Normalcy

Last night I found out that the guy I had dated throughout most of college, and whom I was certain I was going to marry until just a few years ago, was married recently to someone else. This "someone else" is a woman with whom he'd admittedly had at least an emotional affair while we were dating. She is someone he began to talk about all of the time as our relationship drew to a close. She is also 22 years older than he.

That being said, I don't know her, and I'm sure she is a perfectly nice lady; she convinced my ex to start going to church, which honestly, was more than I was able to do in our many, many years of discussion. I truly hope that he's happy, which was all I ever wanted for him anyway, and I wish them nothing but the best.

None of this, of course, changes the fact that I couldn't fall asleep until three this morning, crying and burying my swollen eyes into the pillow, thinking about the plans that he and I had made together, and how he could talk such an incredible game about our life together, our future children, and growing old, but he just couldn't commit.

I knew from the day that we met in the Centre post office when I was headed home from CCF with my good friend, Vanessa, that there was going to be something special between us. After he shook my hand and left, I looked at Vanessa and said, "I think I'm gonna marry him."

What followed in the years after was a relationship tumultuous enough to have its own soap opera, with intense ups and downs, multiple break ups, break downs, and reunifications. Everyone in my life had an opinion about this guy, and I chose to ignore most of them. One thing was certain: the intensity of our relationship made it a very passionate one, and the way I felt about him was unlike anything I'd ever experienced, or have yet to experience again.

When I moved to DC and he was in his last year of law school, things heated up quickly. We talked on the phone and through IM and e-mail. He helped me through sadness after I had declared my love for a good friend. I never will forget our conversation on Valentine's Day 2008. He said, "Jess, someday he's going to realize what he missed out on with you. I have."

Before I realized how quickly things were moving, he was visting me for weeks at a time. Things felt so natural with him because we knew each other so well... and the undeniable passion was still there. He could communicate volumes to me with just one look, and it's something that I miss to this day. We made each other laugh and he knew what I was thinking before I even opened my mouth.

The days between each visit grew longer, and we were talking marriage and children. Through all of the serious scheming and planning, I knew something just wasn't quite right. He would often express his insecurity about the fact that we both had disabilities, and how he could see all he hated of himself in me. This, in turn, made me insecure, and I questioned his love for me. He accused me of being too "results-oriented" and said that if I was just patient, our plans would eventually happen.

It was then that I began to suspect he didn't really want to marry me, because as everyone who has read "He's Just Not That Into You" knows, when a guy wants to be with you, he will. Meanwhile, he was lying to others, including his parents, about where he was when he flew to visit me... and I didn't find out until later that he had actually made up a fictious identity for a girlfriend he claimed to be seeing while visiting me... but she was nothing like me at all.

I told him that I would do what I needed to do, move wherever I needed to move to be with him. He was the love of my life. The more I begged him to just tell me what he wanted, the less he was around, and the only real signs of his presence in my life were the playlists he'd created on my Rhapsody.com account and the sporadic charges he made to my debit/credit cards; some with my permission, some without.

After not talking with him for two weeks, our last conversation was on gchat. He told me he couldn't give me the love and support I needed, and that was that. Years of my love, time, and effort were brushed aside with the stroke of an Enter-key and one instant message.

I tried calling him a few times after that, crying when I heard his voicemail, but never leaving a message. I also e-mailed him to try to get back some of the money he owed me. He promised he'd send it. I sent him my address three times, and I never saw a dime.

Call me crazy, but last night when I found out that not only was he married, he was also honeymooning in Ireland (which, incidentally, requires money) I felt more than a little hurt. It was as though the thousands of dollars I'd spent for him and his well-being meant nothing. Not only that, our time together meant nothing. It meant so little in fact that he couldn't even tell me himself that he was marrying a person who in my eyes was "the other woman."

And what did she have that I didn't? Certainly not more love. I'm convinced no one will ever care for him the way I did. But she did have something. One thing. Normalcy. She didn't have a disability.

I remember a day when we walked to PF Chang's from my apartment in Fairfax, VA, and we had to sit outside at one of the benches to wait for our table. In a rare moment, he reached over and grabbed my hand, lifted it, and kissed it gently. I smiled at him, tearing up a little. He was happy to be seen with me. Once we'd eaten and we were back at my place, relaxing on the living room couch, he started talking about how proud he was that he'd held my hand in public, how he'd had to think about it first. "You know, everyone expects we'll be together, because we both have disabilities, and I don't like that."

What he said might sound repulsive, but it's actually not as foreign as one might think. Many of my friends with disabilities have expressed to me that they would rather date or marry someone without a disability, someone more "normal" than they, if not for more than the simple fact that they want to be seen as attractive by a "normal" person.

I've never really understood that mentality. Isn't normal relative? Doesn't everyone have their quirks? I've never made having a disability or lacking a disability a requirement for my mate, and why should I? Their differences don't define them, just as mine don't define me. And sure, an able-bodied guy might be able to help me with more physical tasks.... but no one is going to know what it's like to have a disability better than another person who has one. There are superficial pros and cons to either side.

What matters to me is how a man treats me, how well we converse, and if he can make me smile. I won't lie and say that I don't want to be found attractive by able-bodied guys either. I do, but if I had a nickel for everytime some guy compared me to his grandma for one reason or another, I'd be a filthy rich woman.

Really, all I want is this: someone who sees the me I see; the me inside--my heart and soul. The person I really am.... because he may wake up with a wife on crutches one day or a wife in a wheelchair the next, but I'm still going to be an avid reader who sleeps on the left side of the bed, loves her chihuahua more than most people, and could eat her weight in guacamole. Those are the things that make me normal... nothing else.

Don't You Want Me, Baby?

When I was around 12-13, I had hit that awkward stage in growth. I had already gone through the beginning phases of puberty-- I was somewhat of an early bloomer-- and my body just couldn't keep up with the raging hormones tearing through my person and my psyche like a hurricane. One for which I was definitely ill-prepared.

It was also around that time that I began to notice boys. There was one in particular who I'd like to call my first crush. He was actually my best friend at the time, and someone who helped me through my awkwardness more than I think he will ever realize. But as crushes tend to do, he moved on, quicker than I expected, and I was left with a confused head and a broken heart.

"Why," I pondered, "wouldn't he want me?" We loved the same tv shows, books, and music. We loved the same God. We could talk for hours. We made each other laugh. In my mind, we were perfect for one another. Why didn't he think so, too? What was wrong with me?

I began to watch my friend with the girls who had become his new friends and compare myself to them. They were all older, taller, and thinner than me. So pretty. And none of them had a disability.

Don't get me wrong; I was a pretty little girl. I look back at pictures now, and I see what I guess he must've seen in me then. But at the time, all I saw was a fat lump, positioned between two metal sticks. It's true that I was a little lumpy. I wasn't finished growing, and hadn't yet achieved comfort in my new, maturing body. I was overweight, and could stand to lose a few pounds. I was convinced that losing weight would make him want me. It would make everybody want me, right? After all, I couldn't control the fact that I had to walk around between two metal sticks... but I could control what was between them. I was going to lose so much weight that no one would even notice my disability anymore; I'd be too pretty for them to focus on that, or any of my other flaws.

I started out slowly, skipping meals and telling my parents I wasn't hungry for more than one meal a day. It was still summer at this point, and I could get away with being "too tired" or "too hot" or even "too sad" to eat, since what I considered to be "the break-up" was still really fresh in my mind. I was exercising a lot too, going on long walks in the evening and spending the majority of my day at marching band camp. The pounds began to melt away, and I was getting positive feedback from my family and friends, telling me to keep up the good work.

I decided to kick it into high gear, and what followed in the next few months continues to be a blur to me. I began my weightloss journey at a weight near 140, and before I knew it, I was staring at myself in the mirror at just under 90 pounds, still calling myself fat and still seeing the lump that I imagined myself to be. I was eating diet everything, and very little of it. I was counting every calorie. I was hiding food in my napkins. I was mashing it on my plate to make it look half-eaten. A diet coke had become a meal. I had grown so accustomed to not eating that it had become a self-imposed competition to me. The longer I could go without food, the more successful I was. My weight had become nothing but a numbers game to me. I was obsessed with the number of calories I ate, the number of minutes I walked, the number of pounds I lost, and the numbered size of my pants. I could think of little else other than food, and how I was going to beat it, and my lumpy little self-image, into submission.

Then, one Tuesday morning in 9th grade Biology, I ate a 190-calorie package of peanut butter crackers. They had not been on my food agenda for that day (I kept a written log of everything I ate) but they had looked so good when I passed them in the vending machine that I HAD to eat them.

I remember the gritty texture of the crackers feeling so unusual in my mouth; it had been such a long time since I'd tasted any. I ate all six and licked the peanut butter residue from the inside of the plastic. I guzzled my diet coke, satisfied.

Thirty seconds later, though, I couldn't focus. I had written the crackers down in my notebook, and they just didn't fit. 190 calories!! Why did I eat them?? I was such a fat cow. Didn't I have any willpower?? What was wrong with me?? I jumped from my seat and ran to the bathroom. I had to get them out. Now.

I hurled myself into the large stall, and shoved my finger down my throat 7 times until the crackers followed it out of my mouth. Their marvelous gritty consistency had become a slimy and disgusting soup in my stomach. Watching them fall from my mouth into the toilet I felt better knowing I had corrected my mistake. I was still in control.

All day, I could think about nothing but the crackers. What was I doing? Had I really become that sort of person?? The kind you see in tv movies or after school specials? The kind who could be sent away for help??

I told my mom and dad that night. I told them everything. About the crackers and the calorie-counting and the food-hiding, and the crazy thoughts I was having about myself.

My parents never scolded me, because they loved me. But because they loved me, they got me help. There are still many days that I struggle in a war with food.... and for someone who loves food, that's hard to admit. There are some I wake up and everything seems disgusting to me, and others that I could eat a whole pizza in an hour and contemplate purging after. It's a war that to some extent, I will continue to fight for the rest of my life. Somedays, I'll catch myself looking into the mirror and seeing a lump between two sticks, and others I'll catch myself thinking, "Hey, I look pretty good today."

The difference is that now I realize that I'm in control without needing to turn to food as my vessel. I realize that those who want me in their lives will want me, lumpy or not.
They will want me with metal sticks or without. They will want me for who I am, and not just how I look.

I realize now that I am in control of how I feel about myself, and that no other person can change what I feel just with their opinion. Only I can do that. I am in control of whether I let myself love and be loved, just the way I am....and realizing I have that control is a natural high, much better than the temporary high I could feel from starving or purging any day.

Whether someone else wants me no longer matters, because I love myself enough to stay in control by finding happiness through my relationship with God, my friends, and my family rather than through my relationship with food.

Old poetry

I was going through my old e-mail account, trying to find inspiration for one of the characters in my book, and I came across this poem, written a few years ago. I'm posting it here, just so that I have it saved someplace, since I do not use the e-mail account anymore.

WARNING: It does not have explicit language in it, but there is a part or two that addresses adult subject matter. I am human. I have changed and thankfully am not quite the same person I used to be. No one is perfect. Everyone makes mistakes. This poem reminds me of how much I've grown, so I'm sharing it here in the hope that someone else might benefit.

So without further ado...

It has become apparent lately

that my heart is not my own,

It's scattered about with family, with friends, and with

strangers,

and even a bit or two

has fallen to an enemy.


But I always thought reclaiming it

would be a simple feat.

"Mind over matter."

"Walk through the double-doors to baggage claim

at Gate A1 and find it,"

spinning slowly on a conveyer belt in

various packages marked with my

name in permanent black ink.


Some parts of me I'd find in large suitcases, triple-locked

by the persons to whom they were on loan,

packed lovingly in three feet of peanuts and

wrapped in plastic.

Boxed too, out of fear that

the slighest movement during the journey would

cause a crack in the crystal, spill-

ing its contents--all my love, dreams, hopes, and fears--onto

the cold floor as I lifted the baggage from the belt.
The gawkers and the gossipers would laugh heartly at my

misfortune,

taking out their digital cameras

to capture every moment of this once-in-a-lifetime separation

of

self

and

of

soul.



Other parts of me I'd find thrown haphazardly into a duffel, sent to me from the soul's seat of

a man who had

forgotten

that I had given him a part of me to keep

until he found it buried underneath his own pile of self-loathing and tossed it in the trunk,

not thinking it worth returning until years after the fact.

So I'd find it, wet and sticky,

in between

bottles of shampoo and used condoms from

someone other than me.

And I'd remember how I tried to clean it before I gave it to him, and how

he had helped me to forgo the bottle of 409 and the washrag,

immersing it instead in various moments of intense pain

with a topcoat of regret.



Gathering myself, I'd lay the pieces onto the hard tile in an

attempt to reassemble before leaving, starting first with

corner

pieces

and working my way in, all the while

reminding myself that I have never been

great at puzzles.



Standing back to gaze at my collection,

odds

and

ends

of me, arranged in disarrayed neatness,

I'd realize that

a piece of me is

missing.

Knowing to whom I gave it and when and where, I'd think,

"did he take it from my dorm room where I left it

for him

on the blue smiley-face pillow, face-up and trembling?

Or did he leave it there for me to pack away with my pencil cup

and paperclips

and move on?"

"Did he take it from the sofa bed and

pack it in the plastic bag with his toothbrush,

ready for inspection by the angsty airport agents

who have his random number?

Or did he leave it under the cushion for me to find,

and I mistook it for gone

(they are both red after all)?"

"Did he take it in his coffee cup, sloshing in and out

and everywhere

into the cab

and from there to Memphis then to Kentucky, and into

his home and to his kitchen sink

and from there to his bedroom, quite possibly, where he placed it

safe

on the dresser

ready for a return trip back to me sometime in July?

Or did he leave it on the carpet,

underneath his

footprint, for me to find when its smudged outline

becomes

visible after

the next hard rain

that falls behind closed doors

in Comet Circle number 307?"



Shrugging to myself, I take

from the floor what's left of me

and leave, knowing

that I may never be whole again

until my soul meets his soul

sometime

in this life or in the next.


It's become apparent lately

that my heart is not my own.

The Process of Self-Acceptance

With tomorrow marking 2011's International Day of Acceptance, I have been pondering the topic quite a bit. It took me awhile to realize that in order to allow others to accept me just the way I am, and to love me for just who I am, I had to first accept and love myself.

People have always told me that they admire the positive attitude I have toward myself and my disability... and I thank them for their encouragement. But my attitude hasn't always been so upbeat, and on somedays, after spending 30 minutes with 5 pairs of shoes that match my outfit and two uncooperative feet, my attitude is still a little lackluster.

Self-acceptance is a process, an on-going goal that I accomplish everyday, when I look in the mirror and decide to like what I see. I take self-acceptance, day-by-day, just as I take others' acceptance of me. I expect you to accept me as I am, of course, but how can I expect more acceptance from you than I am willing to grant myself?

Self-acceptance is a process-- definitely worthy of multiple blog entries. It has taken me awhile to become as comfortable with myself as I am today. So I will start my examination of my journey to self acceptance by taking a look back at a time when I was less accepting.

From a blog post in 2004 before I began law school:

"Go for the Gold!

There's a song on the new Alanis Morisette CD that I really like. It's called "Naked" but don't let the title make you think it's dirty...

The song is about letting go and being free of your limitations.

Often I think of what it would be like if I woke up and didn't have crutches (because I didn't need them anymore).

Some people may find that morbid, but it actually makes me happy to think of everything that I could do if I was allowed to give up my need for two metal legs.

For example, I've always wanted to be a dancer/figure skater. Sometimes I imagine myself winning the gold.

I imagine my body being graceful and uninhibited.

Graceful enough to fly through the air in sproadic twists and turns.

Graceful enough to ballroom and swing dance with my husband on our wedding night.

Graceful enough to carry, deliver, and properly care for my own children,

It's true that if I could just be free of my limitations, I would feel that I had truly won the gold, that I was at the most awesome place in my earthly life.

You'd think that reminiscing about something that could never happen would make me sad. But instead, it makes me hopeful. Every time I wake up wishing for the day without limitations, I realize that I am much closer to that day than I think. I know that if I work hard enough, it will finally come to me. Not in this life, but in the next.

And my gold medal will be good for more than just a few years after.It will last forever. God has given me these limitations for a reason, and I will do my best to handle them positively. Because in the end, my reward in Heaven will more than make up for any nitpicky things I had to deal with down here."


Now, don't get me wrong, I still agree with the main point of this post. I look forward to the day when Earthly superficialities no longer matter. When my soul will be the only part of me that people can see. When my daydreams about duct-taping pumps to my feet won't matter, because I'll be concerned with nothing but praising God forever.

That being said, I think, in my previous post, I was selling myself short. It seems I hadn't accepted what I could do, but only everything I couldn't.

I may not be able to figure skate, but I can ride a bi-ski down a mountain. I can snowtube and SCUBA-dive and run 5 k races.

I may not be able to ballroom dance... but I got rhythym. I can CP-shake with the best of 'em to some Lady Gaga. And if my husband wants to dance on our weddding night, I am more than capable of a very slow two-step (which is more than some able bodied people can say). We can even take a crippy-swing class... as long as he can overlook my not-so-dirty-dancing shoes.

I don't know if I can have children, but I know that I want them. And even if I'm never married, I would love to adopt an older child on my own. And if I do have my own flesh-and-blood baby (God-wiling) I will make sure that he or she has everything he/she needs to live a happy, healthy childhood.

I'm still going for that heavenly gold. It's still what's most important to me. But at the same time, I want to make sure that I do not waste the talents that God has given me for use on this Earth. I accept my limitations for what they are-- yes, I do. But my limitations do not define my life. I do. I may not be able to do things exactly as I would like, every day... but who can... able-bodied or not?

Self-acceptance is a process. I accept myself today. But accepting myself doesn't equate to stifling my desires or selling-short my abilities. Every day, when I look in the mirror and make that conscious decision to like what I see for one more day, I remind myself of what my Daddy always said to his little, blonde-haired girl: if you want something bad enough.... If you believe in it, no matter what stands in your way, and you work hard to make it happen, it will.

Words

I recently had an interview with the Pentagon Channel to discuss my experiences with the Workforce Recruitment Program for College Students with Disabilities. It was a wonderful opportunity and I'm so grateful to be able to spread the word about the WRP and the opportunity it provides for students with disabilities to be exposed to the federal government workforce. I was lucky enough to land this interview because someone from the Pentagon Office of Public Affairs had seen me participating in another documentary and tracked me down to ask for my time.

I had to let my boss know about the interview obviously, because it was during work hours, so about a month ago, I walked into her office and let her know that the Pentagon Channel wanted to interview me. There were a few people standing in her office when I approached the door. I had to get back to the Reporter within the hour, so I stuck my head in the doorway and let her know. She was fine with it; she just asked me to put the interview on the calendar once it was scheduled.

As I was walking out the door, a co-worker followed me. Our exchange was is below:

Co-worker: "You know they're only interviewing you because you have a disability, right?"

Me: "Well, yes, in a sense. It would be silly to interview someone who doesn't have a disability about their experience in a program for students with disabilities."

Co-worker: "Well, what I mean is... they are not interviewing me because I don't have [a disability]."

Me: "Huh?" (befuddled look)

Co-worker: "They're only interviewing you because you have a disability. They are not interviewing you because of any skills or knowledge you might possess. I'm just putting that on the table."

Me: "I don't know that that is true, but even so, what does it matter? If I can present a positive, articulate image of federal employees with disabilities, maybe I can change an attitude or two."

Co-worker: "Well, I understand it doesn't matter to you how you get your foot in the door, but you know me, I'm just telling you the truth."

Conversations like the one above are one reason why I need a new job. It's hard to work around people who don't think about what they say, or think too little about what they say, in a field centered around words and the perception of them. Let's face it; most basic discrimination cases involve a breakdown in communication where, at some point, the words exchanged between two parties either lost all meaning or found new meaning within the mind of the speaker or listener. It's important, especially in a workplace, to think about what we say and how we say it. I'm not saying that we should walk on eggshells and worry every second how someone might perceive a "Hello" or a "Good Morning," but we should at least make sure that everything we say has a purpose, and that we know what the purpose of our statements are before they grace our lips.

What was the point of the exchange above? What did my co-worker hope to achieve by saying those things? If her goal was to make me feel a little crappy, she succeeded. Not enough to make me run away crying... but still. What other effects could those words have had? What was their point? As professionals, we really need to ask ourselves these questions from time to time.

Case and point: Yesterday, I was talking to the office Director about what she did over the holiday and she told me that she played a game her friend calls "autistic scrabble" over the weekend. Imagine me, again with the befuddled look.

"Well," she said, "it's a game where everyone has her own set of tiles and works alone to use all of them and the quickest."

Me: "Why are you calling it "autistic scrabble" again?"

Director: "Well, because you know, autistic people like to do everything by themselves."

Three things:

1. Apparently she doesn't know Matthew Hunt, or hasn't read anything by Temple Grandin, or John Elder Robinson.

2. It's never a good idea to make a generalization about all people with a certain disability. She should know that as the Director of an EEO office. And they are people first. People, who have autism.

3. If it's a joke, it wasn't that funny. I didn't laugh.

My family and friends joke and laugh with my brother about his traits that are a part of his autism, but we love them and him, and wouldn't want it any other way. We all have our quirks.

But to make a blanket generalization, that is in a sense making fun of all people with a certain disability is nowhere near the same. I'm not sure why she thought that would be funny to me... maybe because my brother has autism. Maybe because I have a disability.

Yeah.

Not so much.

Local Lawyer Arrested For Failure to Pay Cab Fare: Details at 11

Last night, I needed to go to Target to buy handsoap, granola bars, mascara, face wash, and toilet paper. It was the last night of a glorious five-day hiatus from work, due to some strategic planning of time off around the Veteran's Day holiday. I had checked my bank account that morning, knowing that I had a little over $100 left to last me until payday on Thursday. "I'm a master at making money last," I thought. "I can eat soup, drink water, and use the money for transport only. I bet I'll have $50 left on Thursday when my next check deposits."

Sure of myself, I hopped into Yellow Cab number #182 and rode $5.85 down the road (half a mile) to the Fair Lakes Shopping Center. I handed the driver my debit card (I never carry cash when I'm out alone, because protected Bank of America plastic is safer when stolen.) He handed the card back to me and said gently, "It says it's been declined."

"Impossible!" I thought. "I just checked my balance today. I know the money's in there." I quickly rummaged through my purse to find my emergency credit card, which was meant exactly for a situation such as this-- an emergency.

A cold, clammy feeling came over me as my hand groped from top to bottom of the blue lining inside my bag. Where was my card holder? I hurriedly dumped the contents of my purse onto the seat next to me. Papers, checks, a Starbucks gift card, lip gloss, a hairbrush.... no wallet!

"I can't pay you," I said, barely audible. My wallet seems to have disappeared."

"Well, we're here, so just get out and get what you need," he replied, slightly irritated.

"Sir, I don't think I can," I said. I had pulled up my bank account on my phone within seconds, thanks to my Bank of America app. It appeared that muy student loan payment (which was set for automatic debit on the 14th) did not go through until yesterday. And what's worse... the payment had graduated this month, making it $200 more than it has been for the past year.

So there I was, sitting in a cab, penniless, plastic-less, and plan-less, with the words, "I'm going to jail for $6." flashing like a burning neon sign in my brain.

"Can you just take me home? I have a cup of change there, and I think I can pay you in quarters." I was totally serious about this. On the way home, I told him everything, with intermittent bouts of "I'm sorry you're wasting your time on me" thrown in.

When we arrived in the apartment complex parking lot, he opened the door for me and asked, "Can I give you $20?"

"No, it's okay. I owe you money. And I get paid on Thursday. I'll manage until then."

"You have no money," he said. "I have some."

He insisted, shoving the shriveled bill into my hand. I was so stunned and amazed that I wanted to hug him. "What's your number or how can I get ahold of you to pay this back?"

"Don't wory about it," he said. "Everyone has bad days."

I thanked him twice more and walked through the door, stunned silent. I couldn't believe that a complete and total stranger, nonetheless a cab driver--the type of person with whom I notoriously have bad luck-- had committed this random act of kindness for me.

After ransacking my house to no avail to find the missing wallet, I went to bed determined to do two things this morning: (1) find my wallet and (2) ask my boss for a raise.

Currently, I make less than any of the other similarly situated EEO Specialists in my office (except for one, who will not be eligible for a promotion until January). We all have the exact same position description. I earn a lower salary than any starting federal government attorney, and I have been working for this office for over three years. I do not receive student loan repayment funds, and all of my Bar and CLE expenses are paid for out-of-pocket. How I came to be in my exact predicament is a long, somewhat sordid story for another day.

However, I have been to both my first and second line supervisors multiple times to ask them for the promotion, explaining to them that not only do I qualify for a raise on my education and licensure alone, I do the same work as the Specialists who recieve more pay than me, with the same position description. The responses I've gotten at various points in time have been:

"Not for another few months."

(when asked a few months later) "Your position doesn't go that high."

"You don't need your promotion yet, because you've 'been bad.'" (Yet no perfomance appraisal at all exists as proof of my bad-ness and I only received objectives earlier this year.)

My personal favorite reponse, from the office director, "Have you considered Section 8 housing?" **Not saying I wouldn't but I don't qualify for it based on income, and she knows this. I took this question to be more offensive rhetoric than anything.

Today, I was met with the same sort of opposition. No reason was given as to why I don't qualify for a promotion-- because I do-- but I was handed an internet address for some apartments in DC, said to be cheaper than the one in which I currently live.

They were the same price, and they had no in-unit washer/dryer hook-ups, which is somewhat of a requirement for someone who has no car, no hands to carry laundry, and no extra money for a coin-laundry if I'm paying the same amount in rent.

Personally, I think that I'm just being blown off time and again. I know what my rights are... but I've been struggling with whether to excerise them for some while now.

I just hope something new comes through for me on the job front, so I can put an end to that struggle.

The Marriage Question

Recently, I celebrated a birthday-- the one that comes after 28 and before 30. It was harder for me than I expected it to be... Long story short, I feel old. As I approach the age that starts with a 3 and ends with "Oh, Crap, am I really that old?," I've started to think about how I might need to take a long hard look at reprioritizing what I want out of life.

I've always wanted a family, complete with husband, kids, and pet... and I realize that I'm young and I have a great many years to make this dream a reality, but the problem is finding someone with the qualities I want who also wants me.

I would like to find a man who is a Christian, who wants kids (or a kid) fairly soon, and who is willing to accept me for who I am... this last part is always the hardest bit. Not because I think I'm inadequate in some way, but because most guys without disabilities don't see me as serious dating/possible marriage material. I think sometimes people see the crutches (or the chair, depending on the situation) and are afraid to ask the things they really want to know.

Trust me, I'd rather someone (anyone from my potential husband to my potential hairdresser) ask what they wanted to ask, rather than foregoing the courage to approach me at all. It saves both of us a lot of worry about what the other is really thinking, and if we're that open and honest up front, we're going to have a great friendship at the very least.

Honestly, sometimes I feel as though if a man in the church was on a "wife hunt," so to speak, I would be the last place he'd look. Before anyone gets angry at me for saying this, I'm not trying to discredit myself or any of the wonderful Christian guys out there.... but... when we reach a certain age, people start to wonder when we're going to get married, so we look for someone with common goals who seems to fit nicely into our life.

While I am a self-sufficient, smart, career woman who can get myself to work daily and cook my own meals, I am definitely not the no-frills option when it comes to wife-dom. I require a little maintenance-- and not the self-imposed, materialistic kind. I don't drive. It takes me awhile to make a bed, and on the days when I wake up with arthritis pain, I have to add a few extra minutes to even some of the most mundane daily tasks. But really those things don't even compare to the amount of love and happiness that I could build in a home with someone, so it's unfair to consider only those things.

The church is often one of the first places I would think about looking for a mate. When I first moved to DC, I was struck by the number of people who were amazed that I could actually take care of myself, let alone the fact that I wanted to find a husband. The people who took the time to know me realized that I was no different than any other young woman my age. Our goals were the same; the execution of them just might turn out to be a little different.

Often though, I saw and heard about others in the church being set up on dates or introduced to people who others thought might be a good fit for them. I was never one of those people. What I could never figure out was whether I wasn't being approached in this manner because people were scared of approaching me or because I wasn't making myself approachable.

I'm a girl who's used to making the first move in some ways. Once I have an inkling that a guy might be interested in me, I try my best to open up the lines of communication wide enough so that he feels comfortable assuaging all of his curiosities where my disability is concerned. Sometimes this can be a tiring process, because we have to have so many conversations that start with "Can I ask you a personal question? Please don't be offended." In reality, there is very little that a well-meaning person could say to offend me...and after 29 years of being asked questions, I know the difference between a well-meant question and a question meant to offend.

Some people might say that the easiest way to avoid this problem is to look for someone with a disability... someone who really "gets" me from the get-go. I'd love to.... but so far, the men I've dated who have disabilities have tended to be more superficial than the ones who don't. I've just been dating the wrong ones, you might say, and you're probably right. I'm not looking for much: I just want to be pursued, appreciated, and loved for who I am-- just like everyone else.

But at what point do I just "let go and let God?" It either is going to happen or it isn't, and I know this. I have wanted a family more than anything else on this Earth for as long as I can remember. Just ask my mother. "Playing house" was my favorite activity from the time I was 3 until I was twelve. I think now, though, it is the time to start preparing myself for a life which may include just me and the dog, minus the husband and kids. Not to say that that is a horrible existence in any way at all, it's just not really what I want, if I'm honest with myself.

But if I continue to focus on what I want, I'm going to miss out on truly enjoying all of the wonderful things, people, and opportunities God has given and is going to give me. This Earth is only temporary anyway. It's not my home. I need to find a way where I (as my single self) can be content--content enough to make the best out of my life serving others. Even if it doesn't turn out to be the life that I planned, it's the life that God purposed for me, so I need to work hard to live it to its fullest potential.