balls.

Now, the fact that this makes me feel abnormal and broken does not mean I'm depressed. I mean, yes, I am depressed about this certain topic, but for the first time in my life I am dealing with a major problem and not letting it control my entire view and way of life. 

I am fine. I enjoy life. I'm happy. I laugh, and play with Willow, and absolutely annihilate JP at Mario Kart on the '64. There are nights when I feel really, really sad and really, really broken. But overall, it's just a bump in the road. I finally feel like I know myself well enough that I am confident that I will beat the living shit out of this problem. I've been through worse. 

So, now that that's over, enjoy this not depressing picture:

You're welcome.

book! and holy shit baggage!

Willow said book! It's the first word she's said other than mama, dada and hi (or more accurately, hiiiiiiiiiii!). The next morning she also said egg (aaayig) and tried to say kitty (keh).

Also, I think she's a genius baby because the day she said book she had pulled out 3 of her books from her full toy chest, dragged them to the middle of the room and then grabbed a book off one of the bookshelves, by passing all the toys and collectables on there. So, she pulled only books out. And I hadn't even said book all morning other than when she tried to grab my book and I said "No, please. That's mama's book." Freaking Rhodes scholar baby.

So, the next activity on the list is describing my relationship with my parents. I really don't want to do this one because our relationship is awkward and really, really hard to describe. Also, it's likely to cause the motherload of drama, but in the interest of figuring out my fuckedupness some more (JP and I have been talking about my parents and my upbringing a lot lately) and blogging honesty, I will try.

My dad: late 50's preacher-man. So much anti-gay, covert misogyny and just plain fear of the unknown. Also, he's a little. . . Lost in fantasy land. Like, anything that he doesn't believe in or like doesn't compute with him. That's the best way to put it: does not compute. Well, Jesus said that gays were evil so yeah. Or, I really want to be able to support myself and my family just by tutoring homeschooled kids and maybe by working a part time job in the summer. I have to like this part time job though, so maybe more tutoring or some Bible reading? Oh, yeah. He reads the Bible. Constantly. Like, he will get up at 3 in the morning and read the Bible.

He used to be a bit psychotic. Ok, a lot psychotic. Once I found a page of his writing talking about how he could instal locks from the outside of our doors and windows to keep my mother and I locked in our home. He wouldn't let me go to youth group because I might get influenced for evil.

One time, even though I made highest GPA in our school (ok, it was like 50 kids, but still) he wouldn't let me go on the honor roll field trip even though I was pretty much the only one that thought it was cool. Mind you, he was principal/my teacher, so he planned this. I watched the bus leave from my bedroom.

He and my mom used to promise to buy me a pet at the next house, well, ok, the house after that. . No, not this house, it's too much trouble. And yeah, that's not too bad, but when you consider I had NO friends or basically no contact with anyone my age and always hung out with their church people, it's kind of mean to deny a little girl a hamster.

They wouldn't let me go on any field trips at all my first few years of school (I went to a Greek public school and they tended to visit Greek Orthodox churches) and to make up for it they'd always tell me they'd take me on a family weekend trip. Nope, never.

Oh, they don't celebrate Christmas. No big deal, right? Well, imagine being the only kid in a whole classroom who has nothing to say when the teacher asks you what you got for Christmas in front of the whole class.

I also don't remember either of them buying me a single toy-- never mind, there was a doll and a teddy bear that my mom kept in a plastic case that I think I was allowed to play with once in a while. I remember once asking my dad to get me a Barbie comic book (they have fucking awesome things in Greece) and he said no because of something or other. . That's pretty much it.

Oh, and the fights. My god. My parents met each other when neither one could speak the other's language. They admit that they "dated" with a Greek-English dictionary between them. They were also set up, left to roam one of the most beautiful islands in Greece for about a week. So, they meet, decide they like each other after a week, my dad leaves for America, he comes back a few months later after a phone call or two and they get married. I'm not a relationship expert, but that seems like a bad formula. Sometime after they had me they figured out they don't really like each other too much. All this boils down to me stepping in and stopping physical fights.

My mom: mid-50's, Greek, sarcastic as all balls. To this day upholds that she did not influence my eating disordered thoughts. . Even though it was EATEATEAT. . my god you're getting fat all throughout my childhood. Even though I remember choosing low-fat instead of regular yoghurt at 6 or 7.

I was raised by my Thia (Aunt) Rita. She is my mom's best friend. My mom was in grad school for cardiology and either studied or was depressed all the time, so Rita watched me. I have almost no memories of my mother before I was around 8 years old. The only ones that come to mind right now are visiting her at the hospital while she was working.

My mother also always compares me to other people my age. Well, SecretWhoreyMcWhoreyson has pretty, long hair- look at yours, it's short and blue and ugly. But I'm only telling you this because I love you and want whats best for you.

They've both done their share of awful, and I was a typical crazy teenager. But then there was stuff that I honestly don't think I'll ever be able to forgive them for.

Like, after I tried killing myself at 15, they brought me home after getting me Arby's (a huge treat), sent me to bed and next morning re-enrolled me in the school my dad was principal at. Maybe they thought I needed more peer contact? Maybe they thought all day in my room reading was too much? The only thing they ever said about it was once my dad complained about the bill.

They also never talked to me about what happened after the rape and the psych ward stays. Never. Not once. They decided the best course of action was to pack up everything and move half a country away from all my friends and everything I was familiar with.

They did talk to me about cutting. That they did do. . . With Bibles pulled out. Leviticus was a favorite. The first time they saw my cuts they thought I was a witch (ironic) or a Satanist (granted I was going through a phase. . . ) and strip searched me.

They never trusted me. It was always everyone else's word against mine. They'd have long talks with me. . Hours long, about what the Bible said about this that or the other and how I did something wrong.

Once, when I was about 8, my dad sat me down and told me that at some point, all little girls start bleeding from their privates, but if I was a good, Christian little girl, I wouldn't let the hormones change my attitude and would maintain a happy, bright disposition like Blanketyblankblank.

I'm sure there's more. There's always more.

And yet, I keep visiting them. Almost every month. Unless we're having a spat, I talk to my mom at least once a day, usually 2 or 3 times. I still sit through car rides where my dad goes off about letting gays into the military and won't shut up and listen to me, or just keeps repeating himself over and over. Or where his reasons are "Jesus told me".

JP says it's an abusive relationship. He says I keep going back because I don't know better. I think he's right but I don't want to hurt them. I'm the only thing my mom has left. I honestly think it might kill her if I stopped talking to her.

 But then I think about Willow and I know I don't want her to grow up hearing the things they say. My mom started the "you eat too much" comments when Willow was a newborn. Sure, they were meant as a joke, but she always tries to pass it off as a joke when she says them to me too. And my dad keeps praying that Willow will grow up to be a woman of god even though he knows I'm not a Christian anymore. I don't want her to grow up to be a woman of god (necessarily, unless she wants to be! Then, though I disagree with her, I will support her) I just want her to grow up strong.

And my parents did not raise a strong woman. They raised a weak one. I'm not being self-deprecating, I'm being honest. I have an almost complete innability to stand up for myself, the things I believe in or even my daughter unless it's in writing or on the internet (fucked up, right?). I would rather have people walk all over me and compromise me (to, I'm reluctant to admit, almost any point) than hurt their feelings or offend them. I'm better, I continue to be better, and admitting all of this makes me better, but-- the point still remains that, to me, my parents are almost toxic. Their love comes with their hate, their ridicule and their bigotry.

So. . . That. That is my relationship with my parents. This post will probably make someone mad, but quite honestly, I'm getting past the point of caring.

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live life loud

Life life loud, live it unapologetically. Life fiercely.
Take the moment; grab it by the neck and squeeze every ounce of enjoyment out of it.
Don't look around you and wonder what people will think. Don't let others opinions of your actions stop you.

Go ahead.
Twirl.
Head bang.
Sing the "Singing in the Rain" song in a downpour.
Hell, even twirl one of those ridiculous yellow umbrellas around. (You know you want to! Where would one buy a yellow umbrella, anyway?)

If we lived our lives wondering who's watching and what's running through their heads, our lives would be normal.
And who likes normal?

Normal is everyday; it's mundane. . . it's boring.

If it doesn't go against your morals and it wouldn't go against others (stumbling block) do what your heart demands.

I've been known to break into song in the middle of grocery stores. It drives my best friend crazy, but you know what? She's loosened up since I met her. The first time I did something like that near her I thought she was going to have an anurism. Thank God, she didn't, and now she kind of appreciates me for my crazy weirdness. I don't think she'd want me to be normal. I think she'd be bored.

Most of all, I'd be bored.

I was normal once. And, God, did I hate it.

Now? Now it's great. I can dance around the house in my underwear and my parents don't even notice anymore (unless it's a thong, then they notice). They almost expect me to say something silly. I swear there are these ultra-awkward silences that follow anything anyone says in my household. My theory: they're giving me time to respond.

Like after my dad said something about how it's not a "butt" it's a "rear end" and I told him "Fine then, would you please scootch your arse?"
Believe it or not- he laughed. The man laughed.
I don't think I've heard him laugh at anything but knock-knock jokes. Ever. Especially something "crude" like that. It was great. I actually felt like his daughter for once.
Once.

Live life loud. Make people notice. Whether your cause is the environment, how Bush was really a great president (shout out to my best friend) or like me, love, make yourself known. The world isn't changed by people who sit back and hope that someone else will say something they agree with on tv- it's changed by those who speak to their friends, their family and any general public who's there to witness the soap box.

Come on now, people. You aren't dead yet! Live like it. Sometimes I wonder if people in the church haven't been slipped a little sedative before walking in. I wonder if I'm the only one who disagrees with the pastor. I wonder if they believe in anything at all.

Most of all, I believe in a loving Jesus. No matter what religion or deity you believe in I'm sure that somewhere deep in your heart your wish is that Jesus does truly love you.

I met someone a couple months ago who has become one of my dearest friends. Her name is Emily. She smokes more pot than Bob Marley did, recently got her nipples pierced and is bisexual. Emily has an eating disorder and claims she hates Christians. They made fun of her in high school for being bi. She says she'd never want to be one of us.

You know what? Neither would I.

Emily believes in Jesus though. She tells me she reads the Bible and that she likes the Jesus she sees in there. She sees a contrast, though, between the one that's in the Bible and the one we preach and supposedly emulate.

She's absolutely right.

We've come so far, they say. Yeah, we have. In the wrong direction.

I'm not saying that Jesus would pat Emily on the back for liking girls and liking sex. I'm just saying that Jesus wouldn't make a girl cry, even if that girl sinned.

Everywhere in the Bible I see Jesus comforting, loving and healing. I don't see anyone with a right heart being turned away.

We've come a long way, baby. Now we turn people away at the doors, refusing them entrance into God's house because of how they look. What would God say?

If I ever start a church, I'm going to go find the "scum of the earth" and bring them in. Be they prostitutes, transvestites, gays, lesbians, televangelists that look like Barbie on speed, self-injurers, anorexics, murders, liars, cheats. They'd be part of Jesus' church too, if He started one here in the United States today. You know why? Because when He sent the invitations out to all the preachers and deacons and Episcopal priests they were all busy.

They were all working on their ticket to heaven. They were all wearing their golden crosses that just kept their neck weighed down and their eyes cast to the ground. They were too busy to come see the true Jesus, just like most of us Christians are too busy now.

So Jesus sent His servants out to the wayside to find guests for His party, didn't He? He got the homeless and the dirtiest. And I bet they had a blast. I would have given anything to go that party. Because it was real and honest.

I bet there was a lot of rejoicing going on there. A lot of healing. They probably never got around to the fattened calf.

Can you see Him? He's surrounded by people begging to be healed of their sorry sins and their ravaged hearts. And He's healing them all because they are broken.

Come on, people. Wake up. Jesus wouldn't hang out at our churches. He'd be down at the corner of 5th and Capitol at that abandoned Lutheran church drinking coffee with the homeless. He'd be drying the tears of a prostitute. I'm thinking He'd only step into our churches to tell us we're like the white-washed tombs. We might look nice on the outside, but inside- we're dead and rotting. We're stinky.

I don't wanna stink. Especially when I finally meet Jesus. I wanna smell good!

Philippians 4:18b

Your gifts are a soothing aroma, a sacrifice that God accepts and with which he is pleased.

How do you smell to Jesus? Minty fresh? A little B.O.?

Living life loud means standing up and being counted.

Let's live life loud, and let's release a good fragrance unto the Lord.

(When did I turn into a black preacher?)

I, for one, renounce Christianity completely. I don't want to be part of this social club. I want someone who heals hearts, and that's not the white Jesus with the beard I see as the head of today's churches.

I'm waiting for the Jesus who's dirty and ragged and who was bloodied for me.

Nope. I'm not a Christian. I'm just a lover of people.

Can I get an Amen?

call me mashed potato girl.

I am sitting in front of a brightly lit screen with a pot of mashed potatoes, garlicky mashed potatoes, cheesy and garlicky mashed potatoes off to one side of the screen.

There is a wooden spoon in the mashed potatoes, and also a smaller metal one.

Just a second ago I was staring at this screen, with the smaller metal spoon in front of my face. I was licking it, thinking I could star in a porno about mashed potatoes. I laughed at myself.

It was all about fun, and I really don't have any weird fetishes about mashed potatoes.

Viva la Vida was playing, and I turned it way up. I love Coldplay, and I especially love Viva la Vida.

I finished a book today. It is called "The Perks of being a Wallflower".

I was shocked at the ending, but as I thought about it, it all made sense.That's why he was scared to have sex with Sam. Yeah. Makes sense.

But he loved his Aunt Helen.

Just like I still love Joe. But Joe killed me.

I wasn't exactly scared of sex. (Pokerface, by Lady Ga Ga is on now. How do you wake Lady Ga Ga up? Poke her face.)

Maybe it would have been good if I had been scared of sex.

Then it maybe wouldn't have happened. Especially without a condom. Who does that?

Seriously?!?

That's not even that bad. But knowing the sperm donor for only 6 days before settling yourself down on the piano practise room floor. Wrong. Wrong. Me.

(Let's face it. When it's come to size, there is one thing that really does matter. I'm talking about diamonds of course. Be Iced Jewelers.) What?

Oh yeah, and I thought I was pregnant. Because that would be convenient. And just my luck. I kind of wanted it though. Rachel and I went to Walmart, and I grabbed a liquor bottle. . and pretended to drink, and then I thought I couldn't, because it could cause birth defects.

Then I made her promise she'd never, ever let me wear sweats during the whole 9 months, that she'd make me dress cute, no matter how much I didn't feel like it.

That got me thinking about clothes, so I begged her to go to the maternity section with me. No go. I looked at it longingly though.

I wasn't.

Pregnant, that is. I was so relieved, when I found out. Right before Art class, I went to the bathroom, and there it was. The woman's plague. I was like "Geez, I wish I was pregnant. This sucks." But I was only half-wishing. Half.

I don't know why I am saying all of this. I was actually going to talk about something way different. I was going to talk about Curtis, but I started talking about Charley in the book, and Aunt Helen.

So, here I go, talking about I was originally going to talk about.

I went to prom this Friday. I also went to after-prom on Saturday, with Rachel. We drank way too much coffee, and stayed up longer than Rachel had ever stayed up. We went to Denny's, which is my favorite restaurant place of all time, because they have the best Bocca burgers ever. I said that, and then started laughing. There was all these random girls I'd never seen, and we sat with them, and I couldn't stop laughing. I've never done that before. It was great. I felt so high. It was ridiculous. I got coffee. And mozzarella sticks. (Mozzarella is a really weird word.)

But, on Friday, at prom. . well, it wasn't actually prom. It was like, fake prom. Or. . Modest prom. Or Mormon Prom. Choose one, it works.

We had to wear sleeves, because Mormon's are OCD about all girls having sleeves on. I looked ridiculous. Curtis took me. He looked at me as I opened the door and told me I looked weird. And then he said he should say I look beautiful, but he's really tired. 44 hours of no sleep, because he was thinking about marijuana.

Well, he was writing about marijuana. For a research paper, he wasn't just randomly thinking about it.

But he was honest, and out of it, so I decided that that night was the perfect night to ask him what he thought of me. I mean, if he liked me.

He said: "Yeah, sort of."

For a poet, he sure knows how to not say things poetically. Maybe it was because he was tired, because he always says things perfect, except for then. He amazes me.

I told him that I liked him because his writing gave me shivers. I wanted to write like him, but I never could. I wished I could have ran my fingers through his hair.

He was scared he had hat hair. Because he wore a hat. A pin stripped one from Walmart. It cost $10. He told me.

I wore it alot of the night. At one point, we both wore the same hat, because someone else had the same one.

We danced.

He twirled me.

And I was terrible.

At one point, he did this dance move that he really wasn't supposed to, because he was Mormon, and all these older Mormon psychiatrists and psychologists and presidents and business dudes were watching.

He twirled me so that I landed with my back right next to his chest. I said "I can see why this isn't allowed", but what I really meant was I could feel why this wasn't allowed.

I think Mormons aren't allowed to kiss.

Shame.

Maybe some day, because I'm willing to wait. And wear sleeves. And not swear, and not kiss him. Or even, if I have to, not run my fingers through his hair, even if it's just to convince him that he doesn't have hat hair.

And I don't love him just because he's a nice guy, but because he's honest, and he has silky arm hair and funny fingers. But I love it. I love all of it.

*Sigh*

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