An adventure in enjoying an imagination

Did I just see “Where the Wild Things Are”? Yes. Had I been anticipating it with every fiber of my being? More than Harry Potter. Do I get sick to my stomach when someone says they wasted their money on it or they won’t see it because of some clouded cynical judgment? Very.

I’m listening to and reading what my friends have to say about this movie and it hurts. Some of them won’t even give it a chance and some of them completely missed the point.

The relationships are so child-like. I had those fights with kids when I was little. When Max ran away I felt the fear of running and running and if you stop you’re in trouble so you just keep going. It’s scary.  Of the huge imagination that literally takes you away.

And for someone to miss it entirely. Are we so “grown up” at this point that we can’t remember anymore what it’s like to have an imagination that isn’t riddled with “clever” dirty jokes? Have our lives truly been that horrible that we are so jaded that we can’t allow ourselves to remember the joy of imagining as a child does?

My life has not been awesome. I’m cynical. I’m bitter, but there are some things I can’t let myself forget about and my child-like imagination is one of them. Friends from high school think this means I’ll just never grow up and be mature.

I think it means exactly the opposite. What good is a parent who stifles a child’s imagination and dreams? What good is a parent who can’t remember what it’s like to travel to grand places in our minds?

Maybe I am too much of a kid still, but I think that’s better than forgetting what it’s like entirely.

The relationships of children are so important. How we interact with our parents, our siblings, our friends they shape how we’ll interact in relationships when they’re even more important. How we’ll interact with each other when all we need are relationships.

How I interacted with Krista Kowatch in elementary school set the course for how we’d interact in high school. And those mistakes, those horrible relational decisions set the course for some of the greatest learning I’ve ever done. And now she’s one of my closest friends.

Learning how to love my mom when I was a kid shaped how very much I love and more over appreciate her now.

Children are important. What they think is important. How they grow is important. And we can’t just discredit that.

Adventure in being just like the rest of the world.

“How’s life?” he asked.
“Boring,” I told him.
“How’s life?” I asked.
“Hectic,” he told me.
“Trade?” I asked.
“Deal?” He asked. “Tomorrow’s Monday so you’ll have class at 10, 1, 3, and 4. You watch ‘Heroes’ at 9 and go to McDonald’s at 11:30.”
“Tomorrow’s Monday so you wake up at noon and let the dog out whenever she wants. You watch ‘NCIS’ with mom. You watch ‘Big Bang Theory’ with dad, but you don’t laugh because he likes to explain it. You apply for jobs…Can I skip ‘Heroes’? I’m behind so I’d like to catch up first.”
“That’s fine. Can I skip applying for jobs?”
“That’s fine. It’s a long week. Go ahead and spread that out.”

Unemployment and a pending B.A. in English make me feel like a pretty worthless human being.

The other day I was with my grandmother, Nana (if you will. or if you won’t). She’s always full of useful employment suggestions. (I’m lying). She said to me, “Ya know, you can always apply at McDonald’s.”
“Yeah, I’m gonna go ahead and keep applying for the jobs I think I deserve first and I’ll work my way down.”
And then…it turned into “Reality Bites.” I felt just like Winona Rider, only I don’t think I’ve ever stolen anything.
“They’ve got a little retarded boy running the cash register down there. You could do that know problem. Why don’t you go in and apply?”
“Because I’m not retarded, Nana.”

So I spent my Monday driving her around town. We even braved downtown. Even though she hates black people and was stunned that the man that took our bags at Salvation Army was actually “a nice lad.” She has to make a point to say it, because to her it’s a miracle if a black man is nice. As if it mattered. Even Emily Gilmore isn’t racist.

Doing making for “Beauty and the Beast” at Huntington for no pay keeps my mind active, but doesn’t really help me keep living.

Working with Kristen on her new play keeps my memory sharp, but isn’t really paying for anything (quite the opposite really).

I’ve got a stack of headshots of Matthias sitting on my desk because I need to figure out how to turn him into not just any hideous beast. I need to turn him into as much like the animated Beast as I can. Sadly I shall have to make him lose his beard eventually. It’d be helpful for the Beast, but not for the prince.

I need a job. Personal assistant. Production assistant. Office assistant. Companion to the elderly. I don’t think these are typical goals of 20-somethings, but screw you guys! I’m a moron!

An adventure in finding my place

So I’ve been going to the 509 for a while now. I love it. I learn sooo much there. More than I ever have at any other place of worship. I went to the service bonanza tonight because I feel like I need to be giving back in some capacity. I have pride issues so I can’t let myself be in a position where I will be acknowledged. And while I’m sitting there trying so hard to let God show me where I belong I write this.

 

i do not belong here. even someone who doesn’t go here is more comfortable sitting in this room than i am. i do not belong. i am not comfortable. i don’t know the handshake. i don’t know the password. the whistle. i don’t know why i am here. i don’t belong here. i have pride issues. i can’t do things people know about. i can’t watch people taking and not relinquishing control, and not accepting help or letting other be known for helping because it means they aren’t the focus. it’s hard to watch a leader of the church needing to be congratulated/thanked/known. i don’t belong here. i don’t. it’s tiring. it’s tiring trying to belong. i can’t do it. i don’t belong. i’m not meant to be here. i need to be behind the scenes getting no blatant recognition, but it hurts when doing the same job as someone else who is. i need to be never seen, but too much credit is dealt out. i can’t. i don’t belong. i’m not meant to belong anywhere. i don’t belong. i’ve never learned or grown more than i have here, but i just can’t fit.

An Adventure In Not Backing Down Or Finding My Passion

A few years back a bunch of us gave up bullshit for Lent. Not just lying. Bullshit. No skirting around the truth. No lies by omission. Straight talking. That’s what we wanted. It didn’t last. Because people made mistakes and didn’t want to face each other. Life.

I’m trying it again. Just on my own. Dealing with myself. I’m done with people who can’t be real. I’m not cutting them out of my life, but I’m cutting them from my trust. I’m done giving my heart to people who don’t care. I adore straight talk. People sitting at a table. Talking. About hard stuff. How much life sucks. How hard it is to be alone. My mom asking me if something she’s wearing looks silly. Yes. It does. She actually appreciates it. Honesty goes a lot further than people give it cliched credit for.

But it brings me to a new problem. I’ve spent so much time lying to myself that I’ve  become lost. I do not know what my passion is. I don’t know what pushes me.  Mom asked me about a week ago what I’m passionate about and all I could honestly offer her was a shrug. I don’t know.

We were discussing it yesterday though and I realized that if I lived in a different time I would be working in service. Not like a sales clerk. I would be working in some house somewhere as the coal maiden or the dairy maiden or the house maid. My great grandfather was a chauffer. This is my fate. And I’m okay with that. Well, I would be, if such occupations still existed. Really. I mean it’s not like I can go work for the Vanderbilts. Ya know? So what is it?

I’d make a damn fine production assistant. In fact, I do, but you have to be connected to the right people to acquire such a position. And it’s a bottom of the ladder job, intended for growth. But I just want that job or someone’s personal assistant. I love taking people’s shit and being helpful and just being useful with really no recognition. It’s a weird thing to want, but that’s what I want.

I do love film and television. I’m damn good at working on set. I’m just not connected because I live in Indiana and majored in English. Idiot.

Every day.

An Adventure In Being Unneccessarily Yelled At

A tale of someone else’s anger, that I found amusing.

Today I was at Marshall’s and there’s this family that has been consistently in my way. The older girl keeps running into me while she’s reading a book in the store walking around. As if it’s my fault she’s not looking where she’s going. The mother keeps glaring at me. I am wearing a very bright yellow shirt, so I guess that one’s my bad.

As I’m leaving Marshall’s they are all standing in front of the doorway, leaving me little room to get out. I loudly, but politely say, “Excuse me,” and slide through after they generously do not move.

I go to my car. Plug in my ipod. Put on “The Dark I Know Well” from “Spring Awakening,” because I love the sound of Lauren Pritchard’s voice. (Can I get an amen?”) And I’m singing along. I’m backing up. Slowly. All the while watching this family in their car, which is on but not moving. Then suddenly they back out of the parking space. FAST. And then I hear a honk. I stop, even though I’m half way out of the spot and turning. He pulls back in. And I’m just singing along, like I do, backing up and driving away.

As I’m nearing the end of the parking lot I see in my mirror the same car coming at me. Fast. So I stop, because I know what is unnecessarily coming, though I’m hoping it’s an apology. No dice. The man, red-faced and spitting shouts, “I HONKED FOR YOU BENEFIT!!!!” Pointing at me all the while. “Oh. Well thank you, sir,” I say calmly (secretly wanting to say, “yeah because I know I honk for other people when I drive like an idiot). “I SAW YOUR SMART ALEC MOUTH!!” Oh no! He’s onto me, he knows about my life outside of driving! “Sir?” “I SAW YOU SAYING SARCASTIC THINGS BACK THERE!” Not realizing I’d been singing along, angrily with the angry song, I try to explain, “No, sir I was singing along to the radio. It’s a pretty…” but before I can finish the finger is pointing again and almost hitting his wife in her face “YOU SHOULD BE GRATEFUL!!” “Ok sir,” I reply. Grateful you didn’t hit me. Twice. I am. “WITH YOUR ATTITUDE AND YOUR SMART ALEC MOUTH!!!” He was hung up on my mouth that was singing about sexual abuse not about bad Ohio drivers.

And he sped off again, before I could even think to explain I’m just unwittingly a very good actor who felt the passion in that song. But I figure what’s the point.

I didn’t do anything wrong except drive well, which my Chicago friends can vouche for me on being a good driver. Mostly it’s funny, because well, he was mad at me for him being a bad driver, and kind of a pain in the ass in general.

A journey in distinguishing selflessess from self-negligence and the place for selfishness

I’ve come to realize in the last year or two that there is a notable difference between self-negligence and selflessness, namely the intent.  I have come to learn that my desire to “be selfless” came out in the form of me believing that that meant I had to completely give up everything I’ve wanted and everything that made my own life better. While I’ve learned there is some merit to this, I’ve also learned that if I’m not doing it in the right mind and heart and if I’m, metaphorically speaking, dead because I’ve neglected myself then it is worthless.

I’ve found that the places I am most selfless are the places I actually want what is best for someone else. When I give up a road trip to see a friend I can see some other time so I can attend a once in a lifetime experience of another friend. When I come back to Huntington to just be more available to a friend who has had a loved one die, instead of staying in Fort Wayne to hang out with a friend who is only in town for a week. When I give up talking about myself so much and start looking people in the eye when they speak instead of my typical wandering and uncomfortable eyes, even though looking people in the eye freaks me out.

Giving up what I want because someone else wants it  and is making a bigger deal about it, isn’t it selfless it’s avoiding conflict. Not going somewhere I was invited because I feel like it was a pity invite and I would be a burden isn’t selfless. It’s mopey.

What I’ve learned and am continuing to learn is that self-negligence isn’t selfless unless your intent is for the very best for someone else. What I’ve learned and am continuing to learn is that self-negligence isn’t selfless if my intent is simply to ensure I have the very worst. What I’ve learned and am continuing to learn is that self-negligence isn’t selfless (most of the time) at all. It’s actually very selfish.

A Journey in Coping and Helping

I very distinctly remember sitting there next to Claire Smith, my clarinet in my hand. Mr. Borror was completely oblivious, but I noticed when Aaron and Nathan got up to go out back.  When Phil and Sherry walked across the gym floor without Ed I knew something wasn’t right. I knew that Ed wouldn’t miss Phil’s senior night for anything. When the ceremony ended and the game started a few of completely ignored KennyB123 direction to start the song.  We got up and headed across the floor to the locker room hallway.  Some stupid boy from the opposing school said something offensive to me, but I just kept walking. I went to the commons and we started praying. A big group of people I hardly knew, just started praying.  We didn’t know anything for certain we just knew something wasn’t right. It wasn’t much later that night we learned that Ed Maurizi passed away. Missy was one of my dearest friends and I had spent a lot of time at the Maurizi house. I had gone to an ‘N Sync concert with Missy and Ed (and Kate and Dave and my dad). I wanted to go over to their house right then, but what would that do? Crowd an already very crowded house (7 kids and a huge church family). So I sat in my room and prayed. And when the doorbell rang around 1 I knew who it was. My dad opened the door. We were all still awake. Seconds later Katelyn was sitting on my bed with me and we were both sobbing. The events that unfolded are your typical story. I won’t bore with the details.

When Jess texted me at 4 on Monday morning I found myself at a loss again. I prayed. I prayed and prayed. I told Jenn and Frauf. I prayed and prayed, and passed out again some time between 5:30 and 6:00.  I got a text from Jenn around 7:30 and answered and prayed again until I fell asleep again. I got up around 10:00 and left for Huntington. I’m not a terribly useful person when it comes to these things. I just sat around Huntington until around 4:00 when I knew Jess was going to be at Good Shep. I don’t know how to be useful.

I want so much to help. I want so much to know how to deal with things. I want to be available to anyone who might need it. I find myself stuck in the same place though. I only know to pray. I know how to be in the proper area so I can be more readily available. When a friend leaves for a missions trip all I can do is pray. I never know what to say to them. Offer a hug maybe. I’ve no sagely advice, no helpful tips, no words of encouragement.

It’s not a really a journey, because I’ve not made any progress in any direction. I’m not moving. I’m only doing what I know, and it doesn’t feel like much or enough.

An Adventure in Hearing God and Listening to Him Under Any Circumstance

I don’t know if it is appropriate to describe God as a “cool cat,” but I just did it in a conversation with a friend.

Last night was the big premiere of Nero Bloom: Private Eye a film directed by Jason Eberly and written by Nathan Hartman starring Philip Black, that I have been helping with all year.  Needless to say I was pretty darn excited to be there.  I had to wear a fancy dress and pretend to be a real person for a whole night, and I mean the whole night.

My guest for the evening was a very good friend who took me out to dinner before the premiere. We made quiet and strange conversation the whole car ride to the restaurant and then even at the restaurant.

I got to the point where I loosened up the tiniest bit when we got to the theater, but I had this huge balls of nerves sitting in my stomach because I was told I’d be meeting the man I’ve recently been referring to as my “Secret BFF,” a columnist for the local newspaper that I’ve been communicating with via the internets for the past few years. As more and more people arrived to the event I felt more and more uncomfortable in my fancy dress and my big curly hair and my borrowed, outrageously tall shoes.

The films began and went off without a hitch and were magnificently well-received.  The reception was, well, I’m sure it was wonderful for Jason and Nathan.

After spending some time at the reception my dear friend and I scurried off to Club Soda where we were to meet up with friends.  While we waited for our table for ten a drunk woman and her fella walked in the door. I stood there in my sparkling and bedazzled champagne colored dress, with my friend in his providencially cooridnating tie and suite, and the woman approaches us almost immediately upon entering saying, “Oh my God! You two are too cute! You’re perfect for each other! Your hair colors compliment each other perfectly!” There is a brief beat. “OH MY GOD DID YOU JUST GET MARRIED?!” I stifle a snicker. My friend simply replies, “Not yet.” “Oh my God are you getting married TOMORROW?!” “No, not tomorrow,” my friend says looking at me, “it’s what now? Seven months?” I can’t let the fun stop now. “Yep, seven months,” I say. “REALLY?!” The drunk woman shouts. The boy looks at the woman and then to me and says with a slight chuckle, “No. Not really.” “Oh good,” she says, “I was going to have to commit suicide,” and she trails off as she walks away.

We went to our table and talked to friends for a couple of hours, maybe three of them. As things were winding down the conversations between the dear friend and I grew more and more pressing, I suppose is the best word. I learned a good deal about him and his life, and I tried to, while simultaneously trying not to make it about me, give him that same courtesy.

There was no need for anything to end in the 40 minutes in a drive back to school so we went for a walk in Headwaters park and spent a little time with my good pals the Hamilton Women Statues. After a little while my dear friend started being loud and making loud noises, which were then replied to by someone from across the river. A small shouting match ensued.

We sat quietly conversing about life when a gang of five teenage boys rode up on bmx bikes. They asked us if we were the ones shouting; we told them we were, but we did hear the shouting. They were still pretty convinced it was us. Smart boys. We just sat there and talked to them for about twenty minutes. Well, my dear friend did most of the talking to them, but we mostly just let them talk.  A thirteen-year-old who thought he needed money and needed it badly enough to be spending his time (at 1:30 in the morning) stealing bikes so he could sell them. A seventeen-year-old who dropped out of school to take up a full time job so he could pay his mom’s rent. It was sad. These kids who knew so much about juvey. I wanted to give each of them a hug and tell them that even though I don’t know them I still love them, but I didn’t really know how to make that work without seeming weird. So I just listened. The boys finally left us, and we decided that it was best that we, too, left.

We drove back to Huntington and talked about some really cool things. Things I’d never found the courage or the opportunity to talk to anyone else about.  Things I’d never even admitted to myself, but there I was flatly telling my heart.

Then conversation that changed my heart.

I have a hard time with girls, particularly girls who seem to somehow step right into cool parts of my life just as they’re getting cool and take them from me.  It’s not an intentional thing, always. And in this particular case it most certainly was, mm is, not. But somehow this girl seems to just pop up everywhere.  Places I have to earn my invitation to she gets invited for no reason and with no one else knowing her. People who I work hard to get to know she knows within five seconds of meeting them, and has them falling in love with her. And I admit that if there’s one thing I am, it’s jealous of her for being so wonderful. The conversation in the car though pointed me to something I wasn’t prepared for.  This girl and I have more in common than I could have ever guessed, and while I didn’t judge this girl ever, which is startling for me, I did become instantly jealous of her.  That jealousy then got in the way of me ever wanting to let myself get to know her, which I think perhaps I should have, because now there’s something rather unique that I’d like to speak with her about.  At least to say, “Hey, you’re not alone.” Because knowing that I’m not alone was encouraging to me, at least in this particular case.

It’s interesting to me how God can use the people we want him to use the very least to give us hope and encouragement, or worse yet an ally of sorts. There’s still a big part of me that doesn’t want to talk to this girl about our situation, but the tiny part of me that says I should is prodding at me and bugging me.  It’s a strange subject to bring up, but I feel that I should bring it up. I don’t know that it would do me any good to talk to her about it, but I want to at least give her the chance to talk to someone else who is in the same boat. If that’s what she wants, but there’s no harm in at least offering the opportunity.

When I want to listen to God the least that seems to be when he doesn’t want to shut up. And when I want to like someone the least that seems to be when God decides it’s a great idea to use that person in my life. He’s sneaky that one.

A journey in rage and controlling my anger

rage: noun Middle English, from Anglo-French, from Late Latin rabia, from Latin rabies rage, madness, from rabere to be mad; akin to Sanskrit rabhas violence  Date: 14th century. 1) a fit of violent and uncontrolled anger 2) violent action 3) an intense feeling; passion 4) my present emotional state

I sent a detailed explanation of my situation to Dr. Friesen, basically pleading with him to let me walk in graduation. Today I received an e-mail in return that, first of all, was not from him, and second, was essentially a long, formal, impersonal, why-should-we-care-to-be-empathetic, “Hell no.”  So I took it upon myself to reply with an email that said not one thing except “super,” which they likely won’t catch as sarcasm.

Now I have to deal with what the hell I’m supposed to do next. I don’t want to go to graduation. I don’t want to go to Forester night. I don’t want to be here at all. I don’t want to talk to people. I don’t want to see anyone. I don’t want to eat.

I want to take those stupid graduation announcements the school made me spend $65 on and throw them all over Friesen’s and the Registrar’s office. I want to demand that $65 back. I want to pack up everything and never come back. I want to curl into bed and never come out.

So now I have to decide what to do with the depression I have that I can almost directly attribute to this university and the anger that I can directly attribute to a very small group of authorities of this university.  The depression can’t really be changed at least not by blind determination to better myself.

But my anger that’s a different story. Because love is not easily angered and I’m beyond angry. I’m beyond pissed. So I already know my reaction is not that of a godly woman.  Do I have a right to be upset? Hell yes I do. Do I have a right to be angry? No. This is not a righteous anger. It is selfish; it is fury that I should not be harboring, but I can’t seem to let it go. Nor do I particularly want to let it go. In Ephesians we’re told not to sin in our anger and not to let the sun go down while we are still angry. So am I supposed to walk over to the registrar and make ammends with them? Tell them I think they’re asshats and it’s bullshit, but I deserve it.

Because I’m not mad that I can’t walk. I mean that sucks, but it’ s just a dumb thing anyway. I’m mad that this school has done such a fantastic job for the last four years making me feel like shit. Reminding me that I’m not good enough to be someone they consider a fine example of HU student. I’m not on a sports team, so I’m fat. I never did a summer tour of Godspell, so I’m untalented. I’m not a ministry or bible and religion major, so I’m going to hell. I’m not on JMC, so I hate the community. I’m not on SAB, so I hate my fellow students. I’m not on Senate, so I hate the school.  I’m an English major who dabbles in theatre and film and writing. I have friends in all different areas of the campus. I go to events that interest me or if I have the time or means. I volunteer where I feel led. I auditioned for Godspell all three times, so maybe I am untalented.  I don’t play sports because I’m too competitive.  But I’m not someone the school would want on any sort of poster, because I’m actually a college student.

I don’t know what I’m going to do next or how I’m going to get past my selfishness, but that’s my battle and that’s my next adveture.

A Journey in Dealing with Anger and Depression

Alright, if there’s one thing I’ve learned over the years, it’s to shoot straight and I learned that from a dear friend of mine, who once upon a time would be considered a mortal enemy. Krista Kowatch has taught me to shoot straight, always tell it like it is, why dance around it with your friends? So here, to an audience of? McCann? I dance not.

I’ve been at Huntington for nearly four years now. That’s a fine fair amount of time to spend in one place. I mean, it’s no 13 years at Blackhawk, but it’s a tough competitor. Maybe that’s the plainest showing of my fear of change. Stick it out because moving on is a scary business. Leave the country but the idea of doing it with a real place to come back to, with friends and family that love me. That’s scary.

In four years I’ve grown or at least changed more than I can explain. And I don’t really know who to blame for that. I’m okay with blaming in this case, because I’m not convinced my changing is such a bad thing. As scary as change is it is terribly important. Imagine I never changed my clothes again. That for the rest of my life I wear this pair of black leggings, same underthings, same tank top, and perfect wrap dress. Imagine  I never changed from dirty back to clean, because who needs hygiene? Imagine I never changed directions when driving. How would I ever get home or to the store? well, I wouldn’t. So change is necessary.

And in four years I’ve changed from hating myself to finding my worth in other people to falling away from those people to finding no worth in myself to hating myself to dare I say start to at least not hate myself if not even like myself to leaving the country to hating myself more than ever and returning home.

When I came home I was met with such a loving reception. Friends who push me to find myself and my worth in something greater than any of us. Friends who tackle me while I eat lunch with other friends. Friends who know that the instant I get back they can call me because of something that’s bothering them. Friends who love me more than I can understand or comprehend or believe to deserve.

And since I’ve been back I’ve not been well. The first week I was back at school, any moment I was alone I would sob. The instant I stepped into my room I would begin weeping. When I was with people I had to convince myself it was okay to be around people, to feel loved.

Slowly I’ve gotten past it, not entirely, but enough to function.

Recently I’ve learned that I’m not going to graduate this year, and because of a stupid rule the university has I’m not going to be able to walk until next spring either, and  I must walk which means my degree is void until next spring no matter when I finish it.

Needless to say this news did not excite me, in the slightest. In fact, I was downright furious. Fury has subsided into a state of pissed-offed-ness.  To the point that when I talk to friends about it I can at least laugh about it, or make jokes.

That doesn’t change another wrench my life has had thrown in the works. (as an aside any time I say “has had” I instantly want to finish listing the being verbs). I’ve gained a new state of melancholy at best. I never want to leave my bed.  And often I don’t. I sleep through my morning classes and go to my afternoon one’s if I can muster the will to get up. And it’s not awesome, nor is it something I’m terribly proud of.

I’ve had a bug to get out again. To leave. To start over maybe. To change scenery. I just need to move, forward and the school that was supposed to help me do that is holding me back. And it’s not helping me grow anymore. My dreams and my imagination and my strength have far outgrown it. And now I don’t know where I’m going to go next or how I’m going to get there until the school let’s me go.