Healing. Took a long time, but she came back swinging.Friday, June 18, 2010
Workaholic.
I’m too strong to be unnecessary;
it seems a waste of my unparalleled resilience.
If I’d known I could be this disposable,
would I have loved them just as hard?
I found safety in solidarity,
and looked for anyone to help but me.
I accepted the pedestal with far more grace
than your uncomfortable silences now explain.
You stole pieces from my strength
and thought you got away without consequence.
I secretly held reserves of courage,
next to blank pages of next week.
[I loved you, now you’ve lost.]
s.j.s.
it seems a waste of my unparalleled resilience.
If I’d known I could be this disposable,
would I have loved them just as hard?
I found safety in solidarity,
and looked for anyone to help but me.
I accepted the pedestal with far more grace
than your uncomfortable silences now explain.
You stole pieces from my strength
and thought you got away without consequence.
I secretly held reserves of courage,
next to blank pages of next week.
[I loved you, now you’ve lost.]
s.j.s.
MJ Dog.
She walks around as though she isn't saving people's lives. She wanders into whatever room one of us is occupying and makes herself a place near us. She chooses where to be with the kind of decision-making process only few possess and no one else understands. She doesn't favor, but solves.
She speaks in grunts. There's one for contentment, frustration, exhaustion, and bliss. And we can tell the difference, because our ears are specially trained to respond to her requests. She gets things she doesn't have to ask for, because it's the very least we can do. She walks around as though she isn't the manifestation of what a saving grace is.
She adjusts. If we're moving quickly, she keeps up. If we're worn out, she's protecting us from the bastards that got us down, but she's sleeping too. If we're sick she's patient, and if we're too busy she's not. We're allowed more of our humanity because of this animal than we ever were permitted before her.
We have this creature who is unfailingly on our side, who greets us--even after we've left her home alone for hours--as though we are a king and queen and she is dying to meet and serve us. She is a princess, but one that behaves. She walks around as though she is unaware of her pain relieving powers.
When everything else is too much, when life scares the fun out of living it for a while, and when the place right outside our door seems too overwhelming, I watch her and play with her ears. He wrestles with her. We lie together and talk and she talks and we tell her how much we adore her, how our lives were empty before she chose us. It's these times when we see her walk around, gracefully placing one foot in front of the other. She doesn't know that she is setting an example and serving as a reminder.
She walks around as if she doesn't know she's saving people's lives...
For a beautiful girl they call Evie, on the occasion of her 13th year...
Again, one of my closest friends asked me to write what I wish I'd known when I was 13. Her cousin was having this important birthday, and she's far more mature than most 13 year olds, but still can't escape adolescence. So Evie is unique in that she would appreciate the written word as well as material things. And so I wrote this. It felt good. Better than most writing does, actually.
So here's to Evie turning 14 soon...
I wish I knew on my 13th birthday that I came into this world with a purpose. I knew I was loved, assumed that I mattered, and had every intention of making a difference one day. But to know I showed up just as someone I would’ve loved and known and learned new songs from passed away would’ve blown my mind. It’s best that I didn’t know something so epic.
{I was a baby Atlas, even then. I was too small to be so necessary.}
I knew a lot. I wasn’t arrogant about it, and I can honestly say I never thought I had it all figured out. Plenty of others thought that for me and that was pressure enough. I mostly believed my parents had the answers. (Mostly.) So I can say what I understood, what I’ve rewritten history now to believe I understood, and what I wish I’d written down more of…
I understood mental illness in many ugly ways, but I genuinely thought I could make it better. I believed if I were funny enough, she would be able to get through the day easier. I cleaned obsessively so my mama’s smile would be bigger, and it always, always was. She was thankful, even on her darkest days.
I learned to be grateful that year, in a way that only a freaking Jensen parent would teach you. We’d gotten a little whiny—not in tone but in words—and so for Thanksgiving of my 13th year we volunteered as a family for the first time at the Salvation Army. My dad drove meals to those who couldn’t get there because it was mostly to so-called “bad” neighborhoods. I knew some of my friends probably lived there. I think Derick served side dishes and helped clean. Matthew sulked and tried not to be affected and failed miserably at it, ending up with a Santa hat on his head and bringing pies to little old ladies, charming their asses off. I'll be honest, I was a little embarrassed at first of who would see me. Not because I thought I was too good for anyone, but because I was embarrassed of everything then: my breasts, my hair, my freckles, my chicken legs, my stellar caterpillar eyebrows. I straightened the dessert table over and over and watched as my mother went from table to chair visiting with people, asking them about their day, their families, the weather… And she changed some lives. She never saw me looking through the horror that is 13, 14, and 15 years old into who hope I am now: a quieter version of her kindnesses. She took three adolescent kids who were likely pissing her off and wearing her out, stuck us in an auditorium with homeless strangers we were expected to feed, and then forgot to force us to work. She was in her element; sharing herself, overwhelming the shy, and hugging people who might not have been touched in months. I doubt she even noticed that part. She didn’t forget to parent us that day, she just gathered our selfishness for us and served it with a piece of pumpkin pie. I knew then that Thanksgiving would be the best day of the year, even on the most difficult ones.
I wish I could’ve talked to everyone that day, like she did. So, for the next several years, I tried. I am far more introverted than anyone realizes now, because I changed outwardly so I could make a difference, hopefully at the precise time someone needed me most. I just wanted to light up a room like that.
I was an overwhelmed, vertically challenged, intelligent, sarcastically loving teenager who had already seen too much but didn’t yet know enough to be cynical.
I don’t remember hormones—that was considered an excuse. I knew I wasn’t a pioneer and that to blame any bad attitude on PMS was to completely devastate and disregard all women who fought and DIED to have jobs, wear pants, vote and even DRIVE in this country.
I figured out that while hormones might not be a valid argument, debilitating cramps were. But by the time I figured that out I was 17 and was already well on my way to being a badass, as far as pain tolerance goes. That is legitimately what I think did it—a stoic approach to the stupid menstrual cycle.
I was learning how to work a solid 12 Step Program, which still makes more sense to me than Scripture. I got myself a Higher Power sometime around that age, and for a good 15 years, he served me well. In this way, I suppose I’m 13 all over again.
I knew I did something right to get those brothers of mine.
I knew I didn’t want to kiss boys, but I sure wanted to hang out with one and hold his hand ALL. DAY. LONG. I knew eventually that would all come, and I don’t remember being in a hurry to bring on the pain. I read Ramona Quimby and Sweet Valley High; I knew some shit was about to go down.
I learned to cling to my composure.
I didn’t know that one of my closest friends would be pregnant before I turned 15. I had no clue how I would handle that, or that I would be fortunate enough to have the intrinsic grace to not give a fuck what anyone thought about her—I was keeping her for life, “illegitimate” baby and all. No way could I have comprehended then the full circle I’d experience at 31, when that baby called me and told me she was running away, she was running to my parents, and what did I think? The 13-year-old little girl promise I made to her held up, and she got away from a father who didn’t want her then, and can’t stand her now. I didn’t know I would be a surrogate mother before I’d ever really even been kissed.
I held tightly to visits with cousins, not yet aware of how much those bonds would free me as I got older. I loved My Cousin Jeff without abandon, so when we lost him three years later, I could sleep, knowing that he knew. We all conquered adolescence together, a country apart and a casserole together.
I fully comprehended that my dad would always help me, stand right behind me, or advise me, but that he wouldn’t fight the bad guys for me alone. I had to help, so that one day I’d be the kind of woman who calls her dad because she wants to; to be a daddy’s girl but in a healthy way—the way you ask for reassurance of your latest decision or just to hear him laugh because you did something spacey AGAIN and you really ought to give back that Master’s degree before you're found out.
{I didn’t realize I’d rarely hear him call me Stephanie for nearly the next couple decades. I’m only Punk, as I was then, am now, and will be until I’m gone.}
I learned what a mutual admiration society was because my grandpa, your cousin, Charlie, and me all had one.
I knew who my best friend was and that I’d never be alone—I would always, always make it to the other side— because I have a Beck.
{We still have one of the greatest love stories of all time.}
Love and strength to you,
Stephanie
So here's to Evie turning 14 soon...
I wish I knew on my 13th birthday that I came into this world with a purpose. I knew I was loved, assumed that I mattered, and had every intention of making a difference one day. But to know I showed up just as someone I would’ve loved and known and learned new songs from passed away would’ve blown my mind. It’s best that I didn’t know something so epic.
{I was a baby Atlas, even then. I was too small to be so necessary.}
I knew a lot. I wasn’t arrogant about it, and I can honestly say I never thought I had it all figured out. Plenty of others thought that for me and that was pressure enough. I mostly believed my parents had the answers. (Mostly.) So I can say what I understood, what I’ve rewritten history now to believe I understood, and what I wish I’d written down more of…
I understood mental illness in many ugly ways, but I genuinely thought I could make it better. I believed if I were funny enough, she would be able to get through the day easier. I cleaned obsessively so my mama’s smile would be bigger, and it always, always was. She was thankful, even on her darkest days.
I learned to be grateful that year, in a way that only a freaking Jensen parent would teach you. We’d gotten a little whiny—not in tone but in words—and so for Thanksgiving of my 13th year we volunteered as a family for the first time at the Salvation Army. My dad drove meals to those who couldn’t get there because it was mostly to so-called “bad” neighborhoods. I knew some of my friends probably lived there. I think Derick served side dishes and helped clean. Matthew sulked and tried not to be affected and failed miserably at it, ending up with a Santa hat on his head and bringing pies to little old ladies, charming their asses off. I'll be honest, I was a little embarrassed at first of who would see me. Not because I thought I was too good for anyone, but because I was embarrassed of everything then: my breasts, my hair, my freckles, my chicken legs, my stellar caterpillar eyebrows. I straightened the dessert table over and over and watched as my mother went from table to chair visiting with people, asking them about their day, their families, the weather… And she changed some lives. She never saw me looking through the horror that is 13, 14, and 15 years old into who hope I am now: a quieter version of her kindnesses. She took three adolescent kids who were likely pissing her off and wearing her out, stuck us in an auditorium with homeless strangers we were expected to feed, and then forgot to force us to work. She was in her element; sharing herself, overwhelming the shy, and hugging people who might not have been touched in months. I doubt she even noticed that part. She didn’t forget to parent us that day, she just gathered our selfishness for us and served it with a piece of pumpkin pie. I knew then that Thanksgiving would be the best day of the year, even on the most difficult ones.
I wish I could’ve talked to everyone that day, like she did. So, for the next several years, I tried. I am far more introverted than anyone realizes now, because I changed outwardly so I could make a difference, hopefully at the precise time someone needed me most. I just wanted to light up a room like that.
I was an overwhelmed, vertically challenged, intelligent, sarcastically loving teenager who had already seen too much but didn’t yet know enough to be cynical.
I don’t remember hormones—that was considered an excuse. I knew I wasn’t a pioneer and that to blame any bad attitude on PMS was to completely devastate and disregard all women who fought and DIED to have jobs, wear pants, vote and even DRIVE in this country.
I figured out that while hormones might not be a valid argument, debilitating cramps were. But by the time I figured that out I was 17 and was already well on my way to being a badass, as far as pain tolerance goes. That is legitimately what I think did it—a stoic approach to the stupid menstrual cycle.
I was learning how to work a solid 12 Step Program, which still makes more sense to me than Scripture. I got myself a Higher Power sometime around that age, and for a good 15 years, he served me well. In this way, I suppose I’m 13 all over again.
I knew I did something right to get those brothers of mine.
I knew I didn’t want to kiss boys, but I sure wanted to hang out with one and hold his hand ALL. DAY. LONG. I knew eventually that would all come, and I don’t remember being in a hurry to bring on the pain. I read Ramona Quimby and Sweet Valley High; I knew some shit was about to go down.
I learned to cling to my composure.
I didn’t know that one of my closest friends would be pregnant before I turned 15. I had no clue how I would handle that, or that I would be fortunate enough to have the intrinsic grace to not give a fuck what anyone thought about her—I was keeping her for life, “illegitimate” baby and all. No way could I have comprehended then the full circle I’d experience at 31, when that baby called me and told me she was running away, she was running to my parents, and what did I think? The 13-year-old little girl promise I made to her held up, and she got away from a father who didn’t want her then, and can’t stand her now. I didn’t know I would be a surrogate mother before I’d ever really even been kissed.
I held tightly to visits with cousins, not yet aware of how much those bonds would free me as I got older. I loved My Cousin Jeff without abandon, so when we lost him three years later, I could sleep, knowing that he knew. We all conquered adolescence together, a country apart and a casserole together.
I fully comprehended that my dad would always help me, stand right behind me, or advise me, but that he wouldn’t fight the bad guys for me alone. I had to help, so that one day I’d be the kind of woman who calls her dad because she wants to; to be a daddy’s girl but in a healthy way—the way you ask for reassurance of your latest decision or just to hear him laugh because you did something spacey AGAIN and you really ought to give back that Master’s degree before you're found out.
{I didn’t realize I’d rarely hear him call me Stephanie for nearly the next couple decades. I’m only Punk, as I was then, am now, and will be until I’m gone.}
I learned what a mutual admiration society was because my grandpa, your cousin, Charlie, and me all had one.
I knew who my best friend was and that I’d never be alone—I would always, always make it to the other side— because I have a Beck.
{We still have one of the greatest love stories of all time.}
Love and strength to you,
Stephanie
My better half is male. [This still rings true.]
Not long ago, my very lovely friend Liz asked me if I would write something to finish the sentence "It's hard being a woman_____________..." Her mom leads a women's ministry at church and wanted different perspectives. And Liz made it adorably clear to me that she just wanted to know what I thought, that it always helped her to read my words. An entire country and decade apart from where our friendship connection began, and she still cares that much about what I have to say...
How could I not complete that sentence with that kind of loving audience? Well, for weeks I didn't. I couldn't think of just one thing, and I didn't feel as though I thought of enough. So finally one evening I stopped thinking so damn much and I wrote. The following is what ended up being formed from the confusing map that is sometimes my mind.
It’s hard being a woman because it often isn’t hard at all. Because we think it’s supposed to be; because for many generations and decades it was so much more difficult. Because there are countless definitions and expectations and cultures and personal philosophies and we are created to care about those things more than we care about our own happiness. Even the most confident and independent amongst us feels responsible for the message we send, the sometimes silent mentoring we provide, the kind of example we set to our daughters, nieces, friends, and mothers, and the amount we can get done in a given day.
As a gender, a collective, we tend to just show up. We come to the committee meetings and baby showers and the school board elections. We run businesses or campaigns or assist someone else in their efforts to do so. We raise kids and get our hearts broken, and make dinner for our friend who is going through a crisis, all while finishing a college degree.
Far too frequently we place our own spirits on a bookshelf, vowing to come back to us when our work is done.
But our work is never done. We’re Atlas, and we have no Hercules to hand off the world to, even for a moment. So the only reprieve we can hope for is some sort of strong belief system. A place to send our prayers where we can allow ourselves moments of reflection. Hopefully we learn we aren’t selfish to wish for a good night’s sleep, a long, uninterrupted bath, and unexpected kindnesses.
As women, we can both find and become human angels who are trustworthy enough to share another’s fears, exhaustion, silliness, and intellect with. We need other women far more than most of us learn to admit until we’ve alienated all our truest friends and it’s nearly too late to become the open, loving, light-filled woman we want to be. If we’re lucky enough—or enlightened enough—we figure this out early, and put half as much energy into our friendships as we do into our daily obligations. The day we stop saying “We need to get together for dinner” and actually do it is the day we become our own best friends. The moment we realize that staying at home and deep conditioning our hair instead of going to four different functions, all the while wishing we were on our couch, is the day we’ve learned to really rest.
It’s hard to fight our own worst critic, to allow others to help us through our darkest times, and to cry openly. When we can resolve those three emotional conflicts, we’re on our way to becoming a force to be reckoned with; not feminist nor submissive, but simply female.
We are curves and shine and freckles and dark, porcelain skin. Long and short hair, makeup or completely natural. We have to love the effort another woman makes to look us in the eyes and smile without judgment as much as we hate the cruelty we innately know how to inflict on each other.
It’s hard being a woman because we typically want to help. To show up to things we are out of time for, unprepared for, or uninvited to. We are supposed to be grateful for all the doors now open to us, for the pioneer women who suffered first, but as soon as we are, we encounter someone whose culture expects submission, and then we sometimes stop pushing as hard or moving forward with ambition. We find ourselves grateful for what we DO have, because at least we have our vote, our lives, and our voices. But our voice SHOULD be heard equally. This does not make us less feminine; this does not take away from the beautiful men’s place in our lives.
It just makes us as God would have us, and that is loved and respected and heard.
It’s hard to be a woman who wants more than anything to be everything and nothing like her mother. To put herself first, but somehow offer all she did to us. It’s been impossible until now and perhaps it still is. And I think that’s the most difficult part—we’ll live our entire time here on earth trying to be as many things to as many people as is humanly possible. In the process we may never learn who we really are, what we love to do, the things and space we actually need, and the hidden talents we’ve left unnoticed until we’re finally lonely enough to try something new just for ourselves.
The challenge is to break the cycle of being selfless to the point of smug, giving until there’s nothing there to receive, and not liking ourselves as much as we like the idea of being needed by others. The idea is to be a whole person—whatever that means for you—who can stand alone in faith. To acknowledge that we don’t have to carry the weight of the world, we just have to keep showing up when we can, and to say “No, thank you” when it’s time for us to rest.
It’s hard not because of what the world tells us we are, or reminds us we aren’t. The biggest obstacle is inside of us, and until we can allow ourselves and each other a break, we will remain slaves to our own unreachable expectations of perfection.
How could I not complete that sentence with that kind of loving audience? Well, for weeks I didn't. I couldn't think of just one thing, and I didn't feel as though I thought of enough. So finally one evening I stopped thinking so damn much and I wrote. The following is what ended up being formed from the confusing map that is sometimes my mind.
It’s hard being a woman because it often isn’t hard at all. Because we think it’s supposed to be; because for many generations and decades it was so much more difficult. Because there are countless definitions and expectations and cultures and personal philosophies and we are created to care about those things more than we care about our own happiness. Even the most confident and independent amongst us feels responsible for the message we send, the sometimes silent mentoring we provide, the kind of example we set to our daughters, nieces, friends, and mothers, and the amount we can get done in a given day.
As a gender, a collective, we tend to just show up. We come to the committee meetings and baby showers and the school board elections. We run businesses or campaigns or assist someone else in their efforts to do so. We raise kids and get our hearts broken, and make dinner for our friend who is going through a crisis, all while finishing a college degree.
Far too frequently we place our own spirits on a bookshelf, vowing to come back to us when our work is done.
But our work is never done. We’re Atlas, and we have no Hercules to hand off the world to, even for a moment. So the only reprieve we can hope for is some sort of strong belief system. A place to send our prayers where we can allow ourselves moments of reflection. Hopefully we learn we aren’t selfish to wish for a good night’s sleep, a long, uninterrupted bath, and unexpected kindnesses.
As women, we can both find and become human angels who are trustworthy enough to share another’s fears, exhaustion, silliness, and intellect with. We need other women far more than most of us learn to admit until we’ve alienated all our truest friends and it’s nearly too late to become the open, loving, light-filled woman we want to be. If we’re lucky enough—or enlightened enough—we figure this out early, and put half as much energy into our friendships as we do into our daily obligations. The day we stop saying “We need to get together for dinner” and actually do it is the day we become our own best friends. The moment we realize that staying at home and deep conditioning our hair instead of going to four different functions, all the while wishing we were on our couch, is the day we’ve learned to really rest.
It’s hard to fight our own worst critic, to allow others to help us through our darkest times, and to cry openly. When we can resolve those three emotional conflicts, we’re on our way to becoming a force to be reckoned with; not feminist nor submissive, but simply female.
We are curves and shine and freckles and dark, porcelain skin. Long and short hair, makeup or completely natural. We have to love the effort another woman makes to look us in the eyes and smile without judgment as much as we hate the cruelty we innately know how to inflict on each other.
It’s hard being a woman because we typically want to help. To show up to things we are out of time for, unprepared for, or uninvited to. We are supposed to be grateful for all the doors now open to us, for the pioneer women who suffered first, but as soon as we are, we encounter someone whose culture expects submission, and then we sometimes stop pushing as hard or moving forward with ambition. We find ourselves grateful for what we DO have, because at least we have our vote, our lives, and our voices. But our voice SHOULD be heard equally. This does not make us less feminine; this does not take away from the beautiful men’s place in our lives.
It just makes us as God would have us, and that is loved and respected and heard.
It’s hard to be a woman who wants more than anything to be everything and nothing like her mother. To put herself first, but somehow offer all she did to us. It’s been impossible until now and perhaps it still is. And I think that’s the most difficult part—we’ll live our entire time here on earth trying to be as many things to as many people as is humanly possible. In the process we may never learn who we really are, what we love to do, the things and space we actually need, and the hidden talents we’ve left unnoticed until we’re finally lonely enough to try something new just for ourselves.
The challenge is to break the cycle of being selfless to the point of smug, giving until there’s nothing there to receive, and not liking ourselves as much as we like the idea of being needed by others. The idea is to be a whole person—whatever that means for you—who can stand alone in faith. To acknowledge that we don’t have to carry the weight of the world, we just have to keep showing up when we can, and to say “No, thank you” when it’s time for us to rest.
It’s hard not because of what the world tells us we are, or reminds us we aren’t. The biggest obstacle is inside of us, and until we can allow ourselves and each other a break, we will remain slaves to our own unreachable expectations of perfection.
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