Feb 26, 2013
1:32 AM | Posted by
some girl
To the good men in my life,
Thank you.
For my entire life, I've been engaging with the same thing humans everywhere engage in: learning.
Unfortunately, for a large portion of this time, I haven't learned many good things about men. I have learned that men are either aggressive and will hurt you, or are weak and can't protect you. I learned that men are more knowledgeable, important, and stronger than women. I learned that men only want power, money, or sex. I learned that men are jerks, to be feared and avoided, and for the longest time had this sub-conscious thought pattern of women as goodies and victims, and men as baddies and perpetrators.
I'd almost like to apologise for that, but I wouldn't chastise anyone for being simply a product of their environment, especially if they were still seeking to learn, which is what I (hopefully) am doing.
I have since learned a great deal of other things; I've learned about feminism and the suffragettes, I've learned about and from strong independent women, I've learned how to be independent myself, I've learned more about the complexities of my childhood and how that has framed my thinking. These are all good things I've learned, though on their own they did not balance out my fear of men, but only equipped me to feel as if I could defend myself against these predatory creatures God had stuck me with.
So up went the walls, and they were pretty solid. If it was something to be proud of, you bet I'd have the biggest grin around town; not many people could scale the walls, let alone come down the other side unscathed. If I saw someone of the male sex but peek over that wall and even think about getting closer, out would come every effort of pushing him away. Down, you! Back to the depths from whence you came!
I'd actually like to apologise for that one; sorry. I kicked a lot of well meaning guys off that wall.
But back to the learning! I had learned that men are bad, and learned how to protect myself, but then in came... The Good Men *cue superhero music or something cheesy and inspirational*.
It wasn't one big group walking in as maybe I have just made it seem, in fact, I didn't even realise it for many years afterwards, during some reflection that I guess there are men in my life that I... Kinda trust sometimes...
These were men who were not aggressive, but they certainly weren't weak; powerful and smart, but never manipulative; funny, friendly, and encouraging not because they wanted 'more' from me, but simply just because.
I learned that men weren't bad. That men aren't bad. In fact, I learned that there are some pretty gosh darn tootin' good men in the world. The old ways were so ingrained that this fact still unnerves me at times.
If you're reading this, and you know me, you might be able to hazard a guess that you are one of these good men in my life (unless of course you're a woman... In which case, yo).
And if you're second guessing that, I urge you to be honest and talk to me... Face to face or leave a comment, chuck me an email, I love to nut this stuff out because it helps me to make sense of my brain.
But the main thing is this: thank you. Thank you from the very bottom of my beating, bruised, bursting joyful heart, for being exactly who you are.
Thank you for being genuine, for being fun, for having a character of such integrity and honesty that I'm really finding it more and more difficult to sympathise with the 'men are stupid assholes' attitude that is thrown about among some women (Don't be discouraged, it's not all women). Thank you for being an example of Jesus, of someone who is after His heart, and who doesn't follow the rules the world tells you that you should.
Thank you for treating me with respect and patience, for always being gentle and kind without expecting something in return. For making me laugh and sing and dance and dream.
Thanks to you, I no longer count men as monsters; I am no longer cynical and suspicious about every move and motive as 'surely destructive and ulterior'. You have given me hope (one of those essentials to life) in men, hope in people, and through your very existence, renewed hope in God.
It's not necessarily one big thing that you've done; this is not about grand gestures, but it's about your daily living; that you desire to learn and grow and know God; you're not afraid of being yourself; you have the courage to try new things; you know when to have fun and when to be serious; you value other people as God's creation; you encourage others to be all that they can be; you have your dreams and desires and quirks and oddities; you have wisdom and strength (sometimes more than you're aware of) and through it all, you have the honesty to admit that there are gaps; to see where you could have done better, not to live in regret and despair but to pick yourself up and continue in the path of God's grace.
Even if you and I are not particularly close as friends, the way you live your life has had such an impact on mine, as I'm sure it has on countless others. I thank God for you, for the honourable men you've had as examples and mentors in your life, and for the men that you are an example to yourself. I thank God that I know I will never be without a brother in this life.
Know this: You are important. You are valuable, not only to me, but what you have to offer the world and the community around you sometimes goes beyond your knowledge. As a collective effort you have changed my life, and you will continue to do so. This world is better off with you in it.
As for the learning, that will continue... I know I've got a lot of walls to tear down, and it hurts and I'm not quite sure where to start, but until I met all of you, I did not know that those walls have been keeping out the good with the bad. So thank you, for leading me to the realisation I'd built those walls, and giving me a reason to knock them down.
Much love, respect, and laughter,
Em.
Thank you.
For my entire life, I've been engaging with the same thing humans everywhere engage in: learning.
Unfortunately, for a large portion of this time, I haven't learned many good things about men. I have learned that men are either aggressive and will hurt you, or are weak and can't protect you. I learned that men are more knowledgeable, important, and stronger than women. I learned that men only want power, money, or sex. I learned that men are jerks, to be feared and avoided, and for the longest time had this sub-conscious thought pattern of women as goodies and victims, and men as baddies and perpetrators.
I'd almost like to apologise for that, but I wouldn't chastise anyone for being simply a product of their environment, especially if they were still seeking to learn, which is what I (hopefully) am doing.
I have since learned a great deal of other things; I've learned about feminism and the suffragettes, I've learned about and from strong independent women, I've learned how to be independent myself, I've learned more about the complexities of my childhood and how that has framed my thinking. These are all good things I've learned, though on their own they did not balance out my fear of men, but only equipped me to feel as if I could defend myself against these predatory creatures God had stuck me with.
So up went the walls, and they were pretty solid. If it was something to be proud of, you bet I'd have the biggest grin around town; not many people could scale the walls, let alone come down the other side unscathed. If I saw someone of the male sex but peek over that wall and even think about getting closer, out would come every effort of pushing him away. Down, you! Back to the depths from whence you came!
I'd actually like to apologise for that one; sorry. I kicked a lot of well meaning guys off that wall.
But back to the learning! I had learned that men are bad, and learned how to protect myself, but then in came... The Good Men *cue superhero music or something cheesy and inspirational*.
It wasn't one big group walking in as maybe I have just made it seem, in fact, I didn't even realise it for many years afterwards, during some reflection that I guess there are men in my life that I... Kinda trust sometimes...
These were men who were not aggressive, but they certainly weren't weak; powerful and smart, but never manipulative; funny, friendly, and encouraging not because they wanted 'more' from me, but simply just because.
I learned that men weren't bad. That men aren't bad. In fact, I learned that there are some pretty gosh darn tootin' good men in the world. The old ways were so ingrained that this fact still unnerves me at times.
If you're reading this, and you know me, you might be able to hazard a guess that you are one of these good men in my life (unless of course you're a woman... In which case, yo).
And if you're second guessing that, I urge you to be honest and talk to me... Face to face or leave a comment, chuck me an email, I love to nut this stuff out because it helps me to make sense of my brain.
But the main thing is this: thank you. Thank you from the very bottom of my beating, bruised, bursting joyful heart, for being exactly who you are.
Thank you for being genuine, for being fun, for having a character of such integrity and honesty that I'm really finding it more and more difficult to sympathise with the 'men are stupid assholes' attitude that is thrown about among some women (Don't be discouraged, it's not all women). Thank you for being an example of Jesus, of someone who is after His heart, and who doesn't follow the rules the world tells you that you should.
Thank you for treating me with respect and patience, for always being gentle and kind without expecting something in return. For making me laugh and sing and dance and dream.
Thanks to you, I no longer count men as monsters; I am no longer cynical and suspicious about every move and motive as 'surely destructive and ulterior'. You have given me hope (one of those essentials to life) in men, hope in people, and through your very existence, renewed hope in God.
It's not necessarily one big thing that you've done; this is not about grand gestures, but it's about your daily living; that you desire to learn and grow and know God; you're not afraid of being yourself; you have the courage to try new things; you know when to have fun and when to be serious; you value other people as God's creation; you encourage others to be all that they can be; you have your dreams and desires and quirks and oddities; you have wisdom and strength (sometimes more than you're aware of) and through it all, you have the honesty to admit that there are gaps; to see where you could have done better, not to live in regret and despair but to pick yourself up and continue in the path of God's grace.
Even if you and I are not particularly close as friends, the way you live your life has had such an impact on mine, as I'm sure it has on countless others. I thank God for you, for the honourable men you've had as examples and mentors in your life, and for the men that you are an example to yourself. I thank God that I know I will never be without a brother in this life.
Know this: You are important. You are valuable, not only to me, but what you have to offer the world and the community around you sometimes goes beyond your knowledge. As a collective effort you have changed my life, and you will continue to do so. This world is better off with you in it.
As for the learning, that will continue... I know I've got a lot of walls to tear down, and it hurts and I'm not quite sure where to start, but until I met all of you, I did not know that those walls have been keeping out the good with the bad. So thank you, for leading me to the realisation I'd built those walls, and giving me a reason to knock them down.
Much love, respect, and laughter,
Em.
Feb 23, 2013
This is the prayer I pray when I can not pray
When all is turned to sleep
When sleep is turned to empty
Empty that can't be filled
Yet
When the feelings stop before they turn into words
When the words stop before they can fall from the cracking precipice
When my soul is dehydrated
So thirsty it can not get up
This is the prayer I pray when I can not pray
When I close my eyes to remember that You Were
And try to believe that You Are
When I sing the hymns and strum the chords that were once a rhythm and dance
When my Way of Life
Becomes my Way of Avoiding Death
The prayer I pray when I can not pray doesn't begin with
Heavenly Father
Doesn't end with
Amen
It doesn't contain repentance or requests
The prayer I pray when I can not pray
Is a nod of the head
A blink of the eye
A beat of the heart
The tossing and turning of a restless spirit
It is the frustrated turning of the pages as I try to focus on some relevant words among the thous and thees
The tears of ache that the minor notes bring
The remorse of my infidelity
The prayer I pray when I can not pray
Is in the holding back of my tongue
In the gentle touch I offer my friend
In the compassionate heart I leave out uncovered in the open
The prayer I pray when I can not pray
Is in the wind as it teases
Is in my breath when I sigh
In my eyes when I see beautiful things
In my heart when I feel beautiful
The prayer I pray when I can not pray
Is a recollection of all the prayers I have ever prayed for the future
Can that not be enough, for now?
Because apart from beat and breath, I have no hold from which to offer prayer
The prayer I pray
When I can not pray
Is
When all is turned to sleep
When sleep is turned to empty
Empty that can't be filled
Yet
When the feelings stop before they turn into words
When the words stop before they can fall from the cracking precipice
When my soul is dehydrated
So thirsty it can not get up
This is the prayer I pray when I can not pray
When I close my eyes to remember that You Were
And try to believe that You Are
When I sing the hymns and strum the chords that were once a rhythm and dance
When my Way of Life
Becomes my Way of Avoiding Death
The prayer I pray when I can not pray doesn't begin with
Heavenly Father
Doesn't end with
Amen
It doesn't contain repentance or requests
The prayer I pray when I can not pray
Is a nod of the head
A blink of the eye
A beat of the heart
The tossing and turning of a restless spirit
It is the frustrated turning of the pages as I try to focus on some relevant words among the thous and thees
The tears of ache that the minor notes bring
The remorse of my infidelity
The prayer I pray when I can not pray
Is in the holding back of my tongue
In the gentle touch I offer my friend
In the compassionate heart I leave out uncovered in the open
The prayer I pray when I can not pray
Is in the wind as it teases
Is in my breath when I sigh
In my eyes when I see beautiful things
In my heart when I feel beautiful
The prayer I pray when I can not pray
Is a recollection of all the prayers I have ever prayed for the future
Can that not be enough, for now?
Because apart from beat and breath, I have no hold from which to offer prayer
The prayer I pray
When I can not pray
Is
Feb 3, 2013
(November 2012)
I am convalescing, still.
Let me start out by saying: I do not want this to be a depressing piece of writing. I am not depressed. I am sitting comfortably in my house as the afternoon sun streams through the window on what seems the first balmy day in months since winter ended. I am, in this moment, healthy and happy. I baked some biscuits today and played a bit of guitar; two things I really enjoy.
I am convalescing, still.
Let me start out by saying: I do not want this to be a depressing piece of writing. I am not depressed. I am sitting comfortably in my house as the afternoon sun streams through the window on what seems the first balmy day in months since winter ended. I am, in this moment, healthy and happy. I baked some biscuits today and played a bit of guitar; two things I really enjoy.
Here
I sit, and I am content, but that is exactly the problem: I really
should be researching and writing assignments. I have mentioned that I
am not depressed, but I once was. I don’t need to go much further into it than saying that for most of my adolescence, and for a brief period into emerging
adulthood, I suffered chronic depression (albeit untreated through
years of denial).
I am better now (someone please
shout ‘hooray!’ with me!) and the past two or so years of my life have
been the most different, strange, eye-opening and best years of my life.
But they have not been without struggle.
I
understand that if you are human, you struggle, I understand that there
are daily tasks we must complete and challenges and hardships we must
face, I understand that many students find it hard be constantly
motivated, balanced, and get their assignments in on time. I don’t want
to talk about that so much; though of course my years have been filled
with those struggles, but I want to talk about a different one. An
ailment of sorts.
Think
of a scar you have, particularly from a more gruesome injury if you
have one (though I generally try to avoid those... ergghh, blood) and
come on a little journey with me.
I
have a scar on the inside of my right thumb, just in the knuckle joint.
The injury was from a mishap with an s-hook during a camping trip in
early 2012; a mishap which resulted in the metal hook being much more
embedded in my thumb than in the camping contraption it should have been
(or as I put it so eloquently then: ‘that was very in my thumb!’
whilst dancing around in a frantic panic, blood beginning to pour down
my arm). Luckily this day was the end of our camping trip, so I went
straight home to the all-hours doctor where they patched me up nicely as
I tried not to look (regrettably, curiosity got the better of me and
while the doctor was out of the room I stole a glance at the
‘unstitchable’ puncture wound. Commencing another round of queasiness).
In
the grand scheme of available injuries that life has to offer, I got
off pretty lightly with my thumb’s puncture wound; despite being quite
haemophobic (note: haemo-, not homo-) and nearly fainting when I
even thought about my holey thumb and it’s misfortune, the wound wasn’t
at all life threatening or disabling. The worst outcome of the situation
was that for a fortnight or so, it was difficult to write, and the
accident happened to coincide with the start of semester.
Unsurprisingly,
I made it through the ordeal (show me your ways, O wise Emily) but I do
have a scar. It runs across the inside of my thumb: a smooth, lighter
patch of skin that sits as a lump above the rest. For a long time, after
the wound had healed over, that scar was tight, and I could feel it
stretching when I bent my thumb back. It didn’t hurt, but it still
impaired the use of my thumb and my writing, even if only a little.
Now?
There is no pain, the scar is not tight and in fact it’s hardly
noticeable unless you know it’s there. But as I sit here, and think back
on where the scar came from, I definitely remember that pain. I
relive the nausea I felt as I looked into my open knuckle and blood ran
down my arm. I remember worrying that the blood would stain my white
angora jumper. I remember feeling horrible that I was no
longer useful in helping pack up the camping gear, I remember the long
drive home from our trip, as I tried to be the grown up woman of 21 that
I was, and not cry (I cried), I remember buying myself a cupcake styled
like a happy pig to cheer myself up when we stopped for lunch, I
remember thinking that the scar would be horrible and that no one would
want me after that (irrationality, would you like a bed to sleep in?
You’ve been here a while now), I remember feeling pathetic as my dad
drove me to the doctor and I cried, again, explaining to him what had
happened.
But
I am okay. All is good now. It might seem like I’m being overly
dramatic about a little wound, but all of those feelings and thoughts
were very real to me at the time.
And
sometimes, the wound comes back in the way that it has affected my
life. For a long time, I used my thumb awkwardly even though it was
healed and pain free. When I touch the scar, I feel nauseous, just from
the memory of what happened.
Everyone has been hurt in life, been wounded, and everyone has scars.
Suffering
from depression for 6 years (on and off to varying degrees, but fairly
steadily from age 15 to almost21) has left me with an enormous amount of
scars, not to mention the scars of various events that encouraged that
depression to begin.
As I said, I’m not depressed anymore. It’s awesome.
But
sometimes, (okay, a lot of the time), I feel or act like I am. Just
like I still lived as though my thumb was disabled when it was actually
better, I often live as though I have no passion, motivation, joy, or
energy. But I do, I have lots of those things, I just don’t know what to
do with them. I have surmised (and someone please tell me if I’m
wrong) that having depression during your teenage years somehow stunts
mental development. The synapses that are created when you respond to
life out of depression during those years have got to somehow affect
your later life (SO much citation needed).
I
have learnt that when life is overwhelming, you sit and cry and stare
at a wall. I have learnt that when you have important things to do, it’s
easier to sleep.
I have learnt that there is nothing you can do to fight whatever-the-fuck-it-is that goes on inside your head and your heart.
And while I know that those things aren’t true, I still live as though they are.
These
are the scars of my depression; the stunted development, the absolute
lack of any conviction to stick to my commitments or look after myself,
the lack of ability to concentrate and multitask.
And
as I sit, and look at my scars, I remember that pain. I remember
feeling physically sick with anxiety. All. Of. The. Time. I remember
feeling paralysed with fear at night when I was alone, and I remember
feeling more afraid than I thought I ever could when I realised that the
fear itself wasn’t restricted to the night, but had started following
me around during the day. I remember wearing a mask around people,
because surely if they knew, no one would want me. I remember feeling ashamed that I couldn’t just be happy like I was supposed
to be (as dictated by being a Christian in our ‘privileged’ Western
world). I remember thinking that maybe I would always have to live life
that way, and know that I couldn’t do that for much longer. I remember
not being able to think or concentrate or apply myself to any sort of
study. I remember the sadness and despair as I lost the love and joy
that I got out hobbies and my favourite things. I remember feeling so
worthless and awkward in any social context, wondering what the hell I
was wasting my time for when it was obvious that I had nothing to offer
anyone and it would be better for everyone if I committed to a reclusive
life. I remember not really being close with anyone, and having many
surface friendships but no really close friends. I remember feeling
pathetic when I would cry and get angry and anxious over little things, I
remember feeling helpless and like a waste of space when I couldn’t
find it in me to help and love others because I simply could not help
and love myself. Sometimes now with a certain smell or song, I’m right
back in my depression. (Music I can’t listen to any more: Sam Sparro’s
self-titled album, Kate Havnevik’s Melankton, Fragrance I can’t smell: Dove’s cucumber and lemongrass deodorant).
I
remember a lot of things, thoughts and feelings that I wish I didn’t. I
remember the excuses, because back then I had them; I was
well-and-truly depressed. If I sat for too long in a stupor, even though
I had nothing going for me and hated myself, the only way I could ever
cut myself some slack was saying ‘hey, Em, don’t be too hard on
yourself, you’re pretty depressed, remember?’ Encouraging.
Now
I don’t have that excuse. I’m not depressed. There’s really nothing
holding me back per se. But I do have these scars. And maybe it’s just a
way of trying to make more excuses for when I fail in life, but I
really do feel as if it’s still affecting me.
Just
like my thumb for a little while shaped the way I lived, even after it
healed, depression has been doing the same, just on a much larger scale.
How
long do I keep these excuses intact? How do I teach and train myself to
live in healthy ways instead of the macabre wasteful ways I used to?
Where do I give myself grace and where do I give myself a kick and say
‘NO MORE EXCUSES, SOLDIER!’? I’m not sure where the line is, or if
indeed there is one, or if I’ll ever cross it. I know that I’ll always
remember the times I was depressed, but I definitely don’t want the
scars of lethargy and sadness and cynicism to define who I am now or the
way that I act.
There
are some scars, though, that I want to keep, and depression left me
very scarred; with wisdom to look behind people’s masks; with compassion
to love people through their hurt; with grace to forgive others their
failures; with stubbornness to keep trying even when I fail over and
over again; with a desire to learn and grow more; with a passion for
seeing other people free; and with a discontentment that I don’t want
satisfied until the day I die.
It’s
all easier said than done. At the moment, I am just tired. And when I
am tired, I’m quick to fall back into the learned ways of depression,
when I know that I was built for so much more. When I know that I was
built for life, and not for death.
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About Me
- some girl
- Just trying to figure this whole thing out and getting it wrong along the way.