Doing the Work: If Most of the Time You Don’t Because It’s not “Good Enough”

FeaturedDoing the Work: If Most of the Time You Don’t Because It’s not “Good Enough”

I am a solid millennial.

When people complain and complain about the millennial generation I know if they’re being accurate based on just how much shame I am feeling about the topic at hand. I’m not on the border. I’m not kind of an x-er or really of a different category. I fit the bill. Guilty.

Oh, also I own a house, have 3 kids, and paid off my student debt years ago. Not that you have to have done those things to be a millennial, I’m just pointing out a place where the stereotype doesn’t hold up.

It doesn’t. Because I am solidly a millennial, I promise you. I love avocado toast. For reals. I mean have you HAD avocado toast?

But more than the avocado toast, I grew up thinking several things.

1. It was imperative that I be happy in whatever I was doing.
2. The world is broken and it is legitimately a thing I need to be directly fixing in my actual life.
3. I personally need to change the world in some way to have mattered.
4. I tend not to have automatic respect for my elders. I mean if it seems earned ok. But if I think I’m more skilled, I’m not good at waiting in line. So as far as those “kids these days” lines go, that one is true for me.
5. If all of the above did not make it clear, my expectations for life are a tad unrealistic.

But I was so sure I could be the one to actually do it! And unfortunately, I did well enough in school that my ego was not particularly deflated by the time that I left HS.

In college, I did just as well! But when I approached the finish line and no one was handing me the reigns to the world or even a job and the economy collapse of 2008 was not promising and turns out I am on occasion too shy for most people to take seriously as a leader of anything unless it is turning in assignments and understanding the minimum work required to get an A without any wasted effort–I started to look around me and all I saw was Illinois.

Whoops.

I spent the last year of my college career in therapy trying to understand where it all went wrong and being pretty sure I had been far too immature to get married and it turns out they don’t test you before they let you do it. (12 Years later we figured things out on the go but it’s a little like laying down tracks in front of a moving train).

So when my husband said he had a potential job offer in Saudi Arabia I laughed and said “You can apply if you know we’re not going.” And then I said with a do not cross me look on my face “because no way on earth are we going to Saudi Arabia.”

And about 3 months later after urine samples and pooping in cups and promising not to convert Muslims and having all our earthly possessions boxed up and shipped the wrong way before finally being shipped the right one we landed in in Jeddah Airport where I felt like I needed to wrap myself up for modesty because though my clothes were modest they were also hot pink and white and it turns out that the dress code for women is pretty strictly BLACK. (Did I mention I like to dress in clothes so bright they might burn your eyes out, especially if you’re one of those people who prefers blacks and neutrals?)

Because it turns out Saudi was hiring and paying when a lot of places in the world simply weren’t. It seemed patriotic at the time to make a lot of money in a Middle Eastern country and then take it all back home to pay off student debt and buy a house, so that’s what we did. And I became something known as a trailing spouse which meant it was actually illegal for me to be employed in our new home and my only job was to hang out while my husband worked.

And after about two weeks of thinking about going nowhere in my career for the next however many jobs I got an illegal job writing copy for the University PR department and they let me name a whole bunch of streets in our new city (they’re still there, the 60 or so names I picked out on bright green signs at the intersections of King Abdullah University of Science and Technology). Of course, after a few Saudis got wise that I was being allowed to do things basically everything else I did was black-balled from then on out and I attempted (and failed) to start social media for the University and attempted to write a University newspaper and failed (4 times mind you) and I attempted (and failed) a great number of other things before I crashed and burned into a hopeless pile of I don’t think I’m going to be changing the world anytime soon and I would settle at this point just to be allowed to change the heading on one stupid article.

So I quit. I quit that job in a flaming hailstorm so boisterous (which involved me crying like a baby in my boss’s office that I had no idea what I was doing in my life and by the way no one has paid me in months and since I’m an illegal immigrant employee complaining about it hasn’t gotten me very far) that 3 other people quit at the same time and invited me to a party to celebrate which is where I finally learned how to get a hair cut in Saudi (they HIDE the salons) and turned down smoking shi sha because it turns out I am still obsessed with that part of me that wants to be SO SO SO good and change the world.

I should have just smoked the freaking Shi Sha.

After that I immediately started sleeping basically all day and staying up all night to play video games and spiraling into an existential tailspin wondering what had become of me. Meanwhile, my husband had undramatically held down a steady good job THIS ENTIRE TIME GUYS. So I started running until I could run a half-marathon. I took kick boxing so I could beat the heck out of whatever I thought was standing in the way of my hopes and dreams. I traveled to Istanbul alone. I got lost in Istanbul alone. I managed to find someone in Istanbul I knew who had a map and found my way to a hostel alone where luckily a very capable friend was waiting so I was no longer alone. I took a road trip in the United States by myself and realized it was the most independent thing I’d ever ever done and wasn’t that sad and wasn’t it awesome anyway? And I took Arabic 3 times a week for two hours until I could speak about as well as a preschooler and at least tell the cabbies confidently to PLEASE SLOW DOWN BEFORE YOU KILL US ALL and then I got a new job which wasn’t as glamorous but at least they let me do things kind of and I could come in at noon and leave at 3 and no one cared so I did.

And then I started having mini panick attacks about how I was basically checking NONE of the to do items on my life list and so I got pregnant with my first kid because at least START A FAMILY was doable for me.

And that is how I had my first child as a result of a way-too-early midlife crisis because I was supposed to be changing the world and I WAS NOT even though from Saudi it was sure easy to let people believe that–because it turns out people start to think a lot of you if you go somewhere they see as dangerous even if where you went is really just full of restaurants and movie theaters and doing just as little as you ever did before but at least you can take the occasional scuba trip and get some nice pictures even though the truth is that your scuba buddy didn’t want to partner up with you anymore than those kids in 5th grade wanted you on their kick ball team and you had to learn what it was like to cry underwater because he went far lower than your license actually allowed you to go and you are still too much of a rule follower and also afraid of popping a lung to follow him.

Weird. It’s really weird. The crying underwater I mean. Probably everything else too, but especially the crying.

So had one kid two kids three kids and then I started this blog and giving people advice not so much because I have so much experience or wisdom but mostly it turns out because I like to give advice. It’s really quite fun but also be really careful who you take advice from–it turns out a lot of us do not know what we are doing. (Have you ever seen the movie 8th grade? Oh my goodness that girl and her video advice.)

And then before I knew it I found myself in a pandemic trying to remote teach (whatever that means) two children while entertaining the other career still un-started with no assurances that there will even be a career TO start before the whole world burns itself down. And murder hornets.

Also, ash is falling from the sky and then snow, and then ash again because apparently my town is stuck between the biggest wildfire Colorado has ever seen and the earliest blizzard Colorado has ever seen and the former is too hot to be put out by the latter.

I’m a millennial. I shot really really high. And every time I’m not happy I am tempted to think that I failed. Even with the paying off my debt and traveling the world and house and kid having. I’m always afraid that I failed. Or maybe that I am still supposed to somehow change the world with my three kids trailing behind and that is EXHAUSTING.

But.

I am changing the world. It’s a fact. I know that about every single person I meet. I see their individual place in the world so easily. I always have. I know just how the puzzle would break without a single person. But I can’t ever seem to look down and see myself. All I ever see is mess and what has to be the MOST exhausting person of life because I won’t stop trying and I won’t stop crying.

Hey, that rhymes.

But that has to apply to me too. And I know, deep down, that raising three boys to become three good men is a world changing thing. And who else could do that but a crazed, crying, trying, street naming, world traveling mom who likes to list of random facts like hamsters eat their young and everyone gets to be an entirely new person every 7 years at the cellular level. It’s a fact.

Maybe if this person doesn’t change the world, the next one will. Or maybe my kids will. Or maybe my stories.

Or maybe, my job was always just to be a normal person living the best life I can and I am not so much an amazing writer or advice giver as someone who adores telling the truth in whatever messy fashion it exists.

That’s not a thing everyone even CAN do let alone WANTS to do, you know. I’m going to write even when it’s not pretty, popular, and my Mom is the only person who ever comments (which is often true, but at least MY MAMA APPRECIATES ME).

And I’m going to be proud of that even if lots of people never wanted to know this much about me. Or maybe only a few people ever read it. Even if I retell the stories a hundred times from a hundred different angles only so that someone else will KNOW without a doubt that their own story isn’t so abnormally messy or weird or broken after all.

You are a piece of the puzzle whether you live to rule kingdoms or just to make sure people get their groceries every day.

It’s a plain fact. If one piece is missing, it almost doesn’t matter what the whole picture is–that piece will dominate your thinking until you’ve looked under every rug and every table and every foot and inside every household register and even behind the bookshelf where it COULD NOT POSSIBLY be (but somehow was).

We need you. I need you. And it’s ok if we’re not happy or even if we’re swimming in anxiety and kids and pandemics and protests and mistakes up to our eyeballs. One person matters forever and always.

That means me. That means you.

So the next 7 years of me I am going to trust that my place matters in the world whether I find the next job, the next adventure, the next world crisis, the next beautiful thought, or just my next good book to read. And so does yours.

I promise.

When The Pandemic Is Not Inspiring: If Creating During Crisis Is Not Your Thing

When The Pandemic Is Not Inspiring: If Creating During Crisis Is Not Your Thing

I’ve written a lot of titles for a lot of blog posts that I have not written.

I have this overloaded and ridiculous ideal that I should be able to crank out work and be one of the most creative people of all time during everything that’s going on.

I mean, have you SEEN what’s going on?

But reality has other things to tell me. My kids. Are always. HERE. And I have no idea what to do with them half of the time. My mothering strategy previous to this was to get out of the house as often as possible and let them be as active as possible for hours at a time while I talked to friends or read on a nearby bench. We’ve still been going to parks…

But guys, it’s snowing outside. Or sleeting with snow threatening later. I don’t know. What I do know is that it is cold and wet when it was 99 degrees two days ago and all the indoor places I used to take them are closed.

And did I mention we’re tied to our home internet connection anyway? Because we are. I have two separate remote schooling schedules to keep track of and one two year old to keep from spontaneously combusting. It just has not been that great for creative output. Also my kids have been on screens so much that I am afraid their brains may melt and start draining out of their ears within the week.

All last night I dreamed that all of my family were just floating through my house talking about bad weather and how they couldn’t sleep. And I was so stressed about how none of us were sleeping. Also I’m pretty sure one of my family members was ghost hunting. Anyway, I woke up super anxious from my sleep anxious that no one had slept, when really I slept but dreamed that I hadn’t.

I’m going to have a chat with my brain about how it is supposed to be on my side. It seems to have missed the memo.

I am not historically an anxious person. I have always been able to sleep, always been able to do what I need to do and shut down whatever part of the brain is supposed to remind you that things could be going wrong or may be about to be going on has always been something I could shut the door on. Or, at least I thought it was.

Since before quarantine, I’ve been learning to meditate and tune in to the part of my brain I tend to ignore.

I can be whiny, I can be a sad sack, but that part of me that worries has mostly been put into a straight jacket and kept in secure vault somewhere in my mind. It has, I know, always reminded me of its presence through dreams–but lately I’ve been letting it out during the day time. And what a time to be tuning into my intuitive future pacing mind. UGH.

It’s not been a great time. Or great for productivity. Or the trying not to feel overwhelmed.

But. I knew, before this, that my right brain was never very appreciative of the fact that I tended to take it out to do parlor tricks and then tuck it away again the second it became inconvenient. I am a person who has let my left brain be in charge for way too long.

If that doesn’t make sense, you should check out this video here. Your right brain doesn’t know how to use words, but it absolutely can contain different information and motivations than your left brain. And it can contain feelings and frustrations your left brain is not interpreting correctly. Oh how I have betrayed and abandoned my right brain.

Right brain has taken the quarantine to show me this, which contrary to my productivity and success minded left brain, has meant slowing down to LISTEN more than to produce. Because it turns out, sometimes you need to take time to connect with yourself in truth before you can be effective.

I’ve needed this time out. And it’s killing me. Are we done yet? Have I successfully made peace with every piece of my fractured and over busy self yet? AM I WRITING LIKE A MASTER YET?

Buh. Blerg. I’m working on it. More meditation needed.

Anyway, does what I’m doing sound interesting and yet way too vague? Let me list some of my current goals and actual activities.

1. Learn to meditate with the Calm app!
2. Admit that I have procrastinated and avoided meditating way too often.
3. Downloaded the app “My Strength” to get help with depression, anxiety, and some goal mapping.
4. I set a goal to read 2 chapters a day. Since my current reading could never match pre-child days, my goals usually get too lofty and I burn out or avoid reading because I don’t have time to sit and read a book cover to cover like I used to. Yup. Nope. I can’t ignore the children for that long. 2 Chapters.
5. Letting my mind wander without direction or goal. This is different than meditating. I’m not trying to clear my mind. I’m trying to listen to it.
6. I deleted Facebook. Yup. Just gone. Of course I have like 25 days to make that permanent, but I’m planning on it. You can go to settings and then personal data to find a way to download everything first, and then delete that sucker too!
7. I have set a goal to have more personal phone conversations with people I have real working relationships with. Wish me luck!
8. I am going to write letters again. I used to sometimes, but then once I felt really weird after a friend received a 5 page hand written note I’d crayon colored in rainbow and seemed to think it was a bit much. She was nice. I may have just been insecure. (Note about me…I’m semi-terrified my friends will discover just how much I love them because I’m afraid it would freak them out. But chances are that if we are friends, I five handwritten rainbow colored pages love you.
9. I’m running. I highly recommend the app “Get Running” which is just verbal directions to cut through your music at set intervals to get you up to running 30 minutes consecutively (which is supposed to be 5k, but I’m me, and I am slow, so I assure that it’s not 5k for me personally. I’ll get there though).
10. I am questioning my own negative thoughts and feelings out loud to myself whenever I feel overwhelmed. I find I have to say it. Like a crazy person. Sometimes I have to hug myself too.
11. I gave up caffeine. I didn’t think this would matter. But holy cow am I never going back to regular consumption of large amounts of caffeine. My spousal fights have gone down about 90 percent since I quit. Along with catastrophizing and impulsively yelling whatever was on my mind.

So how’s quarantine going for you? Whatcha up to? Any self-improvement? Any movie watching world records being set? Domino mazes being knocked over? Let me know!

If You Can’t Know What You Don’t Know: Why Perspective Matters in Love

If You Can’t Know What You Don’t Know: Why Perspective Matters in Love

I didn’t know I was doing it. I didn’t know my world was any different from anyone else. I did know it seemed like a had a harder time with some things than other people. And I thought that meant I was bad.

It started small. I never liked talking to people in public. I always said the wrong  thing. DID the wrong thing. People’s responses confused me. So I kept to myself. I remember that look teachers would get on their face. The angry look from the front of the class with everyone looking at me. They knew something I did not know. The teacher said something I was supposed to respond to, but I don’t know what it was. 

“I don’t know” was never sufficient. “Can you say that again?” Was a guaranteed way to get in trouble. It just meant I wasn’t listening. But I was listening. Or trying to. There was something else going on in my head. I was looking at the way the teacher’s face moved. The way she felt. She was tired. She was frustrated. She was concentrating.

Oh no. Now she was looking at me. I didn’t hear the words. I saw so much, but I didn’t hear. Or I heard something. Noises that were supposed to turn into words but never did.

And then that promise to myself. I’ll do better next time. I’ll try harder. I figure out how the other kids are hearing what she said. But I always ended up watching mouths instead. Or eyes. Or the bird out the window. Or the ideas flying through my head.

Mrs. Green was the most terrifying. Everyone LOVED Mrs. Green. She was so fun and so exciting. We dissected sharks and went on field trips and counted money and so many many grown up responsible things. But she yelled. And she expected a lot, and she knew my father. It was the first time I realized my Dad being who he was changed how people saw who I was. And my father was wonderful. But I never seemed to improve to match how good he was. It never helps me change the noise into words.

“YOU KNOW WHAT YOU DID!” I didn’t. I still don’t. I have guesses. That’s all I have. And that look on her face. Incensed. That’s the look. Total offense that of all people I didn’t hear them.

And that’s what life became. Guesses. Constant never ending guesses. But something happens when you guess all day, every day. Guesses become educated predictions. And predictions start to be right more often, all the time. You start to see patterns everywhere, and then you start to see the patterns you draw as truth–forgetting they’re a stand-in for the real thing.

____________________________________________________________________________________________________

“Birthday.”

It’s what I have to go on. I look at my friend’s face. I have to think quickly. Who’s birthday is it? How long was she speaking before she stopped? She looks curious. Oh! It’s a question. Who’s birthday could she be talking about. Oh! Mine! She looks happy. Ok, she’s probably asking what I’ll do for my birthday. That fits.

” Oh, I just usually enjoy a quiet day. Good cake. Time to read. You know, that sort of thing.”

My friend looks pleased. Good. I was right. I watch her mouth closely and think. Listen listen. You can’t miss more.

“Oh! That sounds great!…” I hear noises. She looks excited. I’m so happy to see I got it right. I like my friend so much. Oh no. I’m doing it. I know what she feels. I’m so happy I’m talking to her. I have no idea what she’s saying.

“…my birthday.”

No problem. She just told me what she likes to do for her birthday. The pattern is easy. This is fine.

“That sounds really fun! What a great idea!”

My feelings are genuine. My words are what I guess I would say if I was sure she said what I think she said. I can’t respond in greater detail without too much risk though. I feel terrible. It feels like a lie. But telling her I couldn’t listen feels worse.

__________________________________________________________________________________________________________

The Drivers Ed teacher is inches from my face. I didn’t notice him until he got close.

“You have to respect me enough to listen in class! If you spend your whole time in here drawing, you’re out of here!”

My face turns red. I look down at the margins full of drawing.

“No, Mr. Krupp. This is a road I drew when you were talking about speeding. See the sign? And this is a steering wheel. 10 and 2. This is how I listen.”

He is unconvinced. I don’t mention that I am constantly reading the text book in between trying to listen. My desperate drawings of his words are interspersed with notes that fit the topic. I’ve been doing this so long, I’m confident it works. I’m angry a low level drivers ed teacher thinks he knows better. No one knows better how I learn than me. I look up at him with contempt. I am simultaneously ashamed of my own attitude.

“Ok, smarty. If you were listening what is the law for…”

I don’t remember what he asked now. I know I got the question right. I almost always did. the crazy puzzles laid out on my notes were life. I was almost always right, so who cared if I listened?
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________

I love sitting next to Jessican in Psych Theory. She hardly talks. She mostly smiles. It’s like she feels at the world instead of talking. I could not love her way of being in the world more. It’s not exhausting. It’s easier to try to listen. The professor is so animated and loud and he tells constant stories. I remember so much more when they tell stories. But Jessica also takes the worlds most amazing notes and she’s one of the nicest people I’ve ever met. She always shares. I borrow notes from several people every class. I diligently piece them together. I look for disagreement. Things one person caught that the others didn’t. But Jessica’s are always the best.

Have I ever told you how much I love the Jessica’s of the world? Jessicas are life.

_________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Diana looks at me in confusion. “Wait, you get all A’s? So what is the problem girl? Why are you so worried about starting college? It sounds like you’ll be just fine!….” she says more reassuring things. I don’t know what they are. I can’t tell my dorm RD cares. I can also tell she’s annoyed.

I put my head in my hands. I’m angry. I’m exhausted. I’m sad. Diana had finally gotten to the point of frustration with me, like everyone did. She told me to make lists. I make dozens. They don’t help. She told me to get organized. What does that even mean at this point? She told me to ask for help. What do you think that I’m doing?

“I’m not worried I will do badly. I’ll do ok. I always do. I just don’t think it’s supposed to be this hard. I don’t think it’s supposed to hurt like this.”

Diana says more things. I see her face. She feels bad for me. That’s all I know. That’s all I hear in the student common room we are sitting in. I hear ping pong balls. Yelling. I see people pass by with food. All I know about Diana is that she is trying to find a way to leave. And that this is the last time I try to tell someone about the world inside my head.
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________

I remember the first time I talked to Abigail. I don’t remember what she said. She was always so nervous. She wanted to do the right thing. Kindness and concern and anxiety dripped from her every moment of every day. When I talked, trying to figure out what I was supposed to say in return, she didn’t get mad. She didn’t look at me like I was from another planet. She was more worried that what she was saying was ok too.

Some of my favorite conversations were about nonsensical phrases we made up. Things I said that made no sense, that made her laugh instead of mad. Silly things she made up to say back. I usually felt like I vibed with Abigail more than I talked to her. She was my first sensitive friend. And she came with other sensitive friends. My first people who’s feelings were as important or more important than what they said. I didn’t have to hear them. I just had to know what the feeling was. I just had to be nice back.

There’s a secret underground world of people who are incredibly nice, and all they want is for someone to be nice in return. To be sensitive to how they feel at the world. They became my life raft. My salvation in a sea of confusion.

And like Jessica, they took really amazing notes. They did not fuss over all the questions I asked, all the holes that needed filling. And in return, I tried to help them with math. I loved math. When you’ve spent your whole life trying to piece together what happened well enough to function, things that are meant to be puzzles are easy. Joy even. Not that my explanations were always helpful, or anything like repayment for having friends, and people who cared in my corner.

Adventures of tang and dwarf fingers, chinchillas and houses full of people who ran and felt and yelled nonsense and liked me even when I said things that made no sense. Or when I responded to feelings instead of words. Or when I sang, humming constantly to give the part of my head that would not ever be calm something to do so that the responsible bits had half a chance.

The Abigails of the world are life.

__________________________________________________________________________________________________________

“Andi, there’s no knife on the table.”

Frantically I search through the hand drawn maps and notes in my lap. I told my husband I’d be bad at a text adventure game. I told him that when I can’t see the text, it’s a bad scene. So so bad.

I’d asked him to repeat everything about five times. I’d drawn pictures as fast as I could, like my life depended on it. And I found the picture I’d drawn of the kitchen as he read out the description from the game.

“Read it again.”

“There is a bag on the table that smells like pepper.”

I scribble out the drawing on my paper. I’d drawn peppers.

“It looks like someone has been preparing lunch.”

“Read it again.”

He does. I finally hear what isn’t there.

“Oh no! You’re right! I heard table, and peppers, and something about prepare, and my mind just decided there had to be a knife. Like I’m still shocked there isn’t one! I was so sure!”

He looks at me. I blush. I’m bad at letting him see the process. Years of fights where he heard me lie about something that had been said. I never understood. I never intended to lie. Unless lying includes saying what you think someone said based on their emotions and your own emotions and all the chaos and trying to fill in the gaps under stress.

I feel relieved and angry with myself. This is why I can’t tell you what anyone said just before it got heated. Because I don’t know. I don’t ever know. But I’m not stupid. I’m just a professional connect the dots artist. I try to find the dots. But sometimes, I think it’s a cat when it’s really a dog. There just aren’t ever enough dots in the world to prevent mistakes.

“This is the map you drew? This is crazy! This is what came out of your head?”

I look at the crazy assortment of drawings and arrows and stick figures all being wrangled with lines going every which way, trying to recreate the map and the descriptions in the game. It’s hopelessly confusing. And I also know, that I will be able to piece it into something understandable and even impressive later. I just don’t usually let people see this part, the process of how I try to record it and reassemble it later. Is anything I ever show people or tell people about what I’ve done true? It’s always a restitching to make it look better than it was.

It’s making more sense to me why sometimes my husband and I have to have serious discussions over instant messenger and can’t talk in person. I do so much better when it’s on the screen and when I can refer to what was actually said. What I remember is never right. The accuracy of my feelings betray me every time. The words don’t stick if I didn’t see them. I’ve even learned to see in words. Times New Roman. Comic Sans. If I picture the words, sometimes it helps. Really seeing them is always best.

Later on I will try to write the story.  I know I’m making up what I think was said. I don’t really remember. I’m guessing. I only remember how it felt.
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________

I’ve become a walking Wikipedia page for anything I’ve ever been interested in. Theology. World War II. Cooking. Random anything and everything.

The more I know the more dots I have. The more dots I have the clearer the picture is. The less the missing dots matter at all. But I have to learn that spewing out Wikipedia pages at parties in entirety is a bad scene.

Hitler makes poor party conversation. Why didn’t I know that?

When your assembling a puzzle of what you don’t hear and what you don’t remember, it’s easy to miss what was never there in the first place.

Hitler. People don’t casually talk about Hitler.

I have another dot. Is it a negative dot? I realize the list of things that aren’t in the picture matter as much or more than what is. It is depressing. Really depressing. How can I know what isn’t there when so  much already isn’t? Should I have just known this? I start running experiments in safe places away from my social goals. If you randomly talk about hitler with people on the internet, it does not matter nearly as much if they block you.

The internet is wonderful. And also terrible.

__________________________________________________________________________________________________________

What’s missing is not my only problem. What I’m not doing is just as bad. Cabinets don’t get closed. All the drawers in my dresser are almost always open. Laundry stays in the machine for days. I never remember anything I was doing before I changed rooms. Everyone else says they do it too.

“Yeah, but it just seems it’s not nearly as much.”

This is apparently not the right answer.

“You’re not special.”

I will agree with you there. And if this is special, special certainly isn’t good.

Room mates had to point out I never remember to flush the toilet or clean the shower when it’s my turn. I lose my cell phone once a season. Coats, pants, socks, keys, student I.D.s. Life is not about remembering things. It’s about how to strategize and replace things as seamlessly as possible when I do. It’s about moving quickly. Because it can’t be about remembering. It can’t be about just doing it. Everything every day is about covering mistakes and recovering before people see.

I learn that making fun of myself helps. People find it charming. Humble. I don’t have time to think about if it means anything good about me. Only that it makes piecing the puzzle together better. It matters less when I fail if people like me, and if I’ve somehow made it my thing.

I start acting like this is the way I want to be. I’m just aloof. I’m eccentric. I don’t have time to listen to everyone. I don’t care. It’s boring. I say weird things because I’m just so smart you couldn’t possibly understand. My insides and my outsides get so far apart I don’t feel like one person anymore. I feel fractured so much of the time, it becomes reality.

It is years before I realize I’ve made making fun of myself and being stupid my thing. Years before I realize I’ve gotten rude.

Because I’m not stupid. And no matter how crazy my circus gets, sometimes it’s the only thing I DO know. I’m not stupid. And I’m not mean. I care so much I want to die that I can’t do a better job at showing it.

And my mind is my enemy and my refuge. It is so much easier to stop forcing it to sort out the outside world. Inside is perfect. Inside I connect kingdoms and fantasies and ideas and theories and nothing is ever missing. And no one gives me that look.
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Cindy looks at me. But there is compassion there.

“Oh Andi, thank you for sharing! That is so vulnerable and so courageous! You need to know that it is always ok to ask for things to be repeated here. And did you hear what your friend just told you?”

I blush. I remember how she looked. I remember knowing she loved me. I know she said nice things about my family in a vague sort of way. But I don’t have the words.

“No, I’m so sorry. I know it was nice”

Everyone laughs. It’s a nice laugh though. I didn’t have to make fun of myself first. It’s just too perfect. I would laugh too.

Marie smiles and grabs my hand. I can see her face. She loves me. She knows I care. She doesn’t even repeat. She doesn’t have to.

We have been talking about what it means to have an entire soul. A soul completely in-line with itself. I remember because I got to see the words on the page. I’m so glad it’s a book and not just a video series. But what does it mean to make my outside match my inside? It means admitting a lot more than I ever do. It means not pretending I know what I don’t or that I hear what I haven’t or that I follow when I can’t.

I write this later, only guessing at what people said. But I remember how it felt. I know what it meant.

The Cindys and Maries of the world are life. Like streams of water flowing from God. Friends who forgive you, who see you, who love you, and who repeat for you and take good notes. Who don’t judge you because your bag is coffee stained and your boot zipper is broken and your name tag is barely legible.

Pure life and abundance.

Maybe Jesus can use the dot connecting. And maybe “I don’t know” is more generous than pretending ever was.