Too fat to be pretty

Let me just preface this by saying my husband is such a loving, wonderful, devoted man. But... he is a man. A white man. Raised in a society that entitles white men. And despite that, he has managed to grow up strong, gentle, kind, and mostly open-minded. But, he is not always immune to the idiocy or douche-baggery commonly found in today's world. He'd human. Even the loveliest person will occasionally be a stupid jerk-face.

So. On to the story.

We were in the mall and he decided he wanted to go into American Eagle (a store where I fit the shoes and that is all... not that I would buy anything from there anyway) and there were these very hot young ladies shopping and working there. The reason I noticed was because, earlier that day, Petal had made a passing comment that may have made me key into what he idealized as "legitimately hot", and balancing on my own insecurity, maybe I was ready to notice any comparative action on his part. As soon as we walked in, Petal drops my hand. It wasn't as if he needed it for shopping purposes. It felt very pointed. But I felt "ok, maybe I'm reading into this." and tried to shake off this feeling that I was too large, to chubby... the girls working could eyeball me and know I wouldn't fit anything in the store. I just wished I felt like I belonged. I followed my husband to the back of the store, he poked around the men's clothing a little, and then turned to leave. I reached out and tried to take his hand again, sure he wouldn't need it for shopping or anything, since we were on our way out... but he kind of snakes it away from me. I'm instantly hurt, and we walk out without exchanging any words. We're several stores away when he reaches for my hand again and I go, "Oh, so now you want to hold my hand?" And he looks at me inquisitively and confused. "Now there aren't any hot girls around?" And he kind of chuckles and says, "Oh is that what I was doing? I didn't notice." In this very casual... act-dumb-to-get-out-of-trouble way.

At this point, I'm still in a semi-agreeable mood. It's mostly in my head. I have no reason to believe my husband would genuinely not want to hold my hand in front of hot girls... After all, we're married. I just NEEDED him to hold my hand because I was feeling so insecure. It wasn't his fault he didn't realize it. But, based on what he's just said... based on the comment earlier that day about his friend going on a date from a girl he met online that never would have worked out because she was "legitimately hot"... based on a hundred unsaid compliments and my own longing to feel beautiful, worthy, loved... The culmination of all these things has lead me to have these deep secret beliefs about him, and suddenly it feels like I have an opportunity to talk to him about it.

So. I say, through a clenched throat, that I feel deep down, in some inexpressible place inside him, he doesn't think I'm thin enough to be pretty.

And the confident side of me, the prideful side, the side that would never genuinely believe something so hurtful and detrimental to my self-worth, believes that this will be instantly swatted away. Even if he has to lie. Because who would ever admit that they wished their most beloved, the person who loves them most in all the world... isn't as sexy to them as they are to you?

But that is not what happened.

What happened was a conversation that was not fun. A conversation where he admitted he would think I was prettier if I were thin. Because that's the body type he's always been attracted to. The girls he liked in high school were athletic. The girls he likes in Hollywood weigh 100 pounds nothing. The media has told him what to find attractive and she looks a lot like half of me.

None of this is mean. None of it is meant to hurt, or to offend. He's talking to me honestly... even if it's a little brutal. He loves me, he reminds me over and over again. But there is a part of him that wishes I was a stick with giant boobs.

I am in tears because I understand. He's not a bad person. It's just this yucky thought... A thought that should never have been expressed.

He would never ever put pressure on me to lose weight. He would never ever be mean or rude or try to push me to exercise or diet. He would never say, "You look fat in that" or make me feel less than beautiful. Not on purpose. But it's under the surface. It's where my mind goes if I've put on a nice dress for him and he doesn't compliment me. Or flirt. Or engage in public as much as I wish he would. It's not in what he does, but what he doesn't do.

And on the one hand, it's wonderful that he can be so honest, open and frank about how he feels. But on the other... it's a super problematic mindset to have, and we have to address it if we want to have a close and loving relationship.

Ultimately, I came to the conclusion that I just have to deal with it and get over it. I can't change him. I don't really want to change him either. And if I physically change myself, throw myself into extreme diets and exercise it would be so detrimental to my mental health. I do want to change, but my mindset has to change first. For me... I have to fall in love with me just the way I am. I am healthy. I walk 1.7 miles almost every day. I keep a clean home and lots of delicious food in in the pantry and in the fridge. I take excellent care of our pets, and one day, I'm going to be an awesome mom. I am not huge. And I'm not small. I am me. And lovable as myself.

The hurt that I felt toward his thoughtless words has started to evaporate. He admitted to me later that it wasn't something he likes about himself. He's not proud of this dumb thought that he barely pays attention to. And while it is there, there are so many things that he loves about me. So I made him tell me 10 of them a day for a week. To buoy me up and fill me with good stuff. At first, I made it a point to tell him all the ways each of the things he loves about me would be different or nonexistent if I were thin, mostly to make myself feel better, but eventually I stopped that and it turned into me basking in the glow of his adoration. A friend asked me if I returned the favor and I giggled and said "No... I compliment him all the time. I'm very thoughtful. He's less so." Sometimes it's ok to ask for something without owing someone something back, especially when it comes to feeling loved. And especially after a big hurt.

But I've thrown myself into loving my chub. I don't care if he might actually treat me like a queen if I were thin, I can treat myself like a queen right now. And maybe if I lose my insecurity, if I commit myself to feeling good when I look in the mirror, maybe he'll love me better for it too.

A while ago I wrote a poem about feeling in love with someone who loves unconditionally, and for a few days I couldn't look at the poem because it felt like a lie... but yesterday, I illustrated it and reposted it to claim it as a promise to love myself unconditionally and remind my husband what that meant too. But I decided to change the words just a little... From "Me and My" to "I and him". He told me that one of the things he loves best about me is that I love him just the way he is. And that was so incredible to him, that he strives every day to do the same for me. And in a lot of ways, I was his love role model. Now... how awesome is that? Who could ask for anything more?

I love my love

I love my love fat and happy. 

I love my love curled on the couch, watching crappy television shows.

I love my love mouth filled with chips, laughing and spewing.

I love my love undressed, rolls of guilty pleasure pounds, late night snacks stacked on his hips.

I love my love angry, screaming, ranting, pissed.
I love my love sobbing, tears mixed with snot, face red with sorrow, blotched and unlike the perfect tears of Hollywood.
I love my love stupid, questions asked without thinking, misunderstandings and confusion.
I love my love quiet, nose tucked in a book or doodling.
I love my love loud, making too much noise and laughing like a snorting rhino.
I love my love silly, fingers poked in ribs and face pulled in unfortunate expressions.
I love my love serious, with no mischief on his mind.
I love my love's folds, his ins and his outs, his shorts and rounds.
I love my love imperfect, unreserved, unkempt.
How sad is the love that loves conditionally, with reigned passion and lists of expectations.
How sad is the love that ends with weight gain, with job loss, with change.
How sad is the love that destroys each other, that expects devotion, that takes without return.
I love my love with abandon.
With joy.
With grace and mercy.
I love my love the way movies forget to show love.
The way friends love.
The way God loves.
And with every moment of imperfect perfection he can feel the heart beat of my love repeating messages of steadfast loyalty.
I know that I love him forever.
Just as I know...
He loves me. 

Making Up Memories

In high school I would have random thought... sentences, ideas... dialog... Just from time to time something well structured or interesting would pass through my mind and I would want to share it. That's when I came up with "Making Up Memories". They were my own thoughts, but I would pretend that I was quoting something so I could share it with the facebook world. It seems silly and random, but I still do it. I wish I could record every made up quote I had ever posted. But today I had to admit to a friend that it wasn't a book, because she wanted to go buy it. It was so embarrassing to have to turn her compliment towards me and not some book I recommended. But I didn't want to lie to her.
I wonder if I should write a book. If I could compile a novel or collection of random thoughts and stories into a book and call it "Making Up Memories". I wonder if it would interest anyone. If they would want to read what I had to say... Not just my facebook people. But real people who think similar to me. Somehow I doubt it, and I could never finish it anyway.

Predators of the worst kind

Warning: This is another episode of sad personal stories with Sarah, so do not read further if you don't want to know impossible intimate thoughts and details about me and my experiences.

I just read a wonderful article by a mommy blogger that a friend of a friend had posted on facebook. It was one of those articles you know will be a little hard to read, but you do it anyway to feel safer in a world that shares its scary stories to warn others. (http://herviewfromhome.com/not-my-child-protecting-my-son-from-a-sexual-predator/)

It made me happy and sad... And a little introspective. This mother was so careful, so present, so involved, she knew exactly what to do with the "ick-factor" that "Bob" the all too interested old neighbor elicited in her. She kept her babies safe.

This is something that I think a lot of parents of victims of sexual assault often feel guilty about. Like there should have been a sign. They should have known. Or they shivered away the worry, the doubt, the "ick" and gave the benefit of the doubt to this virtual stranger. Or the man (or woman) who wasn't such a stranger... If they are good parents, really good parents, they feel that they should have been more careful.

Which makes this part of the blog, the part that I tell my story, feel a little strange. To compare my parents, my wonderful, loving parents' reaction to my scary moment with a woman who went on to encourage other parents to trust their instincts.

I was young, very young, when I met my best friend. Let's call her Ella. She was beautiful, funny, and  different than me in a lot of ways. We met when I went to my older sister's art class, got in trouble for trying to open a bottle of paint with my teeth, and was subsequently sent outside. She was playing on the playground and I remembered her from seeing her pick up her sister sometimes. She had twisty little braids with colorful bobbly hairties. Her mom was white and her dad was black, making her a smooth caramel color and I loved her right away. I thought she was the coolest. She always had grape flavored candies at her house with different disney characters on them. We were always spending the nights at each other's houses... spending birthdays together, since they were so close we had several joint birthday parties as well. It was wonderful. Then she had to move. I remember being so sad and when I asked she told me that there were people who lived on her road that were racist (when I asked what that was, and she said it meant they hated black people, I was stunned. I had never heard of someone hating someone else based on something so unimportant) and saying her dad drove too fast, kicked up too much dust, or something. I found out later, this was not the case.

We stayed best friends, calling each other, visiting each other for birthdays and different events. I guess I was about 6 or 7 when I went to her house for her birthday. We made ice cream by hand, played pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey, and I got to meet all her public school friends. Then that night after chasing her brother all over the house and deciding we wanted a little privacy to talk about our secret girly stuff and not sleep with her hyper brother in her room, we made the couch in the den into a bed and cuddled down for the night. It was very late when we fell asleep. And even later when I woke up with a bad feeling. A terrible feeling. I felt hot and cold and scared and I looked over to see her father standing over us. I laid as still as possible until I thought he wasn't looking, then flipped onto my tummy, thinking I was somehow protecting myself. He hadn't touched me. I knew nothing about what was happening or what might happen or what would happen... but for some reason I knew that I needed to protect my front bits. It didn't really stop anything. A pervert will be perverted no matter the circumstances. I don't know what all happened. I don't know that I was raped... I felt him use his thing to move my shirt and he put it against my backend. But that's all I remember. I don't know if I forced myself to fall asleep or if he just used me to stimulate himself.

I don't remember the next day. I don't know what happened next... but what I do recall is telling my older sister. And she told me to tell my mom.

The thing is, I was a liar. I lied all the time. I would look my mom straight in the face and tell her a bald-faced lie that she KNEW was a lie, but I would insist. "I saw a blue unicorn through the window!" "Now, Sarah, did you REALLY see a unicorn, or is this a story?" "NO! I did! I did see it mommy!! I promise." And I lied about things all the time and so well, she kind of just took all of my stories with a grain of salt.

So when I tried to explain what had happened and why I didn't want to go visit my friend anymore, she listened with this doubt that I might not be telling the truth. So she never asked me about it, never pursued it... What she did do, was amazing. She believed me enough to keep me safe forever afterwards. I didn't have sleepovers unless they were at my house. I was watched more carefully. And I felt heard. She asked me when I was 12 again if I remembered something that happened when I was little with my friend's father. And I refused to tell her, the feeling of fear and shame flooding me. So that Christmas, she bought each of us girls a diary that were our special ways to communicate with her. We would write in them and then leave them on her bed and she would reply and leave them on our's. And it was in there that I wrote out the story. As vague and as detailed as I could be. I know that is a contradiction... but that's how it was. Once she knew the truth, that I hadn't lied about it, that she had trusted me to keep me safe, it was this moment of painful what-ifs.

My father didn't find out until I was out of high school.

I love my father. He is this deep-thinking philosopher who believes true riches are found in community and education... and less in things like, "a job". He took good care of us. But he has a unique way about him... a non-traditional approach to life, to family, to everything. He surrounded himself with odd characters that weren't exactly the cream of the crop of society, but had intricate thoughts about how the world works.

When he found out, he was furious. He wanted to press charges. He was so distraught that he hadn't been able to keep me safe when I was young, that he didn't even know what had happened until I was too old for him to fix it... it was one of the moments I felt truly loved by my dad... the day he wanted to kill the guy who made me so scared.

 It must have been a year later that I found out about... Let's call him... Ronald. Ronald was a family friend that was always around. He helped my father work on our house, helped him in my father's career as a construction worker (when he had work). He was an artist, a sculptor. He made the memorial stone when my baby sister died. He was always very nice to us kids. He loved to "crack our backs" and tickle us, especially me. I was always friendly with everyone. I'd climb into strangers' laps and talk to anyone and smile smile smile with my dimple and blond pigtails. My other sisters were not that outgoing. So I loved talking to Ronald. And when you're little, you love adult attention. So I would always be excited when Ronald came over because he played with me so much.

My dad was always a little on guard with Ronald. There would be long time periods when he made it clear that Ronald was not allowed to come over. But slowly Ronald would come back into our lives. We would meet him at the river. He would come to dinner parties. I always thought my dad liked Ronald, but thought he was kind of annoying. Becasue he was. He was a weirdo. I remember a few times when he came over before my parents were awake on the weekends and just watch us kids play computer games and tell us stories. My parents would come out and be surprised that he was there. But go with it. I remember a time he was helping us build our pantry and he asked my mom if anything happened to my dad, would she pick him. And she said no. Not in a million years. It was always a joke that if she had said yes, something bad would have happened to my dad.

But I remember there was one day Ronald had come over and stayed late and the next day he showed up early in the morning... and just us kids were awake. And while I was waiting for my turn on the computer he told me this story about seeing two women naked at the river. And said they were kissing and getting "hot and heavy". I was weirded out by that, so I went into my parents room and told them that Ronald was there talking about weird stuff. And when they came out, he was gone. It was a long time before we saw him again.

So about a year after my father found out about what had happened with Ella's father, my father admitted to me that Ronald had told him he had been arrested for a few years before they had met for sexually assaulting his ex-wife's children (his step-children). He had been up front about it right when he met my father. And my father let him into our lives anyway.

Don't get me wrong, my father was always on guard, and nothing actually ever happened with Ronald hurting any of us. But there were some rather... voyeuristic moments with him. Accepting a man who was trying to live a normal life, a life outside of his unnatural urges... Was very christian of my dad. But when I found out... I couldn't help but feel hurt and betrayed. That he made such a big deal about what happened when he didn't know... but what could have happened BECAUSE he knew... My father showed more love to a man he befriended than for his children. I felt very wronged.

I have since forgiven him, come to terms with this contradiction in my mind of loving father and the man who knew he was inviting a convicted paedophile into his home and into his life... But there are still moments... like while I was reading an article about a family who did all they could to keep their child safe... when I think about how my father put the needs of an outsider above his children.

I am grateful for both my parents so much. My mother who listened to me even when she doubted my truth-telling abilities... My father who taught me that you can love a sinner while hating their sin... And I try to think about what I will be when I am I parent.

I hope I will be able to protect my baby.

How to stop obsessing over Pregnancy

     I have been obsessed with babies since the day we got married. Seriously. I wanted one. I mean... half of me wanted one. A crazy, obsessed, wishful half of me. The other half was totally content to enjoy our early married life... the youthfulness and freedom of young love... Waiting sounds like this gloriously mature, responsible plan that sucessful, happy people make. But then there was the crazy baby making side of me screaming to fulfill my biological obligation.
 
    I have read many articles. Many, many articles. Articles about women who don't have or want kids and are completely content in that. I try my best to think of myself like that. To imagine a life where I never have kids. It's not a terrible thought. Freedom. No strain on our finances. Not having to worry about moving or schools or medical decisions. Not having to face the trials of a child with some... differently-abled-ness. Always the two of us, my husband and I, snuggled with our fur-babies. I can see why that is appealing. I can imagine a version of myself that is happy in that life.
     But that is not me. I know it isn't. Even if I wish sometimes I were like that... I'm not. And I know it. Deep in my soul, in the core of my being... is a woman with a baby in her arms. 6 babies. And two toddlers. And a Middle-schooler... and 4 teens... And three adult children. There is a women positively SURROUNDED by her flesh and blood. I cannot deny her existence. I can only compromise with her... 3 or 4 children instead of the hundreds she wishes to raise... In a few years, instead of her screaming "RIGHT NOW!!!"
   Every month, every twinge, headache, sweep of nausea sets me on edge. "Is that slight pain a sign I'm pregnant? Is this itchy belly a sign of a little one growing inside me? Am I more snappy today because pregnancy has washed me in a sea of hormones?" Every. Single. Month. And every day before my period starts is one day closer to my dreams coming true. It's one more day when I might be up the spout. And... Every month... I'm disappointed.
  And relieved. I can admit that my calm, rational, content-in-my-life-as-it-is side smiles when I finally see that blotch of pink. I can relax. At least for a little while I can be content in the knowledge that I'm not pregnant. I'm not on edge waiting for the ax to drop. Don't get me wrong... it's a nice stuffed toy ax that I'll be happy to raise and play with... but the anticipation of the fall puts me on edge anyway.
   Anyway, if you are crazy like me... each twinge and itch and tension immediately connecting you with your uterus... then you will want to know all the helpful hints I have read on how to calm the burgeoning pregnancy beast... The many forums I have read and joined... the many women feeling similar to me and you...
  This is what I have learned in all my reading...
          YOU CAN'T. There is NO way to stop.
  Face it. You're obsessed. You aren't alone in your obsession. But you are obsessed. You know what you can't fix with hopeful thinking and careful tips and hints and dietary advice?? Obsession. There isn't a pill you can take. There isn't a mantra you can chant. There isn't a thing you can do.
  You are stuck to obsess until you get knocked up.
  I know. It's not very helpful is it? But after all my reading and searching, all I have found are tales of commiseration. So. I commiserate. I am RIGHT. THERE. WITH YOU, SISTER!!!
   I mean, yes. There are some hints out there... Like, spend time with a grumpy screaming baby... Or Think about what it's like to be stuck for 18 years, completely responsible for another human being. They don't stay babies... One day they turn into TEENS.
   Or one of my personal favorites: Stop looking at baby stuff. Stop it. Stop it NOW.
  And if you're anything like me, those things only help for so long. I was watching Bones (a show about solving crimes) and in an episode, the main couple is making out, headed upstairs, taking the opportunity for a little grown up alone time while the baby is sleeping. And when they're almost to the bedroom, guess who starts to yodel the song of it's people? That's right. Baby CockBlocker herself. But that scene didn't make me shudder in dread of the day when making love will be derailed by the sound of an infant... it made me long for the moment making love will result in an infant!
   And yes... it's a heavy thing to bear, caring for someone for 18 years and longer. But it's also incredible. You get to see a little person change into someone... JUST LIKE YOU. Or maybe not. Maybe they'll be completely different! Maybe you'll have a kid who becomes GREATER than you... doing things you've never even imagined doing. Or someone who shows you the world is bigger then your experiences. Someone who introduces you to a whole new meaning for the word "Life". I don't dread having someone to love for the rest of my life... to give my love to... That doesn't scare me.
  And teens? If I'm honest, I'm looking forward to teens. They are becoming real people. I mean, I know they've always been real people. But I mean... they learn to be THEMSELVES. Something that is so... AMAZING. They learn their voice and speak it in so many ways. I don't dread having teens.
   I mean, I know it's not easy and la-di-da, rose colored glasses, and C'est La Vie... But the challenges of raising a new human don't make these pregnancy hopes, these mommy desires... Go away. They just... Don't.
   I've been married for 15 months and I'm no closer to reaching a truce with my inner mommy desperation then I was a year and a quarter ago. Maybe I won't be until I'm carrying the 40+ extra pounds of baby around with me, complaining about my back and my feet.
   But if I can leave you with one tip that might help with longing for a baby... the only piece of advice that might actually work...
  Stop looking at baby stuff. Seriously. Stop it.

I Am- An Essay for Meghan

I Am

Who am I? It’s a hard question to ask and even harder to answer. 

I heard once that who you are is very much dependent on your experiences. Of course personality, perception, and God’s voice have a lot to do with it too, but experience shapes you. 

I remember the moment I realized I was me. I was walking down to the orchard where I liked to create “forts” by walking through the tall grass and flattening it down into different “rooms”. My dad “didn’t believe in mowing” because of a book he read by some japanese guy. Masanoba Fukuoka. (Side note, Masanoba Fukuoka was actually a very wise guy with expert gardening tips. My father was just lazy and used the advice that said “Don’t mow” but never actually followed THE OTHER advice that explained what you did instead of mowing.) Anyway. I was walking down towards the orchard below our house when the thought just… came to me. I am me. I am no one else, and no one else is me. I have my brain. My thoughts. My actions. I wasn’t controlled. I wasn’t controlling someone else. I was solely myself. And it made me think about other things. My grandparents I rarely saw. They existed even when I wasn’t seeing them. I had to think about things or else I would forget them. And in the days and weeks and months that followed, every day I would try to remember all the things I wanted to remember. I would think about my faraway grandparents. About my friends from school. About bugs and pets and toys. I would try to think about them so I would always remember. That day is a day I will always remember. I told my mom in the jilted, limited vocabulary that I had that I was me… but she didn’t understand. Years later, though, when I was about 12 or 13, my little brother was about… 3 or 4… I was sitting in his room late at night talking to him and he said to me, “SaySay, today I thought… I am me.” And I knew EXACTLY what he meant. 

Self discovery. Self-realization. Understanding who you are through your own eyes and through the other’s around us. It’s hard to limit yourself. It’s hard to define yourself. In today’s day and age, more and more, teens are using social media to define themselves. Those buzzfeed quizzes. The multitudes of Kiss me, Marry me, Kill me, questions. Finding your personality type in this show or that movie. Defined by favorite songs and foods. 

Who am I past all that? If I’m not a list of movies and hobbies. If I’m not Peach from Finding Nemo or Rapunzel from Tangled… if I am defined solely by my own talents, desires, personality, interactions with other’s? 

Maybe it’s easier to say who I want to be. I want to be kind. Overwhelmingly, unendingly kind. Patient to a fault. Thinking of other’s first. I want to give and give and give until the world is more filled with love and I am happy that I have done my best. I want to be filled with self control, will power, strength. Superficially, I want to be thin. Attractive. I want to draw people to me so I can make their lives better. Through my actions. Through my looks. Through my smile. That sounds all very fruity and flamboyant and self-indulgent though. I want to do for others… but not just because I will make their lives better, but also for selfish reasons. I want to be perfect. I want to be placed on a pedestal and deserve it. I want to be right all the time, to have other people envy me. I want to be filled with pride at how much better I am. 

I am glad I am flawed. I am so so grateful. God knew what a skinny waist and big boobs would do to me. He knew what perfection would look like on a human and He was wise to deny it. I am thrilled to be a challenge to myself, because striving towards being worthy of Christ’s love is so much greater then any worldly accolades I would get. 

Who am I? I am filled with sins. Overflowing with them. Gluttony. Wrath. Envy. Pride. Greed. Lust. Sloth. If I’m honest… the ones I have been struggling with the most are Sloth and Gluttony. But if I look at my life as a whole, my biggest sin is wrath. I have a terrible temper. And it can often lead to violence. Not so much in my adult life. But since graduating from high school, I have turned the anger inwards when it feels uncontrollable. I will dig my nails into my arms, punch myself, slap my legs until they’re red. I once left a giant bruise on my arm from punching myself over and over. Why was I punching myself? Well… Because I was losing at Tetris. Yeah. I kid you not. I worry about my anger once I have kids. What if I lose it? What if I hurt them? Sometimes I want to hurt my dog, just because he hasn’t done what I want him to do… or because he’s done something naughty. And in my rational mind, my sane, gentle, happy self… I could never imagine laying a finger on him. But when Wrath takes over… it’s all I can do to keep from lashing out at him. I haven’t ever hurt him. And I pray all the time for God to turn my anger into patience and understanding. But it’s hard. It’s very very hard. 

I know I cannot just be sin though. Sin is here because we were born into it. Because we live in a difficult world. I sin, but I am not sin. I am sinful… But I can also be good.

Who am I when I’m good? I am happy. I am usually happy. I love to smile. I love to laugh. I know that doesn’t define me from a billion and 1 other people out there in the world… But it’s something I like about myself. 

My mother says when I was born, I smiled at her. I flashed her my dimple and she says she instantly fell in love with me… and spent the next 2 months trying to coax a smile out of me. But when I finally began to smile… I never stopped. They say that babies understand cause and effect in as much as they can understand if they smile and laugh, people usually smile and laugh back. Maybe it was my dimple. But I trusted the world from an early age. I knew that if I liked people, they would like me. Through a smile. If I compare who I am to who my older sister is, I think she learned young that older people liked her and were more impressed when she spoke. So she spoke often and a lot and learned and grew and by the time she was four she was spitting out 4 syllable words then most 40 years now adays don’t know. But that came with a backlash of other children not liking her… of adults getting irritated that she knew more… of a general feeling of her being a know-it-all… By the time she was about 6, she couldn’t understand why the thing that endeared her to people was now the reason no one (no one NEW, really) liked her. For me… a smile never did that. And Emily was always there to do the talking for me, so while I smiled and wooed my way into every single stranger’s lap… Emily was explaining what I wanted and when I wanted it and what I was babbling about… I didn’t talk until I was about 3, and I didn’t speak intelligently or without stumbling over my words or mispronouncing most of them… until I was about 10. 

Then came Mr. Mac’s class. Oh boy. Did I discover myself in that class? Yes. I suddenly had to speak for myself. I suddenly had peers… new social groups… interactions beyond my family. I realized that I could make friends, speak my own opinions… I grew into my brain. 

Who am I? I am smart. Not book smart or school smart or even street smart. I am socially smart. I know how to read a room of people. I know exactly who is unhappy, bored, feeling unheard. I can recognize people’s insecurities after two conversations with them. It makes it very easy for me to put people at ease… and so so easy for me to hurt them. I haven’t tried to hurt a lot of people. But the people I have… I have done well. That’s not self-congratulatory. That is my admission and admonishment. I think about people that I have hurt to punish myself for letting them down. For letting myself down. For letting God down. 

When I called my very best friend the “n” word… I had NO idea what it meant. But I knew the moment it left my mouth what it meant to everyone else that heard it. But I didn’t back down. I had too much pride for that. And I lost her forever. 

Who am I? Love has always been easy. I love people. I don’t always love them when they don’t love me. Which I try to work on daily. But generally, I love people. I haven’t always been able to understand how to love. Empathy took A LONG TIME to develop. It really started sinking in about my Junior year of high school. Other people matter. My actions have an effect. I was always good at playing the part. I’m sure I THOUGHT I knew what empathy was. But I didn’t truly understand until about my junior year of high school. And it had been growing in me ever since. They say empathy is the last part of a child’s brain to develop. Well, I can fully vouch for that. It’s not even something that can be taught, though I will do my best to try to teach it. It’s really something that clicks when it clicks. The biggest way I can compare the difference to being unempathetic and empathetic is this: Before, when I watched sad movies, thoughtful videos, provoking commercials… Something about dying dogs needing a home, or a little sister losing her brother… or the moment love is lost forever… I would mock it. Laugh it off. Even judge and condemn other’s who were moved by it. For me, it had no connection to my emotions. I couldn’t care less. Haha! Now!! Hoo-boy!!! If I watch a video about a horse and a sheep that are friends, I feel that clench in my throat. Orphans? I’m gone. Foster kids not having any shoes? I’m sobbing uncontrollably and trying to find a way to adopt every foster kid on the planet. It has that immediate impact on my emotional intelligence. 

But does any of that really define who I am?

I am not shy, but I’m not particularly outgoing. I am strong willed, but not stubborn. I am faithful until it suits me to not be. I pick my favorite and I stick with it forever. 

My favorite color has been orange since I could point and goo. 

My favorite movie has been the 5th Element since I saw it on TV with my dad at my nanny and poppa’s house when I was about 9. 

My favorite soda has been Dr. Pepper since I first tried it in high school. (Finally allowed to have caffine and drink brown sodas!)

My favorite person has always been my nanny, even though she’s been dead since I was 11. 

My nanny. Everything I love best about myself, I got from her. My dimple. My weird deformed ear. (There’s just a little extra piece of skin in it). My blond hair (haha! Except towards the end of her life and since my life in high school… we both dyed it.) My sense of humor. My love of color. My love of all things small and living. Most of my childhood memories are at her house. Her joking arguments with my poppa. Her voice calling me, “Duckie.” Her saving up moldy bread so I could feed the fish and ducks. Her catching a baby rattle snake in a jar just for me. And ANYTIME I came in wearing something new, she would gush over it and without fail she would ask, “Does it come in my size?” Thrilling me to pieces. 

She met my poppa when he was 18 and she was 16. She was standing in line to go into the theater with her date, and poppa kept staring at her. All his friends told him to stop because her date was going to beat him up. But he kept right on a-staring and a-smiling at her. He missed her coming back out of the theater… But he told me, he couldn’t get her out of his mind. He went home and drew her face over and over. And like… 6 months later, he saw her again, getting onto the trolly. So he ran and jumped on it and sat right next to her and talked to her and asked her out… and pretty soon… They were married and moving to Africa. 

The day she died, I got my first period. I was crying down by the duck pond all by myself watching the water… I thought I saw a big old something swimming around and when I caught it with my eyes again… I realized it was a little river otter. It swam around and around and then disappeared. Then I felt this pain and I thought I had to poop. And being the little vagabond that I was, I just pulled down my pants right there by the pond. It was a ways back to the house and I was worried about this pain I was having. And it was secluded and I was alone, so I just went right on. But I didn’t actually go… I looked down and saw a couple of spots of blood and I realized that it had come. I was a woman. I wasn’t scared. I didn’t feel weird or different. It was just a fact. The day my nanny died, I became a woman. 

There has been a lot of loss in my life. My great grandmother who used to sing, “Shoo fly don’t bother me.” to us when we went to visit her. My baby sister who used to flood the bathroom and when my mom would give us lectures about how we needed to shut the door (so she couldn’t get in there to flood the bathroom), she began flooding the bathroom, and then shutting the door behind her when she left. She used to carry ants around in little lego boxes we would build for her, chanting, “Baby. Baby. Baby.” She drowned when she was almost 2. Fell in the hot tub when no one was looking. Lost my nanny. Then we lost my step grandfather who had been around my whole life and was the only reason I liked going over to my grandmother’s house. He used to make me fish tacos and always pretended to be surprised when I spent the night and was still there in the morning. We were always poor. Always faraway from the rest of the world. Always fighting with someone. My family loved God but always seemed at odds with the church. My dad smoked weed. My mom was a vegetarian. My siblings and I fought. 

Who am I?  I am this series of memories, these defining moments… these lost bits and pieces all falling in and out of my recollections. All seen through a filter and haze of who these moments have made me into. The memories of who I was and who I am, and who I one day hope to be, and who I one day will ACTUALLY be… And it’s hard. It’s hard to think past moments and see ME. As myself. Who I am. 

I am Sarah. But I am not limited by that. I can expand and change and grow. I can morph and learn and evolve into so many possibilities. I am limited. But I am also limitless. I am a wife. One day I hope to be a mother. I am a daughter. I am a sister. I am a cousin, a niece, a granddaughter. I am a Pieces, which I used to think was complete bull, but now I think is kind of interesting. I am a liberal. I am a Christian. I am a consequentialist. I am an incompatiblist. I am more observant then intuitive… More feeling then thinking more prospecting then judging and more turbulent then assertive. Some people might say I’m an entertainer. I am sensitive. I am ready for conflict. I am pragmatic. I love children. I can be charming. Deceitful. Boring. Loud. 

I am utterly, completely, unapologetically myself. The journey is not over. And I am still becoming more and less and moving… but one thing will never change… I will always be… Me.  

My homework

A very good friend of mine has asked me to do this thing with her where we write an essay called "I am" and then send it to each other. I have nothing but time and I like to write, especially about myself, so of course I jumped at the opportunity. As I've been writing, I've been trying to be honest, and I worry that it might be a little too honest... a little too hard on myself, really. I mean, I'm not this magical being of unending goodness... but I have good things about myself. It's just hard to strike a balance where I can write about being a real person with both good and bad qualities about myself. Anyway. Once I've finished, I plan on posting it on here as well. It will be a long post. So I'm going to keep this one short.

It's hard to facebook nowadays.

Facebook is hard. It's hard to scroll through and see all the political nonsense... all the articles and the videos about racial, sexual, general inequality. Everyone's stepping on someone thinking it can take them higher. Take them to this better position. Give them more power.
I just read an article (http://thoughtcatalog.com/melanie-berliet/2015/08/15-men-react-to-the-idea-of-taking-their-wifes-last-name-after-marriage/) where a bunch of men were asked how they would feel if their wives wanted them to take their maiden names after they were married. It's shocking how instantaneous the responses were. No thought. Just instant outrage based on entitlement. Masculinity is so... it's basically just another word for entitled anger. I think being a man should have nothing to do with whether or not you are superior to a woman. I don't really care about names... nothing in me wanted to keep my maiden name. Nothing made it feel important. I like my husband's last name and since I didn't feel strongly one way or the other, we just went with tradition. And I'm ok with that. But when did this custom even come about? Why? Why is it such a huge balking point for most men? Why does it seem to threaten the very core of masculinity if tradition isn't followed? It's strange.
Shortly after I read that article, I watched a video posted by Upworthy (an awesome site with lots of interesting and thought-provoking articles and videos). It was about a young black man's story about police brutality. (https://www.facebook.com/Upworthy/videos/1069739096400281/?fref=nf) It was hard to watch. It was hard to watch because afterwards, I wanted so badly to DO something. To change the world. To make it better for all those people that haven't had ANY short-cuts given to them because of the color they were born with... or the sex they were born with... or the sexual preference they were born with. Why are people's worth, value, strengths, weaknesses... Rights... why are all these things balanced on something so... shallow. Something that cannot be changed. Something you shouldn't WANT to change??
The British Royals used to believe (I'm not sure, they still might) that they were God's choice to be in power. Because they were God's people, blue bloods, they had a right to all the things... All the money, all the food, all the servants and slaves. They were allowed to say who lived and who died. That they were somehow innately BETTER than everyone else. That they were the ones that understood God's plan. They had to conquer the world and show it the one "right" path carved out by them with God's ever present hand on their divine shoulders.
The thing I think is the most ridiculously funny is... God's own son didn't demand any of that. He had nothing, shared everything, loved everyone unconditionally. He came to earth with the sole purpose of telling the world to do a better job of loving. Do a better job of sharing. Of listening. Of praying.
How did that turn into this?
No one is better than anyone else. No one deserves God's love or protection or mercy more than anyone else.
I don't really have a point. I'm frustrated. It's hard to facebook. I'm tired of the political nonesence... All the racial and sexual and general inequality. I want a break. I want to go back to when everyone wrote stuff about what they were doing. When you had too much information about the food some third cousin you have no interest in talking to is eating...