Missing out on Triumph

I only have a few weeks left in this city that I've come to love so much. And I have even less, if any time to actually enjoy it. I have three more weeks of classes, then finals, and then I'll be done with this crazy adventure known as an undergraduate education (more or less). This semester hasn't been anywhere near what I expected (to put it mildly).

As the year started, I promised myself and God and everyone around me that I was going to throw myself into this semester and make the most of every moment. I wanted to throw myself into Chi Alpha and really connect with this community that had been so good to me, even though I knew that would make it all the more difficult to leave. I wanted to do amazingly well academically, as my schedule held such promise with classes and responsibilities that I felt I could excel in. I wanted to savour every last moment at my church that I love so much. I wanted to embrace God and finally begin to wrestle with what my salvation means for my outward life.

But then so many things got in the way. I began to majorly struggle with depression. My many medical issues began to flare up and I got sicker than I've been in as long as I can remember.

I'd like to say that despite all of this I still made a gallant effort and stayed as connected, involved, and committed as possible. I'd like to say that I never doubted or wallowed in self pity or gave up.

I'd like to say all of these things. It'd be nice to think that after everything else that I've been through I was still able to hold on to the truth through all the hurt and pain and doubt. It'd be a nice story of triumph through trial and testing of faith.

But I could never claim to be that neat. My life has never been able to be wrapped in some nice little bow.

Instead of staying focused on the truth and the hope and prize that comes with it, I doubted, wallowed and failed so many times. And I gave up. So much more than once. I returned to old bad habits and picked up a few new ones. I hid myself from all but my closest friends and family, not feeling like I could face the community that God has placed me in in my current state of doubt and pain and dysfunction.

I like being the strong one, the one with so much faith and love and passion. I've never claimed to be perfect, but honestly, over the past three and half years, I've found such strength in that declaration. I've found freedom and opportunity to just be myself and discover what God's love and calling means within my life. I don't have it all together, and for me that was one of the strongest and most faith-filled things that I could admit.

Yet in my time of trial and pain, and at the very depths of my not having it all together, I hid from the world, and perhaps far more importantly, I hid from myself. I got lost in television and movies and my own self-doubt and self-loathing.

But throughout it all, through every falter and failing, through my every calculated choice or conscious omission to not rely on God's amazing love and power and strength, God has never left my side. Every time that I've broken down to the point of giving up, God has pulled me back to me feet and given me so much love and tenderness and space and love and rest. So much rest.

I've had it so wrong. I've been wallowing in my own muck and mire hoping that somehow the strength from my past and from my faith would pull me through. What I've failed to realize is that that strength was never my own to use. I've wanted to get through this by the power of myself.

Oh, how arrogantly ignorant I have been!!

This was never supposed to be a story of my own triumph through temptation and tests and trials. I can have no triumph on my own! Yeah, I can get aid from modern medicine and from distractions and stress-relievers, but none of these things can help me succeed. This semester should've been one of the greatest of my undergraduate career. But instead of relying on the strength of God which he has allowed to build up in me over the past three and half years, I've tried to rely on my own strength, arrogantly thinking that the two were somehow one and the same.

I'm going to try to let go and allow God to redeem what is left of this semester. But oh how little time we have left!

But even though the time frame is short, I have seen God's power. I know what He can do, so I'm not going to balk at the thought of His redemption being possible just because of the short time span.

Now to Him who is able to do far more abundantly beyond all that we ask or think, according to the power that works within us, to Him be the glory in the church and in Christ Jesus to all generations forever and ever. Amen.

Pedestal

I'm broken and bruised and tattooed
And I'm not the girl you knew

So take me off your pedestal
'Cause I'm not some china doll
I won't live up to your standards
I won't feel guilt for failing

The girl you knew wasn't real
She was masked and hidden and confused
Underneath that mask was raw and broken and bruised

I'm still bruised and broken and tattooed
But this time I'm real
I'm a person with my own views
And I won't live up to yours

I smoke and I drink and I want to screw
I won't live up to your expectations
I won't abide by your views

I can't live on your pedestal
I refuse to change for your own views
I'm a real person now
Broken and bruised and tattooed

I might not live up to your views
But I have so much faith
I live by love and embrace the gray
My life isn't black and white
I don't always know where I stand
But I won't live up to your views
I'll find my own

So take me off your pedestal
'Cause I'm not the girl you knew
But find out who I am
I promise, she wants to know you

But first, there's one thing you must do
Take me off your pedestal
You'll find me broken and bruised and tattooed

The Tangibility of Hope

Over the summer, I came to love the show Criminal Minds.  The main characters are all fascinating, and they work so well together; the storylines are always new and horrifying (in a good way; it's a show about serial killers...).  But one of the lines that they have repeated throughout the show's 6+ season run really struck me: "Hope can be paralyzing."  Now, I get where they are coming from.  For a parent of an abducted child to keep hoping, after years and years without a lead, that their child is still alive can have a paralyzing affect on that parent.  But I don't think that it's hope itself that is paralyzing.  It's letting yourself become obsessed with, and yes paralyzed by, the notion that what you want could come true.  And it's believing that, somehow, you standing still and just agonizing over this possibility is going to bring your desires to fruition.  If that is what you call hope, then, yes, hope is paralyzing.

But I'm coming to realize something entirely apart from that notion: hope isn't a feeling, it's not a thought or a want or a desire.  Instead, hope is tangible.  Hope springs from faith, from trust, and from a true knowledge and understanding of who Jesus Christ is and what that means for you.  This kind of hope could never be paralyzing. It can only be freeing.

I honestly believe this.  But that doesn't mean that I'm there yet.  I don't yet have this tangible thing called hope.  I'm not yet free.  On a daily basis, I'm struggling with depression and with feeling like there's no hope.  I want so badly to get there, to not just know but also feel this hope.

The Last Night

by Skillet

You come to me with scars on your wrist

You tell me this will be the last night 

Feeling like this

I just came to say goodbye

Didn't want you to see me cry

I'm fine but I know it's a lie

This is the last night you'll spend alone

Look me in the eyes so I know you know

I'm everything you need me to be

Your parents say everything is your fault

But they don't know you like I know you

They don't know you at all

I'm so sick of when they say

It's just a phase, you'll be okay, you're fine

But I know it's a lie

This is the last night you'll spend alone

Look me in the eyes so I know you know

I'm everywhere you want me to be

The last night you'll spend alone

I'll wrap you in my arms and I won't let you

I'm everything you need me to be

The last night away from me

The night is so long when everything's wrong

If you give me your hand, I will help you hold on

Tonight, tonight

This is the last night you'll spend alone

Look me in the eyes so I know you know

I'm everywhere you want me to be

The last night you'll spend alone

I'll wrap you in my arms and I won't let go

I'm everything you need me to be

I won't let you say goodbye

And I'll be your reason why

The last night away from me, away from me

"I'll never know till I try"

That was what the first man I ever kissed said to me after I had to tell him multiple times to stop as he tried to escalate our first kiss very quickly into areas that I was in no way ready for or comfortable with. I immediately wanted to retort: "No, actually, you'll never know until you ask!"

Achieving consent is not trying something and seeing if your partner protests.  It's asking.  It's communicating your desires and requesting permission to proceed.  And I have no problem sounding like a SlutWalk poster when I proclaim: "My dress is not a yes!" and "Consent is sexy!"

But here's the thing: as much as I may proudly proclaim these concepts at a rally or in my classes or on my blog, when it comes down to actually living it out, I failed.

As I listened to the multiple feminist badasses at the sexual assault meeting at AU tonight, I really have to wonder if the only reason why I'm not another statistic, another victim, another survivor, is simply because my college social life has never leaned towards the partying side of life.

I've been passionate about these issues of sexual and dating violence for over six years, and an activist for at least two years now.  I've even been "trained" to stop guys from going to far since junior high.  Yet at my first opportunity to assert my beliefs, my confidence, and my sense of personal control and safety, I chose to timidly say no a few times until finally just backing away and saying that it wasn't ok.  I never communicated though.  I never explained (at least not at the time).

This has got to change.  I can't go in to another situation like that without clearly explaining who I am, what I believe, and where my boundaries lie.

Where do I go from here?

I'm not sure how I got here. And I definitely don't know how to get out.  But I do know that I am here, back in this place, back in this darkness.

My depression from over three years ago is back.  And while I can't and won't hide from it, I don't know how to go through it.

People have been asking me, "why?", "what caused it?", and essentially, "why can't you just snap out of it?"  And while I usually retort with some variation of "I wish I knew," the truth is that I know all to well the truth.  It's just not an easy truth to comprehend or explain.

Depression (real, biological depression) isn't really caused by much of anything.  Don't get me wrong, it can be influenced and exacerbated by environmental causes, but it's not caused by them.  I could give out a laundry list of the things that exacerbate my depression, but what's the point?  Doing that just obscures the truth of the matter: depression is a disease, an illness that is caused by biology, not environment.

Over the past three years, I thought that, if I ever faced a serious case of depression again, I would see it coming and be able to do something to, essentially, "snap out of it."  But I was just kidding myself.

So here we go again.

You know, back in March, I wrote a blog post declaring to myself, to the world, and to God that I am, in fact, "All in."  I'm here with Him, not letting, not giving up, no matter what happens.  I wrote that post and made that decision in anticipation of a horrendous bout of medical uncertainties, tests, and procedures.  And I meant it.  I even meant it after my Grandfather died.  And I even mean it now, though I'm not sure what that means.

I don't know what it means to still know and feel that I love my Jesus and would do anything for him, but at the same time feeling the desire on nearly a daily basis to take the nearest knife and carve another round of scars on my arms, to jump in front of the nearest car or train, or to swallow the nearest bottle of pills.  Or maybe some combination of the above.

I once wrote on this blog that I would never fully give in to suicidal feelings again because I know, believe and claim that, while death is gain, I am still called by Christ to stay here, and to live for Him, to live in His place, and to do His work.  I still feel those same things.  I still desperately want the words, "To live is Christ" and "To die is gain" tattooed as mirror images on the insides of my ankles.  So how do I know and believe that same truth when something in the makeup of my brain is telling me to kill myself?  Because, as much as I would like to believe it, it's not nearly as simple as just clinging to what I know to be true and somehow finding victory over what the depression is telling me is true.  Because it's not like they are two easily separate-able parts of me.  They are intertwined and muddled and confused.  Because "death is gain."  I know that, and I believe that, and I cling to it.  And it gives my solace when I contemplate that knife, that train, or those pills.  Because I don't fear death.  I rejoice in the idea of spending an eternity with the one person who can give me true joy, true purpose, true passion, true love...  I want to be with my Jesus.

So where do I go from here?

So I've done the SlutWalk; now let's talk modesty

I always grew up hearing lecture upon lecture about the importance for young women to be 'modest.'  I will (somewhat shamefully) admit that I've even given a lecture or two on the topic myself.  Modesty was hashed and rehashed at home, at school, at youth group, during Bible studies, during worship sessions, during meals, during shopping trips, and during pretty much any and every other opportunity possible.  And even back in my semi-brainwashed-by-religion phase, I always knew that the arguments given were crap.  

Why on earthy would it be my job by nature of my being female to somehow control or even just affect how guys may or may not look at me?  

That was always the first question that popped into my head any time the topic of modesty was broached.  Why would the onus be on me to control how another autonomous human being thinks or acts?  I simply can't control another person’s thoughts or actions.

Now I guess I've always kind of known this, but it wasn't until this past weekend's SlutWalk that it dawned on me the reason why this logic is so very wrong.  It's because it is just another one of the many symptoms of this horrible rape culture that permeates our entire society.  I could never come anywhere close to explaining rape culture as well as Melissa McEwan at Shakesville does here:

Rape culture is the way in which the constant threat of sexual assault affects women's daily movements. Rape culture is telling girls and women to be careful about what you wear, how you wear it, how you carry yourself, where you walk, when you walk there, with whom you walk, whom you trust, what you do, where you do it, with whom you do it, what you drink, how much you drink, whether you make eye contact, if you're alone, if you're with a stranger, if you're in a group, if you're in a group of strangers, if it's dark, if the area is unfamiliar, if you're carrying something, how you carry it, what kind of shoes you're wearing in case you have to run, what kind of purse you carry, what jewelry you wear, what time it is, what street it is, what environment it is, how many people you sleep with, what kind of people you sleep with, who your friends are, to whom you give your number, who's around when the delivery guy comes, to get an apartment where you can see who's at the door before they can see you, to check before you open the door to the delivery guy, to own a dog or a dog-sound-making machine, to get a roommate, to take self-defense, to always be alert always pay attention always watch your back always be aware of your surroundings and never let your guard down for a moment lest you be sexually assaulted and if you are and didn't follow all the rules it's your fault.

Telling girls that they must dress (or not dress) a certain way to somehow try and control how someone else thinks or acts is a direct extension of this culture.

But even beyond the injustice of placing this burden, blame, and shame on women for when guys think or act a certain way, it dawned on me the other night that there’s a bigger (or at least equally big) problem with this lesson being taught to young girls: it places the entire focus of the discussion on how girl’s choices affect guys.  Instead of being an empowering discussion about how the way a young woman dresses and acts affects and reflects her self-confidence and self-worth, it does the exact opposite: it places the entire discussion in terms of boys.  And this all happens most frequently during a time when young women are trying desperately hard to figure themselves out.

But here’s the thing: for girls who have somehow managed to grow into women with at least some degree of self-worth, self-confidence, and self-respect, the way they dress (most of the time) has very little to do with how it is perceived by the rest of the world.  Instead, confident and empowered women wear clothing that expresses who they are, what they are comfortable in, and what makes them feel beautiful and strong.

A woman who is assured of her own worth doesn’t wear a low-cut top or a short skirt to try and attract a guy’s attention.  If she chooses to wear these things, it is because she feels comfortable and empowered in these clothes.  It will have nothing to do with the reactions she receives from others.

When I was growing up and trying to develop my own sense of style and fashion (and self-worth), I was never told to look for clothing that makes me feel beautiful and confident and powerful and loved and respected.  I was simply told that certain clothes were too tight or too short or too low-cut or too little or too much or too…  I was lectured about how to pick clothing that wouldn’t “force” guy’s minds to wander or lust or desire or even simply to guess.

Now, quick disclaimer here: I’m not writing this as (another) angry rant against how I was raised.  Really, I’m over it.  And I really don’t blame any of the many people who lectured me about modesty.  How girl’s clothing affects a guy’s mind has been the only way that the issue has been framed for so long that’s it’s in no way surprising that the people I grew up with didn’t know any better.  So, no, that's not the point.

I’m writing this because there has got to be a shift in focus.  The only way to change the rape culture is to continually combat it, and so this is one thing that has to change.  The discussion needs to be shifted off of the term “modesty” (because, really, it’s such a fucking ambiguous term anyways that’s it’s already pretty much useless), and instead focus on fostering confidence, self-worth, and self-respect in young women.  And then let them make their own choices about what types of clothing they are truly comfortable wearing.  And even if their motives have nothing to do with their own confidence and empowerment, we must always remember that, no matter what a girl/woman wears, it is never her fault if a guy chooses to think or act improperly.