Self-Administered Therapy

Lately, I’ve had a lot of things on my mind and I’ve spent a lot of time thinking (and pretending not to think by means of distraction). I have spent this time taking stock of my life. From the things I have accomplished and the things I have done and seen and experienced to the people I have met, been friends with, learned to hate, and those I left in a trail of dust in the past.

I think it’s yet another one of those phases of life (one of the first and, undoubtedly, not the last) where I stand at a crossroads looking down all these different avenues I could start down and not having a clue in the world as to which is the right one or even what one is even remotely appealing…Hence, the stock taking.

It seems as though everyone I know is either,

a) finding the person of their dreams/getting engaged or married,

b) having a baby, or

c) already has a job/just found out they got a job.

Every time I log onto Facebook or talk to someone it’s, “Oh did you hear about so-and-so’s (fill in great life achievement here)?”

Me (even if I haven’t): “Yes, yes I did. Good for them.”

Me (what I’m really thinking):  I hate them on an elemental level for the next five seconds to fifteen minutes for getting something I want in life.

Nonetheless, what I’m ultimately trying to get at is this: I have been struggling.

Now, I am a relatively proud person so this doesn’t exactly taste good to admit, but it doesn’t make it any less true.

This is my confession:

I look around me and I see my friends and family happy, safe, healthy, and getting their just desserts. I look around me and I see people whom I love and admire accomplishing HUGE feats in their lives after overcoming immense obstacles and are better for it.

I look around me and I think, What in the hell have I been doing with my life? Partying? Wasting time thinking about boys who don’t matter and never will? Sleeping? Watching TV? Nothing?

I look around me and…I’m jealous. And I hate myself for it because I have prayed every night before I fall asleep that these things would happen for the people I love and care about. I pray that they would be “happy, safe and healthy. That they get everything they want, desire, need, deserve and so much more. That they meet and keep the person who is going to love, honor, respect, cherish, protect, defend, support, encourage, and balance them out” in the best possible ways.

God has answered my prayers. So what is my problem?

The answer: I’m human and I want more. I’m selfish and I can’t help but think, What about ME? What about all the good, great, grand, fabulous things that are supposed to happen to me and the person who will walk into my life and do that? Haven’t I hurdled enough obstacles yet to get just one of these things?

My response to myself: “Get over yourself because you have a good life, good friends and good family. You have your health, a great education, a part-time job and people who love and support you no matter what.”

And yet…I’m still not satisfied. Even with all these wonderful things in my life I still feel…less than.

On two occasions, I have attempted to express my thoughts and feelings on this subject to someone else: once to my mom on the drive back to the school I’ll be graduating from in exactly five weeks and once drunkenly to Nicki after one of my “distractions”...worked well, huh?

And here is the true confession:

I don’t feel as if I have accomplished as much in my life thus far as much as those around me or as I thought I would/could have. I have not had any flashy internships with a big corporation or a big name celebrity. I have not been published at the age of 18 like S.E. Hinton. I have not, in essence, done much – or at least that’s how I feel however accurate or inaccurate that may be.

The truth is I sell myself a bit short. I have come a long way from Little Rock, Arkansas where I was born or from Decatur, Illinois where I was raised. I have held a job(s) every year/summer/break since the summer before I turned 15. I have gotten good grades, taken honors, AP and higher level courses than were meant for my age, held multiple leadership positions and participated in sports throughout the majority of my education. I have maintained deep, meaningful, loving relationships with the people who matter to me most and add some new ones to that list. I have, also, managed to graduate college in three and a half years with a Bachelor’s degree, a minor and a certificate.

All of this and I’m still not satisfied. All of this and I don’t know how to fix the way I feel. I don’t know what to do and not knowing (anything) has always been hard for me. I like to know. I like to have a direction and a purpose. I like to know my place in the world and feeling like that place is somewhere doing something good for me and those around me. I like to know who I think I am and what I stand for and how that can help me know the things I’ve listed before them.

I have been struggling. I have been struggling because I don’t know any of these things.

I’m standing at a crossroads. And I’m thinking. I’m listening. I’m watching. I’m waiting for some sign as I go through the motions of “making things happen” for myself (as much as any of us can)…

And then it comes. I’m sitting in class, listening to a writing of Rift Fornier, a friend of my teacher, being read aloud about David Milch’s Problems of the Spirit, a lecture series of five giving advice to writers about living, writing, and living as a writer.

BAM!! Like a ton of bricks, it hits me square in the chest. It warms my heart and makes me feel comforted in a way that no one I know has managed to in the past few months, possibly years.

This is what I hear:

“When you are not writing, you’re going to be sad. You are going to feel inadequate. You are going to feel untalented. You are going to feel incompetent. It’s crucially important to understand that the impulse to write is a reaching out to God.

Words are symbols of reality, but they are symbols that partake of the reality they represent. That paradoxical doubleness is the explanation of how writing is a reaching out to our fellow human beings but also a reaching out to a larger spirit.”`

***

“But the first thing to take away with you is the absolute certainty that nothing you have ever thought about your capacities as an artist is true. This is a fresh beginning.”

Comfort from a stranger who seems to know me from the inside out, who reaches down to my very core to pull out my deepest, darkest feelings that I’ve been feeling for too long. Hope that I will not always feel this way nor am I the only one who does or ever has. You mean I’m not the only person in the world to ever 

feel this way? No, get over yourself.

This is God’s honest truth. When I don’t write, I am sad; I do feel inadequate; I do feel untalented; I do feel incompetent. Just as when I don’t go to church or pray or have some sort of connection with God in whatever means it takes to get through the wires to Him, I do not do well.

Writing is my prayer. Writing is my therapy. Writing is my release, my sanctuary, and my passion.

When I have stepped away for too long to “get things done” and “be productive”  and “do what needs to be done”, I neglect a huge part of myself. I shut out the part of myself that makes me feel good about myself, that makes me happy and satisfied, that makes me me.

It is my happy place. Whenever, wherever. It is home. It is the place where I know.  It is the avenue that gives me direction and purpose. It is my place in the world and the feeling that what I’ve created is something good for me and those around me. It is the way in which I know who I am and what I stand for.

This post, as long as it is, was the exercise I needed to do to reach this conclusion. It is part of the process that points me in the right direction and gives me an avenue to look toward going down as I stand at this crossroads. So really, this was more for me than for you. I honestly just needed the self-administered therapy. Although, I hope you enjoyed it in some way.

Big Stomach, Small Body

In the past 6 months, I have been seriously underestimated. On three separate occasions, the same sequence of events has occurred. And each time to the amazement of those who have underestimated me I have proven them wrong. 

The first time, I went to The Cheesecake Factory with my parents. The second time, I was with my parents again at Tucker’s Place in Soulard. And the third, I went with some friends to The Fountain on Locust.  

Each time I ordered something different, something big like 1) the Burrito Grande, 2) an 20 oz. Porterhouse steak with a baked potato aaand a salad that came out first, 3) and pesto chicken on some sort of bread, a side salad and a giant ice cream sundae called the Bearcat, respectively.

In other words…something that apparently the male waiters did not think I would ever in a million years be able to finish. 

So what did they do?

They listen to my order with a smirk on their face. They serve me my food and say, “Good luck!” as if they don’t believe I’ll actually eat the amount of food put in front of me. One guy even added a little something extra to his “kind wishes” and said, “I can’t wait to see this.”

I look to my Dad who knows what I am capable of and also has a grin of his own because on these occasions I have eaten more than him.  And each time I reply, “Well then, watch this.”

And I proceed to eat every last bite of food on my plate and still have room for dessert.

Note to male waiters: do not underestimate the power of my stomach to hold food. I may be smaller than you; I may look like a girl who would order a salad and only eat half of it before announcing “I’m so full.” But if you think these things based on my physique, you will be wrong. I will order something large from the menu if I am hungry; I wouldn’t order something that big just to waste it. I will eat it all. And you, sir, will feel simultaneously like an ass and impressed. 

Oh yes and the guy who said he couldn't wait to see this and wished me luck came back to clear my empty plate from the table and said, "I’m impressed, I didn’t think you could do it. I like a girl who can eat.”

Well, sir, then I’m your kind of girl.

Nakey Time

It has come to my attention over the past few years, especially after having moved out of my parents’ house and away to school, that some people just aren’t comfortable with their own body, especially when that body is naked.

I was raised in such a way that taught me that being naked was a natural thing – not something to be embarrassed about. You’re born naked, people, so why be embarrassed of being naked later in life? Everyone has the same parts as you (given their respective sex, still….everyone has a butt). 

Anyway, I have always been comfortable in my own skin. In fact, even as a child I was extremely confident in the way I looked, at ease with my body and enjoyed being free from the constraints of clothes. 

Perhaps, I was an eccentric child. Indeed, I was. That’s a fact. My fashion choices were unique, if questionable, but no one could accuse me of not having my own style or personality. 

As time passed and I grew older, my confidence stayed with me. I don’t recall a time when I felt awkward or as if my body was out of my control. There were no gangly or disproportioned limbs. 

The only time I ever felt out of sorts was when I hit a growth spurt and my feet grew a few sizes over a short period and I tripped a little bit more than usual but even that only lasted a few months, nothing too traumatic. Then there was the time when I realized that my boobs were coming in – helloooooo puberty – and I asked my sister what was happening….She told me I had cancer (her only big sister laugh at my expense). Thanks, Tay. 

But even those few frenzied, panicked moments were just that – moments. I didn’t have cancer and my boobs are perfectly fine. 

So beside these two occasions and the few fleeting insecurities I’ve entertained over the years, I like my body. It’s a good body. It’s mine. I’m comfortable with it.

Yet as time passed and I grew older, I discovered that not everyone felt the same. I accepted this fact quickly as I could see that some people always felt too chubby, too skinny, too short, too tall, too freckly or too pale. The theme = too something. It made sense, at least.

Then I hit high school and gym class came. Locker rooms. Changing in front of 20 other girls. Some girls were shy. I get it. Not everyone wants to change in front of a girl or a bunch of girls who they think have a better body or will judge them (the latter does happen, it seems inevitable with any more than one girl in a room). 

High school is over (huge thanks to God for letting it only last four years) and I move away to school my sophomore year.  Now, it wasn’t until my junior year that I realized something else: some people just are not comfortable with being naked. Ever. Even in the shower. By themselves. 

Me: WHAT?! Not even in the shower or by yourself in your room?! 

Friend: I’d wear a bathing suit in the shower if I could.

It’s true. Apparently, not everyone was raised the way I was or was born with the natural inclination for nudity that I was. Instead, they are like Rachel, who in the following clip had never realized how liberating it was to – Just. Be. Naked. – even by herself. 

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Aqn_lpsrNEA&feature=related

As you have probably gathered, I don’t nor have I ever had this problem with nudity. It’s true.

 I have always been the one who would change in the car before any athletic practice when there wasn’t time to run all over ducking for cover; the one who stripped her shirt off after soccer games to leave in only a sports bra; the one who walks around the house in little to no clothes; the one who would change in front of all her friends without being shy and turning around in a motion that says, “if I can’t see you, you can’t see me.” False. Everyone can still see you  and you just look like a giant goober for thinking turning your back makes you any less naked. 

My friends freshman year of high school voted in a poll while talking amongst ourselves about where we really saw each other in ten years after completing our prophecies in school that week that I would be the “most likely to become a nudist”. Thanks guys. 

Therefore, it was a little difficult for me to understand why being naked while alone or in the shower would be a problem for anyone. I mean, if you can’t be naked alone, where can you? What happens when your friend’s brother walks in on you changing when you sleep over? What happens when you get married or have sex for the first time…or any time after that?

 It seems to me that nudity is normal. It’s natural. It’s how we were born and were intended to be naked according to Genesis, that is, before Adam and Eve just totally messed that one up. 

But before you stop reading, thinking that I’m some nudist freak. What I’m really attempting to get you to grapple with is that – it’s not about being naked. 

It’s about being comfortable with yourself, with how you look, with being even slightly exposed for the world to see because the power of your mind, your attitude and your feelings toward yourself and your body and your self-concept are all intricately intertwined. 

So when your thoughts sound something like, “I’m ugly. I’m too fat. I’m too freckly. I’m too this or too that. I hate my body. I hate the way I look. Why can’t I be/look more like (your envy’s name here)?” then your body will reflect those things and so will the mirror, and the scale, and other people’s perception of you.

But when your thoughts are more like this: “I’m attractive. I like my body. My body is beautiful in its own unique way and I like that it isn’t shaped exactly like the next person. I feel pretty/hot/handsome/attractive today” then your body will reflect those things and so will the mirror, and the scale, and other people’s perception of you. 

There is very little that is more attractive than a confident person. The better you feel about yourself, the more attractive you become to yourself and those around you. 

This is one reason I don’t have a problem changing in front of people or being naked. I like my body. It’s mine. I take care of it the best I can. And if you don’t like it, well, that sounds like a personal problem to me.

So be happy with your body. Be comfortable being naked, even if it’s only in the shower or changing in your room by yourself. Or go crazy like Rachel; embrace your newfound liberation by singing into your hairbrush naked in the comfort of your own home.

I know I do because for this girl – alone time = nakey time.

There's a Reason Why Girls Don't Do This!

Perhaps there are some traditions that should be left unbroken. Turkey on Thanksgiving. Cookies and milk for Santa on Christmas. 

And men asking women out.

Unfortunately, I learned the last one the hard way. Yup, you guessed it! I asked a man out… And. I. Got. Rejected.

Now, don’t get me wrong. I am all for women being strong and independent and liberated and equal. There’s no disputing that.

However, I am very traditional when it comes to male-female roles for dating, relationships, romance, and marriage. Sure, I’ll break a rule here and there. I am a woman of the 21^st century after all.

And so I thought, “Hey, I can do this. If he’s not making a move, I will. Maybe he’s busy. May he doesn’t know I’m interested – even though he’d have to be deaf, dumb, and blind not to. Maybe he’s scared.

Or maybe he’s just not interested?

Nah. He’s interested on some level – that much has been established.”

Naturally, I seek the advice of Nicki (independent female and fellow rule-breaker) about what I should do and how to do it.

“Kaylin. Ask him to hang out, “Nicki advised, “Just straight up ask him to hang out. But you need to have a specific time and place.”

Then, I asked Chuck (male perspective, and also knows me too well for my own good sometimes) what he’d think if a girl asked him out and he said, “Personally, I would love for a girl to take initiative like that and ask me out. It shows some intent instead of the game of ‘Does she like me? Does she not like me?’ …. This is giving him a strong sign of ‘Hey I like you’ and if he likes you he will catch on.”

Then, I proceeded to craft the perfect question which left my date (hopefully) with no choice but to say yes. 

Then, I envision how awkward I probably seemed much like this…

Or like this (for about the first 30 seconds. Oh, and ignore the subtitles ;) ) 

In Monica’s words, “There is a reason why girls don’t do this!”

Because – well, if you’re like me – we freak out. The emotional turmoil is almost too much to handle.

And then there’s the words of He’s Just Not That Into You running a litany in your head from all the times you’ve had to read it, repeating to yourself “If he’s not asking you out,” “If he’s not dating you,” “If he’s not making a move… he’s just not that into you!”

“But what if he has three jobs and goes to school full-time?”

Nope. Even then. He still finds time to go out with his friends. If he wanted me, he’d make one of those occasions a date with me.

There’s my answer. But do I listen to my own advice?

Of course not!

I ask him out.

He tells me he has to work.

In other words, “No, Kaylin, I don’t want to go out with you but I like you just enough to make an excuse that you’ll believe and not feel bad.”

But I do. I feel bad but not as bad as I thought I would.

So I say, “Alright. Well, if you ever get a day off and are interested you know where I am.”

In other words, “The ball is in your court. I’m acting casual about it as if I don’t care that you said no but I do. Maybe he’ll take it as playing a little hard to get – it couldn’t hurt my case now.”

It was slightly liberating and it did let me know for sure he doesn’t like me or doesn’t want to date right now. But that was probably the first and the last time I’ll ask a man out.

This is because when it comes right down to it, I want to be pursued. I want someone to want me enough to go through the emotional turmoil and anticipation of possibly being rejected to hear me say, “Yes, I’ll go out with you.”

Call me old fashioned but I’ll stand by it and say that some traditions should be left unbroken…like men asking women out because ultimately – in the wise words of the writers of He’s Just Not That Into You - if he’s interested, he’s dating you.

And some day, he will.

Men have ESP

Over the past three years I have become convinced of something. Some people will be skeptical. Others will directly say I’m full of it, but, ladies, read this and think about how many times in your life this has happened to you. I’ll start with a little story about myself.

In the past year, specifically in the nine months of my junior year of college, my life has been filled with a parade of men (See my Parade of Men post, if you’re missing the reference. Although according to one of my best friends, my taste has vastly improved over this amount of time but that’s beside the point.) Because of the fact that there had indeed been a parade of men, I felt compelled to instigate a “man fast”, if you will, starting as soon as I left school for summer vacation.

True, my options were going to take a drastic decline in numbers anyway due to this temporary change in location.

However, I had just finished declaring my resolution to my roommates and not five minutes later I got a text from the one guy who could tempt me to break it. This seemed like evidence enough for me if I hadn’t already been convinced of this one fact:

Men have ESP.

There has got to be some sixth sense, some mechanism in their brain, a metaphorical light bulb that instantaneously turns on or an alarm that blares to life to let them know: we’ve been thinking of you randomly; your name came up in conversation for the first time in a year; we’re moving on and found someone else; or, in my case, I’m taking a vacation, a three month hiatus from men. This is the exact moment a man will call, text, pass you on the street, Facebook inbox, or email us. In other words, they’ll break the silence you’ve had between you for however many months or year it has been since you last spoke.

I’m not the only one who thinks this or believes it to be true. My roommate Nicki and I have discussed this at length numerous times. In fact, one time we were talking about it and our conversation had transferred over to the man of the hour. We were discussing how frustrating it was that he had yet to make a move when (beep beep!) her phone rang for a text just received. Yup, you guessed it – the man of the hour.

Others have been converted into believers as well. Let me tell you about the weekend of and week after the 4^th of July…

In the span of seven days, not one, not two but three of my closest friends, plus me, had the silence broken by the ex that broke our hearts. This seems rather peculiar to me since we were all in separate cities and time zones from one another and the length of silence ranged anywhere from nine months to 4 years. Here are their stories:

Friend 1: received a text asking how she was doing. It had been nine months and she was just starting to date another guy.

Friend 2: had a run-in at the local country club where she and her arch-nemesis (and also her ex’s new girlfriend) belong. He was with the new girlfriend. Needless to say, the fireworks weren’t just in the sky that 4^th of July. The air crackled with palpable tension. They hadn’t seen each other or talked in nearly four years. Friend 2 was also “talking to” someone new.

Friend 3: received a text, a phone call, a friend request and an inbox on Facebook. Talk about persistence! He really wanted to get ahold of her in spite of the fact that they hadn’t seen each other or spoken in two and a half years and he’d had a girlfriend for the roughly same amount of time.  Friend 3 was doing it big in LA – something said ex never thought she’d actually do.

And then there’s me: Now it’s been a year and a half since my last run-in with the ex. I’d successfully cut him out of my life and avoided running into him for that long – quite a feat since we live five minutes from each other. But my time was up. I was driving home from the movie theater with my parents in the car when I hear my mom say, “Uh oh.”

“What?” I ask, thinking she’s going to be sick from the Mexican food we’d eaten before the movie. No such luck.

“I think I just saw {ex},” she says with hesitation in her voice as if she were worried what my reaction would be.

The series of questions and answers that ensued after this statement left me with a feeling of dread and anticipation because I knew it was him. I was simultaneously attempting to convince my mother and myself that it was his little brother. That is, until I saw his headlights in my rearview mirror. There was no denying it. It was him. That one move gave him away. You see, we live five minutes apart but from the direction we were both coming from there is a better, quicker way for him to go home. What I’m saying is, he added time to his trip, went out of his way just to drive by me. Which he did. He passed me on the right, followed by his older brother and then cut in front of me in my lane where he sped down the street.

Was this enough though? Of course not.

He was nearly to his turn when I saw his break lights illuminating the night sky of the considerable distance between us. I knew what he was doing. He was waiting for me to pass by him so he could catch a glimpse of me (as I’d be on his right, now). And that’s exactly what he did. He waited…for three cars of oncoming traffic to pass him between which he had ample time to turn, mind you, for me to pass.

Typical.

I’d just been thinking about him on the way home because of a high school couple I’d seen walking out of the movie to the boy’s truck. Whatever, a memory of us popped in my head and I’d been in absent-minded contemplation when my mom first spotted him.

Chance? Fate? ESP? I’d let this one fall between chance and ESP due to the fact that I, upon arriving home five minutes later, received a text from my best guy friend, “Hey guess who I just saw tonight?” You know it! My ex. These two in the same room can’t help but remind them of our sordid past as, well, they hate each other.

That was all in a seven day period! Since then, in the past month, things have quieted for Friends 1 and 2. They have resumed their silence as if nothing had ever broken it. Friend 3 actually talked to her ex and caught up in a friendly manner. And I? I have not seemed to shake this guy.

He was behind me one morning on my way to work after I’d already passed his dad by my neighborhood. He drove to my house one night and was sitting outside until my mom, thinking it was my cousin dropping me off, opened the front door to let me in. He sped off and I came home only moments later. He was at the gas station when I went to fill up my tank and, although this was the first time we had occupied the same space in person and not while driving, we didn’t speak or acknowledge one another. We both knew the other was there yet neither of us was ready for the inevitable face to face conversation. We played our usual game and left without a word.

Finally, after years of observation, my beliefs were as close to being confirmed as it gets (apart from all the other evidence).

Men have ESP.

I was talking to my male cousin (the one who was dropping me off that night actually) and I asked him what that drive-by meant. It has been a year and a half and he’s had a new girlfriend for a year (I’d recently been told he made a big show about it on Facebook). So why was he popping up everywhere and driving by my house?

And my cousin answered, “Because we have ESP!” Ha-ha just kidding. But it was close. He said, “There is still a part of him that doesn’t want to let go…He wants the best of both worlds.”

“I was afraid of that,” I responded.

And then the kicker, “Ya…it is in a guy’s DNA to miss you and wonder what it would be like to still be with you and yet not have the balls to do anything about it.”

Genius! Proof!

Men have ESP. I’m convinced.