The Lightning Scar

I have decided you are Voldemort and I am Harry Potter. Whenever I'm near you, the scar you left on my heart burns and I lose all composure. I can't think, my heart races, adrenaline courses through my body, and I start to sweat. I stammer and say stupid things. I'm incredibly self conscious and feel myself shrink in the estimation of your gaze.

It's been six years. I thought I was healed, and I am in a way. Love is all around me. I'm so lucky...so blessed...to have such amazing people to travel through life with. Especially Chris, who's so devoted, so loving. Yet, the memory of what I thought you and I had is buried inside me like a bullet, a shard, a splinter that works its way to the surface, pulled by your magnetism,  irritating everything in its course.

It's probably good you and I are no longer together. I would have done anything to please you, gone to any lengths to satisfy you. You were all that mattered. Family, friends, interests, commitments were all expendable when it came to you. It's good you left before I could complete the things I was doing to move everyone and everything out of the way for you. Had it gone on longer, there's no telling who and what I would have lost.

So, until the next time our paths cross, you enjoy whatever it is that puts that smug grin on your face. I'll go back to appreciating what I have and try to forget...again.

Pride and Proposals

The last two nights have been monumental for me. Saturday, February 14, I asked the love of my life to marry me and he said yes. Sunday, February 15, I told my family I was engaged. Because of their staunch LDS faith, this led to a discussion between my father and me about where this choice was taking me. It was a sincere, respectful conversation that left me in awe and gratitude at the amazing man I have been given for a father. (The rest of my family is pretty amazing, too.)

In the course of the discussion, my dad brought up the power of the teachings in Alma 5 in the Book of Mormon. I have to admit here that my views of the Book of Mormon have been dim as of late. I have been considering viewpoints that cast doubts on its provenance and its authenticity. Is it really the word of God?

This morning, since Presidents Lincoln and Washington allowed me a paid shift off from the library, I took a look at Alma 5. My father was right. Those words pack a wallop, and it’s because they’re true. They are true regardless of whether the Lamanites and Nephites really walked the American continent. They are true because of their powerful call to follow Christ. I am humbled by the words of Alma and, though my relationship with it might be a little different than it was before, I will not discount The Book of Mormon again.

This testimony isn’t the main reason I’m writing, however. I want to share what I found in Alma’s words and how I feel they relate to my current situation. The people that Alma was preaching to in the city of Zarahemla were descendants of the refugees from Noah’s kingdom. Wicked, fat King Noah (thank you, Arnold Freiburg) ruled his domain with the help of his priests who led the people to invest their hearts in riches and shallow relationships (“spending their strength with harlots” is how it’s phrased in the book). This allowed Noah to maintain his power and wealth. As long as the people didn’t turn to true religion, they supported his very lucrative form of idolatry. Enter Abinadai, whose powerful preaching converted one of King Noah’s priests, Alma, who in turn converted many others whose children and grandchildren eventually ended up in the city of Zarahemla.

Apparently, these children and grandchildren were falling into some of the ways of their forefathers because Alma’s son, Alma the Younger, hereafter referred to as Alma, felt the need to call the people to repentance. What were they guilty of? Verses 53 – 56 say they were “puffed up in the pride of [their] hearts” and persisted “in the wearing of costly apparel,” “setting [their] hearts upon the vain things of the world, upon [their] riches.” This pride led them to “persist in supposing that [they were] better than one another” and “in the persecution of [their] bretheren” who were humble and trying to follow Christ. These prideful people turned their backs upon the poor and needy, withholding their resources from those around them. Does any of this sound familiar? Isn’t this going on all around us right now?

So, it seems that Alma’s main concern was to get the people to swallow their pride and start caring about each other again. He wanted them to look past the blinding influence of materialism and heed the future Christ’s call to love one another as He loves us. (In regards to the harlotry in King Noah’s time, lest anyone accuse me of ‘slut shaming,’ this means we need to seek deeper relationships with those around us. It’s not so much about the casual sex as it is the fact that we’ve just treated someone like a Kleenex, which is so NOT how Christ loves people. It IS how we treat each other when we think we're better than them.)

For me, Alma’s words mean I need to stop spending so much money on entertaining myself, especially since I own more than I can ever watch or listen to. I need to support the Idaho Food Bank and stop ignoring the homeless man on the corner. I need to make sure I treat everyone with whom I come in contact as a child of God, loving them as purely as I am able. As far as Chris and I are concerned, Alma doesn’t really have much to say because as I told Chris Saturday night when I proposed, he teaches me to love every day.

Influence

My life has been filled with strong women, and I've spent much of my life dealing with the implications of their respective emotional states.  The people pleaser in me has often made it difficult to view this experience objectively and act in healthy, mutually beneficial ways. I had experiences yesterday with two very powerful women in my life that clearly illustrated this lack of perspective. Although I kept my cool outwardly,  inwardly I was devastated.

I think it's time to gain a better way of seeing and dealing with these relationships.

Anyone Have an Aspirin?

There are times my head hurts from trying to contain all the perspectives that flood my consciousness. Perceptiveness and intuition are gifts that come with a price. Often, I envy those who can be single-minded in their view of life and course of action, who don't over-think every move they make.

There are many who dull their sensitivities with illicit drugs, sex, or forms of fantasy...or all three. While I understand it and sometimes indulge in avoidance myself, I think it's more courageous to learn to live with all the voices, becoming a better navigator with the practice. Now what can I do about the headaches?

Ranting in a Safe Place

Regardless of whether or not you have authority over me, if you want me to jump on board with your little plan, you're going to have to take the time to make me think it's my idea or that I've had some say in laying out the course. Clumsy and inept as I am at using my agency, I guard it fiercely and immediately dig in my heels when I perceive that it has been disregarded or disrespected. I've always been that way, I always will be that way, and I won't apologize for it or change it. Deal with it.

Cleaning My Mental House

It took a surprising amount of mental effort this morning to make myself do the dishes before I turned on my computer and logged onto Facebook. It gives credence to all those who say the internet in general and sites like Facebook in particular are changing our brains, addicting us with their dopamine triggers. That's one enslavement I'd like to cast off, but do I want to swear off of social media entirely? At this time, the answer is no, though it may change in the future.

For now, I’m thinking of imposing on myself a housework-for-Facebook rule. If it works, I’ll have a really clean house and at least the illusion of self-control. If not, I will have to take more drastic action.

In the Quiet Heart

In spite of how much I talk and how chatty I often am, there are many things I don't say. Plans and hopes for the future, feelings about myself and other people, reflections and realizations are usually what stick in my throat. Many times, these things are the most important things I could say, but I don't. I'm like those soap opera characters I get frustrated with who never can bring themselves to say the one thing that will fix the problem, solve the crime, or avert disaster. I can't seem to help myself, but I think I have a clue as to why.

When I was four years old, my maternal grandparents were flood-irrigating their lawn and I was splashing around in the shallow water. I splashed too close to the ditch and fell in. Although it wasn't deep by adult standards, I was totally immersed in water and, panicking, proceeded to drown. My grandfather's hand pulled me out. From that moment on, I had a fear of water.

Realizing they needed to do something to help me overcome my fear so I could survive in water, my parents put me in swimming lessons the next summer at the Blackfoot Municipal Swimming Pool. I was extremely apprehensive and grew to dread the experience with each new session. The brilliant team of teachers there that summer adhered to the philosophy that "sink or swim" was the best way to cure anyone of their hydrophobia. What do you do with a kid scared spitless of drowning? You throw him in the pool. When that doesn't work, what then? Well, you force him to climb the high dive and jump off, repeatedly. Of course, there is someone below the diving board to catch the kid if he's about to drown, but if at first you don't succeed, try, try again. I can still see the brown haired mullet man with the mustache and blue eyes treading water in the pool below the dive, waiting for me to gather my frazzled wits and plunge into his arms. He was pretty cute, by the way. You'd think I could have found some courage to impress him, right? Sadly, that's not really my nature and it didn't work.

Two weeks agonized by. Waking up in the morning was torture because I knew I had to go to the pool and endure the shame and terror all over again. The drive to that pool is etched with churning stomach acid in my mind, and to this day, the blue Blackfoot water tower reminds me of my humiliation. (If I remember correctly, I did develop stomach/digestion problems during that period. I can hear my parents talking about it.)

Finally, it was the second Friday, my last session. We were to be tested on all the skills covered, which for me meant just being able to jump in and tread water for a bit. Dad asked if I wanted him to be there. Filled with the determination to make my dad proud and determinedly believing that somehow a miracle would occur, I told him yes. We got in the car and drove to the pool, my anxiety pounding at me while I kept telling myself I could do it, convincing myself that force of will would make it work.

To make a long story short, I made myself jump three times. Each time, I failed to do anymore than rise to the top of the water. In shame, I had to cling instead to the sexy teacher's chest as he helped me back to the side of the pool. The disappointment and dashed hopes got heavier with each failure, diminishing my chances of success.

On the drive home, Dad's frustration got the better of him. "Why did you ask me to come?" he asked, his voice tinged with the bitter edge of disappointment. I think I tried to answer with something that made sense, trying to communicate why I thought this time I could do it. I don't remember the words I said, but I remember nothing I said made it better and I lapsed into silence, the shame eating its way into my five-year-old soul.

That and other early experiences gave me a compulsive aversion to failure.  Even when I have reason to think I can succeed, I don't like to tell people what I'm planning or hoping for fear that I'll fail and disappoint us both. This holds true in every relationship I have. Even now, there are important things I should be telling someone and I just can't do it. What if it doesn't really happen? What if I'm fooling myself? I've already let this person down before, so how can I raise their hopes only to dash them again? At this point, I don't know if their hopes would rise even if I told them. So I stay silent. As Simon & Garfunkel sang, "Silence like a cancer grows." The tumor is getting bigger.

Why don't you see me? Why can't you read what's in my heart? Why haven't you taken all the things you know about me and deduced what's really going on? I've shared more about myself with you than almost anyone else in my life. I'm right here in front of you. Why don't you see me? These are all fair questions to ask, right? (For those of you who can't hear the sarcasm of that last sentence, it's there.)

So, the point of this blog? Aside from the oblique comment on my nascent sexuality, it's partly a cry to be heard, partly a memoir fragment, and partly a warning to anyone who will listen that the sorrows the eye can't see often won't reveal themselves in words. They come to light in action or the lack thereof. Take time to read the behavior, then ask if what you're observing means what you think it does. Cancer kills. Don't let it win. (Don't worry. I see the three fingers pointing back at me under the finger I'm pointing at you.)