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by bcmiller2014

Unwanted

I never wanted you, you
know, but it wasn’t personal. Maybe
I was made wrong. Maybe when 
God was handing out motherhood to
all the baby girls, he missed me.
Maybe I’m just screwed 
up, broken in-side-out so what
happens to other girls leaks from
my strange heart-shaped holes before
it can congeal. Or maybe I’m just 
me, and it doesn’t matter why, just
like it doesn’t matter who you 
would’ve been. 

I would’ve messed you up – sure then
unsure, right then left, weak and strong and weak. I’m full of leaks and 
familial traits I never wanted to give. I did all the millions of your permutations a favor. I saved you from sending roots down and down until there’s no down left but to go in a different direction. I’m doing that for
you. I’m saying “enough is enough,” 
I’m the end of the line, the last of
this particular form of fucked up DNA. 

You are safe, never being, never 
knowing that family is something 
to be survived sometimes, and
breathing is something you 
decide to do, and walking is downright heroic. I would’ve loved you. I could’ve poured my every cell into making your brand new person, but your mother would have died and 
you’d have been an orphan just like 
her, without a grave to visit.  We
deserve better.  I’m working on
better while you’re in the light, 
unformed, where dreams coalesce
and lose their form but are never, 
ever ignored. Even though I never
wanted you. 

by bcmiller2014

Perhaps I’m Angry

My friends say I am angry 
but I don’t feel it. Stupid
really, waste of energy being
offended.  You are brilliant,
creative, vibrant (fucking) perfection
nice and far away – okay –
near and inside me breathing in
and out and through. Sure. 
You are love. 
Here is not. Here is broken, a
confused man on the bus glaring
hate while my eyes fix away, still
knowing because the fury rolls off
him like a fog. Here is cancer and 
depression and too often hair-
slicked back on preachers smiling
bright box teeth and selling hell for 
a living. Living
here certain of all the whys
and what everyone deserves. I 
don’t blame you for this. 
Free will is part of the 
contract. We can roll over 
this groaning planet and rape
and pillage and kill. Sharp ends
from our dirty means, and a feast for
all the carnivores.  So where there
is all your love down low, with the
dogs underneath the table?  How do
I find you here, on the bus, carefully ignoring the fury man?  I used to think
you’d protect me. Now, I think maybe
you’d just know what a beating 
feels like. Love me past my PTSD, in
my weakness see past to who
I really am.  I’m uncertain and
I’m okay with that. I don’t want
principles as though we could understand your mind.  Send me 
a friend to sit next to at the next business dinner so I don’t have 
to hide my shaking. Send me some marijuana so I can sleep without my back on fire. I know you could heal it, and that would be cool, but I don’t want to hold you to it. You’re big. I’m small. 
I get it. Just please don’t put me in a 
box and label me. Talk to me like a 
person. See me. Want me. Keep
me even though you’re (fucking)
perfect. 

by bcmiller2014

Impossible Soup, Part III

Some of the Friday Friends on the beach at Whidbey Island

Some of the Friday Friends on the beach at Whidbey Island

It’s a remarkable thing to have a community, like a big extended family full of people who wear you out and fill you up, annoy you and have your back. They hold you with love, acceptance and the perseverance to work through the myriad of things that can be relationally difficult. Coming from a tiny family, just me, my parents and my grandparents who were far away, the gift of community has been profoundly wondrous, occasionally perplexing and sometimes exhausting. But it’s always been worth it. I think the hardest thing about it has been the lesson that things change, and the members of that intimate circle shift in availability. Change is a natural part of life.

While we met with Jason and Linda and the group that formed around them, we met every week on Fridays. We called ourselves the Friday Friends, and determined that our overarching goal was to be family to each other. Different people came almost every week. There were people who were from our church but there were others who Jason had usually met in some way. It may sound trite, but he really was magnetic, and he had a huge heart. Jason was an actor who worked for a non-profit organization focused on providing affordable housing to struggling families. He was great at it, but he always longed for the stage. His love for his wife and daughter meant he needed to spend evenings at home, so he let that go for a while.

Every year we’d all chip in and rent a big house on one of the local islands. We’d hang out and play games, go to the beach, and take long walks. We’d also gather to share the real stuff that was going on in our lives, pray for each other and simply be with each other in hard times. Jason would make traditional Indian chai in the morning. Linda had taught him how, and she’d spent a couple years teaching music in India, so she knew how to make the real stuff. Waking up in a house with so many people in it, I’d be a little overwhelmed until I’d stand next to Jason while he served up the chai. Somehow then I knew I was safe. He was the first man I’d ever felt safe with, besides Keith.

His protective brother-ness helped me out at church, too. We’d always sit in the row in front of the Francai (Francis, but plural), and I knew that with Keith next to me and Jason behind me, nothing was going to hurt me. I suppose that even included God, since I was quite afraid of him. Jason was spiritually gifted in remarkable ways, and since he was okay with me it seemed like he created some kind of bridge that I could stand on and be near God and not be destroyed.

There was a profound sweetness about that time with them, even though I was extraordinarily desperate in other ways. We always knew that Jason and Linda would leave eventually, but we thought they’d end up going back to India and having occasional furloughs back with us. I tried not to think about it, which I think was the best thing to do (or not do). The sharing of one’s heart naturally implies that it will be broken. The only way to prevent this is to live without giving one’s heart away, and that’s no life at all.

by bcmiller2014

Expectancy

I’ve never been pregnant, and I’ve never even wanted to be. I’m not saying that’s good.  It’s just true. I have a dear friend who’s having a baby in February though, and for some reason, after all the friends and family members who’ve had babies, this one has gotten me thinking. It’s too late for me and I haven’t changed my mind, but I’ve started thinking about expectancy.

I’ve thought a lot already about expectations. These are almost always uniquely negative things. They tend to be false, unfair, disappointing, and relationship-killing. They place strict boundaries around what we want or think we need from others. They limit another person to being a particular way or doing a certain thing.  They don’t leave room for anything other than what is expected.

I actually ran into this as a major personal issue when I was younger, and I was expected to have a child or two or three within a few years of marriage.  Doing that is a great thing for a whole lot of people, but it wasn’t for me. When I failed to meet this expectation, assumptions were made about the reasons for it. Emotional barriers were thrown up by people who did and didn’t know me, because I was unusual in this regard and that made me unpredictable and mysterious. People didn’t know what to think of me. They didn’t know what to expect, and that was an impediment to our relationship. I think it may have made people feel insecure.  Sometimes they’d even assume that I must not approve of people who did have children, and that I’d placed judgments on them. I hadn’t at all. For a whole bunch of reasons I just didn’t have the emotional or physical resources to engage in being a mother, myself.

Expectancy is different in that it leaves room for the unexpected. We can be expectant of something good without defining exactly what we think that must be. It’s about waiting for something, and not being quite sure exactly what it is that we’re going to get.

My friends who are expecting a baby boy are absolutely thrilled to meet their son. They get adorably giddy at the thought of getting to know who he is. Therein lies the difference. They haven’t decided who he’s going to be or what he’s going to do. I’m sure they probably have some expectations about parenting that will turn out to be false because they’ve never done it before and they’ve imagined it to be a particular way. Knowing these dear people, they’ll work through that and get back into reality. But right now, in the third trimester of the pregnancy, they’re expecting a son and leaving all the doors and windows of possibility open to him. He’s going to be a remarkable little human and that’s about all anyone knows about him right now. But expectancy is in the air. They’re longing with all their hearts to find out who this little person is going to be, and that leaves room for him to be himself.

Expectations aren’t helpful. They disappoint, distract, and disconnect. Expectancy is different because it is hope that doesn’t try to control outcomes. It may dream a little, but in the end it makes room for whatever is coming to be whatever it is.

As Christmas approaches, I think about the traditional story. I think about the person of Jesus as described in the Bible. He was executed because he did not meet expectations. He didn’t overthrow the Romans. He hung out with crooks and prostitutes and liars. The only people he ever really reamed out were the religious leaders of the day, because they made God inaccessible and placed unbearable burdens on everyday people. He was not who people expected him to be. That didn’t mean he wasn’t good. That didn’t mean that people weren’t onto something when they were hopefully anticipating the coming of the Messiah. He ended up being all about loving God and loving each other. He represented God here on earth, which means God is all about love, too, and that’s something worth getting excited about.

Expectancy waits for revelation and lets go of pre-definition.  It releases control and embraces acceptance. It puts us in the role of recipients instead of demigods, insistent on our own ways. At Christmas we’re waiting for a baby to be revealed.  If we are wise we’re not waiting for a predefined man to show up and meet our every desire like a Chippendale-Warrior-Santa-Claus, slave to our whims and fantasies.  It might be fun at first but we’d tire of him eventually, as we do of anything plastic that runs on batteries.  We’d almost certainly muck up what’s good by trampling over others’ needs while trying to meet our own.  None of those stories about genies in lamps turn out well in the long run.

I think I’d rather anticipate a baby, and gradually discover everything that is delightful and unexpected about him. I’d rather have a God I can’t control, especially if he’s willing to show up helpless and humble. As he and I take time to get to know each other, he might just turn out to be someone I’d like to know.

by bcmiller2014

Seen but not Heard

Seen but not heard, a 
vision of silence again
and again.  I think all is
new, fresh as a lime over 
ice in the shade where 
the dapple obscures
isolation. The quiet
follows regardless of
audience. 

I can answer that 
question about the poor
tree, falling alone in the 
forest. The answer is
yes. Definitively yes. 
Without reservation, Yes.
Yes.
Yes. 

It doesn’t matter that there
are no ears and all the boles  
are closed, barked poles 
tightened against the wind, 
all sound absorbed in the 
evergreen floor. 

That wail, 
that crack of pain as the roots
heave great chunks of earth
and branches flail a last futile
grab for the sky, is heard
by the one that made it. 
The one who’s dying knows
what death sounds like, even
after it sounds like silence. 

by bcmiller2014

Purple-Booted Herbivore

I don’t get angry very 
often. It generally doesn’t 
occur to me to be offended.  I
tend to say yes, have grace, give
room for people to feel. Am I
people? Do I matter?  And
why? So many minds smarter,
more talented hands, hearts 
more acclimated to a harsh
environment. I am one
whisper in a yelling world, an
herbivore, a lavender sweater,
a stare-at-my-toes-in-my-new-shoes-
and-fall-off-the-sidewalk kind of
girl. I have trouble crying unless
I don’t and the sob-waves pound
my internal shore as they do
silently whenever anything 
suffers. That’s a lot, you know. 
And look at that. I see my
shoes and they’re sassy, purple
boots with some swagger, after
all. I can feel the groaning of the
earth through the soles of my feet 
and still paint my toenails 
blue. I can stand with my face to
the long wail of industrial 
tyranny and still hold down a
job. My heart can travel in
and out of my chest and still I
keep myself in surgery knowing
you, and her and them and us and
knowing I will be broken forever
just by the love-giving moment when
I no longer own
my self. 
And I’ll do it anyway because I
am strong. 
I am fierce. I have something to
say. Stop yelling a while and
you’ll hear.

by bcmiller2014

Impossible Soup, Part II

I’m grateful to say I’ve been the recipient of an amazing amount of love during my life, and not just from my sweet husband. Although I was loved as a child, it was mixed with a lot of emotional unhealth.  When Keith and I first got married there were a lot of disastrous familial events as well. When I think of being loved, I think of the time since I moved to Seattle. 

When we first came we didn’t know anyone. We’d simply fallen in love with the area while interviewing for work, and decided to go ahead and move.  It was risky but such a good decision, and good timing, too. We got here in August, 2001. Had we waited another month the world would’ve already changed and we’d probably have stayed where we were. 

We found an apartment in a charming part of West Seattle, immediately painted it tangerine and magenta to offset the coming weather, and worked on getting jobs.  In the evenings we found ourselves staring at each other blankly, and outside of deciding we’d overreacted to stories of cloudy Seattle days and should probably repaint, we wondered how to get connected with a community. I was still entrenched in all the “shoulds” and “oughts” of Christianity so finding a church was automatically on our list of things to do. I have to admit, it did provide a means of meeting new people, and we were fortunate to find a faith community in which we seemed to fit.  

The church on which we settled was located in the heart of the University District, which has a slightly ragged vibe and is home to a lot of street kids. In the 60’s it was actually designated as an official area where the homeless could legally hang out.  The church leadership seemed humble and the people down-to-earth, and a lot of genuine, practical care was expressed toward those in the neighborhood. The sanctuary walls were and still are, I am sorry to say, a horrendous shade of peach, and the trim is kelly green with red accents. The building had been used as a Mongolian grill at one point, and there’s never been enough money to redo it.  

After church one Sunday there was a potluck lunch. Now, Seattle has a lot of remarkable qualities, and one of them involves the regional cuisine. We focus on fresh fish, vegetables, lovely gluten and dairy-free options, and plenty of international influences. Our specialties are coffee (of course), teas, chocolate, and artisanal breads. In general it’s quite fabulous. Our church, though, was a quirky little melting pot of hippies, students, professors and international visitors. While a Midwest potluck would consist of half a dozen casseroles, some chickens, part of a cow and the inevitable jello-based salads, we found our own potluck dishes were limited to fried rice, some chips and something that smelled profoundly of garlic and coriander. There wasn’t any soup for my shaky hands to deal with and nothing was exceptionally bad on its own, but it was a strange conglomeration. We’ve never been back to a potluck since. 

We lined up behind another couple. The  pair were engaging and affable and the wife was extremely pregnant.  We chose to sit together at a small table, and as we started to chat we began to notice unusual similarities in our stories. Linda and I were both born in small, northern towns in Illinois and majored in music for our undergraduate degrees. Keith and Jason looked like brothers and even wore the same wedding bands. Even more notably, both pairs of us went to Wisconsin on our honeymoons. Who else in the world would do that, on purpose?  I mean, there’s nothing really wrong with Wisconsin, but as far as honeymoon destinations go, it’s somewhere above Detroit but below places where you can’t drink the water.

With each revelation Jason and Keith grew increasingly animated and Linda and I began exchanging glances that said, “Oh my God!  How can there be another man who’s this energetic and expressive?!” 

Strangely enough, for the next month or so we kept seeing each other everywhere.  We’d pass on the highway. We’d bump into each other in a suburb on the other side of Lake Washington. They’d be sitting in a cafe that we’d spontaneously chosen to visit. It got to be ridiculous. It seemed divinity was determined for us to get together. 

After Linda had their first child, a baby girl, she and Jason started feeling isolated, themselves. They no longer could go out and visit with people in the evenings without getting a sitter, so they decided to try bringing visitors to them. They opened their little home to a group of friends, and we were included.  It was through this community with Jason and Linda, that for the first time I began to experience unconditional acceptance. Even when my facade was broken and people could clearly see how fucked up I was, hugs were waiting for me on the other side of our friends’ front door. 

Jason’s hugs were the best. He was always the greeter and every single time he saw my face, he was genuinely glad to see me. His put his whole body into his hugs, and wrapped me up in his acceptance. All I had to do was show up, which was sometimes quite an accomplishment. 

Often I’d be hiding in a corner, making myself as small as possible. Jason would inevitably call me out, and I always had wished someone would. I’d felt invisible and hadn’t liked it, even though I had no idea what to say or do to be different.  When I was with those friends though, I was wanted, and that was everything. I began to learn to let myself be loved, which was crucial on many levels.  It’s hard to love others on an empty tank. 

Those first few years here were some of the most dreadful, soul-shredding, family-building years of my life.  I never would’ve survived on my own, and there I was in a brand new, somewhat introverted city building some of the deepest and most rewarding relationships I’ve ever had. It may have qualified as a miracle. It’s possible that it saved my life. It’s certain that it saved my basic faith.

by bcmiller2014

The Perfect Hat

I love buying and giving gifts. My psychiatrist heard this and told me I must be mental, which made me laugh quite hard. And yet it’s true. My husband gave me a budget this year for getting people presents as part of my own Christmas present. It makes me happy to pop into shops, see things that remind me of friends, and buy them. My plan is that I’ll be able to do this all year round once we get finances all settled after medical expenses die down (crossing my fingers, saying a prayer and finding some rosary beads).  

There are only two things that aren’t fun about buying gifts. One regards money. Sometimes I find the perfect gift and discover it’s out of my budget.  Other times, because I believe in quality, small shops and paying full price as my own meager way of resisting a market built on slave labor in third world countries, I run out of money before I’ve bought something for everyone on my list. 

The other joy-sapping scenario is one in which I feel pressured to buy something for someone whose tastes remain elusive to me. I’m a designer and strongly empathetic, so I can get a pretty good sense for most friends. But every once in a while there’s someone who remains mysterious. This year, my mysterious Christmas gift recipient was a 16 year old boy. 

This particular boy is a person whose mother I know very well, and because of this I’ve heard numerous stories and seen a multitude of pictures. I can tell he’s a confident, somewhat nerdy person with great wit and a lot of expressive energy, and he’s a country boy. He’s a good kid. From all of the above I can tell quite a bit, but still, I’ve got to do more than give him chocolate every year, ice cream doesn’t ship well, he’s not into sports, and he hasn’t seen enough Dr. Who episodes to understand those kinds of references on t-shirts or memorabilia. When I found out my Dr. Who idea wouldn’t work, I got a little worried. 

Today was the day. His mom told me he wanted a warm hat that had some personality. Seattle has plenty of hats with personality, but then I realized, he lives in the country and shops at Walmart. His idea of personality might be quite a bit more restrained than what I can find on the West Coast. 

I started shopping in Fremont, the self-proclaimed center of the universe. I went to the small stores I thought viable, finding presents for Melissa, Kristen, Chris, Sharon and Nicki. I laughed myself silly reading a little book entitled “All my Friends are Dead” right in the middle of a shop. I found a fair trade nonprofit group that sells incredible Peruvian pillow covers and bags, but no hat.  And right before I realized I’d left my purse at the hippie vegan restaurant where we’d had lunch, I did discover and purchase (with Keith’s help) a solid chocolate dinosaur. 

45 minutes and a heart attack later, we were on our way to Ballard, having found my purse hiding behind a chair. It took me over an hour to find my way down from the anxiety stratosphere, but then I was ready to try some more. 

Just for the record, Ballard is sick. I mean, the shopping is truly epic for someone with my particular tastes. There were twinkle lights everywhere, judging by the clamor in the sports bars the Seahawks were obviously winning their game, and I only had to visit a handful of delightful little shops before finding It – the perfect hat.  Yes, it was on a mannequin’s head but in the wrong color. I was directed to the “hat room” in the back, where the shop cat was sleeping on a blanket on a shelf over a heat lamp. There was one hat left in the appropriate color. It was an epic moment in which I stood triumphant, knowing I had found the hat that had Josiah’s name invisibly written on it in magic ink.  Victory was mine. Hopefully I will retain said victory by getting all the presents wrapped and mailed in time for the actual holiday. 

I’m trying to find a deeper meaning in this. I want my blog to be characterized by depth, sensitivity and charm, as well as a certain air of mysterious abstraction that embodies my weird little spirit. I don’t mind digging a little. Let’s go for depth. 

Why do I love buying gifts?  Am I indeed mental?  It’s not always easy. Am I looking for approval?  I’m sure that may leak into it occasionally. Mostly I think that giving gifts is a way I can express my affection. Real friends won’t care if my selection is a bit off sometimes. They’ll receive in the same way I would from them, grateful that they thought of me. There are so many painful things about life that I can sometimes become overwhelmed with the burden of all the brokenness that I see in the ways we humans treat each other. It’s a comfort to me to take a small moment to express my affection for people I love. There’s a softness about it that knocks out a few edges and makes life easier to bear. I want so badly to make the world a better place and I am so profoundly limited in what I can actually do to create change. Giving some little something away just to make someone smile makes me feel a bit better about walking around on planet earth. It reminds me what my feet are for and that I can do other small things. I can buy a blanket for a homeless person, donate socks, hug a friend who looks sad, listen when someone is hurting. I can call my parents for five minutes from my therapist’s office. I can walk a student to the counseling center and attend a prayer vigil for peace. 

If I can find the perfect hat for a 16 year old boy, I can do almost anything, damn it. It’s not about the hat. It’s about listening for the heart of the potential receiver and responding as accurately and sensitively as possible. We need a lot more listening in our country right now. I think we always will, so I think it’s okay to celebrate the opportunity to give the gift of an open ear, or heart, or pocketbook. In being generous we can forget about ourselves, even if some call us mental for enjoying it. If we’re really lucky, we may even get to guffaw over a silly book in the middle of a crowded room, while searching for the perfect hat.

by bcmiller2014

Invisible Stars

Poetry by its nature requires a great deal of revision before it’s very good. Blogging, however, is sort of like a diary. It’s more of a stream of consciousness kind of genre. I know this, and yet I’m still including poetry here. I don’t claim it’s great. It’s just how my mind works. Sometimes my own mind needs to word things this way so that I can understand myself. If I think it’s worthy I’ll spend more time on it later. If not, it’s just a window into my way of thinking. So here’s the latest thought:

I cannot see the stars from
here in the city
town down from midnight
clouds and buzzing human
thrum. 

I feel the moist in the best
nights, softening the noisy
edges and spreading thick on
my twelfth floor leaves but no,
I cannot hear them. 

They all do their best and I
love them for that. They’re simply
come-over by industry, business 
and thrall. 

The invisible stars meet the
silent leaves and shimmer
in the mist. But my love is
too small, too much on
my self. 

I need to be surrounded, and
not with people
(though some are special and 
keep me alive). I need to hear the
wind-singing cellulose,
flying shadows under the
moon with untidy green beneath,
breathing kinetic sculpture into
the ground. 

The invisible stars hum just 
the same. But I am too deaf
to hear them. The dancing toy
trees keep their beat, but 
my heart is too far to
join them.

by bcmiller2014

Impossible Soup, Part I

A while ago I mentioned that I grew up as a fundamentalist evangelical. I did, in fact, but I want to say first that the pastor of my church was a man of great integrity, humility, intelligence and faith. He’s even come forward and admitted his previously held views about women in the church were wrong. It takes a lot of courage to admit something like that and move in a different direction. While there are beliefs that I’ve since questioned, revised or discarded, he has remained a true friend and someone for whom I have great respect and affection.  I want to make that clear.

When I look back on what was truly damaging to me during that time, for the most part it had nothing to do with the actual teachings in my church. There was a strong emphasis on grace and unconditional love. There are a lot of people who came out of that environment as strong, confident individuals who could think for themselves. I think what made the atmosphere so toxic for me was that what I heard and how I saw those teachings lived out at home were completely different, even though the language was the same.  Both the church and my family talked about grace and unconditional love, but at the same time my parents and I were living in constant judgment and what I’d call Christian perfectionism. When I made mistakes, affection was revoked. God began to appear to be an irritable, insatiable scientist attempting to perfect his creations. He put us through tests and torment to make us better people. He dealt with us as though we were rats in a maze. Later, when I was grown and married and going to a different church, I wasn’t emotionally capable of having children.  The looks and comments people threw my way gave the distinct impression that I was not just a rat, but a diseased one.  I was an outsider rat who made all the others feel weird about themselves, or me, or both. In retrospect I’m sure there were people who didn’t look at me that way, but they weren’t in my immediate Christian circles.

Now, just for clarity, I do not actually view Christians as rodents. I suppose at the time I generally viewed all humanity as trapped in a sort of puzzle box, looking for a way out so we could prove we were smart enough to do it. I didn’t think we actually were smart enough to succeed, so the whole thing seemed pointless. Let’s just say it was a melancholy time for me.

I also don’t know why I never dumped the idea of God altogether. I’ve certainly considered it. Who wants to worship a mad scientist?  Well, okay, Neil Patrick Harris as Dr. Horrible does deserve a second look, but even he (as the title would suggest) turns quasi-bad in the end. My only solid explanation for why my faith hasn’t died has to do with the people who’ve been in my life, mostly since 2001.  In August of 2001, my husband and I moved away from the mid-south, home to some of the most radically conservative groups in the country, to Seattle, Washington. Seattle is home to the opposite. I have to admit, I felt I’d come home for the first time. When people asked if I had kids and I said “no,” and they followed by asking if we were planning on kids only to receive an “I don’t think so,” they didn’t look at me like I’d grown an extra head. They generally said something like, “Cool,” and looked nonchalant. Simply not having to face that constant judgment was an incredible gift.  Beauty is also something that helps my heart connect with divinity in a non-judgmental way, so it didn’t hurt matters that Seattle is absolutely stunning. The city has mountains on both sides and water everywhere, enormous trees, and wild ferns in the abundant forests. The fact that the average temperature in the summer is 75 was pretty great too, especially after all those miserable summers of lawn-mowing in my youth. Seattle was my Mecca.

It wasn’t without its challenges, though. My husband and I both had hard times with work. I landed a position in a hospitality firm where the work was fun, but the atmosphere was brutal. Take a whip to me and I do not get stronger, I get lacerated. I was working in this kind of environment when I developed generalized anxiety disorder, acid reflux, and IBS. I’ve since gotten professional help and done my own research, and there is a complex form of PTSD that appears to apply to people like me. Children who grow up in unpredictable environments of emotional abuse*, grow up with a lot of the same symptoms as those who grow up in war zones. The world is perceived as a profoundly dangerous place and there’s no escaping the sense of imminent doom. Perhaps (as in my case) the person learns how to keep up a facade of professionalism in certain, known environments, but can’t contain all the physical symptoms such as shaking hands or the need to keep a giant bottle of antacid at the front of the desk drawer. Then there’s the oppressive fear of having one’s brokenness discovered. Something can sometimes act as a trigger to a full panic attack and knowing that this can happen leads to increased anxiety.  Eventually a person can wind up at a faculty dinner staring at an otherwise harmless bowl of tomato soup knowing it’s physically impossible to get the soup successfully transferred from the bowl to the mouth without looking like an alcoholic coming down from a three month binge.

I believe the seeds for all of these issues were planted a long time before we moved to Seattle. It’s just that moving to Seattle and working for a brutal employer brought a dormant condition into a full-blown crisis. I developed insomnia due to the anxiety. My heart raced as though I were being chased by wild dogs, every single, absolutely otherwise normal day.

Nights were the worst.
“What do you want from me?!” I’d yell into the dark, pounding my fists against a pillow. “I’m sorry!  I repent!  Whatever I’m doing wrong just tell me and I’ll stop doing it!!!”  I knew I “should” have peace. The Bible promises the peace that passes all understanding, and if I didn’t have it, it was obviously my fault. I didn’t get help or go to the doctor for five years. I lived with it, if you could call that living, because if a person had Jesus s/he wasn’t supposed to need therapy.

This is the point at which some amazing people came into my life and loved me. I can’t explain why that happened then and not before, but it did. And these people happened to believe in a God who seemed better and kinder than the one I’d experienced. This is what kept me then, and what has continued to keep me from abandoning my faith altogether. Being surrounded by truly loving people who weren’t freaked out when I felt (and actually was) absolutely mental, was a miracle. It doesn’t happen for everyone. People slip through the cracks all the time. I don’t know why I was the recipient of such kindness, but I’m everlastingly grateful. On more occasions than one, kindness has saved my life.

This has deeply affected who I want to be for other people.  If I err in life, I want it to be on the side of compassion.  My grandfather would’ve curled his lip and called me a bleeding-heart liberal, but all politics aside, I really don’t have a problem with having a bleeding heart as long as I’m not bleeding out.  I want to be emotionally and mentally healthy so I have resources from which I can give.  I never want to be the person who excludes someone else because s/he’s different, or lives in different ways, or loves in different ways.  I know I’ll fail sometimes, but so help me God, I never want to look at another person as though s/he’s grown another head just because something about him or her is beyond my understanding.  I don’t want to look that way if I do understand and just don’t agree.  I don’t think agreement is a pre-requisite to kindness and love, and I don’t think it’s my job to go around correcting people.  For one thing, I can hardly navigate my own life without adding ill-advised attempts to figure out other people’s lives or even my own bookkeeping.  If God is any good at his job at all, he can take care of directing other people while he’s out there finding me a good accountant. There are plenty of people trying to impose their beliefs on other people, with extraordinarily damaging and sometimes horrific consequences.  What I don’t see enough of is the kind of love that can see beyond the surface to the value of another person’s heart.  We’re all in this together.  I want to act like it.

*Too often we view abusers as evil beasts who intend to harm others in horrible, violent ways.  My own experience is different from this.  My parents meant well.  Their parents meant well.  If you follow my lineage back you can find generation upon generation of abusive behavior, on both sides of the family.  We’re taught how to behave as children, and if we don’t have the courage or resources to confront our past, learn, grow, break down, and heal, we just keep the cycle of abuse flowing.  The catch is that just because someone doesn’t intend to abuse you, doesn’t mean they don’t do it.