A Talker.

One of the things that stuck out about my very first relationship was the way it ended. We both knew it was time. I could tell he "just wasn't into me." We were best friends and we had so much in common. I just couldn't leave it though. I wanted to know why. 

I remember that he called to check to see if I was ok, because he loved me. That was not in dispute. I sat in my closet (yes, in my closet) talking on an old rotary phone I had hooked up back there. 

I was bawling and so, so sad.  He sat and listened to me, and then once I gained my composure, there was silence as he waited. He knew I wasn't done. He knew I was a talker, and that to close the door, I needed to talk it out, to make sense of things first. 

I remember asking , "Why?" I could tell he was uncomfortable, but I figured the discomfort of that moment was a less than fair trade for my broken heart. He said, "You don't want to know. It won't do any good. Just know that I love you and that's part of the reason."

That explanation made no sense to me at 18, though it does now. I had a similar conversation last night, minus the closet and the rotary phone, though I wish I'd had them both. Instead, I sat on my warped brown wicker chair in my bedroom, holding dry cleaning, and listening to my dog bark incessantly at nothing from behind a closed door.

My heart had been bruised over and over in the past year, but I considered it worth it for this person-- most of the time. I could tell he was uncomfortable, but I figured that a less than fair trade for my legitimately broken heart. 

The thing is, I had just admitted to myself that it was broken. And I knew that in order for us to move on, to be friends, I had to talk it out. 

I had tried to avoid the conversation initially, but considering that he had moved on to talking to someone new in less than a month, and I was still doing well just to have a 15 minute conversation with any new guy, that told me that I had been way more emotionally invested, even from the start. 

I felt the discomfort, the awkwardness in the air. It was almost like at those points in time yesterday, he wished he'd never even met me so that we wouldn't be there together, in that stale air, having the talk that would take us nowhere, other than to more stale air and discomfort. But still, I asked, "Why?". 

"I've never given it much thought," he said. 

I found that odd, considering the length of time we'd known one another, that he would just feel comfortable giving up and just trading conversations he could be having with me for someone else, without even considering why. 

He even acknowledged that if we spent more time together, he thought our relationship would grow, most likely in a positive way... But that he just didn't want to. 

Now that he'd obtained the object of his months-long conquest, he was done... And on to the next. And then I wondered, "Is it the person that matters... Or does it just matter that there's someone there?"

After all, how do you choose the person that you're with? Initially, it's someone who makes you feel comfortable and with whom you can be yourself. When we first met and when we were together in person, he'd mentioned how comfortable he was with me... In a way he'd never been. And we'd talked and talked so many nights until the wee hours... About everything and nothing. We knew so much about each other. He was comfortable. I was comfortable. 

And then the last time we were together, things were different. I was uncomfortable. He was uncomfortable. It was just odd. In a way, it was almost like he'd made up his mind before I'd arrived that the outlook wouldn't be good. I know this person so well, almost like he's myself somehow, and it's always been that way, so I could tell. 

So then last night when we sat there in the middle of my this-time-tear-free puddle of "why," I realized it really didn't matter. That I didn't need to talk it out. That it wasn't going to make me feel any better. 

Because I know his answer. And sometimes the answer is just, "It didn't work because I didn't want it to."

And really, that was an answer I'd known from the very beginning. Without saying a word. 

He was ambivalent. He felt for me the true opposite of love... Indifference. Which is why he'd never given it much thought. Because it didn't matter. I didn't matter. 

Worse than negativity, ambivalence says, "I could love you, but naw... I'll just keep looking."

And when I hung up the phone, I was sadder than when he called. And I did not feel loved. And I did not feel hurt. I just felt numb. 

I felt nothing. And nothing doesn't want to talk anymore. 

Let's Stay Together....

Recently, I was talking with a good girlfriend of mine about relationships. She has been in a committed relationship for a few years, and she and her fella are going through a rough patch.

She said, "I'm just not happy right now. We want different things. I keep thinking, "Should I be here? I'm young enough to get out, and we're not married yet, so now would be the time."

I said, "Ask yourself one question: would you rather have a difficult life with this person or an easier life without them there? Which is more important to you? Having who you love or what you want?"

At least for most people my age, the answer always seems to be, "having what I want." I think sometimes we expect too much from relationships...that nothing that's right should ever be hard.  And the minute it gets hard, it must not be right. 

That's just not true. What makes something right is work. It's understanding. It's combined effort. People change and situations change and feelings change. Sometimes, my significant other has felt like my best friend. Sometimes he's felt like my one and only love. And sometimes, in the middle of a bad day or an argument, I've looked at him and thought, "This person, God? Him?? Really. Just not today. Maybe I'm looking in the wrong place."

The truth is-- when you're in a relationship with someone-- there are going to be some days you have doubt. You're human. And you should expect that there will be some days that your partner will doubt too. You just have to accept that as normal. It happens. People doubt. And you know what? At that particular doubting moment, there might be someone out there who would make you happier. There might be someone who would "get you" a little easier on that particular day. There might be someone with whom you could have more money or a better physical relationship or less disagreement. 

But....

From the relationships I've seen that have lasted and are happy, the hard times and doubt haven't pulled those couples apart. They've brought them together. My parents for example have been together the majority of their lives--43 years-- if you count courtship and marriage. 

And it's not because my mom never got angry at my dad for a stupid reason. 

Or because my dad has never been a jerk, especially in their younger days, from what I understand. 

Or because they've always had money or happiness or the best of everything the world has to offer. 

It's because to my parents-- it's always been more important to them to have each other. 

Even when they're fighting, my mom will tell you that she wouldn't know what to do if he didn't come home. 

Even when my dad just doesn't get what  mom is talking about, he'll tell you he'd rather be confused by her than anyone else on earth. 

Why?

Because they made a commitment to love each other for the rest of their lives. And that commitment comes first. Their promise to love always comes first. 

What is love? (Baby, don't hurt me no more... :-))

That's the other thing-- for a relationship to work-- both parties have to be operating from the same definition of love. 

I know that sounds maybe too obvious to state, but I don't think it is. You should have concrete conversations with your partner about how they define love. What is love to them? Is love a commitment to the relationship? Is it a commitment to a particular person? How does love operate? Who does it put first? What does it value? When does it end? Does it end?

For my parents, if we asked them right now, separately, they would give me the same answer-- God. And then my dad would probably break out the Bible and go to 1 Corinthians 13. 

"Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It does not dishonor others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres. Love never fails."

So many people quote these verses, because they're pretty-sounding and a nice idea, but they don't really read them to live them. 

What is love then? Maybe it's easier to understand what love isn't. 

Love isn't self serving. 

Love doesn't envy. 

Love is not proud. 

Love doesn't boast. 

Love doesn't dishonor others. 

Love is not easily angered. 

Love keeps no record of wrongs. 

Love does not rejoice in evil. 

Does this sound like many modern  relationships you know? Usually, in the world, love is something more akin to :

Love is what makes me happy, and if it doesn't make me happy all the time, it's not love. 

Love always wants what I want all the time. 

Love is always convenient and easy to find. 

Love will make others envy me. 

Love won't demand more of me than I think I can give. 

Love will tell me what I want to hear. 

Love better not ever do me wrong, because the minute that happens, I'm out. 

Love is whatever feels good. 

Those definitions, or even variations of them, are vastly different. One puts self first. The other puts love first. 

And working from two different definitions trying to come to a consensus on what one relationship should be will never end well. 

How you define love affects how you treat the other person. How you value them. Where they fit on your list of priorities. What you do when things aren't working out. What you do when things are working out. What you expect of them. What you expect of yourself. How you define love determines how you define your relationship. 

When two people define love the same way, they want the same things, prioritize the same things, and expect the same things, within reason. When one of them acts out of line with that definition (it happens) the other is more likely to wait it out because they know that they can expect that their partner will always come back to the truth they started from in the beginning. 

That they love each other. And that to both of them, that love means the same thing. 

More than words.

The song "More Than Words" by Extreme is one of my favorite of all time.  One of the earliest memories I have of hearing it is sitting in the cab of Daddy's tractor as a little girl while the radio played.  He was taking me out to see Apples--my "pet cow"-- that day, and letting me do some chores with him on the farm.  We were on a break and he was walking around, putting things away and singing.

I don't remember how old I was at the time, but I remember that the words to the song struck me even then.  I knew then that love was "more than words" and my parents are a perfect example of that... but Daddy particularly so.  He's not the best with words; we don't say I love you every day... in fact, sometimes the things he says are a little malaprop.  But he means well.

And my Daddy has always been love in action... from carrying me to the bathroom in full leg casts, to tolerating me listening to nothing but a single of "Nothing Compares to You" by Sinead O'Connor for an hour and a half drive to Louisville for a surgery.... until finally when we hit the Watterson Expressway, he couldn't take it anymore.

He doesn't have to say he loves me, even though he does say it often.  He shows it even more often.

It's in the big actions:
In the miles he's driven for me (probably hundreds of thousands at this point)
In the times he's listened to me cry over boys, guys, and men.
In the hands he's held after painful medical procedures.
In the yelling he's done at 2 am when I call him with a problem usually the product of a bad decision.
In the time spent trying to take an interest in what interests me, even after I give him a hard time about not listening.

It's in the little actions:
In the skittles he sneaks into my bag when he walks me back to the gate at the airport almost every time I fly home from Kentucky.
In the way he shares a songbook with me at church, and always has Lifesavers Spearmint for me in his pocket.
In the way he hugs me after a long absence, with one hand running through the back of my hair and my face buried in the slight smells of smoke and Downy that are home to me.
In the groceries he buys everytime he comes to visit even when I ask him not to.

My Daddy is love in action.

It used to bother me that he didn't say it much.  That he wasn't silver tongued or good with telling me how he felt.  When I looked for a man in my life, I was convinced I needed someone different.  Someone who told me more.  I liked to hear the words.  I needed to hear them.

But as it turns out, I'd rather have the action.  You can tell someone you love them five times a day, but if your actions don't match your words, you might as well just be saying, "I love me" instead.

Saying "I love you" is nice... but love is a verb.  Love always has time for you.  Love always tries to put you first.  Love cares what you think.

Love is honest, but tactful.  Love is straightforward, but it proceeds with optimistic caution.  Love is inconvenient at times, but keeps no tally of who's done what.

Love is courteous and patient, and it suffers through hard times and wrongdoings.  Love always gives without seeking return and is joyful throughout.

Love moves and breathes, smiles, and stops dead in its tracks for the person it seeks.

Love is so much more than words.

A letter to you, wherever you are, and to me....

I want to know you. You are worth knowing.

You are worth waiting for.  You are worth waking up for--if I've even fallen asleep. 

You are worth doing my hair and my makeup, agonizing over what I'm going to wear, before finally settling on my favorite hip gigging sweater dress and boots. 

You are worth the twenty minutes extra I take to put on and zip up the boots, not because I think you'll notice them at all!, but because you are worth the best I have to offer, and darling, the black boots are it, let me tell you. 

You are worth brushing my teeth a little longer, through one extra recitation of the ABC's backwards in my head. 

It usually takes three. You are worth four.

You are worth my most genuine, toothiest smile. 

You are worth a train ride, a plane ride, a bus ride and two transfers, if that's what I have to do to get to you. 

I would do that for you, because you are worth knowing. 

You are worth the most expensive drink in Starbucks. You are worth sitting on a cold park bench, if that's where I have to go to find you. You are worth all the time it takes for me to like you, and love you, and learn to appreciate you, because you are worth knowing. 

I want to know you-- really know you. I want to sit with you for hours and listen while you tell me what makes you happy, and what makes you angry, and what makes you sad, and what makes you pause, even in your busiest moments. 

I want hear your laugh, and commit it to memory, because I can tell you now, it's my favorite thing about you. 

I want to know where you stand-- on abortion, and politics, and DC vs. Marvel comics. 

I want to know what political figure most inspires you, and the name of the last book you read, and how sweet you'll drink your iced tea. 

Because that last one's important to me. 

And because you're worth knowing. 

And worth dying for too. I want you to know that. 

We're both worth blood, perfect, holy, righteous, pure blood. 

The only kind that could save us both. 

I want to know that you KNOW that. And not just that you know it. That you believe it. And that you act it out in your life. 

Because it's a weighty responsibility to know that you are worth the death of the world's only Blameless One. 

And I want to know that you live out that worth. I want to see it in how you treat others: yourself, the server, the passerby on the street. I want to see it in how you treat me. 

I want to know that you know and you value and you accept your worth. 

And mine. 

And His. 

I want to know, because you are worth knowing. 

And so am I. I am worth knowing because I am His. 

I am worth the best you have to offer and the miles you have to travel and the temporary inconveniences and the time you have to take, because I am His. 

And both of us-He and I-are worth knowing. 

Let it go...

Lately, I've been praying so hard to God to teach me how to let go. I have always been a dweller and I see both good and bad qualities in that... But the way I hold on can often hurt me more than anyone else. 

I especially have a hard time letting go of people. Whether it's a friend who doesn't treat me as I deserve or a romantic interest that is no longer interested or interesting, I can't let go. 

Don't let this make you think I'm some sort of psycho who will stalk a person if he or she has made it clear that I'm not a welcome presence in his or her  life. Quite the opposite, people often tell me that I'm hard to read, or that they're unsure how I feel about them because I can seem distant at times. I force the distance though, because my feelings are too intense to let show. Or maybe I'm not ready to show them yet. Or maybe I'm fearful of the other person's reaction. in reality, once I let you into my life, you're in to stay, and I tend to be loyal to that connection, regardless of what happens between us. 

Now again, this trait isn't inherently awful. Sometimes rekindled friendships are stronger than the initial connection. And I'm happy that I've remained friends with many of the people I've dated. These guys are some of the people who know me best.... But....

There's this period of relationship limbo where my heart seems to cling to anything that reminds me of that person as a sign of hope. 

When I'm trying to let go, I crave space from the situation, and yet, everything seems to remind me (a song, a random person on the street, a movie, some quote I hear) that my heart still has this white-knuckled grip on just the hope that there is something still there that could grow into a relationship. 

It's not about desperation, though I think that's how it's misread sometimes. It's about loving the person. Loving all people. I'm a lover, and someone who will fight for love, even at the lowest points, because love should always win. 

As I grow older though, I see how this inherently good fight can turn inward and be so self-destructive. How it can hold me back and hold my heart back to keep fighting for a prize that is not even there for the taking. 

I see now that I in some sense have wasted years of my life at times holding onto the hope that my love would overcome.... When really, it takes two people fighting for the same end for love to really "conquer all."

The only sole love that has ever conquered all is Christ's love for us when he died on the cross. His love conquered all of our sins and insecurities and brushes with spiritual death. His love is the only love that can overcome it all. 

So I'm laying my cares at the cross today, and asking for His love to overtake my weaknesses. I'm focusing my gaze on Him and His promise to never forsake me. I'm envisioning my white-knuckled grip, not on any earthly Union or person.... But on His hand. I'm holding onto Him, praying that His grip on my heart will help me loosen my own.

A small price to pay...

My freshman year of college, I was really struggling with the existence of God.  I had gone to church my entire life.  I had been taught that He was there.  I had read about Him, read His words, and I had been told of His undying love for me when He let His Son die on the cross for my sins.  I had been saved by His Grace, buried with Him in baptism, and received guidance from His Spirit through my honest prayer and search of the Scripture.

But at this point in my life, I was stumbling through the dark and none of the above morsels of truth shone bright enough to help me see Him there with me.  I was convinced that He was not there.  That He must not exist, and that if He did exist, He had completely abandoned me as unworthy.

As far as I was concerned, I was better off dead.  So much better off that I clutched a razor blade, holding it to my wrist in the women's restroom at Southside Christian Church during a sorority retreat.  

In my head, I was yelling out to Him.... "Show yourself!" almost like I expected Him to swoop down and save me Touched-By-An-Angel-style from this ridiculous exploitation of my own free will.  But the truth is, I wanted to feel Him there.  I wanted to feel anything.  I just wanted to feel.  

I'm going to be frank and say that that year was one of the hardest of my life., as it is for most young women.  I had to adjust to new surroundings, new people, new ways of life.  I was so naive in some ways that I thought college  was going to be so much better than anything I had experienced before.  That I would be surrounded by mature adults who didn't care about the fact that I was different, because we all were.  That I could finally stop focusing on "fitting" or "belonging" somewhere, because none of us would fit, and we'd all belong as misfits together.

Better yet.  None of us would care.

College was that experience in many ways, but it didn't really become that dream experience until I matured into the woman I needed to be to make it happen.

At that particular moment in the bathroom stall my freshman year, all I knew was how alone I felt.  I couldn't see past the blinders of my own loneliness.  Sometimes, loneliness speaks loudest in a crowded room.... and this particular day was no exception.  I had absconded, backpack in hand, into the bathroom to escape the trust exercises and craft circles and story-sharing with women I barely knew, to be in there alone with the only voice I could hear anyway-- the one of the Enemy.

If you know me and you read this blog on the regular, you know that I did not carry out his plan for me that day.  You know that kind words from a sister who entered the restroom to wash her hands--unaware of the torment I was experiencing in that bathroom stall-- stopped me.  They weren't much, those words, but I remember that she told me how excited she was to get to know me better and how glad she was that we had pledged together.

I didn't leave that stall completely unburdened that day.  I still had plenty of work to do on my own to face my demons.... but I did leave that stall.  An act I credit wholeheartedly to that sister and to God.  He didn't "show Himself" to me that day through any miraculous manifestation, but through her words, through her kindness, I could feel that He was there.

Months later, I stood in front of my peers at Centre Christian Fellowship to tell the story of the day I had finally come to see God from the inside of a bathroom stall.

 He is there, in your smile at that scowling stranger on the street.  He is there when you hold the door for the lady behind you at the store.  He is there when you say "Hello,"and make eye contact upon entering an elevator.  You may not think much of short pleasantries directed at strangers, but even the shortest has the potential to change someone's day.

Acknowledging another person, no matter how small the act, shows them that they matter to someone.  That they're here for something.  That maybe a day that to them, feels pointless, actually does have a point.  

For some people: the homeless person on the street, the battered woman living in fear, the children alone and longing for the comforts of a good home, your small pleasantries may be the only kindnesses they see all day.

And I'm not exaggerating.

Be His eyes, ears, and smile for as many souls as you can today.  It's the simplest act of service you can share. 

Elbow room...

There's this scene in the movie, "The Wedding Singer" where Drew Barrymore tells  Adam Sandler specifically that she hates sitting in the aisle seat on a plane, because her elbow always gets smashed by the drink cart each time it passes.

Later on in the movie, her boyfriend at the time, Gary Sinise, has proposed to her, and they're on a flight to Vegas for a quickie wedding.  Drew Barrymore has the aisle seat, and she asks Gary if they can switch, so that she can save her elbows.  "Plus," she says, "I've never seen the bright lights of Vegas before."

Gary Sinise says, "No, I want to stay where I am.  How about I just let you lean over my lap so you can see out the window while we land?"  Drew agrees to this, and at that exact moment, the flight attendant rolls by her seat with the drink cart and slams into her elbow.

The look on her face changes then, because a lightbulb goes on in her head, and she realizes that Gary is not the man for her.  It's a small act, this refusal to move, and by itself it looks like nothing.  But taken in their relationship as a whole, it speaks volumes.  There were many other signs throughout the movie that he was a self-absorbed jerk, and as you're watching it, you almost want to scream out to Drew, "WHAT ARE YOU DOING WITH HIM?  HE DOESN'T DESERVE YOU. DON'T YOU KNOW YOU ARE IN LOVE WITH ADAM SANDLER ANYWAY???????'

But she doesn't.  She's not ready to admit it, and it takes a pretty hard smack in the elbow to bring her to her senses.

Sometimes it's the little things that matter most, because small compromises show a willingness to try and put another's needs before your own, just as a lack of compromise shows that you are more likely to contnually put your own needs first..

I have had my share of "elbow room" moments over the years.  Probably the worst was at 3 am when I stumbled out of bed to try to get to the bathroom while my ex was visiting.  My armbraces were in the other room, so I asked him if he would retrieve them for me.  "No, I'm too tired.  Do it yourself, " he said.  "Do it myself, "I did.  I crawled to the bathroom from the bedroom, did my business, got back down on the floor, and crawled to the living room to bring my armbraces back to bed.

Somewhere in the middle of all that, my face, if I had a mirror, probably looked something like Drew Barrymore's on the plane in The Wedding Singer.  By itself, this small act wasn't much.  He was tired... and very hung over... so I wanted to cut him some slack.  But then I realized, drunk or sober, awake or half-asleep, things like that happened all the time.  It just took me writhing down the hallway in my jammies at 3 am to realize it.

Little things may be little, but sometimes the littlest actions convey a much bigger meaning.

Let me take a selfie....

Imagine that the man (or woman) you love more than life itself has just proposed to you. You're lying there in their arms, planning your future and building your life together, piece by piece. You gaze lovingly into their eyes and they say: "I think I'm finally ok with the way you look now."

Or imagine that you are lying completely nude with your husband or wife. You look up at them to say, "I love you." They tap your rearend and say, "You could really use some work down here."

Or imagine you're with your significant other and you're not feeling particularly attractive that day. Being as they are your best friend, you confide in them that you are not feeling very attractive. "I'm really feeling like a solid 4 out of 10, " you say. 

They say, "Nah, I'd say a 7."

Or imagine that you are considering dating someone. You've gotten red flags to indicate to you that maybe this person doesn't think you're all that attractive. They laud the beauty of others on social media in front of you, but never say a thing to or about you unless prompted. They have admitted to you that they're afraid to show someone your pictures because while they find you attractive in some of them, others make them cringe. And it has become such an issue for this person that they must have a conversation to address it with you. 

What should you do?

My thoughts are these: 

1. You should be with someone who makes you feel like a 10 + everyday. Someone who sees your beauty for what it is and who doesn't care what others think, because they know you are the total package. 

2. You should be with someone who addresses you in love; who is careful of your feelings; and whose concern about your appearance is rooted in your health needs and not in any selfish concern they have for themselves. 

3. You should be with someone who sees the beauty in your heart first. That is so cliche. But trust me on this. The heart is always what is most or least attractive. In 50 years, my friends, we'll all have saggy butts and take wrinkly selfies. What will matter more is that we're still able to give, able to serve, and able to love one another. 

Outliers, Frogs, and Bacon: An Adoption Story

Roughly six years ago, a few big changes descended upon my life, creating a cool, thin haze that blanketed and disoriented me all at once.

For a person who may seem well-adjusted on the surface, I don't always cope with change very well, and this time in my life was no exception.  I was moving-- the third time in three years since relocating to Northern Virginia.  The man I thought was going to be my husband had no interest in coming with me. And looking at my professional future was the equivalent of staring into a loaded gun barrel.... and an unloaded bank account.

I was sad.  I was angry.  I was alone.

Honestly, at that point in my life, I felt truly disabled.  Not in the sense that you might think of the word, but exactly as Merriam Webster defines it. "unfit, unhealthy, unsound, unwell..." completely without purpose.

My boyfriend didn't want me.  I was a horrible roommate.  My job considered me worthless, and I couldn't even find any work in the legal field.... despite applying for job after job after job.

I remember thinking to myself, "I need something to care for, so I won't feel so useless."

I told my parents that I was going to get a dog.  Admittedly, looking back on the decision, it was pretty spur of the moment.  I had no money, only a tiny space for us both, and bad experiences keeping even plants alive.

But I tuned out their objections, though multiple and mostly reasonable, and went to my first Adoption Day hosted by the NoVA SPCA at Weber's Pet Supermarket in Fairfax.  I knew I wanted a small dog, and I knew I didn't have the time for a puppy, so I went into the experience completely unsure of what to expect.  It was my late twenties though-- a time that I'd decided to make completely about me-- and I knew I was going to walk away with a dog.

The Adoption Day was held in late August in the store's back parking lot. and the dogs were unloaded individually from a van so the families present could meet each of them and decide who they wanted to get to know.  I watched as the handfuls of children and older couples and younger couples made their choices, and trotted away happily with a new four-legged friend in tow to discuss the adoption process and complete the trial home-stay paperwork.

There I stood, facing the van in the center of the furry flurry, eyeing the single, untouched cage in the back.

"Hey, what about that little guy?"  I asked the volunteer who was standing nearest me.

"Oh, that's Poncho.  We have to get him out of the van last.  He's not big on crowds, and he doesn't really like the bigger dogs either."

She went into the van, removed his cage, and set it at my feet.  "Be nice, Poncho, " she whispered as she opened the door.  He inched slowly from the cage.... his coat unlike anything I'd ever seen on a chihuahua... a beautiful mixture of tan and black and gray.  He looked like he'd been eating nothing but table scraps... the really good stuff.  A round and rolly 15 pounds, I had to wonder if his foster family had been feeding him foie gras in place of Purina.    

Poncho was disinterested.  In me.  In all of these people.  In this whole process.  His head hung down as the volunteer meandered about the parking lot giving him a chance to relieve himself.  His posture seemed to say, "I do not want to be here, and I do not care very much for this particular life."

Oddly enough, that posture and that air is what drew me faster to him.  I knew just exactly how he felt (or at least I like to think so).  We were both outliers who seemed to be watching the happiness around us from the outside, wanting to take part but not knowing exactly how to break through.

That first day, I just stood there.... letting him walk up to me and sniff my feet, bending down to offer a hand or finger for him to sniff.  "Poncho's a hard sell, " she said. "You have to earn his trust."

I came back to the next Adoption Day, and then again to a third, each time seeing him open up a little more to me.  By the third Saturday, I was the one strolling the lot with him while he marked his territory.  That Saturday (the Saturday before Labor Day weekend) I decided to take Poncho home with me for a trial stay.

And home is where he has been since that Saturday.  I knew it was meant to be from the first day, when I was picking out supplies from the store to bring home with us.  I wanted to buy him a toy, but the SPCA rep said, "He only plays with frogs... he doesn't really like other things."  Just like my dog son, I've collected frogs since elementary school.... and became even more interested in them as a college French major... when I learned that they were used (however derogatorily) to describe French people.  

In the beginning, I adopted Poncho because I had a broken heart and thought I needed a dog....  but he has been so much more than just something I "thought I needed...".  He has become my friend, my confidant, my dance partner, my bacon taste-tester, my psychologist, my in-house jester, my pillow, my protector, and my family.

 Sure, we have had our ups and downs.  I have chased him  through the parking lot on Thanksgiving Day, cleaned his accidents from walls, carpets, clothing and so many other places where they just should not have been, and nursed him back to health and confidence after a bloody fight with a bigger dog.

This past Saturday someone tried to get into my front door.  They opened it halfway, and Ponch shot outside, growling and barking wildly.  I ran out after him, as fast as my bare feet could carry me., yelling, "Pooooooncccchhhhhhoooooo!" completely out of breath.    I heard two screams, both human, and feet hitting the pavement.  When I arrived at the door, he was sitting next to it, outside, waiting for me.  He looked over as if to say, "Mama, there were some strange dudes out here, but I took care of it."

Sure enough, they were nowhere to be found.  I told him to come back inside, clearly shaken up, and he jumped up on my leg as if to say, "It's all good.  I'm right here.  We're fine." We went back inside, and he stayed close to me the rest of the night, sensing that I wanted him there.
Some skeptics might say that I was selfish in adopting him... how dare I think I could take good care of a dog??  Who cares about what I need.  It's about him.  And they're right, Poncho's needs do matter.... they matter more to me than the needs of most people. But I say the skeptics' opinions don't matter.  Poncho's opinion is the only one that matters. And if this past Saturday proves anything, it proves that I didn't just adopt Poncho.  Poncho has adopted me.

The Ice Bucket Challenge: My Perspective

I've posted a couple of things on my Facebook-- an article and a video-- that have been critical of the IceBucket challenge.  People just don't seem to understand why I would be so critical of efforts to raise awareness about a disability when I work in the field of disability rights. 

That's just it. I work in the field of disability rights. I'm thrilled that all of these people are donating money to help find a cure for ALS, a fatal condition with no cure. 

But as someone who has worked for and alongside people with ALS for the last 13 years of my life (yes, you read that right) I wonder where all of these celebrities, and public figures, and ice dumpers with their big checks have been before now. 

Where was their motivation? Answer: there was none. So why did it suddenly appear, full steam ahead?

I'm not saying this is true in every case, but I do think narcissism plays a contributing factor. The world can see the good they do, can watch them feel the momentary discomfort of  cold water cascading down their bodies on You Tube-- a moment of discomfort that compares NOTHING to the months and years of discomfort that people with ALS experience while losing control of their bodies, and ultimately, their lives. 

And since we're on the subject of discomfort.. Do you know what people with ALS need more than your discomfort or your money??

Your friendship. 

Your love. 

Your support. 

I don't like these videos because they perpetuate the sense of "otherness". Many people don't know someone with ALS. To them, they're just these "poor people" off "suffering somewhere."

But here's the truth. Anyone could develop ALS. Or any other disability for that matter. 

And from what I've seen of people with ALS, they do all they can not to suffer, for as long as they can, fully living their lives until the fullness is drained from them, without their consent. They live with ALS, until they don't live anymore. 

And it is uncomfortable to think about... But you could become one of "those people" everyone feels so sorry for. 

You, yourself, could acquire a disability. 

And take it from the perspective of someone who already has one -- no amount of public dunking videos-- from Martha Stewart or Justin Bieber, or even the President himself will change that. 

They won't affect how the disability ravages anyone's lives. They will make a positive impact on awareness--yes. But I'd much rather have someone become aware by getting to know me, befriending me, working with me for the cause. 

Because we're all in this together. All under the same ice bucket. And we're all eventually headed toward the same end. 

The Day I became Dizzy Gillespie....

It has been awhile since my last update in this blog... Primarily because... well... I haven't felt like updating. There wasn't much to say. I'm still healing from last month's crazy (though unsurprising) events, and I've decided to just let that happen naturally and not to be hard on myself if it takes longer than I would like. 

My heart is big, but with its largesse comes a certain fragility. It seems that, for me, there can't be one without the other. I'm proud to be me. I'm confident in the way I love others, wholly and completely, and from my soul. And even though it's arguable whether some would deserve such love at times, if you're with me, that's what you get. 

It's the only love I know how to give. Bruises heal, but my love... It's a forever thing... 

Unfortunately though, so is my clumsiness.  Such is true in my love life, as well as in my everyday activities...

At least I'm consistent?

Last night, I stumbled out of bed, half asleep around 1 am to use the bathroom. I don't usually take my armbraces into the bathroom with me. Typically, I prop them up on the door frame and walk in unaided. 

Last night though, in my sleepy fog, was different. 

I walked straight into the bathroom and my right armbrace slipped on the rug next to the shower. I fell face-first into the toilet. 

As soon as my head hit the porcelain, I knew I was bleeding. I could feel the warmth running down my chin. 

I checked to see if my teeth were all there. Then I just laid in the floor for what seemed like the next half hour (but was probably more like 10 minutes) holding my t-shirt to my face applying pressure to lessen the bleeding. 

I debated calling the ambulance, but decided against it. This was not a real emergency. Just a minor fall worth a few stitches. 

No big deal.  Just impaled by my own tooth. That's all. (I took these pictures to send to my parents last night to show them why I was headed to the ER.)

I was able to call a cab and was at the ER in 20 minutes. The face is a particularly sensitive area, but this wasn't my first time with face stitches, so it was old hat. 

I did however find it ironic that I had to wear a "fall risk" bracelet for the duration of my stay. Given my current state, I thought that fact seemed pretty obvious. 

About 3 hours and 3 stitches later, I was back home walking the dog around 4 in the morning before heading back to sleep. 

All in all, the fall could have been much worse, and things at the ER went pretty smoothly. I was grateful that those 3 stitches were my only damage. 

But as I was riding in the cab home last night, the cabbie, who had driven me to work a few times before, said, "I know you live alone... but you don't have any friends you could call??"

I sat in silence, because in that moment, I felt very alone. 

I did have people I could call. I'm blessed in this area to have a number of friends who live relatively close and wouldn't have minded to help. 

But to be honest, when I fell, my main concern was getting myself to the ER on my own...Not waking someone else or their family up for a situation I could easily handle alone. 

 

Sure, it sometimes makes me lonely to think that I don't have a "person" for this... Or any of life's crazy situations. But at the same time, I don't need one either. I want people to want me around because they want me around, not because they feel obligated to help me. 

I am a person who likes to serve others, so I understand the desire to want to get to know someone through serving them... But at the same time, I would feel much more comfortable asking someone to help me if that person has already made an effort to get to know me outside of any acts of service. 

 

I am a person to know, not just something to do. And I think that fact can get lost when someone sees me through eyes of pity. To a typically functioning person, it might seem that my life is harder, or that I have "so much trouble" with certain tasks...just because I live life differently....

And maybe because I tend to have an accident every 7 years or so (my last er trip was in 2007...so I guess I was due.)

But I don't see it that way at all. I think quick on my feet... And lying on the floor after a fall for that matter...

I am unfazed by blood, guts, gore, and most pain. 

I don't freak out and go all drama queen in unpleasant or unexpected situations. 

Accidents happen. 

Sure, I may have more experience with them than some... But my experiences have cultivated in me characteristics that I love.

Characteristics that make me flexible and approachable and not easily shaken. 

That make me a strong will and a sturdy soul. 

Characteristics that make me a good friend. A strong advocate. 

A capable wife. A confident mother. 

I am more than just a "poor girl who needs help" or "a set of unfortunate circumstances..."

I am the soul that God created me to be. 

I know that He believes in my abilities. He proves His belief in me and His love for me over and over....each time He allows me to experience something new or difficult and push through to the other side....

And if God, Who knows all of me because  I am His, has such confidence in me as His Daughter and His Servant, who are any Earthly beings who only know what they choose to see in me to think otherwise?? 

Low points...

All weeks have them, and I guess you could say I've hit mine.

Annnnnnnd it's Tuesday.

My apartment smells of mildew from a weekend washer issue, which flooded the hallway and part of my dining room.

I met a guy last week, who thought I was cool sitting down.  Cool enough to have a 4 hour conversation with, flirt with, and laugh with, but who quickly exited the picture once he saw what I look like standing up.

The guy who I've been "talking to" for over a year now, finally let the cat out of the bag that he wasn't interested in having an actual relationship with me-- just pseudo-relationship like behavior and no commitment, because as his words IN AN E-MAIL said, "if I wanted you we'd be in a relationship."

Apparently, he's none too interested in maintaining a friendship either or he would have chosen to be less of a complete and total jerkface about it.

And come to think of it... the cat wasn't really in the bag... it was out prancing around, kneading on top of my stomach, I just chose to ignore that it was there... because well, he said he loved me, and that I was perfect for him.

Multiple times.

And.

And.

And.

What?  All that other shady behavior actually matters????

Oh.

Well, Wednesday has the potential to be a much better day.... so I'm looking forward to climbing out of the valley and into the sunshine.

Because I'm worth mountaintops and sunshine and people who love me standing up, sitting down, and passed out on the ground...

Or from 350 miles away even....

And so are you.

Dear 16 Year Old Me

Dear 16-Year-Old Me,

You got your heart broken today, and I'm so sorry.  I'm sorry because I know it hurts.  You're a sensitive girl, and you think like a Jane Austen novel.... so I know you feel it more than most. It's ok to be a feelings person, and it's ok to cry, but you need to learn to wear your feelings.  Don't let your feelings wear you.  (I don't know why I'm telling you this; you won't listen.... but you should).  I'll go ahead and tell you right now that you are going to spend the next 2 to 3 years pining over the guy who just broke your heart.  Again, that's ok, because I know you loved him.... but I want you to understand something.

This was not your fault.  You did nothing wrong.  It had to end; it wasn't meant to last forever.  Promises fall so free and easy from teenage lips, because they are taken lightly.  Tomorrow seems like eternity sometimes when you are young, and you are not thinking about who you will be in a day, a week, or a month-- much less ten years.  Let me let you in on a secret.  You may even think you know who you are now, but you don't.

Remember though, this was not his fault either.  Just as you don't know who you are, he doesn't know who he is.  You both need to meet yourselves for the first time, and honestly, it is better if you make those introductions alone.  That way, you can be sure the you that you get to know is the pure, unadulterated you--  the you you want to be, and not the one somebody else expects. You're a people-pleaser, but you need to learn how to find your own voice.  The truth is, you can't add to others' happiness when you're unhappy.  It's going to take you a while to discover this truth, so you should start digging for it now.

You need to shape your own self without worrying about how to fit into another person's mold.  But if you need guidance, look to God.  Use His word as instruction on who to become.  Keep your gentle and kind spirit, and your patience.  You are going to need them so much in the years that follow.

And remember to thank Him for what you had.  You spent almost every day for 4 years with one of your best friends-- someone who did not mind carrying your books, giving you piggy-back rides, driving you around, or responding to strangers who were rude to you.  Because you two grew up together, he knew you, and knew that you were no different from any other girl your age.

He looked into your eyes and saw you for who you really are.

Already, you have had an experience that is rare for most people your age who have disabilities.  You don't appreciate that fact now, because you're sad... but it's true.  And you should thank God for the gift He's given you in that boy.

Also, appreciate how kind and patient he was with Matthew-- that he talked to him, laughed with him, and made an effort to understand him all the time.  Unfortunately, some of the guys you bring home later will be complete jerks to Bucky... or just not speak to him at all.  Remember that you want someone who loves your favorite person as much as you do.... and you are going to be able to tell a lot (and very quickly) about a man's character by the way he treats your brother.

One last thing--try not to be so angry at this young man later in life.  He'll try to befriend you; accept him.  If you don't, it will be a decision you'll regret later.... over and over.

And eat the chocolate rose that your Daddy just brought home.  It will make you feel better.

Love,

You at 32

Smoke and Mirrors...

With everyone I've truly loved thus far, there has been a point when I knew that the relationship was over.  A point of no return.... usually one at which I've felt sadness, devastation, defeat.... any number of negative emotions.

But today marked the end of what has been a tumultuous year and 2 months (almost exactly to the day) with an individual who I know loved me... but kept pushing me away.  Each time he came back (because I know him, sometimes better than he knows himself) I would let him back into my life, hoping that this would be the time, that this would be the day that he'd finally allow himself to commit.

My family and friends told me I was crazy for this, and maybe I was... but if I had to replay the past year again.... I'd tell you I wouldn't do anything differently.  I love him, flaws and all, and I will always care.

We get each other without speaking.  We like the majority of the same activities.  We are both searching, on a journey with God. We have hearts for serving others. We have the same values and morals, and he makes me laugh on bad days.  Despite the fact that he is from the Northeast, his speech is chock full of things Freddie Hunt would say, and just speaking to him makes me feel at ease and at home in a way that I've never felt with anyone else.

Recently, we got into honest discussions about why it has been so hard for him to just commit to me and let us see how things go.  He said that his family is very judgmental, and he worries that they won't accept me.

He doesn't know this, but I didn't believe him.  His statement was just a smokescreen for what he was really trying to say--that it was nice to be with me when no one was looking or when we were on our own in a city miles away from anyone he knew... but that realistically, he just couldn't hack the thought of admitting to his family, his friends, and even himself that he loved a woman with a disability.

He didn't want to hurt me, and I love him for that.

In the beginning, I don't think he thought he'd ever grow to love me... he was playing the field... dating online.... a few other girls and me.  He's a bit of a player, but I knew that going in, and I've always liked the charming ones.  We hit it off immediately.  We had emotional chemistry, physical chemistry, every kind of chemistry there is.  We prayed together.  He would call me and we'd talk every evening when he left his second job at a concert venue.  Things blossomed rapidly between us.  We'd seen each other less than a handful of times and were talking about marriage and moving options for either or both of us.  But distance makes things hard... and there comes a time when you have to decide whether to go all-in or go your separate ways.

He would always choose to leave.  But knowing him, I knew he'd be back.... so while I was hurt by temporary absences, they never fazed me that much.  But today.... today is different...

I made him talk about a situation with another woman.  I asked him why her and not me.

And his answer was, "I like that I met her in person and not online."

I call shenanigans.

Again, he was avoiding the real answer to the question... and I told him so.

Real love doesn't care where you meet.  I love him.  I'm certain I'll always care.

But today... at the end of this conversation, instead of feeling rejection, devastation or defeat.... I felt peace.

Complete and utter peace.

Relief almost.

Because I know what I want out of life... I want to be surrounded by people who accept me for who I am truly... no matter where we are or who we are with.

If I experience love, I want a love that is honest, even when it hurts.

I want a love that won't run away, even when it's scared or angry or tried or tested.

I want a love that puts me first.  Because I know the right man won't be consumed with what others think of the fact that I have armbraces.  He himself won't care.... heck, it might even make me more endearing to him.  I know these men are out there.... because I've seen my friends meet them, fall in love, and marry them.

I'm not giving up on love just because one man couldn't get over himself enough just to see what was there between us.  Because the connection was there, it is there, and even he doesn't deny it.

Love is a choice, and he didn't choose me.  He could have, but he chose fear instead.

Today, as I was praying for him, it was almost as though God patted me on the shoulder and said, "He doesn't love you the way I do.  He can't right now. It's ok to let go, and be with those who do."

And so I unclenched my fists, and deleted our text conversation, feeling nothing but incredible calm.

Because through this man's immature, selfish, human actions, God has taught me what true love really is... by showing me how to choose daily to love another human being even when they don't act as though they love me.

And so that's what I'm going to do... I'm going to keep choosing love.  Because God is love, and I am His child.

Even the good fall down sometimes...

If you know me well, which most of you who read this blog do, you know that I'm not a big drinker. I like to have an ocassional drink once in a while, and I usually stop at one. 

One obvious reason for this is my faith. The bible says, "Do not be given to much wine" (Ephesians 5:18; 1 Timothy 3:8). We are also instructed to live soberly and in a way that is not a stumbling block to our brothers but that serves each other in love ( 1 Corinthians 8:9; Galatians 5:13). 

The second reason I don't drink much is because of how I was introduced to alcohol. My parents have not had a drink for as long as I have known either of them, save the occasional hot toddy when they were sick. So I got to know alcohol on my own in my semester abroad in Europe. I was 19 years old. 

For me this was a good thing because I learned to appreciate wine for how it tastes and how it can enhance the foods it is paired with. I learned about the different types of beer and how they are made. I learned to appreciate alcohol the way many Europeans do , as a part of life and something to enjoy ( usually with a meal) rather than an apparatus to help me avoid my problems. 

And then something changed. I started dating an Irish man. Now , I'm not saying that he completely changed the way I looked at alcohol... But in a way... Yes. This man would get so drunk and/or high that he would forget entire weekends. I spent many a weekend in college helping him try to piece together his whereabouts after a "day of darkness" as he would call it. He used alcohol as a means of coping with life  and as the time passed and he became a bigger part of my life, so did I. 

He did not share my faith or desire to live sobermindedly from a Christian perspective... and at that time, it was easy just to drink a little more with him. It tasted good. Drinking was fun. It helped me forget my cares...loosen up... What could be bad?

I never lost entire weekends to drink, but I did pass out on ocassion. The drinking led to loss of inhibition and poor judgment, which caused me to behave in ways I would not otherwise. As with most drunks, right?

I threw up on cab drivers' shoes. 

Lost my clothes in hallways. 

Was almost cited for public intox in a restaurant in Arlington when I refused to sit up in a booth. I reportedly told the server, "I'm a new lawyer. You won't arrest me."

I fell far and I fell hard away from the relationship with alcohol that I used to know. I forgot about my convictions and just as casually as my relationship with drink started, it evolved into something totally toxic. 

My relationship with alcohol changed after the night that I passed out after drinking such a combination of booze that my then-boyfriend had to have a cab driver and a hotel employee help me up the steps of the Comfort Inn where he was staying on his visit from Kentucky. 

I remember very little from that night, but what matters is what I remember about the next morning. We had apparently done things together that I would not have consented to soberly; he knew this, but he said he "thought it would be ok since I wouldn't remember anyway."

Not only that, but I woke up covered in my own dried vomit, without clothes, unclear of anything past about 9:30 pm the night before. The only recollection of what happened that night was his, and to this day, I just have to trust that he told me the truth. 

I went to work that morning two hours late (because I had to go home and change) and feeling the most sick I think I have ever felt in my life. I was sore, lethargic and headachey, yes. But I also had unexplained bruises and scratches and no idea how they appeared. 

To me, those were worse. 

I have never felt as dirty as I did that next morning. 

And I couldn't take it back. I didn't even really know what "it" had been, because I didn't remember. 

That was when I decided to change my relationship with alcohol. I stopped drinking. I didn't buy it. I had one bottle of red wine in my wine rack from a visit of his that stayed there until last August when I drank a glass with a friend. 

Recently, I bought a case of hard cider. And then another. And then another. I would occasionally have one after work or on Saturday or with a meal. 

It is something I drink on ocassion to enjoy-- not to get drunk. I want to reestablish the appreciation I had for alcohol in the past and enjoy it, without it taking hold of me. 

But tonight, I realized that the toxic relationship I had with alcohol is not buried that deep below the surface. 

I was feeling broken heated. I wanted to escape. 

So I drank a bottle. 

And then another  

And then another. 

And half another. 

And I didn't realize how drunk I had become until I fell face-first into an open refrigerator. 

And there I was. Staring at my problem right in the face. 

The problem, you see, is not the alcohol. It never has been. The problem is use of the alcohol to cope. I wasn't where I should have been-- on my knees praying to God or at the dining room table with my Bible open. 

I was letting myself wallow in sorrows when I could have been imploring for His help to pull me out. 

He had to throw me into the crisper drawer of my refrigerator to get my attention.... but now, as I sit here drinking my second bottle of water 2 hours later... I see. 

I am not perfect.  I am human. I am flawed. I sin everyday , sometimes in ways I would not expect even knowing myself. 

But I have His saving grace. And His forgiveness. And His love... All enough to pull me through any situation. 

And tomorrow, thank God, is a different day. And with His help, I will live it differently. 

The Anna-Banana

Also known as the jerk move a guy makes by declaring himself to be in a relationship with either a real or fictitious human being on social media in order to put an abrupt end to another relationship he has claimed to be pursuing in real life. 

It is called the Anna Banana because that is the actual name of the first woman I was "replaced" by via social media. 

I wouldn't have used her name to coin the maneuver but for the fact that I have now been Anna-Banana-ed twice... By the same individual. 

Who am I? GW Bush?

Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice.... Well, you fooled me twice. 

I'm a sucker. 

Who apparently falls in love with men whose maturity levels haven't progressed past high school. 

Poker Face

What I'm about to say is hard. I should preface it with this: I'm not trying to have a pity party today, but sometimes, life isn't worth a lot without those days  where you lay your cards on the table face up and keep it real. 

Sometimes I don't like being me. 

And not because I'm blonde or have a Sourhern accent or don't drive. 

Not because I hate how I put off laundry day or leave the milk out at least once a week in my sleepy stupor. 

Not even because I can take things personally when people don't mean them to be personal or because I can have an awkward sense of humor at inappropriate times. 

But for the obvious reason. 

Sometimes I do not like having a disability. At all. Sometimes I hate it. 

Yes, hate. 

You know how "they" say there's a thin line between love and hate?

Well, the commonality between love and hate is that they both require you to care. To love something you have to care about it. And to hate something, you have to care enough to invest energy to fuel your disdain. 

Most of the time I love being me. I embrace who I am, because my disability has given me so much: a passion for civil rights work, an amazing,  eclectic group of friends, and a faith in God that is renewed each time I wake another day. 

I appreciate my body, made in His image. 

I appreciate my work borne from my own life. 

I appreciate the people I know who can truly love me completely-- who let me breathe out, laugh at myself, and who I honestly know would walk three miles with me without one look of pity or request that I pick up the pace. 

But even with all the joy it brings me, it gets old. 

The looks of pity from random strangers on the street. 

Walking past a window and seeing myself in the reflection, realizing why they give me that look. 

Explaining at least once a week that no, my life is not "hard" or "difficult" or "heroic "... It is my life. The only one I've ever had and ever known. 

Going into a shoe store, seeing women my age with fantastic, sexy, colorful shoes, and hearing them talk about the hundreds of dollars of shoes they have in their closet. 

I think, "I have hundreds of dollars in my closet too... Only I get excited when I can find something that doesn't look like it should have come from an orthopedic store or wear out after one 10-hour wear."

Sometimes I am angry. Sometimes, I don't want to take 10 minutes just to put on my shoes in the morning. 

Sometimes, I want to walk into a dance studio and sign up for a hip hop class without the word "adaptive" in front of it. 

Sometimes, when I lie alone at night, I wonder what's really holding me back from finding love. 

Let's see--there was the guy who broke up with me because I reminded him of his grandma. 

The guy who broke up with me because he thought being with me made him seem he had more of a disability. 

Or the most recent guy who could never give me a reason on the whole... and while I know in my head disability probably had little to do with his lack of commitment.... it fits the pattern and seems like a fairly easy scapegoat at the moment. 

Honestly, I liked getting my heart broken by a gay man the best because 1. I knew even walking away that he loved me. and 2. I knew our breakup had nothing to do with the two metal sticks I carry. 

But I digress...

I have to sell myself every day. We all do. At work. In our dating lives.  With every new person we meet. 

But today-- I'm tired of selling. 

So, here you go. Here I am. 

I have a disability. It's here. It's not going anywhere. Every morning when I wake up it will be there. And that will be the case the entirety of my Earthly life. And sometimes I hate that--yes. 

But what I hate more is how others see it. I abhor this constant expectation and assumption that everything I have ever achieved in my life  has been in spite of my disability. 

 

No. No. No. No. 

This attitude. This " overcoming" piece of bull (excuse my French) is exactly what I hate. 

I didn't graduate high school in the top of my class in spite of my disability. I graduated at the top of my class because I worked harder than most of the people at the bottom. 

Why did I work harder? Because I have a disability .... And I have to sell myself. Because that lady who pities me on the street expects less of me than I do, and maybe, sometimes, so do you. 

This is the same reason I have three law licenses and 2 graduate degrees and speak 2 languages. The same reason I jump out of planes and run races and row boats. 

The same reason that I have loved and been loved and that I know I will ultimately find the love of my life. 

Because I live. I live hard, fast, deliberately, and with purpose. I live with a disability. A part of me that pushes me to achieve from my core. My disability is not an obstacle in my path. It is a catalyst to my success. My disability forces me to focus on who I am, and what I can do, and how I can get to where He wants me to be. While society might harp on what I can do in spite of it, I am constantly thinking of what He will allow me to achieve because of it. 

Because I know that where I am weak, God sees me as strong. The life I've been given was given to me for a purpose, and for this reason, I could never "hate" it for long. My life is a gift, exactly as I'm living it. Right now. Today. 

Even on bad days. 

Sure, I may wake up some days and hate my armbraces,  my feet, my accent, my hair, whatever. 

But i know that I am not less. None of those things make me less.  I am more. I don't do anything in spite of my disability. Everything I do is because of it. It's part of who I am-- who He's made me. (We all know God don't make junk). In my disability He's given me another source for drive, another motivation to serve, and another reason to live just a little harder, faster, stronger-- seeking His joy and ways to share it while on Earth. 

But if He's let living with my disability teach me anything, it's that this life is not about living happily ever after. 

The point is that we live. 

A blow to the ego....

I remember sitting in my parents' dining room at Christmas, defending myself. I explained that I knew I loved this person that I'd seen twice, and talked to since April, because "he just gets me."  

I knew I sounded crazy, for lack of a better term, and I was "crazy" in love.

I've not had many great loves in my life.... but I've been blessed to have some... and I would consider this person one of them.  From the moment we met, we both agreed  that it was as though we had known each other forever.... almost since the beginning of time.  The first time we met, we compared it to the Barenaked Ladies song, "It's All Been Done," because the whole weekend felt like an intense series of deja vu experiences, one right after the other. See the video below if you have no idea what I'm referencing.... though clearly BNL weren't singing about people, but about the nine lives of a cat.

But I digress.....

I'm sure everyone who reads this blog knows how I felt, and that I don't fall often, but that when I do fall, it is fast and hard.  My dad knows this too; we are very similar in the way we deal with our emotions, and he has always taught me to see the good in people.  We both see the good, sometimes to a fault.

"Sissy," he said.  "Just don't be too hungry.  I just don't want you to get hurt."  I knew what he meant; he wanted me to lower my expectations about this relationship and this person, not to be so insistent that things work out if it turned out that they clearly weren't working.  

But at the time, I thought to myself , "I won't let it get to that point.  I'm not desperate."

And then, it happened.  The man in question and I were having what I'll term a "lively discussion" concerning an e-mail that I had sent, imploring him (I suppose I could even use the word begging here) not to run again.  He had just come back into my life after another absence, and I had this feeling (call it woman's intuition) that he was about to bolt again.  I loved him, and I didn't want to lose his companionship, so I was asking him to just hang with me... to give it a real chance....

And you know what he said?  He said I sounded desperate.

And you know what else?       He was right.

I was.  I wanted to feel from this person, just once, that he felt the same love for me as I did for him.

I wanted to feel for 5 seconds like I could be sure he wasn't going to up and leave the next time a pretty girl walks by or he meets someone kinda cool on plentyoffish or okcupid.  

He had been using me like a revolving door, going into and out of my life on a whim here and there, chasing whichever girls looked more desirable to him at the moment.  Sometimes these quick comings-and-goings would involve rash actions.  Sometimes, he would completely blindside me with his affections for another person, but every time, I could sense a change in him beforehand.  I could never quite articulate what was about to happen... but I knew "the winds of change were blowin' wild and free..."  

And then, on the heels of another wind,  he would come back, and say that he loved me... and for whatever reason, I'd believe him.  

We repeated this cycle over and over.  Why would he lie, I thought?  Love is a choice.  He doesn't have to love me, but he is choosing to do so.  

No.  He was choosing to love himself.  It was never about me, always about him.  We'd be fine for awhile.  He'd leave for some other woman.  He'd come back after it didn't work, and he'd always say that he didn't want a relationship because:

1.  he needed to focus on him.

2. he didn't want to jump in.

3. he'd been hurt before and didn't want to repeat the past.    

Ok, fine.  But can you really say that you love someone, and then in the same breath say that you promise them... absolutely nothing?

Not next week?  Not tomorrow?  Not even the rest of the day, if you don't feel like it?

What is love if if it doesn't involve at least a short-term unspoken commitment?

Well, I can tell you what it's not.

It's actually not love.  Lust, maybe.  Dependency, maybe.  Boredom, maybe.  But not love.

And just like that, my "not love" vanished in the middle of a text conversation about juvenile delinquency last Thursday... 

Am I surprised? No, I could sense it was about to happen.

Besides, it's all been done before.