inadequate

but fraught with possibilities.

[fraughtwithpossibilities]

what do you want to do now?

I was cliff jumping on the coast of France in May when I cut myself in the side of the nose with my thumbnail. I was holding it tightly to keep from inhaling the Mediterranean Sea, and the force of hitting the water made me break my own skin.

I was hurtling my body through the air between sharp rocks, but I hurt myself with my own nail.

It was a metaphor for the weeks leading up to that moment; weeks spent traveling in Europe that were trying to be bohemian. Trying, because I don’t do bohemian. I do train schedules. I do deadlines. I do plans. Before I can fall asleep every night, I schedule out the next day, everything that has to happen and when I’m going to do it. I clench my fists so hard around the parts of my world I can control that sometimes I hurt myself.

The first time we took the train on this trip, I didn’t fill out the eurail pass right. It was confusing and I wasn’t really sure how it worked and I figured as long as I had the piece of paper it was probably fine. The man checking the tickets woke me up from a doze and spent five minutes scolding me for not using it correctly, standing over me while I fumbled a pen out of my bag and scribbled dates and train stations on the ticket, lecturing me about how it was invalid if I didn’t fill it out. He walked away and I leaned my forehead against the window and cried. I planned so hard. I tried to anticipate everything. But all it took was a stranger in a bad mood to make me feel like a lazy idiot. I cared so much about following the rules that learning I had broken one was crushing.

I’ve also been known to walk away from cafes and restaurants if I didn’t know how to read the menu or what to order. The idea of looking stupid, being seen as a stupid tourist, enduring the mild contempt of someone more adept than me, is too much. I feel too exposed. (I don’t know if I will ever be the sort of person who eagerly seeks honest criticism from friends because I can’t seem to take it even from people I will never see again.)

I’m afraid to order food, to blunder through a conversation with a non-English speaker. But when people at the hostels where we stayed asked what I do for a living, I said “I just finished law school” and they said “oh, you’re a lawyer?” and I didn’t feel like explaining what an articling student is so I just said yes. Yes, basically. I am a grown-ass professional who’s scared to order food in case she looks stupid.

My sister asked me when the anxiety got so bad. I told her that the best guess I have is that it got bad when I told myself fear was irrational and it turned out not to be. When the bad things I was scared of came true. I told her it got bad when I lost the ability to tell between healthy fear and pointless paranoia. When the pillars that held up my life—faith, family, friendship, romance—all shifted or cracked or collapsed in ways I’d told myself they never would. All in the same 12 months, each loss like another punch to the gut as I tried to write papers about the criteria for refugee status or research the number of human rights complaints based on race discrimination. The anxiety got bad when the world warped so that every passing blip of far-fetched, ugly possibility, every remote danger, started to seem likely and probable. It got bad because I lost the conviction that good things are more likely to happen than bad ones. It got bad when I started to worry that every scowl disguised rage, every neutral expression barely concealed contempt, and I had no reason to think I was wrong. After all, I was doubting whether the people who’d said they cared about me the most ever had or now did, so why would I have assumed that strangers harboured goodwill toward me?

During the worst times, moments of unexpected fortune or kindness took me out at the knees. During the worst times, I answered a phone call and it was a dream job offer and I collapsed in tears on the kitchen floor. Once it was so bad that the four walls of a bare new apartment bedroom felt suffocating and I stumbled out the door and clung by my fingernails to a bar counter and ate sweet potato fries and drank beer until my thoughts were just muddled enough that they had fewer sharp edges. Once I sat on the grass outside the law school and heaved, shaking with fear and confusion. During those episodes, the kindness of people who talked me through it made me tear up. Who? Why? What have I ever done that anyone would bother telling me patiently to breathe, would say to me earnestly to call if I ever need to talk? It seemed absurd—why would anything be there to catch me if I fell?

We spent our last day in France on the beach in Nice. I waded out into the ocean, cautiously, up to my shoulders, just past where I could touch, then rolled onto my back and floated. I’m not a strong swimmer; usually I would rather dip a toe in and retreat. But my ears were under the surface and the only sound was tiny rocks hitting against each other on the ocean floor as the waves crashed in and rolled out. I paddled a little, and then less, and then let my limbs go limp, cradled in the swell of the Mediterranean and floating, held up by salt water. Held up, surprisingly, instead of falling; a leaf on the surface, not a rock.  I wondered, then, if I could still recalibrate myself: if it was still possible to go back to waking up in the morning expecting good things. 

I expected to arrive back home and meet the world with fists clenched even tighter. But instead, I watched myself shrug it all off and get lighter. I had turned off notifications on my phone while we were in Europe, ad I kept them off. The lack of homework stress, something I hadn’t felt for three years, was like shedding a fifty-pound backpack. I started a new job, the kind of job that makes you look forward to waking up in the morning. I got to relearn what it was like to have enough time to spend some of it empty--to spend some of it wandering along the river with a coffee, to listen to podcasts and color, to read. 

I spend some sunny Sunday mornings doing nothing in particular but drinking tea and eating toast, slowly. I say more nice things to myself. It’s like somewhere in Europe I picked up a kind shadow who lingers a step behind my frantic thoughts and occasionally says oh, honey, you don’t need to worry about that. It’s like somewhere along the line, I leveled up, and my access to reality came back. My ability to know my own mind returned. Now, when I’m frantically putting on and wiping off seven kinds of lipstick, I know it’s mostly my desire to be loved freaking out, and I put the makeup down and tell myself no one is going to change their mind about me based on magenta vs pumpkin. Now when I feel my heart rate increase and my breaths get shallow, I know the version of reality that’s swimming in front of me isn’t the right one, and I look for somewhere to sit down instead of speeding up to match the frantic pace of my thoughts.

I learned that the best way to dampen the panic inside my own head is to say, you feel very anxious right now, do you need a minute? so that the rest of me can breathe a long sigh and do the mental version of lie back into the Mediterranean. I know that the world isn’t actually falling apart. It’s just that I’m hungry or thirsty or my feet hurt or something someone said hurt a little or I saw myself in the mirror at the wrong angle or I just need to make a quick list. Lists will save us all. 

I remembered how to answer the question what do you want to do now? not by thinking--how can I be most productive, what sector of my own life can I invest in, what needs to be done first, what will I regret not doing later, help it’s been an hour and I’m paralyzed--but by reminding myself that there is no wrong answer, and that I am okay.

Last summer I was not okay. Last summer was a rusty, jerky, stomach-turning roller coaster, and I clenched my teeth and my fists the whole time. I got speeding tickets--I got fixated on being skinny--I began to slowly realize that my home didn’t feel like home and that my addiction to anonymity in coffee shops was more a fear of opening my own front door than a love for hot beverages. Last summer I couldn’t read or play the piano or watch Netflix because the seconds ticked by audibly in my head and the neon panic signs were always reminding me I was flawed, I wasn’t enough, I was too far behind. I was bad--a bad friend, a bad student, a bad employee, a bad example. I was always working to fix small problems that I perceived as life-threatening. Always crying that I forgot to buy lemon juice or I lost an earring back. Flinching when someone else glanced my direction. 

It was worst when I was briefly couch-surfing in October, between apartments, losing a friendship and a social circle and yet another sad silver-glass vision of what I thought I wanted life to look like. Even the silence was terrible, and I was so afraid that the rest of my life would hurt as much as each passing moment did. 

But now there are two IKEA chairs in my living room, and an exposed brick wall, and two big windows. I sit there with coffee in the mornings and marvel that improbably, surprisingly, life slowly got better. It helps to be loved. It helped when my sister wisely walked around in silence with me in a residential Venetian neighborhood for an hour and a half because she knew the anxiety wasn’t about her. It helped when a friend texted me on Christmas to tell me how glad she was to know me. The words “I’m sorry” and “I love you” and “I’m proud of you” helped too.

But the thing I’m most grateful for is that now when my instinct tells me “you’re a failure”, the nice summer sun shadow, the wiser version of me, wrinkles her nose and says “well, probably not.”

[fraughtwithpossibilities]

running turtle

It’s dark, and my toes are cold, and bobcats with bright lights are moving snow around on the streets. A textbook and a day’s packed meals and canned tomatoes and beans from the grocery store and a hundred little necessities are all straining at the seams of my backpack, and the weight feels like it will press me down flat and I will vanish into the sidewalk. My backpack straps will one day undo all the yoga I have ever done. 

The bus is late, because it’s always late, and my phone is about to die, and I’ve developed a habit of clutching my keys in my hand the whole way home because I’m scared of somehow losing them out of my zippered backpack pocket and having to call my landlord for help. I don’t know any of my neighbours well enough to leave a spare with them in case of emergencies. By the end of the day I’m too tired to speak to anyone anyway. 

I’m angry at the wind for being so cold, and angry at the person in front of me for walking so slowly, and angry when the Stop Request button doesn’t work and I have to go up to the front of the bus and ask the driver to let me off. I’m pumping podcasts into my ears to help me remember that none of this is worth the fear and anxiety I feel, but as soon as the battery on my phone dies I’ll be stuck with my own voice, cursing how cold it is under my breath. 

I wait a long time, after I’m home and my phone is plugged in, before my toes are warm again. I’m always waiting, for a bus or for spring or for the anxiety to go away. At the same time I’m always running--in a real sense, running steady kilometers one after another like I can leave all these weights behind me, and also in a metaphorical sense. Running toward things that might make me happy. Running toward things that will make me stronger, that will give me the tools to have more reasonable conversations with myself. A turtle running, in a way, because I am trying to move so quickly and carry so much with me all at once. I am trying to be my own home.

It’s hard, because nowhere really is home, right now. It’s true that some places do graze the edges of the empty circle that is home for me, like they’re trying to make a Venn diagram. In those places, where I sometimes perch for a day or a week, all of me belongs, even the parts that have changed and the transgressive parts and the parts that don’t care what you think and the parts that REALLY care what you think. Sometimes those places come upon me unawares, like sudden patches of improbable flowers under feet of snow, and when the relief of being seen and known and still cheered for washes over me like chinook sunlight it’s sometimes hard to stand upright. Hard to make my gratitude into words. Hard to convey how precious it is to walk over a threshold and know that I can hang up all my careful filters at the door.

Because I have filters, for everyone. I have topics that are off-limits. I have things I can’t say and subjects that won’t end well and neon signs that flash don’t go there. The longer the list of filters, the more tired I am after an hour in a coffee shop or a car ride or a dinner. The longer the list of filters, the more urgently I feel the need to get out, onto a cold street with my keys in my hand and a podcast in my ears. Both my real and my metaphorical backpacks are always heavy, but at least when I carry the riskier burdens myself, I don’t have to watch other people turn over the innards of my life in their hands and judge me. I’m afraid, in those filtered moments, that a sentence will come out of my mouth that I can’t call back, a too-honest thought, and someone will never look at me quite the same way again. I think of a bottle of wine and my quiet living room, and I think twice before inviting someone else to share that space, because the safest companion is the empty chair across from me. And sometimes safe is the most important.

The laundry piles up and I don’t have the right change, and the yogurt is gone, and there’s mail to pick up, and emails to be answered, and dammit if this damsel isn’t REAL overdue for some rescuing, I sometimes think. Not rescuing from danger--just from errands. But I am not in the business of that kind of waiting, and so I try to tell myself to put on the running shoes. Eat a snack. Drink some water. I try to be the kind, safe person that I sometimes wish would sit across from me in the other living room chair. I try to tell myself that iphone games and tea and coloring are investments in my continued capacity for normal human functioning, not silly wastes of time. 

I put on another pair of socks. I do the dishes. I don’t have time to wait for home to find me, and the only thing left is to make it myself. 

[fraughtwithpossibilities]

with a tea bag in my pocket

At the end of the summer I traveled by myself to Tofino, BC, a community on the west side of Vancouver Island. There is nothing between Tofino and Japan but open, terrifying ocean, and a sense of quiet, wild vastness. I went because I wanted to learn to surf, and I stayed in a hostel on an island across from the town.

The website for the hostel said there was wifi. Other people said you make lots of friends when you travel alone. I told myself it would be a relaxing solo vacation. None of those things ended up being true. The first night, I lay awake in a bottom bunk listening to the whine of mosquitoes over the sound of waves on the dark beach, no service on my phone, no friends except one New Yorker magazine and the court cases I had downloaded to my laptop. I remember all my muscles being tight with anxiety; I remember the feeling of being unable to escape my own too-loud thoughts. In the days after that, I tried to follow my own advice and go on the adventures I would want to read about someone else having--I went for runs in the rain. I went swimming in the ocean. I watched the sunset and I took myself on tours of First Nations art galleries on the mainland during the day, and I did learn to surf. I looked after my belongings, and all the while I wished I had brought someone to look after me.

I found a place that sold cups of coconut tea called Rainforest Mist, and even though they couldn't sell me the actual leaves, the barista surreptitiously folded up a few bags and pressed them into my hand. I don't know how she sensed that was what I needed, but I left not knowing whether it was my smile hurting my face or the tears I was trying to push back. I felt like a raw unprotected heart sitting on a rocky beach alone, looking up into every passerby's face as if they might be the friend I was searching for. I have a pair of small silver dragonfly earrings from that trip, but the souvenir I really wanted was hope. Connection. Something more solid than the feeling of being a homeless ghost between the stones and pieces of Pacific driftwood. I wanted a story to bring back with me and hold high, to prove that doing things alone would be okay, or even good.

But the feelings of loneliness followed me back to this city that once felt much more like home than it does now. Sometimes I feel like a phantom haunting cafes and bars, slipping from bus stop to bus stop like I am caught in the fabric between worlds, visible in none of them. Do I really exist in those empty spaces between calendar appointments, or am I only factual if I can be observed? If a girl drinks alone and no one shares it, did it really happen? How many more podcasts until I don't need the companionship of strangers? How many more kilometres must I run until my legs are strong enough to keep doing all of this All By Myself?

I am not alone, of course. But deep human connections that I once thought would be enduring seem uncertain, and people I once thought were acquaintances have shown me their own raw hearts in unexpected friendship. So I have given up predicting who will save me, today. Sometimes I just have to go do the saving by myself, armed only with a backpack and an extra few tea bags. Some days I buy Christmas ornaments that only I will see and groceries that only I will eat, or I go to the doctor and finally ask for something that will help my brain process the world better. And some days I wake up in a warm quiet cocoon or I stay up late by the glow of twinkle lights, and the silence feels like one of those friends I thought I lost touch with, just now resurfacing. Some days I even wonder if I want to break it, or if the truest friend this whole time has been solitude.

One of these days I will hold hands with a sugary Starbucks drink and we will go on a nighttime date to look at all the pretty Christmas lights, and I will not wish for someone else's words to fill the silence.

[fraughtwithpossibilities]

what God really said

The most remarkable thing was how all my thoughts were safe.

I've gotten used to existing with a filter, whether it's Church Filter or Law School Filter or Friends Who Know a Certain Version of Me filter. But on the last weekend of October I went to Seattle and sat in an old United church with a Black Lives Matter banner on the front and I felt more at home in a church and with church people than I have in a long time. I felt unfiltered. 

I was afraid, to start. On Friday night we sat and waited for The Liturgists to come out and it was like my heartbeat was a vibrating question inside me--what if these people also cannot see me? What if this is just another place where I do not belong? I am used to it, I reasoned--I am accustomed to being the lone dissenting voice. But I am also accustomed to keeping my expectations low, and sitting there I realized they were painfully elevated. I realized how badly I wanted to find My People, and how absent they had been for so long. How afraid I was that such a group did not exist; that I was fated to experience all of this alone, a reluctant pioneer wanting nothing more than the comfort of the familiar. 

Sometime during that session, I remember I handed someone a kleenex less to dry her tears than in an attempt to be Seen. I am so used to sitting in rows facing a stage and feeling invisible, and I was terrified that this would be no exception to that rule. 

But slowly my fears dissipated, in a haze of coffee and IPAs and surprising Seattle sun, and the startling experience of sitting next to hundreds of people who all know what it is to be the lone dissenting voice. Hundreds of people who asked if that was really what God said. Hundreds of people who made gay friends and who read feminist books and who marched with Indigenous protestors and who paid the price, whether it be vocational or financial or social. Hundreds of people who knew what it was to be labeled dangerous or accused of bad theology or rejected for questioning the status quo. I remember sitting and thinking of how church at its best is a place for rejects, and these are the rejects of the church; a wounded, wary crowd, who all know enough not to hope or dream or offer too much from their cracked hearts.

I remember someone asked a question about miracles, and I thought of the years I spent praying to see a miracle. I thought that seeing someone’s severed limb grow back would make faith easy, and for years I asked for that and it never came. I remember Michael Gungor subtly modulating scales on his guitar, asking why it was so impossible that the universe could do something strange and different once in a while, and I remember thinking that I didn’t care any more about witnessing sicknesses healed or limbs regrown. I remember thinking that the people in that room were a miracle. A miracle that I could sing Come Thou Fount and mean it. A miracle that I did not have to withhold any of my thoughts and experiences because nothing was scandalous, nothing was unacceptable, nothing was off limits. It was okay not to believe in miracles; it was okay to expect them as surely as the sunrise.

I oscillated between glee and tears, all weekend. An avalanche of emotion that had waited too long to come out; that started to break free on an absurd dance floor with a bottle in my hand, surrounded by people who brought their wounds and used them for healing. A sea of people whose fears and doubts I understood, for they are also mine. The hope that broke the surface of my heart struck me like a wave, tumbling into sand and scattering open the parts of me I have hidden for fear they were not fit to be seen. Hope that there is still belonging to be found in this world; hope that the community exists where nothing I say will be used against me. Hope that I will be known, will be seen, will be loved. Hope that all these fearful parts will come together again into wholeness. 

Hope found me sobbing in the arms of strangers and whispered to me that all was not lost.

And so I am at peace, with what God said or did not say. I am at peace opening my arms, and I am at peace with the not knowing. So many offered their hearts to me with open hands, with patience and tenderness and love. So many saw me without even knowing me. So many were my allies and friends, that night dancing and crying and marvelling at the miracle of being not alone. It seems a small gift to take that belonging home with me and offer it up, a safe sweet sanctuary from the callously, indifferently theological. I did not need to apologize, in that space, for being who I am, problematic and white and cis and female and hurt and afraid and small and uncertain and brave and broken and nakedly vulnerable; nor will I, any longer. 

I have sometimes likened myself to a particular small monkey from a children’s book who walks around asking “are you my mother?” because he does not know what his mother looks like. In a metaphorical sense, I sometimes feel as though I, too, walk around searching others’ faces and asking do I belong with you?

Before Seattle, I thought belonging was a luxury enjoyed only by those who are not like me, who have obediently followed the path laid out for them without straying or questioning. I am amazed and grateful that I was wrong.  

[fraughtwithpossibilities]

dear fear

I am not sure what address this finds you at; whether it is somewhere in my neurons, or perhaps my DNA. I don’t know if you live in the elevated levels of cortisol that I brim with daily, or if in fact you are only some cocktail of caffeine and sleep deprivation and my type A personality. It doesn’t matter where you are, exactly. All that matters is that clearly your work life balance is terrible because you never seem to leave.

I understand. You’re trying to do me a favor; to keep me safe. My fight or flight instincts are a relic of the self-preservation that got my ancestors to this point, and for that, I’m grateful. I suppose I’ll never underreact to a stimulus, a trait I can likely chalk up to your influence; perhaps relatedly, silver linings are the air I seem to breathe, when I’m not searching for the proverbial brown paper bag. 

But I wonder if perhaps we could make a deal. I want you to take my word for it when I tell you I’m safe.

You don’t need to come out before I go to a party to ask if I’ll have anyone to talk to; that’s safe. I don’t need you when I’m getting dressed in the morning, to remind me that I might look stupid and that people will judge me. You can take a nap while I watch TV, because the knowledge that I could be doing something productive that will advance my career or my relationships only makes me sad, not effective. If things are bad enough that I’m pulling out the lavender oil and the meditation tea, take a hint, okay? I know you want to make sure I survive whole and unembarrassed, but the damage that fear does is worse than a few bruises to my ego, and without you I am better at laughing at myself. 

I understand that you’d like some credit. Happy to oblige: you have given me many gifts, including (almost) straight As in that English degree, a good LSAT score, 2 1/8 years of law school, and what seems to be a permanent “keener” reputation. Without you, it’s true, I might not be here. I certainly wouldn’t be the type of person who always has bandaids, tweezers, ear plugs, a phone charger, a protein bar, extra cash, a rain jacket, and glasses cleaner in my backpack. Rest assured that you have almost certainly helped to increase my efficiency, my earning potential, my unnecessary disaster preparedness, and the number of letters after my name. 

It’s just that you make it very hard to be happy.

I know you’re probably here to stay, and that as part of my cognitive makeup, you and I are going to have to learn to get along. I give you and your beloved adrenaline rush permission to leap into action in all future car accidents, trial preparations, and natural disasters. I don’t even mind if you show up in a more mild capacity during my final exams. But I know you want me to thrive, and it’s so very hard to feel whole and content when I’m afraid, in a full-blown NOTHING IS OKAY sort of way, that the bus will be late, afraid a book will be boring, afraid I’m ineffective, afraid that no one likes me, afraid I’m awkward, afraid I’ll be alone, afraid of being cold or hungry, afraid of running out of money, afraid of being lazy, afraid of silence, afraid of mediocrity, afraid of anarchy, afraid of headlines, afraid of bad fashion, afraid of inept makeup, afraid of emails, afraid of conflict, afraid of criticism, afraid of rejection, afraid of hurting myself or someone else, afraid of being accidentally insensitive, and afraid that you’ll start yelling at me if I’m not always prepared for any of the above.

Could I buy you a sudoku book or some puzzles? Perhaps then we can both enjoy a little bit of peace once a while. I know your eagerness means I’ll never be zen enough to become a hippie on a beach, but I hope to live a reasonable number of generally enjoyable years without having a heart attack from stress, and I think probably, given your excessive worries about protecting me from threats like homeless people who ask me for change and setting up bank appointments, that’s your goal as well. 

[fraughtwithpossibilities]

trying to fly

One of my greatest fears is of not being surprised.

Earlier this year when a lot of things about life seemed very dark, I sometimes lay in bed when I couldn’t fall asleep and tried to think of things that had surprised me about that day. It was a comforting exercise because it reminded me that I don’t know what is coming, and it might be better than I think. It was often very small things; being surprised by a kind thing someone said, or a free donut, or how good my hair looked. It was convincing myself that the best parts of life might still be coming--the morning of the best and most surprising day of my life (whatever that might be) could be before me instead of behind me. 

It slowly dawned on me that I needed to surprise myself. 

I thought 25 was going to be a great year, maybe the best yet. Instead, it has been the year where I have felt let down by everything and everyone. I have wondered if I matter, at all, or if anyone would miss me if I wasn’t around (please, no one hear that in a concerning way--it was a purely academic wondering). I have lost beliefs I had about myself and about the world, and I have snatched at them desperately even as I felt them drop out from under me, like a tightrope walker watching her safety net fade into nothingness. I have not always liked the person I have been in some of those darker moments, feeling like the things I desired and loved and hoped for were slipping away and there was nothing I could do to bring them back.

That feeling of powerlessness made me crazy, and so I started running again.

I needed to know that if I was sad, I had what it took to find how to be happy again. I needed to know that if something wasn’t right, I could change it. I needed to know that fate isn’t a thing. That I am not walking meekly into a prewritten future--that nothing is prewritten, that I am my own writer. I badly needed my story to have a surprise twist. Lots of more major twists require money, but thankfully running only requires shoes and time. And yes, okay, some self-indulgent and brightly colored workout wear. The best surprise twists come in neon. 

Running has allowed me to count steps when the slow healing of my heart was interminable. Kilometers and minutes have allowed me to measure and quantify my progress when it was impossible to calculate the physical distance to a time when I could feel happy and whole. Small milestones--fastest 5k, greatest elevation gain, longest run--have reminded me that slow twitch muscle is not the only thing I am building. I am building a person, and watching my body change and grow stronger makes me remember that my identity need not be static: that I can change for the better. Running has let me surprise myself with my own stamina, my own determination, my own capacity for growth. Running has been the thing I turn to when I have spent a day stuck in my own head, and the thing that has forced me to focus not on the tangle of fears I have for myself, but on my stride and my breathing, on saying one more lap. One more step. 

Sometimes I find a rare perpetual motion, a feeling that my feet could keep hitting the ground forever without stopping. That perfect tempo, when I am weightless and rhythmic, gives me hope that the day will come when I will wake up in the morning, having panted and sweated and fought, and finally some things will seem easy.

[fraughtwithpossibilities]

a silly metaphor

At the end of November, I discovered that if my instagrammed life looked fun then it made my real life feel a bit less terrible, so I bought strings of small white Christmas lights and hung them up around the ceiling in my room. This provided both an opportunity for some heavy filtering (Amaro, always) and some soft mood lighting. The small plastic hooks that I bought to stick the lights up with were garbage, and had all fallen down 48 hours later. I replaced the plastic hooks with longer and longer strips of masking tape. For months, I’d come home and another loop of lights would have fallen down, and I’d stick them back up and press hard on the tape, hoping it would stick this time.

It became kind of a metaphor for my life. I’ve felt like I’m falling apart in a bunch of ways, sad and anxious and held together with the symbolic equivalent of a lot of masking tape. Every time I taped the lights back up again it was like taping myself back onto the wall, promising myself I’d stick this time, trying to believe that things would change and I’d feel better. On Friday half of them fell down all at once, draping my furniture and dragging on the floor, which thankfully wasn’t accompanied by a matching crisis in my mental state. 

Yesterday I finally bought small white thumbtacks, which is what I should have done months ago, and strung the lights up with those instead, in a neat line around the ceiling instead of messy loops. (Every time I had to replace the tape, the lights got more uneven and haphazard.) Nothing’s fallen yet. It feels like the right time for the metaphor to develop that way. I mean, I’m still a string of Christmas lights suspended in midair, which is precarious just by definition, but I’m a little better anchored than I was, a little neater, a little more organized. A little more okay with the fact that sometimes, you just need to do things alone, and it might feel like no one loves you quite the way you wish they did, but it’s not really true. 

I still instagram everything to death, just in case. 

[fraughtwithpossibilities]

lighting fires again

These last months have not been good for hope. 

A year ago, I got on a plane from Ottawa to Calgary, and when I walked up to my window seat, a half-asleep toddler was in it. I said to his mom, “excuse me, that’s my seat,” even though it would have been nice of me to sit on the aisle so that her kid could sleep. I felt sort of guilty about it, but not for long, because I was consumed with other things. Travel does this to me. I felt on fire--awake and burning, fingers itching to write passionately about refugees and about our responsibilities to the less fortunate and how I, little first-year law student, was on my way to a career that was going to help the broken world be a little bit back together. 

There was no wifi for four hours, so I did write about it, so intensely that I lost track of time and forgot about the sleeping toddler. My life felt like one of those sped-up videos of an unfolding flower, vivid and explosive and perfect, and every waiting unknown was adventure, not peril. I was full of fire and love and I was ready to give it. I paused to look out the window, and green flames were dancing on the curve of the earth’s atmosphere, the only time I’ve ever seen northern lights from the window of a plane. That was when I officially didn’t feel bad about the sleeping toddler any more. (I guess the way I set that up, it seemed like I was going to be humbled or something by this kid I kicked out of my seat, but nope, I still stand by that decision.)

I think about a year ago, and I want that version of myself back. I know hindsight wears rose-colored glasses; I know my life was not perfect then. But that was when it didn’t feel so hard to wake up in the morning assuming that the world would do right by me. That was when every risk seemed fated to work out in my favour. That was, too, before I started learning to expect bigotry and fear and disaster to be in my news feed every day. 

I can only write about this now because I am starting to come out of it. I got off a plane from Vancouver to Calgary in September and it was like a crushing weight met me at the airport. All of last semester was an exercise in trying to believe that I was good enough, while trying to swallow the terrifying certainty that I wasn’t. Not smart enough. Not working hard enough. Not interesting enough. I felt invisible; I felt like everyone’s eyes passed over me, because that was what I deserved. To be abandoned and forgotten. None of this is an exaggeration. I couldn’t be alone in my apartment because the fact of being by myself made me so afraid that no one truly wanted to be around me. 

Some things help. Getting a surprising and welcome job offer last week really, really helped; I feel suddenly as though I am smart enough to be where I am, because someone sees me. Someone did sit across a table from me and think “we want you.” Not working so much while also in school full-time also helps. Going to the psychologist helps. But I’m still waiting to feel fiery again, and that optimism and zest is not something I thought I would ever have to cope with losing. It’s hard to always keep the sad on the inside of me; hard to hope people will read it in my face and ask if I’m okay; hard not to feel invisible again when they don’t. Stepping out the door feels like a little less of an adventure than it used to, because I know I have things to lose. I know that nothing lasts forever, including people, and I am still afraid of loneliness. I am afraid that people who matter to me will grow distant, because I do not matter to them as much as I thought. I know that if they do begin to drift away, there is no way I can stop them.

I don’t know if the fire is coming back, and maybe this is me growing up. Maybe this is me realizing that the world does not care about me very much, the risks I take will not always work out, and my expectations I had for the way life is supposed to go are capable of being very wrong. Maybe I am growing into something that does not burn so brightly, but knows how to last a little longer. Maybe that was always coming--maybe it was never sustainable to love and hope and hunger with that kind of blazing desire. I don’t know. I don’t really know anything about what is coming. 

I am growing back into hope, very slowly, with vitamins and long showers and remembering how much I used to like being alone. I am learning how to believe that good things will happen to me again. I wish I didn’t have to, because haven’t I spent enough time learning by now? Shouldn’t I get a break?

The world keeps turning. And I will keep waking up in the morning, a little brighter.

[fraughtwithpossibilities]

a very roundabout way of asking for help making a playlist

I have kind of a half-baked idea to start writing poetry, which I know is absurd. The only reason I think that is because poetry seems like an appropriate medium for sharp, unfinished thoughts; the only reason I think poetry is a better medium for scatteredness than prose is because I know nothing about poetry. (I am certain about very few things, but one of those things is the category of “stuff I know nothing about.”)

More rationally, I’m also thinking of taking up knitting, because it seems like exactly the kind of self-soothing activity that would be appropriate at this point in my life. Simple, repetitive, rewarding. Given that so much of my time is spent trying to sort out the inconsistent mess that a precedent-based legal system creates, I appreciate activities with clear instructions and quantifiable end products, like cooking and knitting and board games and playing the piano. The psychologist that I sometimes talk to suggested that I divide up life into three columns of things that give me energy, things that take energy away, and things that can go either way. He said I should try moving some things off the minus column and adding some things to the plus column. It’s been a little hard to figure out what the tasks are that calm me with repetition and what the tasks are that stress me out, but I’m getting better at saying no to things based on my visceral reaction of yes-that-sounds-lovely or could-I-tolerate-that. I don’t really have room (mentally speaking) for things I don’t have to do that I just tolerate doing.

I’m not really organized enough to take up knitting (yet). But this afternoon, I was at home alone (lately, not a good idea), so I walked to Kensington and went to a tea place and then to a bookstore. I spent an hour finding exactly the right book, and then I bought a fuzzy sweater, and then I drank a matcha latte and read A House in the Sky by Amanda Lindhout. That constellation of comforting, familiar activities was a little like a recipe, I think, because I feel normal. I feel less like the world is a scary place full of people who might be mad at me, and more like I’m used to feeling: the world is full of a lot of happy things, and they will show up even when you don’t expect them. The woman at the counter when I bought my tea talked to me for ten minutes about nothing, and I liked it; it was a reminder that people and experiences exist outside of my own head and that I don’t need to be so stuck in the things that are happening to ME. 

It’s only three songs long, but I have a playlist called “happy music,” and I think it does an okay job. I’m taking suggestions, though. Tell me your happy songs. If the last month and a bit is anything to go by, mental health is a group effort. I’m very grateful for everyone who has indicated that it’s okay to be anxious and listened to me talk about it. Hopefully this is a slightly more fun way to be part of the ongoing saga, “Amy Discovers She Is Not Invincible.”

[fraughtwithpossibilities]

life: an update

It has been a hard month and a half. For the first time ever, I can’t be home alone without feeling anxiety close in. I can’t wake up in the morning on my day off without the crushing weight of all my responsibilities making it difficult to get out of bed. I’ve never sought out the company of others like this before, with the kind of desperation I never thought my introverted self would feel. I’ve never felt so adrift and disconnected from the person I thought I was.

I was The Smart One, but then I started law school, and I was a B student. Average. Not special any more. I was The Faithful One, but then doubt gripped me, and I lie awake at night wondering how I can believe prayer works, how I can think a man who was God died and was resurrected. I was The One Who Saves Money, but then September happened, and I was too exhausted and overwhelmed to do anything but buy pretzel bagels from Tim Hortons and bribe myself to finish my homework with lattes. I was The Loyal Friend, but then law school happened, and my social circle shrank and shrank because I don’t have time to maintain many personal relationships. I was The Introverted One, but then I began to find an empty apartment scary, the silence echoing my own anxiety back to me. Identity after identity has been leaving me, and I am left with the terrifying idea that perhaps people will be forced to love me for who I am instead of what I can achieve.

I succumbed to the Enneagram, this month. I begrudgingly decided I should figure out what number I am. I toyed with Enneagram 6--reliable, hardworking, responsible, struggling with self-doubt and suspicion. My entire world seemed to revolve around fear of failure, so I thought my main motivations were the 6-ish needs for support and reassurance. What I should have known is that of course I am an Enneagram 3. The Achiever. The Performer. I want to have attention. I want to be admired. I want to impress others. My basic fear is that I will be worthless: that no one will consider me valuable or worthwhile, that my friends will think I have lost my spark, that those who mentor me will think I am not fulfilling my potential. Losing all these aspects of my identity has made me wonder if anything about me is loveable, or if everyone is just silently putting up with my mediocrity: a classic case of Impostor Syndrome. 

I have been learning the importance of positive feedback. I am realizing how badly I need to hear the words you are good. You are dedicated. You are smart. You are loved. You are valuable. You are enough. And I am learning that instead of scolding myself for craving the approval of others, perhaps I need to acknowledge that this craving for affirmation is part of who I am. Perhaps I need to simply be aware that I will have difficulty thriving in an environment (like law school) where I constantly feel stupid and inept. The rush of happiness and satisfaction that I feel when someone tells me I have done well is not a weakness or an unhealthy dependency--it’s just me. And it’s not bad. 

I am also learning to acknowledge that my struggles are not indicators that I am weak. I am twenty-five in an uncertain world. I am running against the grain, hoping to work to help the oppressed instead of follow the traditional path into big firm work. I am working two jobs and taking five classes. I am asking myself to juggle meal planning and exercise and enough sleep and good grades and research work and library work and class reading and meaningful personal connections and self care and many other things. Some of those must drop off the bottom of the list, because I cannot do them all, and the fact that I am not superwoman does not make me weak. Needing 8 hours of sleep a night does not make me weak. Wanting time to watch Netflix once in a while does not make me lazy. I am learning to recognize when I am descending into a state of fear and panic and say to myself: you are enough. You are loved. This feeling will not last forever.

I am still afraid. I am afraid I will not find the job I want. I am afraid of bad grades. I am afraid of being mediocre. I am especially afraid, most afraid, of disappointing people; family, friends, mentors. I am afraid that I cannot live up to everything I am expected to be. In my worst moments, I think myself much more important than I am; I worry that I will underperform and disaster will ensue. I am afraid of abandonment, that those who love me will see me stressed and spread thin and tired and they will realize that I am only human, and they will be disillusioned and move on. 

But I am learning to turn toward that fear, and to sit in it and let it have its day, and to say to myself: this, too, shall pass. I am learning to reach out instead of sit in the bottom of the hot shower and hope that I feel better. I am learning to buy the latte and the bagel when I need to. I am learning to recognize when I might need a little help getting out of bed in the morning, and I am learning to be kind. To myself, and to others. I am learning to ask myself and those I care about--how are you doing? What do you need? And I am learning to hear when the answer is not well. Not good.

I hope that these are lessons that are more important than case law and legislation. I hope that when my insides are tangled up with fear and anxiety, my vision is still clear enough to touch someone else and ask how they are doing, and to hear the authenticity in their answer. And I hope that I will emerge from this maelstrom of homework and real work and class and events and emotions stronger and with a better understanding of who I am and what I need. Until then, I am learning to trust that the people who love me will be patient. 

[fraughtwithpossibilities]

I wrote a thing and then I spoke it

[I wrote this to deliver at the Ambrose University weekly chapel service on Oct 6. The theme was listening to the voices of the poor and marginalized.]

Good morning! Thanks for being here, everyone. I spent some time in student leadership here and if things are still the same, I know that some of you are required to be here, but thank you for coming anyway. It’s a pleasure to be back and to get to speak to all of you. I hope that your time at Ambrose is as formative as mine was.

Like Derek said, I graduated from Ambrose in spring 2014 with a BA in English Lit and a minor in Philosophy. I’m now in my second year of law school at the university of Calgary. I’d like to eventually be a public interest lawyer, which encompasses fields like poverty law, aboriginal law, and human rights law. This most recent summer, I worked at the Public Interest Law Clinic at the University of Calgary, where I researched systemic injustices that affect groups of marginalized people in Alberta. One of the most important things this experience taught me is that poverty is not a simple problem, and it doesn’t have a simple solution. I learned that it’s very important for legal professionals who want to make a difference on these systemic injustices to sit down with the people who are affected and ask them, “what would make your life better?” If we skip this step, if we don’t take the time to trust that poor and marginalized people know their own experiences better than we do, then we run the risk of coming up with expensive, elaborate solutions that don’t actually work.

A good example of an approach that values the voices of the poor and marginalized is what Jesus says [to the blind beggar] in Mark 10:51: “what do you want me to do for you?”

One of the most important ways we can learn from Jesus’ example, when seeking to include the voices of the poor, is to remember that he asked what they wanted instead of assuming he already knew. In doing so, he reminded them, and himself, that being poor doesn’t make you less human. My initial response to Mark 10:51 is: Jesus, duh! a blind man is calling to you, he obviously wants you to heal him! Why would you ask what he wants when it’s so clear? My response reflects an instinct that many of us have without even knowing it. We assume that when the poor call out to us for help, we know what they are asking for.

I can’t be the only one who’s ever walked around downtown Calgary, or downtown any city, and quickened my footsteps as I go past a homeless person with a cardboard sign. I’m reluctant to read it because I assume I already know what they’re asking for, and what I’ll feel motivated by guilt to provide: money. I don’t like that feeling, and so I walk by, instead of stopping to ask them important questions: what is your name? Where are you from? What has happened to you, or what experiences have you had, that brought you here? I don’t take the time to understand the deeper need that drives them to ask me for money. Is it opportunity? Is it the need for health care or social services? Is it the need for a home? I may not be able to actually provide any of those needs either, but how will I know without taking the time to understand? Even if I can’t provide those needs, I’ll walk away from the interaction with fewer assumptions than I had going in. Perhaps I will no longer assume that anyone sitting on the sidewalk holding a cardboard sign wants to freeload. Perhaps I will no longer assume that just because someone doesn’t have a job, they are lazy. Perhaps I will be reminded that I, an educated white middle-class woman, didn’t earn many of the privileges I have. Perhaps my eyes will be opened to the fact that these people are often doing to best they can with a very difficult situation.

It’s true that often the poor among us DO need resources like money and food. What is also true is that they may just need a listening ear or a friend. We miss the opportunity to be those things for other people when we jump straight to assumptions that they want to freeload. Jesus didn’t assume that just because the man was blind, he obviously wanted to see. Similarly, we shouldn’t assume that just because people are poor, they need or want money from us. We should cultivate the ability to look at those around us and see people rather than problems. Jesus’ general approach to interacting with the poor and marginalized was to look them in the eye and ask them what they wanted, rather than assuming. And THIS approach, taking the time to ask, recognizes that even though people may be poor or hungry or cold or needy, human connection is still something that they not only need but that they deserve. 

Solving poverty is a massive project, but I think it starts here: poor people are still people. I don’t know if many of you are familiar with the idea of Maslow’s hierarchy of needs, but the idea is that there are certain basic human needs that have to be met before people will seek to meet more advanced needs. First people seek to meet physiological needs like hunger, then needs like safety and shelter, and only after that do they seek love and belonging. So, to put it very simply, Maslow thought that people who are hungry aren’t looking for love, they’re looking for food.

Some of you may also be familiar with John Green, YA author and co-founder of the youtube channel vlogbrothers. According to him, "saying that hungry or sick people cannot access ‘higher' needs is literally dehumanizing, because it claims the sick do not have access to the full range of human consciousness.” John Green also uses this idea in The Fault in Our Stars, his most recent book. One of the characters, Hazel, who has cancer, says, "According to Maslow, I was stuck on the second level of the pyramid, unable to feel secure in my health [or wealth] and therefore unable to reach for love and respect and art and whatever else, which is, utter horse****: The urge to make art or contemplate philosophy does not go away when you are sick [or poor]. Those urges just become transfigured by illness [or poverty]. Maslow's pyramid seemed to imply I was less human than other people, and most people seemed to agree with him.”

It’s strange to me that this needs saying, but it does: poor people are not less human than any of us. Maslow claimed that as needs like hunger and safety are fulfilled, people will THEN seek things like love and belonging. But I think John Green would respond that life is more complicated than that, and people are ALWAYS seeking love and belonging. I think Jesus would agree. By following Jesus’ example and taking the time to talk with the people around us who are poor and marginalized, we not only demonstrate that we respect their ability to tell us what their problems are and what the solutions are, but we get the opportunity to look them in the eye and recognize their humanity. 

And of course this sounds like sort of a hippie thing to say. There was a time in my life when I would have listened to me say these things and thought, “good grief, who does she think she is, saying that taking the time to shake a homeless guy’s hand and ask him where he’s from is going to solve poverty? Get a grip and do something that will ACTUALLY be helpful.” If you’re thinking that right now, I get it. But if you are, consider this: people have been giving money and food to the poor for as long as poverty has existed, and the problem still isn’t solved. It may be that the problem of poverty can’t be solved until we all get better at stepping outside our safe little circles and being willing to see the image of God even in, say, that homeless aboriginal person who stops you in downtown Calgary to ask you if you have any spare change. 

I feel as though I should insert a small disclaimer here. When someone asks you for money or food and you respond by saying “no, but have you heard of our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ?” or something similarly opportunistic, that doesn’t count as listening to them and recognizing their humanity. Just as you shouldn’t assume that people experiencing poverty are freeloaders, you also shouldn’t assume that they will be happy to listen to you talk about how Jesus is the solution to their problems, even if that’s how you feel. I know I have felt that pressure to be the daring street evangelist, but rein it in a little. Show that you care about what their needs are and not about what you think their needs are.

So, to conclude, I think that when Jesus asks, “what do you want me to do for you?” he’s providing a framework we can use to move forward. This is an insanely simple thing that all of us can do, regardless of how broke we are (and I know a lot of us are broke). Yes, it will require getting off campus. I know that if you’re in res, that’s sometimes tough. It will also require recognizing moments of opportunity. This is my daily challenge to myself, and to all of you here: the next time you encounter someone experiencing poverty and you sense that they want something from you, quiet your assumptions. Push away the voices that tell you that this person is a drug addicted freeloader who should get a job. Remember what Jesus said, and take the opportunity to ask this person who they are, what they need, and how they got to be homeless in the middle of winter. Remember that they may need food, but they also need love, and remember that love often looks like someone who is willing to listen.

[fraughtwithpossibilities]

how they changed their minds: guest post from Ben

Following my blog series in spring 2015, How I Changed My Mind, I thought it would be cool to do a series where I invite others to tell stories about how they changed their minds on faith-related issues. This post is from my friend Ben. We started at Christian liberal arts university together, back when many things seemed simple to both of us. We now both understand what it is to grieve a sense of safety and certainty. This is a powerful expression of something that I don’t think everyone understands about those of us who doubt and who lose faith: we would have chosen to stay where we were if it had been a choice, but it isn’t. 

—

Dear God,

I loved you.

You gave my life meaning, kept me going through everything that life could throw at me. You gave me certainty and the confidence to push forward in life without having to worry about screwing it all up. After all, there’s nothing to worry about when you are completely certain that an all powerful, all knowing deity has your back. I knew you loved me, and I knew that you would always be there.

Then I went to college.

I studied biology and physics, and found an earth that seemed billions of years older than I believed that it could be. But this didn’t shake me, after all, there are a thousand creationist responses to all those pesky observations. Even if those failed, there was no reason you couldn’t have meant that first bit of Genesis in some symbolic way.

I studied history and learned about how the evangelical tradition, which I accepted as obvious, had arisen from seventeen hundred years worth of traditions interpreting and reinterpreting the story of a man named Jesus. But, while this caused some discomfort, I was still certain that there was nothing in history that was outside of your plan. Maybe I could adopt practices from those traditions which would bring me even closer to you.

I studied the bible, and learned that there are a thousand different ways that people have read and interpreted the scriptures. Scriptures that I had read and re-read dozens of times and believed were your literal, inerrant word. But this didn’t cause me too much grief, you were still there, and you still cared. Besides, the scriptures can be just as powerful as inspired works that contain spiritual truths, even if they aren’t totally inerrant.

Slowly I began moving more and more into a liberalized version of Christianity. New information that didn’t sync up with what I knew about you had to be synthesized. Often it would be necessary to force two cognitively dissonant ideas together.

The bible doesn’t talk a lot about homosexuality, but where it does, it doesn’t come off as very enlightened. It was easy to say things like “well, it’s their choice to live like that” or “God will give them enough grace to overcome this struggle” when I didn’t know anyone who wasn’t straight. But once I did it became very clear very fast that a) no good god would put someone into this kind of impossible situation, and b) I couldn’t love someone and expect them to try to carry a burden that I couldn’t touch. So I strained all my cognitive musculature, and pulled together the idea of an inspired scripture and of you being a loving god as tightly as I could manage.

Then I studied philosophy.

And I loved it. I loved learning about crafting arguments, and being logically consistent, and discovering meaning in the world. I loved philosophy because of you. Because I knew that loving wisdom and loving you were the same thing, and I was totally convinced that following any direction to the truth would necessarily lead me back to you. After all, you were the way, the truth and the life. But every day philosophy challenged the way I thought in some new subtle way. I’d run to apologists who might have a good answer to these challenging ideas, but rarely got a satisfying answer. I’d chalk it up to your mysterious nature, think to myself that you were beyond my comprehension and move on.

I tried more and more to escape from rationally explaining your existence by throwing myself into a more experience oriented version of Christianity. I attended worship services, spent more and more time in prayer, and devoted myself to spiritual practices. But I couldn’t find anything beyond some emotional tears once a week during a music service. But my faith was still there, whether I could feel you or not I wasn’t about to give up. I still had certainty that you would be there when I needed you.

Then philosophy broke my back.

I’ve read the bible from cover to cover nearly fifteen times, I’ve practiced lectio divina, and I’ve prayed my way through Augustine’s confession and a hundred other devotional works, but I have never prayed over a written work so fervently or for so long as I prayed through Anthony Flew’s parable of the gardener. It was only a two page excerpt, but just twenty four words were required to cause my whole world to disappear right beneath my feet:

Just how does what you call an invisible, intangible, eternally elusive gardener differ from an imaginary gardener or even from no gardener at all?

As I read those words you disappeared. Your presence, which I was so certain of even if I’d never really felt it, evaporated. The lights all turned off and I was all alone. I spent months afterwards trying with a renewed sense of urgency to find you, failing. Reading and rereading scriptures that promised that if I sought you, I’d find you, but you were nowhere to be found. I prayed for four hours a day every day for six weeks just to get some inkling that you were there, or that you at least cared a little. But you were either hidden behind a veil so thick that I couldn’t hope to find you without your direct intervention, or simply a being that never was.

So, here I am, trying to build something out of all the furniture that was built with you in mind, left to rearrange ideas with the knowledge that you aren’t going to show up, even if most days I still wish you would.

[fraughtwithpossibilities]

look, how original, an anxious person

There’s no trendy way to write about anxiety. Or maybe the problem is that it IS trendy. The mental health stigma is beginning to lift, and suddenly everything has a label--everything that makes any of us wake up sweating in the middle of the night suddenly has a name, seems suddenly normal. Anxiety is the second most common reason that the University of Calgary website says students seek counselling. I don’t want anxiety. Anxiety is exactly the problem that people like me--overachieving, overcommitted millennials--seem to have in droves. Do I really have a mental health problem, I’m asking myself, or am I just copying my friends?

If you can believe that the reason I have been silent on my anxiety problems is something as stupid as the perception that anxiety is too mainstream, read on. 

I got home from vacation six days ago, Sunday the 4th, and had three undelivered package notifications, two of which were expired. Instantly and inexplicably, I felt intense stress and pressure. I’d spent two and a half weeks having fun and trying not to think about all the obligations that awaited me when I arrived home, and it was as though those undelivered packages triggered everything I felt scared or worried or confused or apprehensive about. It didn’t make sense. It usually doesn’t. I was too freaked out to read my email, to open my textbooks, to do simple things like laundry and groceries. Every time my phone buzzed or I got a new email I felt a rush of dread. The to-do list was too long and I was certain my efforts would be failures. 

Mostly through clenched teeth and force of will, I did some things on the list, and some more things, and by midweek, I felt better. No one got angry at me. No one was disappointed with my ineptitude. I was, as usual, much less important to the overall functioning of the world than I thought. School started, which was both another stressor and a welcome distraction. 

This cycle has happened before: the rush of debilitating panic, the slow recovery, the return to normal.

But this time was different, somehow. Maybe I’m fed up. Maybe I suspect that I won’t cope well with another few episodes of nonsensical, paralyzing fear, or another few mornings where it feels impossible to get out of bed. Maybe I suspect it will only get worse without help. Maybe I sense the semester coming on--five classes, two jobs, the usual array of commitments I shouldn’t have made--and I’m not sure how I’ll get through it alone. I’m seeing a school counsellor on Monday, for this stupid, recurring, predictable problem. 

Sitting in the bottom of a hot shower isn’t doing it for me any more, and self-medicating with tea isn’t working, and I’m sick to death of knowing that if I could only conquer the fear of being stupid or inept or ineffectual or awkward or clueless, I could accomplish so much. If making a grocery list wasn’t so hard, maybe I could stay out past 9pm without being exhausted. If it didn’t seem so daunting to pick up the clothes off my bedroom floor, maybe I could manage to clean the bathroom more than I do. It’s Saturday night and I should be able to relax and enjoy the weekend. Instead, all that’s happening is that I think harder and harder into the echoing silence, winding myself tighter and tighter as I think about all the things I need to do that I can’t possibly complete, and doing none of them. I am scared that I will feel scared forever. 

It sucks to write this. The only reasons I am are these: a) I have an addiction to uncomfortable transparency and b) people like me don’t like to be weak or to fail. But we need to. This is me, showing weakness, failing, admitting to needing help, so that if someone else feels the same as me, maybe you’ll call and make a counselling appointment too. I’m saying this so that I can’t walk past people and pretend life is going okay when it’s not, because I want everyone to think that I am perfect, and that is part of the problem. 

I want to stop having panic attacks. If anyone wants to stop with me, let me know.

[fraughtwithpossibilities]

25

There is a purple house out my window now, my big bright balcony window with the sliding door. The sky is purple too, darkening overhead, and it is quiet, and Monday morning feels more like a gift, an adventure, than it does a chore.

I am hanging onto things. I am remembering the way things were; fast food at midnight, small beds crammed into small rooms. I am remembering when things started to get a little less simple, when I started to wonder if maybe there wasn’t a bigger plan and a reason for everything. If some things are just tangled and tragic. I am remembering evenings walking to the train very late, board games in a basement suite that smelled like weed--the same smell that sometimes floats up through my balcony window. I am remembering things I now think of as idyllic, though I don’t know if I recognized them at the time. I am remembering, and I am trying to put as much hope into the future as I put nostalgia into the past.

This sounds sad, as do many things I say, but I promise that my smile is as big as it was whenever I was The Person Before. She is the same as me now--still dresses up like Hermione Granger, still crunches ice cubes, still hates bananas and raisins and peas. But things aren’t fast food at midnight and small beds in small rooms any more. Instead they are apartment, couch, a beer I bought in a glass I bought in front of a TV I bought (well, half). They are work from home, costs to the respondent, aboriginal incarceration. On Saturday I will be 25. What have I done with 25 years?

I am no Taylor Swift or Jennifer Lawrence, and some days I feel sad that I am not a prodigy. But I am not sad that given the choice, I will leave my homework on the floor for better things, skating downtown, kisses in long grass. I am not sad to be the person I have become, she whose emotions are written large across her face, who needs eight hours of sleep, who speaks her mind and doesn’t like Napoleon Dynamite because life is not that meaningless. I am not sad that my heart walks around outside of my body, and I am not sorry to be a little sensitive for a grown woman. I know my pictures are not hung, and my walls are still beige, and my clean and dirty clothes are all confused.

Here is what I know: I will be 25 in a week, and I know what is important. Making lunches the night before, except when I’m too tired. Sweeping the floor sometimes. Sitting in the bottom of the shower for a while if I really need to, breathing deep until I feel more okay about the world. Contacts, and underwear, that fit properly. Sometimes spending a lot on a nice thing. Fuzzy blankets. Tea. A quiet evening once in a while, to watch Netflix and to think a little about my place in a world that doesn’t think about me that much, and that’s okay. I might not matter in terms of Eternal Destiny, but a few people have shown me what it is to be held gently in someone else’s heart, and that is more than enough.

[fraughtwithpossibilities]

I’ve been thinking a lot about exactly a year ago. Exactly a year ago, I was a little over two months away from my last day at a job I had given up trying to like. I was counting the days for dear life. I was plotting to use my sick days to go hiking. I was willing time to move faster so that I could stop wearing pencil skirts and polyester blouses for a while. I was unhappy. 

But today, I’ve been at my summer job for three weeks, and I like it. I like the people--I would admire them and want to be friends with them even if they weren’t my coworkers. My boss wrote on the whiteboard this week, after I admitted to her that I was struggling, “FLOUNDERING IS OK.” It takes me ten minutes to bike to work in the morning. I wear jeans. I get to sit and research indigenous rights and Charter claims and case law, and in between I get to take breaks and look at cute pictures of puppies with my coworkers. I feel smart, for the first time since I started law school. 

Year-ago self: it gets so much better. You aren’t making a mistake. Law school will make you feel stupid and inept, and you will cry before and after your property final exam, and you will make timid, terrified court appearances. But you don’t suck at legal analysis, and you aren’t signing up for a career that will suck your life away. 

[fraughtwithpossibilities]

how they changed their minds: guest post from Carol

Since a year ago, when I first began my How I Changed My Mind series, writing about faith has been more difficult than ever. I don’t know how to be honest in a way that is accessible and empathetic and open to other perspectives while not shying away from my own experience. I’m struggling to find a way to be at peace with my own skepticism while respecting others’ approaches to faith. I’m afraid--of being misunderstood, of causing unnecessary pain, of hurting more than helping. 

I think Carol expresses everything I haven’t been able to say beautifully and honestly, and I’m honoured that she took the time and care to write something about her own journey through faith and doubt. 

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I am writing because I am changing my mind.  I hope and believe (and dread) that I will always be changing my mind and reassessing my beliefs, but right now I feel particularly dab smack in the middle of that painful, disorienting process.  I have a story to share.  

I am writing because finding blogs, podcasts, and books (and having face to face conversations) about people honestly admitting their questions and doubts has brought me a lot of peace as I connect with others and realize I am not at all alone. I believe telling our stories is powerful and meaningful.  

I am also writing because I recognize that there is a strange sense of freedom and liberty in writing for the vast, anonymous abyss of the internet. For better or for worse, I am diving into this beautiful and problematic way of sharing my story.  

To me, changing my mind feels like walking into a big, largely empty space that seems to go on forever.  Sometimes I picture it as a golden field or a scenic meadow.  It is beautiful, and I love the freedom of standing there, soaking in the incredible openness.  I am excited to go out, explore, discover, and whole heartedly embrace the space.  Sometimes it feels like exactly the right place to be.  

At other times fear takes over, and that big open space is scary – it is huge and I dread getting lost.  I don’t know where to head and I don’t even see any foot worn paths to follow.  I feel dreadfully alone and I grieve the mirage of security I once knew.

What surprises me most is the grief.  I grieve the girl who genuinely trusted God so whole-heartedly.  She was ready to go live anywhere in the world to serve God and just desperately wanted to know what path she was called to.  I miss the assurance and the confidence.  I miss being able to speak so honestly about trusting and serving God.

I realize how important my identity as a Christian is to me when I find that talking too honestly about my doubts usually means me crying or confronting that uncomfortable heaviness in my stomach.  When I lay under the stars with my best friend and started to grasp for the words that expressed all my uncertainties, I was shocked at how incredibly raw and lonely I felt.  I often told myself when I was younger that as long as I was scared of losing my faith I wouldn’t, or couldn’t, lose it - right?  I’m still scared, but now delving into deconstruction with hope and trust in God seems like the only way forward.  

I am striving for authenticity to replace assurance.  Openness over stability,  vulnerability over confidence. To trust that I am enough and I am loved, even if I don’t live up to all the Christian ‘check lists’ I still hang on to.  I am attempting to let go of all my internalized ‘shoulds’, acknowledging that traditional forms of worship, prayer, and bible study may not hold meaning for me now, and maybe, just maybe, that is okay.  I don’t know what this looks like, but it’s a journey trying to figure out what living authentically really means to me in this season of life.

I am trying to validate the sacred experiences that at this point in my life make me feel whole and connected to something bigger then myself.   I love attending the ‘church of the mountains’ because when I hike and ski and mountain bike, I feel God’s power in the wind and knowing my own vulnerability.  I love the sacredness of moving together in community at dance or yoga. I sometimes colour prayers or sit in the rawness of spiritual direction and I am learning more about ancient practices that approach prayer and scripture in what feels like a very progressive, open way.

I don’t know exactly why I am changing my mind now, but I do know that when I look back over my life it is clear that my beliefs have been constantly changing.  I could tell you about how my mom’s experience of cancer changed my mind about prayer, or how a big decision about where to go to university changed my mind about God’s will.  Countless experiences, people, and communities have shaped me.  I’m thankful for growing up in a youth group that encouraged me to think critically and for missions trips that introduced me to the complexity of our world.  I’m thankful for social work teaching me to strive to deeply respect people without letting my own biases get in the way.  I’m thankful for countless people who have pushed me to consider what it looks like to live well and honestly in communities full of diverse people.  

So here I am, trying to figure out how to live authentically in this scary and beautiful wide-open space.  There is still something about the Christian story that captivates me, even though I have more questions and doubts then ever.  Living in tension and uncertainty is hard, but somehow I want to live in a space of hope and redemption.

[fraughtwithpossibilities]

both/and, always

It’s sunset, and I’m reading Night Driving by Addie Zierman and listening to W. Darling and drinking sort of tea and sort of wine. I’ll eat dinner, soon. I’ll keep sifting through my Contracts notes and copy/pasting case ratios into a word document, sentences with the words “vitiate” and “presumption” and “economic duress.” Someday soon I’ll have to memorize them, with all the panic that comes with shoving half-understood words into my brain and hoping they come out on an exam in the right ways, the “A” ways. Not tonight. 

Tonight I’m not really productive. I’m multitasking, from Addie’s book to the music to the notes to facebook and back again, a Friday wanderer without the focus to do one thing for very long. It’s okay. I’ll get the focus back before Monday morning. Maybe later I’ll do yoga alone or play Legend of Zelda, and I’ll forgive myself for not writing another cover letter or writing another case brief. 

My life is beautiful. Daylight savings is here, and it feels like summer is coming, and everything that comes with summer. The sharp knife-edge of fear that I felt for a while, about failing, about not being good enough for law school, not smart enough, is fading. I still talk myself through those feelings a lot. I tell myself do one thing, then move on to the next thing. I tell myself you are not lazy. I tell myself forgive yourself, forgive, forgive--get up and keep going. I make a lot of lists, carefully planned collections of to-dos to make sure I don’t forget to call that client, read that case, apply for that job, send that email, keep every fragile plate spinning so that I can keep abreast of all the obligations of being twenty-four and in law school and responsible for everything now, from visits to the dentist to taxes to groceries to not running out of shampoo. It all seems like quite a lot and also nothing at all. 

Addie’s book is sad, and I get it. She is a few years ahead of me, a few years into an adulthood where bright lines have blurred, where the rules don’t seem as concrete as they used to and there is no one who can quite answer all the questions. I get it. I have been there, and am there, even now, even lying on the couch with the sun fading and my laptop on my stomach, even being here now knowing that everything is more impossibly good than I could have imagined. 

And W. Darling sings, “Oh we're just skeletons, we're so easy to break / And our bones are crumbling / Jumping off mountains in roller skates / I'm reckless, and careless / Bloody knees in my jeans and my sundresses.” And I listen to it over and over because I feel it, reckless and careless at the same time as agonizingly fragile and responsible, carrying all the weight and feeling all the freedom of just being, just me, some days swept away by happiness and some days waking up and wondering how I will make it back to bed again. It’s life. And it’s good.