I was told today by a guy on my hall that he has a problem with everything I say because I'm an opinionated religious person. Yes, I am opinionated. Yes, I am religious. But actions speak louder than words, and I find people give you more credit when you live the life instead of announce and claim you do. I am not the type that condemns people or doesn't listen to the other side of the argument. I've been on the other side.
I was pretty upset about this, and told him so. I've given him more second chances than I can count. I've tried so hard to be the best I can be, even with the pressure to just give up given how hard it is to deal with him. He's an asshole. There isn't a nicer way to put it. Most people on the hall just ignore him or treat him sub par to everyone else. I try not to, I really do. I approach the situation as if he's just one of the guys on the hall I hang out with.
He proceeded to pretty much insult me and tell me that I'm wrong about everything and anything. He doesn't respect me because to him, I'm stupid. He said some truthful things in the mix of insults, things I know I have a problem with or that people often misconstrue, such as my teasing. I left the room with tears in my eye. I've never felt that way when talking to someone my own age. Authority figures, and my ex, yes. But never has someone my own age said something to my face that's upset me on the spot like that. I've honestly never felt so discriminated against, and you'd think being a female I'd have run into something harsher by now?
So my RA caught wind of it and asked me if I'd be willing to go to university counseling (with her and this guy). She said I would most likely be the best person to go out of our hall for various reasons. At first I was against it, but I thought about it and said yes. I think it could help him? It might actually get him to listen to me? Probably not though. Perhaps just getting him in there will be enough for them to notice that he has some serious anger and social issues? Maybe nothing will come out of it? But I won't know unless I at least give it a session or two.
February 28, 2010
February 13, 2010
No Meat, No Facebook, No Swearing.
My goals for Lent are to go vegetarian, stop swearing, and put Facebook aside. I'm not sure if I'll be able, but I think it will be a great exercise. I'm addicted to meat. Okay, that's an exaggeration, but it is easily my favorite food ever. And facebook is actually way too addictive. I end up spending countless amounts of time when bored surfing pages. As for swearing, I'm on a college campus and am SURROUNDED by curse words. To the point that me, the girl usually seen as somewhat "proper", has been dropping the f-bomb several times a day. It needs to stop. And soon.
February 12, 2010
He Left
He was my first boyfriend. A great guy, with all the qualities I wanted in someone special. He was sweet, easy going, funny, loved his faith, and loved me. A lot of our relationship was long distance since he left for college six hours away after we'd been dating only three months. He promised he'd always be there for me, that he'd love me forever, that he'd marry me, that he'd love me even if I needed time to myself. Then this past winter break, a week before I was suppose to head back to school, after a year and half of dating, he left me.
It wasn't entirely unexpected, we'd been fighting a lot over little things all break, and not really enjoying each other's company because of it. But he just left. He was suddenly cold and distant. He didn't want to work it out. He didn't talk about it until it happened. He was a jerk about it. He told me that he'd never loved me, that it was all physical, that he'd been feeling this way since the beginning of break, that it was a mistake, that we were never in a relationship to begin with.
He told me all of this but it took a half hour for it to sink in. I realized that it was all over, that it was not I, the more unsure one, ending the relationship. I tried to act okay to make it easier for both of us. I asked for one last kiss, one I will always remember along with the first. My first kiss: On a beach, surrounded by a slowly lifting fog, we discussed how bad our vision was. "I have great peripheral vision," he said and swung his hands out to the side to gesture, accidentally hitting me in the face. He immediately turned, embarrassed at what had just happened and brought me into a hug, and finished what he had been saying: "but I have bad depth perception". As we pulled out of the hug he kissed me. It was electric.
We had chemistry and friendship. Or so I thought. What kind of a friend just picks up and leaves when you've been through hell and are at your lowest? When you've just started to get more than a therapist's help with your anxiety and depression? Apparently some do. I guess I don't blame him. He has his own issues, similar to mine. But he refuses help. He doesn't view his friends as a support system, but merely a system of people with which to relax with. How are they friends then? How does he go through life not letting anyone know him? I was guilty of that same thing for a long time too. So perhaps he just needs to grow in a way I already have. He's a stubborn rock with a thick shell. He's unmoving and unwilling to grow but he can see, just as I did, that something needs to give. I guess in order for him to fix the leak he first needs to throw everything overboard.
I'm sad I lost Adam. But it is what it is. And I'm determined to grow and move on through my life, I just pray he can too. I never lied, I will love him, forever and for always.
It wasn't entirely unexpected, we'd been fighting a lot over little things all break, and not really enjoying each other's company because of it. But he just left. He was suddenly cold and distant. He didn't want to work it out. He didn't talk about it until it happened. He was a jerk about it. He told me that he'd never loved me, that it was all physical, that he'd been feeling this way since the beginning of break, that it was a mistake, that we were never in a relationship to begin with.
He told me all of this but it took a half hour for it to sink in. I realized that it was all over, that it was not I, the more unsure one, ending the relationship. I tried to act okay to make it easier for both of us. I asked for one last kiss, one I will always remember along with the first. My first kiss: On a beach, surrounded by a slowly lifting fog, we discussed how bad our vision was. "I have great peripheral vision," he said and swung his hands out to the side to gesture, accidentally hitting me in the face. He immediately turned, embarrassed at what had just happened and brought me into a hug, and finished what he had been saying: "but I have bad depth perception". As we pulled out of the hug he kissed me. It was electric.
We had chemistry and friendship. Or so I thought. What kind of a friend just picks up and leaves when you've been through hell and are at your lowest? When you've just started to get more than a therapist's help with your anxiety and depression? Apparently some do. I guess I don't blame him. He has his own issues, similar to mine. But he refuses help. He doesn't view his friends as a support system, but merely a system of people with which to relax with. How are they friends then? How does he go through life not letting anyone know him? I was guilty of that same thing for a long time too. So perhaps he just needs to grow in a way I already have. He's a stubborn rock with a thick shell. He's unmoving and unwilling to grow but he can see, just as I did, that something needs to give. I guess in order for him to fix the leak he first needs to throw everything overboard.
I'm sad I lost Adam. But it is what it is. And I'm determined to grow and move on through my life, I just pray he can too. I never lied, I will love him, forever and for always.
February 7, 2010
Testimony: Faith
Up until two years ago, I identified myself as an agnostic or atheist. I am a questioner, a doubter, a skeptic. I have never accepted things for what they are or what they appear to be. The surface is only the surface. Even as a child I asked questions about why and how.
I was raised in a Catholic family and was sent to Catholic school. My family is a normal modern Catholic family, one that looks at their faith as a very personal thing, not often openly discussed. They help out at church and the school and volunteer often. They disagree with the church on some issues, but are rather conservative in their social politics. Essentially what some would call cafeteria-Catholics.
You would think that Catholic school would have solidified a belief in God. However I often hear stories similar to mine: it did the exact opposite. Religion class was an ambiguous fill in the I-am-special-God-loves-me-Jesus-is-my-friend crap and you get an A. Church was dull and usually spent looking at other people or thinking about other things.
By the time I entered high school I had decided that it was all a load of crap. I could respect some people that believed in a God, but He wasn't for me. I could plainly see the damage religion had done: the hypocrisies, the hate, the lack of love, the wars, the intolerance. I had seen the intolerance of my friend's father who was a minister, seen forty plus people "slain in the spirit", watched four planes crash on the 11th of September in 2001, had a Sister of Mercy bring me to tears in class, learned about the crusades, written a report Islam, answered the door for Jehovah's Witnesses and Mormons, watched the Westboro Baptist Church protest at funerals, and seen the news reports on the sex abuse scandal. Obviously none of these things encouraged me to pray to some god.
My preteen and teen years were unstable. I questioned everything I knew to the point that nothing was stable or true anymore. I had anger issues with my family and myself. I couldn't and didn't want to open up to anyone. I didn't love myself and I didn't understand myself. I couldn't accept the way things were and I couldn't stop myself from trying to fight them.
I avoided taking a stance on religion, faith, and spirituality. I went back and forth between not believing in a God, not believing there was a loving God, believing that there could be some Deity up there just watching us, and hating God.
My instability became apparent as I felt everything come crashing down. There was no stable ground in my world view, I had blocked it all from sight. I realized that I couldn't go on living life that way. Something needed to change.
I started going to a therapist when I realized that a lot of my issues on the outside were because of all the time my sister had spent in the hospital. I didn't go to see her for long. I felt like I had hit a wall. There was still something key to the whole problem that was missing. I was trying to do a puzzle with out having a smooth surface on which to work on. Christmas Eve night of my junior year of high school was when it suddenly all clicked. I had been lying in bed trying to sleep, thinking of how much I took my family for granted and how I really did appreciate them, when I realized that there was a God, and that I needed to find Him.
Music was a huge part of what helped me understand further. It did something that no theological reading could have done. It was clear and uncomplicated. I understood that having faith in God was not a magical thing. It wasn't perfect, and it didn't make everything better. God was not the one that caused bad things. He did not do good things because you prayed for them. But He was there.
I was raised in a Catholic family and was sent to Catholic school. My family is a normal modern Catholic family, one that looks at their faith as a very personal thing, not often openly discussed. They help out at church and the school and volunteer often. They disagree with the church on some issues, but are rather conservative in their social politics. Essentially what some would call cafeteria-Catholics.
You would think that Catholic school would have solidified a belief in God. However I often hear stories similar to mine: it did the exact opposite. Religion class was an ambiguous fill in the I-am-special-God-loves-me-Jesus-is-my-friend crap and you get an A. Church was dull and usually spent looking at other people or thinking about other things.
By the time I entered high school I had decided that it was all a load of crap. I could respect some people that believed in a God, but He wasn't for me. I could plainly see the damage religion had done: the hypocrisies, the hate, the lack of love, the wars, the intolerance. I had seen the intolerance of my friend's father who was a minister, seen forty plus people "slain in the spirit", watched four planes crash on the 11th of September in 2001, had a Sister of Mercy bring me to tears in class, learned about the crusades, written a report Islam, answered the door for Jehovah's Witnesses and Mormons, watched the Westboro Baptist Church protest at funerals, and seen the news reports on the sex abuse scandal. Obviously none of these things encouraged me to pray to some god.
My preteen and teen years were unstable. I questioned everything I knew to the point that nothing was stable or true anymore. I had anger issues with my family and myself. I couldn't and didn't want to open up to anyone. I didn't love myself and I didn't understand myself. I couldn't accept the way things were and I couldn't stop myself from trying to fight them.
I avoided taking a stance on religion, faith, and spirituality. I went back and forth between not believing in a God, not believing there was a loving God, believing that there could be some Deity up there just watching us, and hating God.
My instability became apparent as I felt everything come crashing down. There was no stable ground in my world view, I had blocked it all from sight. I realized that I couldn't go on living life that way. Something needed to change.
I started going to a therapist when I realized that a lot of my issues on the outside were because of all the time my sister had spent in the hospital. I didn't go to see her for long. I felt like I had hit a wall. There was still something key to the whole problem that was missing. I was trying to do a puzzle with out having a smooth surface on which to work on. Christmas Eve night of my junior year of high school was when it suddenly all clicked. I had been lying in bed trying to sleep, thinking of how much I took my family for granted and how I really did appreciate them, when I realized that there was a God, and that I needed to find Him.
Music was a huge part of what helped me understand further. It did something that no theological reading could have done. It was clear and uncomplicated. I understood that having faith in God was not a magical thing. It wasn't perfect, and it didn't make everything better. God was not the one that caused bad things. He did not do good things because you prayed for them. But He was there.
February 1, 2010
To My Sister
Dear Margaret,
I still remember the red tricycle our parents gave me when they told me you were going to be coming into this world. You've been the most influential person in my life, even before your birth. I was only three and a half when you were born, so I didn't understand all the complications that were heading your way. You've still got that thin scar from when you kicked the needle during the down syndrome test. I imagine that getting back the test results was only a slight relief to our parents. I can only imagine what they went through.
Your heart wasn't formed the right way when it was developing, you were missing your right ventricle and your tricuspid valve. You couldn't get enough oxygen to your blood. They operated the first time when you were only a few days old. I remember Mom and Dad leaving me at the neighbor's house. She gave me a beat up, bird cage music box. Mom threw it out several years later, I wish I still had it.
You came home after the first surgery and aside from the scars, looked like a normal baby. You had another surgery not too long after. I don't remember much during this time. Everything seemed to go fine. A few years past, you turned three and I was almost seven. At the end of September the year I entered the first grade, you went in for your third and final surgery.
Up until my sophomore year of high school I could hardly recall any memories from those days. Passing through the library one day, a poster caught my attention. It was of a rather common picture of a bunch of fancy hand painted Easter eggs that are suppose to be in matching pairs. I starred at that poster as the memories from your last surgery flooded me. I had seen that imagine before, it was used on a puzzle I tried to do in the hospital waiting room when everyone else went in to see you in the ICU but I wasn't allowed to go.
It was after your last surgery that everything happened. A few days after you got out of surgery Mom noticed that you seemed a bit off. She called in the nurse but nothing was wrong. A few minutes later you had a stroke. It turns out something was wrong, one of your drainage tubes in your chest had been blocked. The clot went to your brain and caused the stroke. They prayed for you at school and gave me presents to bring to you. I didn't understand, to me you always went to the hospital or doctor's office often, why was this any different? Why were you getting gifts, prayers, and attention? Why was I getting pity?
But things were different. You cried when I tried to talk to you or play with you. You were mad at me for being able to go home, walk, and play. I was mad at you for taking all of Mom and Dad's time and all the attention. I remember looking forward to going to the hospital just to get gummy bears and a hamburger in the cafeteria. I liked driving home with our grandmother when it rained because I got to turn the button for the windshield wipers. I don't remember not seeing Mom and Dad, but I must not have seen them very often, because they stayed at the hospital with you day and night.
You spent a month in the hospital. At the end of it you had forgotten how to walk and had to be re-potty trained. The anger between us carried through all of our childhood. I developed anger towards Mom and Dad. It ruined so much. These problems carried through all of my life, until not that long ago. The whole time I didn't understand where they stemmed from. I wish I could go back and reverse it all.
Margaret, you went to play therapy where you buried dolls in the sandbox and said that they had died in the hospital. You didn't sleep through the nights, instead you'd wake screaming. But as far as I know Mom and Dad and I never went to see anyone. Life just went on. Was there anything that could have prevented all the anger? Was it anyone's fault? Why did it take me so long to remember things, to work things out, to realize why I was feeling what I was feeling? I started to work through this issue years later, only to realize that I was only scratching the surface of my problems. A major problem, but only the surface of them all.
And that's where I am right now, dealing with the deeper issues. And I don't think it ever stops here. I think this is an ongoing process. I'm happy with where I've gotten. I'm happy to have you in my life, in such an amazing way. You are my sister. And I mean that in such a deeper sense than I used to. I love you little sis.
I still remember the red tricycle our parents gave me when they told me you were going to be coming into this world. You've been the most influential person in my life, even before your birth. I was only three and a half when you were born, so I didn't understand all the complications that were heading your way. You've still got that thin scar from when you kicked the needle during the down syndrome test. I imagine that getting back the test results was only a slight relief to our parents. I can only imagine what they went through.
Your heart wasn't formed the right way when it was developing, you were missing your right ventricle and your tricuspid valve. You couldn't get enough oxygen to your blood. They operated the first time when you were only a few days old. I remember Mom and Dad leaving me at the neighbor's house. She gave me a beat up, bird cage music box. Mom threw it out several years later, I wish I still had it.
You came home after the first surgery and aside from the scars, looked like a normal baby. You had another surgery not too long after. I don't remember much during this time. Everything seemed to go fine. A few years past, you turned three and I was almost seven. At the end of September the year I entered the first grade, you went in for your third and final surgery.
Up until my sophomore year of high school I could hardly recall any memories from those days. Passing through the library one day, a poster caught my attention. It was of a rather common picture of a bunch of fancy hand painted Easter eggs that are suppose to be in matching pairs. I starred at that poster as the memories from your last surgery flooded me. I had seen that imagine before, it was used on a puzzle I tried to do in the hospital waiting room when everyone else went in to see you in the ICU but I wasn't allowed to go.
It was after your last surgery that everything happened. A few days after you got out of surgery Mom noticed that you seemed a bit off. She called in the nurse but nothing was wrong. A few minutes later you had a stroke. It turns out something was wrong, one of your drainage tubes in your chest had been blocked. The clot went to your brain and caused the stroke. They prayed for you at school and gave me presents to bring to you. I didn't understand, to me you always went to the hospital or doctor's office often, why was this any different? Why were you getting gifts, prayers, and attention? Why was I getting pity?
But things were different. You cried when I tried to talk to you or play with you. You were mad at me for being able to go home, walk, and play. I was mad at you for taking all of Mom and Dad's time and all the attention. I remember looking forward to going to the hospital just to get gummy bears and a hamburger in the cafeteria. I liked driving home with our grandmother when it rained because I got to turn the button for the windshield wipers. I don't remember not seeing Mom and Dad, but I must not have seen them very often, because they stayed at the hospital with you day and night.
You spent a month in the hospital. At the end of it you had forgotten how to walk and had to be re-potty trained. The anger between us carried through all of our childhood. I developed anger towards Mom and Dad. It ruined so much. These problems carried through all of my life, until not that long ago. The whole time I didn't understand where they stemmed from. I wish I could go back and reverse it all.
Margaret, you went to play therapy where you buried dolls in the sandbox and said that they had died in the hospital. You didn't sleep through the nights, instead you'd wake screaming. But as far as I know Mom and Dad and I never went to see anyone. Life just went on. Was there anything that could have prevented all the anger? Was it anyone's fault? Why did it take me so long to remember things, to work things out, to realize why I was feeling what I was feeling? I started to work through this issue years later, only to realize that I was only scratching the surface of my problems. A major problem, but only the surface of them all.
And that's where I am right now, dealing with the deeper issues. And I don't think it ever stops here. I think this is an ongoing process. I'm happy with where I've gotten. I'm happy to have you in my life, in such an amazing way. You are my sister. And I mean that in such a deeper sense than I used to. I love you little sis.
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