worship

        What do you want to teach me in this?
-I'm with you. I take care of you.

        Satan makes stupid things happen every day, then we turn to God and ask, "Why did you do this?" It's not fair. The blame goes to God and not to the author of all chaos and pain. What we should ask is, "Why did you allow this? What do you want to teach me?"

        I've been increasingly upset about the fact that my car is all crunched and hideous from hitting a deer, upset that there's nothing I can do about it, but feel ashamed, embarrassed. I try really hard to take good care of my things. Then yesterday, I dropped and shattered my phone to the point where shards of glass will stab me if I try to use it. Later, I went to the gym and got $80 stolen out of my wallet. It was my business money, so now I have no more to invest. I borrowed the money because I thought I could multiply it, and now it's gone. I feel like I failed.. like everything I try to do fails. I can't take care of myself, can't get or keep a job. I need a dad. I'm so weak.

        Is that ok? Is that ok, Daddy?
-You are safe. I won't let you fail. You can let go.

         I go to brunch today after church with my sister, Cassia and my parents. At one point I say I should've spent more money at a garage sale I went to since it got stolen anyway. I hadn't told my parents about the money yet, so I did. My mom says, "You must be getting attacked; you've been so happy, then all this." I agree and start tearing up. Cassia is tearing up, says she wishes she could do something to help. I can't stop tearing up, holding back a storm. My mom gives me $30. First I say I don't need it, but she sets it down and I say thank you through subtle tears. My mom prays for me, that God protects me.

        I tell them it's been really hard to not drink lately, and I think that's why these seemingly little, but difficult things are happening, then I start crying as gently as I can. When I look up, my dad's eyes are red and teary and my mom's face says that she wishes she could make it all better. She asks if she can get me a soda. I say no, but it's a sweet gesture. Cassia says, "It's ok, Mom."  Mom says, "Well, it's good to bring it out to the light."

        I agree. Then I fight for a few minutes to hold back violent tears, awkwardly folding and unfolding my napkin and taking multiple sips of my coffee, trying to think of something funny to make my body stop its autopilot into a sobbing mess. There's a reason tear and tear are the same spelling, the same word.

        I am so loved. It's worth all the pain to know that. It's worth all the pain to know that. It's worth all the pain to know that. This has been quite a journey. In church, I thought back to a few years ago when Annabeth was crying out to God for me to be rescued from the world, looking around at people I know prayed for me while I was lost. So much victory. I've seen so much victory all around me. How could I not believe for more?

        Thank you God for rescuing me, believing for my life, healing me, taking care of me. Thank you for your unfailing love and endless faithfulness. Thank you for every victory won and every victory yet to be won. Thank you for loving me.

-Keep dreaming, baby girl. I've got a lot in store for you, more than you could ever imagine.

        Worship is a beautiful duet. Perfect harmony between God and man.

wtfu

I often have dreams where I'm cussing out people I know from church.

        Last night, I had a dream of that nature. I let a few people (whom I know in real life) use my phone for something, and when I get it back, the glass is shattered, pieces falling off in my hands. I tell them it was just a scratch before - how could they be so reckless with it?! They don't listen to me, don't even look up at me, they respond with some kind of "Oh I'm sure it was already like that."
        WELL, I get enrAAAged... even now I can feel the rage surging through my heart (just from a dream!?). I'm in a group of people all sitting at tables, listening to a speaker make a presentation. I stand up, phone in hand, press my lips together firmly, grit my teeth, clench my jaw, flare my nostrils, and violently chunk my phone at the front of the room where the presentation's display shows. It breaks into pieces and I walk off as people finally acknowledge me and try to usher me out of the room.  I have embarrassed them, apparently.

        After that, I'm in a different room full of tables around which people sit, but these are different people. From what I gather, they are sororities and fraternities. I sit at the end of a table where a fraternity sits. A whole row of attractive young guys sit in front of me - I'm still unnoticed, but I don't mind it in this setting. After some time, I stand up, feeling a little scared without having my phone, since I destroyed it in the previous setting. I walk over to one guy with dark hair, a plaid shirt, and some wide-ish rim glasses. I tell him I want to go to NYC with him.

        After that, I'm in NY without a phone. I look at a map to see that I'm in Brooklyn. I keep telling myself that it will be fun to be on my own, to couch surf and meet different people and find my own way in life, but inside, I'm a little scared.

        Later on, I'm traveling with some people, a girl is driving, and I suddenly think "I'm usually nervous when other people drive. I wonder if she's a good driver." Then she starts swerving and I start telling myself to wake up from the dream I know I'm in.  I think to myself of all the ways I could try to wake myself - I pinch my cheek, but nothing happens, I can't wake up. The road just kept going into the dark night. Eventually I did wake up, but not because I made myself. I was trapped in that dream until it would release me.

RAGE. I feel it every day. Apparently it makes me feel like I don't belong in church, among the churched, but I do belong with God, and I don't belong in a dark world, trying to find my way without anyone. I want everyone to feel my rage. I want them to wake the fuck up, honestly. Wake the fuck up. Life is perfect for a lot of people, but they don't know it. They think that because they got in a fight with their significant other about paint colors, life is hard. DAMN. wtfu people. wtfu.

to the end, through the end

Dream I had last night:

        In a plane with prisoners who will soon be executed. The plane drops everyone off at a platform where the prisoners will receive their injections. There's 4 of them - 3 guys and a girl. One guy is older, maybe in his 50's and a little country; the second guy is younger, maybe 34, Hispanic, tall, skinny, buzz cut; the third guy is even younger, late 20's, blue eyes, blonde hair, a little pudgy, but attractive; then there's the girl, who I can picture, but cannot describe, it is too vague an image in my mind.

For the sake of clear storytelling, I'll give them names:
Older guy - Randy
Hispanic guy - Nick
Younger guy - Sam
Girl - Sarah

        First, Randy gets the injection, then Nick, then Sarah, then Sam. Nothing happens initially, as they all wait for the effects, then Randy says, "Hey! Did someone turn the heater on in here?" in all seriousness, with the sound of paranoia. At the same time, I watch as Nick waits for the drug: he sits and waits, nervously babbling about something, trying to not be scared, and it hits him. His expression chokes as the realization of death sets in - he can feel his body shutting down. He pulls a white blanket over him and settles himself into what's coming next - his face sweats beads, and then shouts, "Yo, y'all turn the heater on?" with the same serious, paranoid, terrified tone as Randy.

        Randy chuckles at Nick's repeat of his exclamation, but we don't laugh because this means he's getting closer to death. I turn to Sarah, who's sitting back with a white blanket. She says she doesn't feel anything, that maybe the drug won't work on her. I look sympathetically into her face and shake my head; it's not possible for her to escape death. She looks down at the ground, mournfully accepting this fact.

        Then I go to Sam, who's sitting at what looks like a picnic table, staring off ponderously. He decides he wants to get right with God, so he says something like, "God, I accept you. Take away my sins." then repeats it at least once more. When his injection kicks in, he sits back in a chair with a white blanket draped over him and talks to me, about what, I don't know.

        Randy and Nick are there for murder, something awful - they know their guilt, but Sam is there because he exposed someone of sexual behavior, someone high up in the justice system. It's like he had a website of gossip and this guy became a target. The guy didn't want his image tainted and sent Sam to prison on some BS charges.

        I look into Sam's eyes as he talks about what he did. I'm attracted to him, but I don't feel heartbroken for him, which is what I would expect myself to feel in that moment. I knew I was comforting him until the end. I was comforting all of them by just being there with them, listening to them.

        Then 3 people in suits and lab coats come down a hall, outside the room with the dying prisoners, carrying tubes of something to stop the poison. They say they're from the Food & Drug Association and they don't say it, but I know they're there for Sam. He may have done wrong, but he didn't deserve death for it. They set up all around him and connect a caulk-like tube to his arm; they begin juicing him up with something that will stop the poison and restore his body.
 
        I watch it happen and think that maybe I can get together with this guy now. I picture us kissing, like in movies, after he gets his strength back, his life back. But that doesn't happen, and the dream ends.

        I could tell I was trying to make it happen, trying to wake up enough to change the ending of the dream, make it better for me, but I couldn't do it. The picture wouldn't change. Thing is, most of the time, I do change endings or create endings, and can do it easily. Certain dreams just won't take my meddling.


Later, I dreamed that I told my sister about this dream while we sat at a picnic table next to the chain-link fence of a prison. There was a female guard standing in full gear and a huge pit-bull barking at anything moving. I told her that my conclusion from the dream is that I should be a prison guard, but said I was joking. In my mind, I considered it though. I thought that maybe someone should be there for these people as they die.
                   And maybe someone should be.

Maybe when I'm an old woman, I'll do it - visit death row inmates. There's something so heroic about loving to the end, through the end. I wish I could do it now, but I'm too pretty to go to prison. Something inside me longs to love people who are dying - people with terminal diseases, AIDs, cancer, or people on death row. I want them to know they're not alone, that they're worth loving even though they have nothing to give, because it's true. I hope some day that will be my life. I want to love so badly.

Louis Louis - Teitur

          If I could chain myself to this room every night, I would, I should. The set sun, close of day evokes a being in me - one that's possible or impossible, depending on the day, to control.

I'm so fucking sad. And, so fucking hungry.

IT'S ROARING. Its roaring hurts.
Its roaring aches my insides.

what would a little drink do?
what would a little sip cure?

If I didn't hunger, would it stop hurting?


I don't want to be hungry forever. And I don't want to be numb, unless that's the only option. I have to believe that's not the only option. When I don't, the being in me destroys the roaring sip by sip.

GOD! It hurts


I want a Daddy.    I want a Daddy!
All I've ever wanted is a Daddy, and look what I got for wanting one: addiction, abuse, abandonment, rejection, pain, sorrow, pain, sorrow.

"I get to love you through whatever comes.
    What a privilege."         He sings that to me.


The pain subsides, soaks back into the ocean of sorrow weighing my heart.

                      I'll never have a Dad.

My chest physically hurts right now. I'm sure it's a coincidence.

Now I'll go to my device-ive distractions.
There's no happy ending to this story.
Not today.


"Before I formed you in the womb, I knew you."

Somebody at church today had a word from God, a song: "Louis Louis."   My heart jumped when I heard the two identical words, connecting to a song I've loved since 2007, a song by Teitur.

I'll listen to it and see if God speaks anything to me. Maybe it has to do with that verse: "I know you."
Oh well, let's listen and see.

-I'm a delight. I have a lot to offer the world. This word from God, this song is an invitation out of hiding - the world needs my "music." The line says over and over "Come play us a song." I'm unique.


My mind and heart are ships with rudders and wheels, but then there's the wind.
I forget the wind. I forget my sails.
My tools maneuver well only when they work with wind and water.
A ship does more than turn; it sails.

I was born a doll in a microwave

       

          Maybe I do have an “addictive personality.” I can't seem to do anything in moderation – anything that makes me feel good, at least. I live for the ultimate high in everything I experience, and if I don't get there, I feel unfulfilled and crave anything and everything that will take me there, take me to the highest high. It's like everything I do is in the mindset of masturbation. That may sound disgusting, but let's be real here... you don't do it for the process; if there was no orgasm, no one would do it. It's the end that makes the process enjoyable. How frustrated everyone would be if they tried and tried and tried to reach orgasm and it never happened, and then someone told them that they're supposed to only enjoy the act of masturbating, the process, they're not supposed to do it for the end result; “there's no climax; you just have to learn to enjoy the act – the act without the result.” What is the result? Relaxation, contentment. If it was sex... ya know, with another person who you love or whatever... I suppose the result would be different – the result would be love, connection, closeness, a deep bond. Maybe that's where I'm off. I view life as masturbation when I should view it as sex. It's not just a view I have though, not just something I can choose whether or not I want to believe it; it's part of my brain, my thinking, my feeling, my reactions, my actions, and whatever else there is. So, life is sex.

Sex is something with an awful reputation. Life has the reputation as being a bitch.. pretty awful too.

Sex hurts, humiliates, confuses, degrades, emasculates, terrifies, abuses, incriminates, takes away innocence, identity, individuality, confidence, security, self-respect, hope, peace, freedom, love.

Life hurts, humiliates, confuses, degrades, emasculates, terrifies, abuses, incriminates, takes away innocence, identity, individuality, confidence, security, self-respect, hope, peace, freedom, love.

Difference is, people can hate life and love sex. Sex guarantees some amount of relational bonding; life does not. A life can go from beginning to end without any relational connection. Sex is relational connection by physical means.

Maybe it's an awful analogy, but it resonates with how I feel in every social situation, or anytime I try to do something fun. I walk away going, “Was that it?” feeling totally empty, unsatisfied, unfulfilled. Maybe things that fill normal people don't fill me. For them, there's a relational need to be met, and it's met by being with people. For me, I don't consciously have that need, and I've never known it. My engine stopped running on fuel a long time ago, and now it runs on air. It learned how to move around like a car, but if you pop the hood, nothing is on, nothing is running. Is it still a car if it doesn't have a working engine?

My brain rewired itself into receiving fulfillment from strong feelings, emotional highs, physical highs. A man showing interested in me, a drink or smoke, a friend telling me how I'm the most awesome person ever, or the construction of radical, abstract, creative thoughts or theories (like this one): these are the only things that make me feel alive, fulfilled. Without them, i'm running a race without a finish line. This is why I feel that I have to go crazy deep with people – crazy deep and radically real, because my relational radar only goes off when strong feelings are expressed. I receive so much fulfillment and life in arguments because I feel connected to the person or people with whom I'm arguing. They walk away thinking I hate them and I walk away initially exuberant, then learning how they feel, I feel so sad, to put it plainly. I feel sad that my heart was alive and happy in the conversation while theirs was growing colder and more distant with every word.

I'm learning about normal relationships from Melanie. She doesn't go deep or share her real, unveiled feelings, but she does consider me a friend and I think she cares about me, though I don't feel it. I watch our relationship, I study it to understand how people do it. They all think I'm on top, I'm confident, I'm the leader... but I'm studying their every move, trying to discover what friendship is. Maybe I don't want them to know that I'm the car whose engine is off, my feet sticking through the floor board propelling my car forward with all my strength, trying to stay at the same pace as them. If I thought it would help, maybe I'd let them in, but my feelings tell me that nothing will help. And it's too tender a subject to risk being laughed at or misunderstood. I'm very sensitive. I need to accept that. I need to stop acting so tough... but being so sensitive, it feels impossible not to have a tough outside. People are so harsh and I'm so tender. I don't know if I want to be, but I am.

I wonder if all their engines work.