playful

I feel like swinging or climbing trees or jumping on a trampoline. Alas that I must pack instead!

mortification

Charmin toilet paper is true to its word. It is soft and absorbent. It is also cuddly and accepting. This I discovered last night. But perhaps I am starting at the wrong end of the story.

Mrs. Chandler, my High School Sophomore English, once engaged us in a debate: what is the greater fear--fear of failure or fear of embarrassment? To this question I have a simple and correct answer: yes.

I don't know what in me broke first, but I'm thoroughly convinced that it didn't have to do with Kevin. It didn't start out about him, and it didn't end about him, but somewhere in the middle my finger hit the number five on my phone and speed dial took over before I could recover my digit. I couldn't hang up at that point, not by the time Caller ID had betrayed me. How I long for the days before that blasted invention when a girl could call a boy and hang up in peace!

"Why won't you talk to me?" I asked. The very first words out of my mouth. I had meant them to sound righteously angry, but they came out a little whiney and needy. I had meant to vent anger. I had planned to demand answers, to force him to say he didn't want to talk to me and why. Why didn't he even call to get April's number! I was furious on her behalf, and I have been frustrated since. I felt like I was beating my head against a brick wall trying to make it possible for us to be friends. Kevin has said it too, that I am the peacemaker with us. I'm just better at it than he is. So I tried, Heaven knows, I tried. I sent innocuous text-messages that were friendly and forgettable. And he responded civilly. CIVILLY! Of all the insulting behaviors in the word, civility is the worst. It is indifference magnified. And each week as I sent a line or two my pride pained me a little more. And my heart, which had been doing so wonderfully, ached just a little bit.

And then I talked to Ted. I told him I was hurt and angry at Kevin, Kevin who said he loved me but then never called, Kevin who says I am his best friend but never in six weeks tried to talk to me, Kevin who obviously doesn't give a damn. And Ted, always oh-so-gentle, said it simply: maybe he doesn't want to talk to you and you should stop trying to be his friend.

Stop being his friend? I felt an awful mutinous numbness at that thought. That was not what I signed up for when I first voiced the idea of us dating other people. Not be his friend. I remember us agreeing to still date, to still be friends, to see if we could find a way through this next year. But then again, who's to say my memory is accurate or that what we had intended has anything to do with the actual consequences. Could I not be his friend? Probably. I haven't talked to him in six weeks. Of course, the last week of that included an almost constant feeling of betrayal. For the love of Dumbledore! Harry Potter was out and Kevin and I have a year-long wager on its outcome. I talked to other people about the book's content, but these conversations were meant for him, I was supposed to be talking to him. We had a bet! He's still the first person I think of when I have a thought that needs expressing. I have been so quiet these last weeks. I wonder if my thoughts are getting lost, because they don't fall upon his ears.

But like I said, last night wasn't about him. It was sparked by the unastonishing realization that I am once again playing the role of "safe girl" to a guy. Always, always, am I found in the part of kid sister/platonic friend. And every so often, that is a disappointment. I tend to feel a little bit undesirable. I tend to wonder, what is it about me that is so unkissable? It's part of a thought that has haunted me for years, a feeling of inadequacy that has been present since the first great disappointment of my life. When I told myself with all the self-esteem I could muster that there is everything lovable about me, I reached the conclusion that if it's not me, then the blame rests on someone else. That's the point where I found it easy to be mad at Kevin for not wanting me. About the time my first sentence had ended and he began to sigh, I didn't find it easy anymore to be mad at anyone but myself. I ended the phone call quickly, and who can say who was more relieved at its untimely demise? I didn't even get to tell him that I'm moving. In two days he won't even know anymore where I live. I tried not to worry how he'd find me. He doesn't want to find me.

Hanging up the phone, I was swallowed by utter humiliation. I can't believe you just sunk that low, I lectured myself. I felt I deserved to unleash my inner judge on myself. Oh what a fool I am! But I didn't deserve to hear what I told myself later. Here it is, the thought that haunts me and eats my very soul: that there is pain because I was not good enough. If I had just been a bit better...

If I had been better--more open maybe, or made better grades, or been a bigger help around the house--then maybe I could have saved my parents' marriage. If I just exercised a little more discipline, I could have my degree by now. If I had just been stronger, more faithful, maybe Mom wouldn't be so lost right now. Dear God, could I have prevented my dad from feeling as much pain, if I had been a better listener? If I had been more patient, would Kevin have wanted me? If I had been a little less selfish would I have been able to help Joyce?

This is where I broke, all the old fault-lines rupturing. This was the pain I had been feeling and that I hadn't found a voice for. But I heard her again, crying on the phone. Joyce who storms and rages and laughs, reduced to weeping weakly? I listened to the memory of her sorrow and realized that I was hearing it from my own mouth. Weeping became sobbing and I drowned in grief.

I inched my way to the edge of the bed, because even in the worst crises I am aware that I need a tissue. I stumbled to the bathroom, where I relieved the rack of a fresh roll of Charmin. I stood shakily against the door frame and blew my nose. But I couldn't stem the flow of tears, I couldn't dam the flood of sadness. I thought of my Father in Heaven, who was watching me with painful compassion. I turned my face away, tried to hide my whole body in the corner. Don't look at me, I prayed. I'm not good enough to be your daughter. I slid to the floor, wretched and broken, until I lay sobbing on the cold linoleum, fighting for air, demanding of myself a calm which neared impossibility. I'm sorry, I wept. I'm sorry I wasn't good enough. My fingers clutched at the bouncy white cylinder. After a while I battled myself onto hands and knees and moved to the shadowed mass that was my bed. I managed to stand and walk the last few steps, before climbing under the covers. I don't remember my crying slowing, but I do remember clutching as a lifeline the roll of Charmin. I woke up a few times in the night, each time holding it close like an old beloved teddy bear.

There are three definitions to the word mortify:
The first means to humiliate or embarrass.
The second means to have a part of the body die, while the rest goes on living.
And the third means to subjugate the passions by abstinence, ascetic discipline and or self-inflicted suffering.


This morning my tears were gone, absorbed by the inanimate toilet paper. I didn't feel worn out from the breakdown the night before, but physically refreshed by the night's sleep. I still feel embarrassed that I called him and foolish for letting myself come unglued. Charmin told me that he'd keep my weakness a secret, lover-like, but as I glued myself together I knew I wouldn't be able to hide the shoddy repair job. But I resolved not to fall apart again. This time, I'll be better.

When recently I had a choice to remain here or to return to Utah to finish school, I admit I found myself defeated and unequal to the task. My two highest goals were at odds with one another, battling for supremacy. Goal number one: to finish school. Goal number two: to get out of debt. To stay meant keeping my job, thus enabling me to quickly end my debt, though protracting the whole school thing. To leave meant returning to school and lengthening the time in-debt an immeasurable amount. I could not choose, because to think about the issue at all left me wallowing in shame, self-pity and remorse. I grieved. The two things I hate most about myself are that I am in debt and that I am out of school. And no amount of repenting could erase those two facts. All my decision did was throw those truths in my face and demand that I pick between my two biggest failures to crawl back to and try a second time to defeat.

I couldn't choose. So, I looked to what I hated third about my life. Always, always I hate failure. I do not try for fear I will fail to measure up. I am embarrassed to the point of snapping annoyance when I am having to learn something new. I cannot laugh at my failures, or if I do it is with certain hysterical mania that leaves no room for humor. My third greatest failure was to my own headstrong determination. Money beat me. School beat me. Then spreadsheets printed with daydreams beat me. The reason I came to Austin failed. My number one goal, to be a wife, did not work out the way I planned it. I haven't failed yet, but I let my set-back label my entire sojourn here in Austin a failure. So I snatched my move back from the mouth of self-condemnation. I decided that I would make Austin the right decision for me, to redeem my actions prior by my choices subsequent. Thus I stayed--to avoid failure.

Part of my succeeding here means beating my other demons. I try to reply with uplifted head that I have not finished school yet. I try not to cry when I cannot pay as much toward my credit cards this month due to moving, and tell myself that extending my debt to January still means it's diminishing (after all a new year is only symbolic, not concrete). I try to make good what has haunted me and made me feel of less worth.

Then today in institute we had a substitute teacher who talked like a televangelist/used car salesmen. We talked about finances. I felt myself shrinking. Oh please, Father, not about money, I begged. Then he talked about debt, and how the only good reasons to go into debt were for eventual gains (education, house, business, etc.) So came investing. So came education. Please, Father, please Oh God, not school, please not about school. And when he began to mock, to openly ridicule, those who foolishly pursue majors that will not translate into a lucrative job I stood in the middle of the room and walked out.

I rode home on the bus, cried a little and then ran until I sweat away the water I would otherwise have used for tears. To get myself to speed I let the anger flow freely, pushing my legs and lungs with power. I am not a failure, my mind stated. I am not a failure, it yawped. I am not a failure! I screamed in my head. Until I realized that no one had called me a failure but myself. I pursued a subject I loved because it made my life richer. I learned from my mistakes. I work hard at a fantastic job full of opportunities for self-fulfillment. I did something brave and took a leap, because when I am old I want to be able to say I was the type of girl who would move across the country for love. And I am the type of girl who can rebound when life takes a twist. I am not a failure.

i walked on the moon

I just bought the Brian Regan DVD! I now have the entertainment portion of my house-warming party taken care of. Now I just need my own place. In one month (roughly two weeks after the DVD arrives) I'll be able to open my home and kitchen to the new friends I made and introduce them to Cannon Ball Wound Ointment, Egg Areas and the Lunar Rover among many many other things. All hail Brian! He's an 8!

ultimate

I. Played. Ultimate. Frisbee.

I did. You should believe me. I didn't believe me at first but I said it with such honest conviction that despite having the wrong number of fingers in the air for scout's honor, I eventually came to the realization that I was telling the truth. I played a sport. And I loved it. My weekend of activity began with volleyball the night before. I played long and hard (and terribly) until my arms were bright red and I could no longer see. I caught the bug.

So last night I changed from the dress I wore to the wedding reception, and with my hair still in a formal up-do I ran the length of a field about infinity times until I thought I would faint. I found it a much better release for aggression than immature swearing (and yes I tried really hard to make the swearing sound ridiculous so I'd quit). I played with those who unlike me have played before. Luckily they stacked the teams. The middle players were on one team, and the two best players were with the two worst. The two guys, instead of passing to one another to win, made sure that we girls were involved and encouraged. They played like Bryan Dunn, Matt Bushman or Ted Long: they played exceptionally well, with the intent to win, but also with the spirit of fun. Because they would pass to me even after I dropped the Frisbee, I eventually began to catch it. Soon I caught it often. By the end, I had it unless it went wild. Throwing is another thing. I'll work on that.