The Day He Proposed

I haven't written in ages, and so I'm feeling a little awkward and clumsy as I sit here typing and attempting to process my thoughts.  This blog was once the online holding place for all of my deepest hopes, wishes, and dreams.  It's interesting for me to peruse old posts, as so much of what I wrote about was my desire to meet my life partner.

And then I did.

Writing was an excellent way for me to manage and articulate my worries about the future.  However, over time this outlet didn't prove to be enough, and last fall I made the difficult but necessary decision to seek treatment for my endocrine-related mood swings.  I've since discovered that much of the inspiration previously driving my writing was simply anxiety, and since my anxiety has now for the most part been quelled, I no longer feel the need to write.

The other purpose for my writing was so that I could anonymously share the secret parts of my heart that I so desperately longed to share with a significant other.  Now that I am approaching two years of being in a relationship with the love of my life, I share my secrets, visions, and longings with him.  I don't need to write about the hope of finding my "person," because I found him.

With all that said, I wanted to write a detailed account of the day my now-fiancé asked me to marry him.  The whole ordeal was a complete shock and I am still so impressed by the level of thought and care that went into planning--as well as the lengths he and our friends went to so that I wouldn't have any inkling as to what was going on.

Braden came into town for the weekend because one of my co-workers was getting married.  His work schedule changes every week, and I was excited to learn that because he wouldn't need to work until the following Wednesday, we would be together until Tuesday morning.  At my co-worker's wedding on Saturday, Braden had the opportunity to meet my other co-worker's husband.  Haley and Mike are close in age to me and Braden, and Haley and I had previously discussed the possibility of doing something together as couples.

On Sunday, Braden and I went to look at wedding venues in Cambria and rehearsal dinner venues in downtown SLO.  At work on Monday morning, Haley stopped by my office to ask how the rest of my weekend went.  I told her that Braden and I went to look at some venues, and then I showed her some videos and photos that we took.  We chatted about wedding plans and again about the possibility of getting together as a group with our partners at some point.  Braden had been at my apartment that morning (or so I thought), and he came back with me to work after I returned home to eat lunch.  I had student appointments that afternoon, and Braden was in and out of my office as I made phone calls.

At one point, Haley stopped by my office and suggested to both of us that we hang out with her and Mike sometime.  I told her that Braden and I don't always know what weekends he will be in town, but then she proposed the idea of going out that night.  Braden and I had previously made plans to see a movie and go for a drive, so when I turned to him he pointed out that we had made plans.  I was thinking how great it would be to go out with another couple, and so after telling him that those other plans could happen any time, he agreed that dinner would be a good idea.  Haley and I had been previously talking about the four of us eating at Big Sky Cafe in downtown SLO, and so she offered to make a reservation there.  I told her that by the time I get home, change, and then walk downtown, it would likely be about 6:30PM (which worked out perfectly according to Braden's scheme).  When we found out that the restaurant doesn't take reservations, Haley said she and her husband would get there early and hang out until our arrival.

After work, Braden and I returned to my apartment.  It was really hot that afternoon, so I changed and put my hair up.  I kept saying that I felt sticky and wanted to wash my face, so Braden kept saying I should go ahead and wash it.  We finished getting ready, fed Tobin and took him out, and then left for downtown.  As we were walking to the restaurant, I had my compact mirror out and was inspecting my face and telling Braden I felt ugly.  He reassured me that I was beautiful.

When we arrived to the restaurant, Haley and Mike were waiting for us at the bar.  My former college roommate, Rachel, was at the restaurant working that night.  I greeted her and formally introduced her to my co-worker and her husband.  Our group of four was seated, and we reviewed menus while chatting.  Dinner was fun and relaxed, and I didn't suspect that anything out of the ordinary was going on.  Once we finished, Braden suggested taking a walk around the downtown area to show them the rehearsal dinner venues we had looked at.  Initially I felt a little uncomfortable asking Haley and Mike to do this, since Braden and I are planning to have an extremely small wedding, but I knew I couldn't take back Braden's suggestion at that point.

We showed two different locations to Haley and Mike, and the second left us right next to the mission.  While I hadn't been thinking about it at the time, the plaza in front of the mission is where Braden and I held hands for the first time on our first date.  The four of us chatted for a few minutes, and then I told Braden that I was cold and we should head back to my apartment.  We said our goodbyes and parted ways.  Braden wanted to run up the steps to the front of the mission quickly.  On the previous evening, he had been asking me questions about its history, so I assumed he wanted to read the historical landmark placard posted near the front door.  It seemed like normal Braden behavior, so I wasn't suspicious.

Once we were near the front door to the mission, I started to become a bit suspicious.  Braden kept trying to strategically move my body and keep me facing certain directions.  There was also a homeless man sleeping on the bench there, and Braden kept trying to push me towards the man, even though I was trying to walk around him so as not to disturb him.  I made a comment about this, and Braden said he hadn't even seen the man!  For an MBTI sensing type, that was uncharacteristic for him.  Then Braden wanted to walk down to the creek on the opposite side of the mission plaza.  Once I started to become suspicious, I think I went into shock, and the rest of what transpired that evening felt like an out-of-body experience.

Braden settled us next to the rock wall above the creek.  I noticed that there was an iPhone resting on a ledge filming us.  I was so caught off-guard at this point that I couldn't process what was going on or even articulate to Braden what I was thinking.  He then made a comment about me not being a sensor (I'm an intuitive type), and signaled with his eyes towards something on the rock wall.  When I turned, I saw a black velvet ring box.  I immediately turned away and asked Braden, "Is that what I think it is?"  I was marginally confused by the packaging, as the ring I picked out comes in a light blue box (though Braden had previously commented that he didn't like the packaging).  He then told me there were six of them, and I turned back to observe the six boxes.  Braden told me I needed to open them. 

Each of the six boxes contained a note from Braden about our relationship, and each one mentioned Tobin (my first love!).  Braden had me read the notes aloud, but I honestly wasn't comprehending anything that was written on any of them.  About halfway through, it finally dawned on me that Braden fully understands how important Tobin is to me--and that is something I wrote about here only ten months before we met in person.  When I got to the last box, I kept telling Braden I was afraid to open it.  I told him I thought there was some chance I was being "punked."

After opening the sixth box, Braden was trying to turn the flashlight off on his phone, which he had turned on so I could read the notes in the boxes.  I told him to just put his phone in his pocket because it was making the moment very anticlimactic!  Braden then launched into a speech about our relationship, and told me that he was forgetting most of what he had planned to say because he had been sick for days about the possibility of slipping up and giving away the secret.  When he finished the speech, he led me over to the top of the stairwell near the wall, and he was in full view of the iPhone camera when he knelt down.  I was weeping at this point, and then he asked me to marry him!  He continued to kneel there, and so I told him that he needed to put the ring on my finger.  We were both shaking and nervous.

I told Braden that I had a feeling that he had ordered the ring.  However, I suspected that Braden had ordered the ring at the beginning of August, and with a one-month turnaround time, the ring wouldn't get to him before the beginning of September.  Clever man that he is, Braden knew that I was very aware of the timeline for the jeweler and that I checked her Etsy shop every day to check if the engagement ring and matching wedding band had been bought.  He asked the designer to expedite making the ring so that it would arrive ahead of her stated turnaround time.

I kept asking Braden whose phone was filming us, and so he called the "owner of the phone" out of the bushes.  I initially couldn't tell who was hiding, because the two individuals were wearing hats and concealing clothing, but then realized it was Haley and Mike!  We all hugged, they looked at my ring and offered congratulations, and then we all said goodbye for the night.  Once we returned to my apartment, Braden showed me the e-mail and text exchanges between him and Haley.  He had been planning the whole thing for weeks, including drawing maps of the downtown area as if he were planning a military attack.  When I thought he had been at my apartment that morning, Braden was actually scouting the downtown area to make sure that he was familiar with all of the important locations.  Haley and Mike had done the same thing on the previous evening.

What's incredible to me is that my conversations with Braden and Haley were so normal and natural and there was no hint ever of the possibility of anything strange going on.  They both did an excellent job with sticking to the plan and script, and truly delivering to me the most shocking surprise of my life.  I still watch the 47-second clip every day of Braden popping the question!  I'm so happy he had the foresight to film the event, as I was incapable of absorbing any details that evening.

Change That Harms and Change That Helps

My emotions and thoughts are like race car tracks right now.  My INFJ dominant introverted intuition is in high gear; I'm ruminating about future possibilities.

I was recently contacted by my alma mater regarding a position that I had applied to weeks ago.  I never expected to be invited to do a phone interview.  I never expected them to actually like me during the phone interview and then invite me to an in-person interview.  I never expected to be contemplating moving away from my family right now, taking Tobin away from the only home he's known, and adding some unwanted chaos to a graduate student's already hectic life.

I've been thinking about fear, and how fear can sometimes keep us from doing what's best for us.  Fear can cause us to self-sabotage; it can make us doubt ourselves.  We second-guess our decisions.  We come up with mental justifications for why not upsetting the status quo is better for us--why change is overrated and unnecessary.

I am not fond of change.  In my life, change has always brought on an immense amount of stress, and has propelled me into some of my darkest days and worst autoimmune flare-ups.  Moving always makes me feel like I'm having a breakdown--mostly because I'm away from my family, my support system.  New jobs can provoke a lot of anxiety.  Navigating life with a full-time job, full-time graduate program, and full-time fur-child is something I'm terrified to do, terrified to even imagine.

Is fear ever healthy?  I think that sometimes our gut-level feelings can direct us quite appropriately.  Fear keeps us from danger and makes us think more carefully about decisions.  But fear can also be crippling, because we can imagine so many dangerous scenarios that they prevent us from acting indefinitely--from ever making any movement with our lives.

I don't know if I'll be offered the job at my former university.  But I do know that for the longest time I said that my dream job would be to work in this department at my alma mater.  And it seems as though this dream may come true much earlier than I anticipated.  But then I begin to wonder, is it really my dream?  Does my INFJ idealism build up these imagined scenarios to be better than they would actually be in real life?  Can my autoimmune-diseased body realistically handle this dream I've conjured up for myself?

I keep asking that God would only have them offer me the job if it's His will that I accept the offer.  But then I am reminded that God often doesn't work that way, and He may leave deciding up to me without giving me a clear sense of His will.  Perhaps either decision would be His will.  This is one time when I would need to make a decision that I can't simply back out of--I would be committing to a move and an apartment and a career and a new life.  And I worry that I'm not ready yet.

I keep repeating the lyrics of "He Leadeth Me" in my head.  It reminds me that God's hand is upon me and guides me.  I want to make a decision that's best for me and best for Tobin.  I don't want to do anything that will exacerbate my illnesses or make Tobin depressed or that I'll regret a few days or weeks in.  Change is scary.  I pray for myself the serenity prayer, that I would accept the things that cannot be changed, that I would have the courage to change in the ways God wants me to, and that I would know the difference between change that will harm me and change that will help me.

He leadeth me, O blessed thought!

O words with heav’nly comfort fraught!

Whate’er I do, where’er I be

Still ’tis God’s hand that leadeth me.

On the Brink of 30 (Sort Of)

I should be reading or watching online lectures for my classes.  Since I was instead binge-watching "Law and Order: SVU," writing a post seemed like a productive alternative.

I've had many thoughts swirling around my mind for the past few days.  It's funny how living on the brink of 30 makes you start to feel like there's an invisible, symbolic clock ticking over your head--reminding you that each year passes a little faster than the last, and that a decade isn't so much time after all.  Because I'm 29, I still feel safe and like my circumstances are socially-appropriate and like I'm being a typical 20-something.  Already, the mere thought of me being in my 30s makes me start to feel restless and vulnerable.  Perhaps I'm not so safe after all.

Sometimes it worries me that I've never had a serious romantic relationship as an adult that has lasted for more than a few months.  If you divide my age by two, that indicates about how old I was at the time of my longest relationship.  And that relationship was interesting in its own ways; I was very hot and cold with my emotions, and sometimes I would completely ignore my boyfriend.

As an adult, knowing that I am an INFJ certainly explains my relational history.  And also terrifies me, because I realize my own insecurities, expectations, and romantic inactivity are reflections of my personality type.  I recently discovered an article on Thought Catalog that explains what kind of romantic partner each Myers-Briggs type goes after.  As for my type:

"Who you usually go for: No one, because everyone is going to hurt you. Even the ones you’re only mildly attached to, especially the ones you really really like. Once in a blue moon, you’ll meet someone who seems to have the potential to never screw you over. And you’ll put them on a pedestal until, eventually, they’ll let you down too."

Truer words have never been written.  I can feel deep romantic attachments, and yet I am an expert at making sure those feelings are never revealed.  I am excellent at creating imaginary scenarios and idealized realities in my mind, and that's where I retain all of the emotional energy I should be expending in the real world.  Part of the reason I spend all of that time in my mind is because my primary MBTI mode is introverted intuition, so I sincerely derive pleasure from daydreaming.  But part of me is terrified of getting hurt, because of past disappointments and pains inflicted by loves ones, and also because I know the depth of care I have for those I hold closest to me.  And loving someone that much who is not related to me by blood (I know my family loves me unconditionally) is the most vulnerable thing I could ever do.  In the beginning, it was even hard for me to open my heart to Tobin because I know the potential gravity of my attachments.

With loving a person comes being let down by that person.  And as a values-driven, perfectionistic INFJ, it's easier to not love anyone than to welcome that inevitable disappointment.  Cue the author's words above.  I don't want to be elderly and alone.  I don't want to be a crazy schnauzer lady.  I make jokes about that possibility, claiming I'm a has-been who will be surrounded in my advanced years by my flock of schnauzers.  But it's just a defense mechanism--a means of hiding how much I really do want to get married and my insecurities over the fact that I'm almost never in relationships.

Recently, a group of my friends told me I need to put myself out there by getting involved in new activities and being present at more locations where I have the potential to meet a romantic partner.  The introvert in me shudders and laughs at the idea of trying to be more "out there."  But the turning-30 part of me wonders if that's what I have to do if I have even the slightest hope of getting married.  It would be so much easier if my life turned out the way I narrated in my sixth-grade autobiography, and I meet my future husband when we reach for the same bag of dog food at the grocery store.  Too bad I buy Tobin's food on Amazon.

Accepting Your Whole-Self

I found myself coming home in a bad mood for most of the week.  My supervisor tells me it's due to some unusual planetary alignment that's going on right now.  I blame my ongoing self-esteem issues.  And perhaps the fact that my job keeps me so distracted and so busy and from living out my innate MBTI preferences that I come home from work feeling like I've been living as a false self.  I have also been thinking more and more about relationships lately, and the fact that I would really like to get married--or at least have a romantic partner to share my heart and life with.

Getting older sometimes feels uncomfortable and sad and unsatisfying.  So many of my friends are starting families, advanced on their career paths, making their marks on the world.  Social media can be so dangerous because I find myself stalking contacts near and far, comparing my circumstances to theirs.  It's easy for me to momentarily forget my chronic illnesses and struggles and cancer in those few seconds of comparison that lead to a snowballing of self-doubt and self-deprecation.  I read somewhere this week that we should get off of social media because it's unfair for us to compare our own behind-the-scenes to a highlight reel of the people around us.

I've been feeling better the past few months.  Meaning, I've been taking better care of myself.  Meaning, I've had more energy to do my hair and make an effort with my outfits.  I've been trying to treat myself with much grace, not pushing myself too hard or expecting too much of myself.  I am just grateful to be alive and cancer-free and feeling mostly happy, and I don't want to upset what has become a semblance of balance.

At the same time, I realize that the person I present to the world is the person I present to the world.  Not a deep statement, I know, but what I mean is that people don't know about my inward struggles at first meeting.  All they see is my shell, a shell that often reflects the half-person that I often feel that I am.  A half-person because of fatigue, exhaustion, pain, depression, and insecurity.  A half-person because my energy is expended trying to support myself financially while dealing with constant emotional upheavals and health issues.  A half-person because I often have to put hopes and dreams on hold as I attempt to make it in there here-and-now.  A half-person because I spend the workweek functioning out of my inferior MBTI function.

As I often do, last night I turned to Google for advice.  It's become a sort of Magic 8 Ball for me as I navigate a life of ill-health.  When I did a search for "come home feeling bad about myself," the first search result was for an article from Tiny Buddha called "5 Tips to Stop Making Comparisons and Feeling Bad About Yourself."  Sara Davies' 5 tips are:

1. Appreciate what you do have.
2. It's not a fair game.
3. Things aren't always what they seem.
4. If you must compare, compare to you.
5. Accept what you can't change and change what you can't accept.

The third hit from my Google search was for an article on Psychology Today entitled "Social Media Makes Me Feel Bad About Myself."  I do largely blame social networking for providing the ability to compare and assess ourselves in a matter of only a few seconds.  If we slowed down to thoughtfully consider our self-talk in those few seconds, I think we would be both ashamed and surprised.  I'm guessing that for most of us, the self-talk involves a lot of negativity, either because we envy the people around us, or because we make ourselves feel better at what others lack or where others are at in life.

Aside from social networking, I also find that having young co-workers has unearthed some personal feelings of self-doubt and comparison.  Mostly because being around them immediately propels me back a decade, to a time before diagnoses and cancer and living a strict life.  I am reminded of the freedom I had back then, the sense of choice and opportunity.  It really felt like the world was my oyster, and I looked forward to travel and relationships and adventures.  I was naturally self-confident, and I enjoyed being involved in social groups, discovering new cultures around the world, and meeting potential romantic partners.

As I've gotten older, my social groups have mostly disappeared, I haven't been able to travel, and romance has not been a top priority.  Now that I'm finally feeling interested in having a boyfriend and possibly getting married at some point, I realize that I feel as though I lost an entire decade.  Illness was my boyfriend.  Medical treatments were my adventures.  So, not only do my young co-workers remind me of what felt like a simpler time, but they also provide me with the opportunity to live the years that I feel like I lost.  And, of course this is somewhat problematic, because I really can never get those years back.  And based on brain development and life experience, I am further along than them in almost every way.  But it seems as though my circumstances are more akin to theirs than to the circumstances of people my own age.  I am mentally and emotionally more developed, yet the external reality of my life is almost exactly the same as theirs.

And this is what frightens me about the possibility of ever meeting a partner.  How will he perceive me when he meets me?  Will he judge me as the half-self I present to the world?  How will he know what I've been through and why I am the way I am?  Will he understand my circumstances?  Am I in a place to meet someone?  Can I be emotionally available to someone?  Do I need to lose weight to meet someone?  Do I need to be financially self-sufficient to be with someone?  Am I pretty?  Am I thin?

I know that I have a lot to offer someone on emotional and intellectual levels, but I fear that my circumstances and present-day realities will prevent me from finding love.  But, is that a legitimate concern or just my own insecurity?  I realize that opportunities to meet people my age in this area are few, but even if I did go somewhere else, how and where would I meet someone?  The older I get, the less and less likely it seems that those questions can be answered.  I know that God can work beyond my comprehension or planning, but I also realize the danger of expecting Him to do work while I choose not to be proactive.

I think for me the biggest hurdle is my own self-esteem battle, and for that I know I probably need to return to counseling.  Chronic illness seems to infiltrate every component of life, and perhaps most strongly affects a person's self-perception.  It's hard not to see myself as damaged goods or high maintenance or too much for someone to want to deal with.  I keep thinking, "I'll wait until I'm thinner.  I'll wait until my cute clothes fit.  I'll wait until my upset stomach issues are resolved.  I'll wait until I'm on my own.  I'll wait until I have a real job.  I'll wait until..."

But if I keep waiting, I fear I'll look back on most of my life as years lost.  I don't want to perpetually feel ostracized from my own age group.  I don't want to have to revert back to a time of lesser maturity in order to feel comfortable with my own life.  I want to learn to move forward in my life at my age in a way that accepts my experiences and circumstances.  I want to have confidence in what I have to offer the world and a potential partner.  I don't want to feel like I have to fix myself, but I want to learn to accept myself as I am in the here-and-now.  I want to extend grace and love to myself always.  I want to trust God, and also see myself as He sees me.  I don't want to look at my life as a mistake or disappointment, but I want to dwell on the ways in which my struggles have shaped the person I am.  I want to be un-apologetically me.  And I don't want to rate myself according to the Joneses.

I'm going to try to be more conscious of my self-talk.  I'm going to try to stay away from social media stalking.  I'm going to try to focus on a more meaningful relationship with God.  I'm going to try to live as a whole-self, the self that He created me to be.  May He give me self-compassion in the process.

The Imagined Life vs. Real Life

I've struggled to live in the present for probably half my life.  Sometime during high school, as childhood came to an end and I propelled towards adulthood, all that demanded my attention seemed to exist in the future: test scores, grades, college applications, a bachelor's degree, a first job.  We were trained to do everything for the sake of what would eventually come, and so I think in some ways we were conditioned not to live in the moment, but instead to always be moving forward and looking to the next thing, the bigger thing, the better thing.

This week I've experienced a tumult of emotions, which I blame in large part on a mix-up at my local pharmacy.  I was unknowingly given the wrong thyroid medication last Monday, and for most of the week I experienced severe mood swings; they caused such a marked change in my disposition that I eventually had the intuitive sense to check the imprint on my hormone tablets, and thus uncovered the error.  It was emotionally exhausting, to say the least, but in combination with beginning to read Steven Pressfield's The War of Art last weekend, I've had some time to thoughtfully consider where I am in life and the direction in which I am and/or hope to be moving.

For the past several years, living an imagined life has been my default.  I think I've encountered so much pain during this second half of my life that I cope by dwelling in the land of imagination.  INFJs are naturally future-focused as it is, so I'm likely hard-wired to use daydreams as a sort of coping mechanism.  I've constructed fantasies about where I'll live, what I'll do, what I'll have, who I'll be with.  I've created imaginary depth in relationships with people I actually know, and dreamed of pretend scenarios that some part of me hoped would come true, if only to take me away from the life that I actually know.

Clearly, using imagination as a means of escape just signals a larger issue of not wanting to deal with my reality, the here-and-now.  Perhaps my imagination has bred a sort of hope that has made the pain of disease and illness bearable.  If that's the case, I can't be too hard on myself for finding a way of moving forward in what have been the most difficult years of my life.  At the same time, living so much in fantasy not only keeps us from progressing, but prevents us from appreciating the people and circumstances that exist in a given moment in time and space.  Incidentally, focusing on an imagined future has actually prevented me from advancing in life.  Now that I think about it, I suppose that I haven't wanted to move forward, as I'm sure that in many ways I maintain a fear about what is to come.  Will there be more pain?  Disappointment?  Suffering?  Disease?  Hopes squashed?  Imagining a future has given me a sense of control over the terrifying unknown.

What is to be done about chronic disappointment?  Normally I would say that a person has too many expectations.  I thought it was fair for a person to assume s/he would experience good health, true love, and vocational fulfillment, but now I realize that any expectation is already too many.  We can't know what life will bring us, what will be our assigned portion and cup.  I have handed my security over to dreams and fantasies, when I should have been entrusting my security to God.  Isn't it like us to trust our own imaginations over the sovereignty and loving-kindness of a divine and all-good Creator?  I find myself proving over and over that I lack trust and faith in God.  Fortunately, He continues to be good and loving and all-knowing whether or not I believe Him to be so.

I often say that I wish I trusted Him more.  And I do.  But more than that, I think I wish I knew Him more.  Because if I truly knew Him, I don't think I'd be afraid of Him.  Because I don't think I'm as afraid of entrusting my future to someone else as much as I am entrusting it to God.  Because when I entrust my future to God, it feels like I am inviting more pain and disappointment and suffering and disease and squashed hopes.  I know I'm partly jaded because of misfortune, but hasn't it been the very hand of God that has allowed my life to go on like this up until now?  And isn't it up to His sovereign hand what the outcome of my life will be in the future?  I wish I could say that I honestly believe that He uses all of our life experiences for our own benefit.  But it's difficult to truly trust that the enormity of my pain and disappointment has been a blessing rather than a curse.

It would be selfish and ungrateful for me to ignore the great amount of blessings in my life, from living in a beautiful location in a beautiful home, to having a loving and supportive family; from being the dog-mom to a most handsome miniature schnauzer, to having a secure job that I enjoy enough on most days to keep me going back; from having a master's-level education, to having access to healthy food and a healthy lifestyle.  When I consider the struggles of people around the world, mine seem so small.  But, my emotions are as they are, and because so much of my pain has been internal, sometimes the evidence of external blessings is clouded.

And I've arrived at this point in my writing without any conclusions.  Except that I know I want to be more present in my life, in the here-and-now.  And I do still have hopes for the future.  And if I am going to make an effort to stop living an imagined life, that means all I can do is entrust the outcome of my life to God.  And my one true future hope is this: that He will fulfill His promise to do more in my life than I am capable of hoping for or imagining.  My hope is to truly internalize, despite whatever circumstances I encounter, His divine goodness and love for me.

Upon further contemplation, I realize that my greatest gift as of late is vision for the future.  Not that God has imparted me with specifics on where or what or who, but I feel deeply drawn (perhaps called) in a direction.  And I don't think I would be moving in this direction had it not been for the very experiences I've endured.  I have always said that my one desire in life is to help people.  Now it is my desire to see my experiences, particularly the painful ones, act as the platform for my destiny and purpose.  If I am a lump of clay in the process of being made into some useful piece of pottery, then my trials are the tools that are shaping the form I am to become.  I believe that my pain is deeply tied to God's designation for my life, and so I can see now how my disappointments will actually lead me to be a truer, more authentic version of myself--the divinely-ordained version.  Ultimately, I cling to the belief that my pain will be the most profound source of my abiding joy.

Life is Passing Me By

I woke up last night to a vomiting dog, and then found myself unable to fall back asleep.  I was awake in the first hours of the day, Googling things like "life is passing me by."  I almost laughed aloud when the first hit that popped up said, "When you're unhappy, you tend to be thinking a lot about life. When your job sucks, you're not engaged. You're listless and googling sh*t, and in general not enjoying what's going on."  Nailed it.

After reading some articles on Milk the Pigeon, I tossed around my bed in the dark, attempting to sleep, but distracted by the realization of how scared I am.  I am scared by how uninterested I am in my own life.  Aside from loving my dog, I am not doing anything I enjoy or am excited about or that gives me a sense of purpose.  I'm unfulfilled by my job, but I need it to pay the bills.  It consumes most of my time, and I have nothing to show for it.  I have no time to devote to creativity or outside interests because I am so exhausted on my days off that I end up sleeping through them.

It's terrifying to realize that you really, truly hate everything about your life, and that you feel powerless to change anything.  I feel limited by my own health problems and medical conditions, and so I don't allow myself to dream too big because I don't know how far I can realistically go.  I do job searches, but they generally feel futile or meaningless; I am picking a job to have a job, and none of them get me excited or arouse my interests or passions.  I would love to work for myself (maybe; I say this, but I'm not sure how I would feel if I was actually doing it), but I don't know where or how to start.  I need money for my monthly expenses--dog, supplements, visits to doctors, insurance, student loans, food, car, prescriptions, life--and it seems impossible to be able to start anything entrepreneurial before stopping my current job.

But, even more scary than realizing how uninterested I am in my life is realizing how long it's been since I've been excited about anything.  I really think the last time I felt content in my circumstances was about six years ago, when I was still in college.  I would literally have moments when I thought to myself how perfect my life was at the time.  I was studying a field I was in love with, which fed into my Clifton strength of intellection.  I was working for my department which gave me a sense of deeper involvement in our progressive major and closeness to my professors.  I was exercising daily and eating well, and I was keeping off the weight that I had lost a few years before then.  I was discipling a younger student through weekly Bible studies and mentoring.  I was working on an oral history project with the local historical society.  My life was full, but everything I was doing felt meaningful and I had a lot of freedom and time to myself.  I was so happy with my life back then that it drove me to apply to Ph.D. programs, just so I could maintain that same life forever.  But, when the reality hit that I would be moving cross-country to immerse myself in academia, my heart seemed to shrink and I didn't want that life.  I basically never wanted to leave the life I was living at my university, and I eventually realized that getting a doctorate at an East Coast school would not simply be a continuation of my college experience.  It wasn't so much the academia I was interested in as it was the academic lifestyle.

I wasn't terribly unhappy during the few years following graduation.  I worked in a gluten-free market, where I got to talk to people about healthy eating and organize things all day.  I experienced a lot of autonomy and time to contemplate, and so I was content.  I continued to maintain an active lifestyle and was involved in a local church.  I even had a few friends that were still in town and who I saw with regularity.  However, life began to shift in 2011.  It started with debilitating joint pain that sent me to physical therapy.  A rheumatologist couldn't figure it out.  Physical therapists couldn't figure it out.  My endocrinologist eventually figured out that it was a sensitivity to almonds, which I ate constantly throughout the day in every form you can imagine.  I was taking two art classes at the local community college, but outside of that I was mostly watching a lot of T.V.  I did start interning that summer as a photojournalist for three local papers, but at the end of summer I broke my leg, and so once again my life became all about physical therapy.

In January of the following year, I began working for the local school district and awaited grad school acceptances.  Once I decided to pursue a master's in Women's Studies, I immediately began to have misgivings about the program and whether I really wanted to study that field.  I knew I wouldn't be able to recreate college, and I think that's what I was after.  Additionally, I didn't feel like I fit in with the program or its students, and so I began to move in the direction of special education.  I wasn't necessarily something I felt passionate about, but it gave me a sense of purpose.

I numbly floated through my interdisciplinary graduate program, eventually realizing that I didn't really want to teach special ed.  I began to pursue school counseling, until I realized that I didn't want to do that either.  I desperately grasped for a sense of purpose, having somewhere lost my sense of passion or even any sense of what my passions might be.  I finished graduate school, and was essentially forced into the only job that wanted me, and shortly after that into the only other job that wanted me.  And then I eventually found myself in survival mode, no longer even thinking about purpose or passion or my idyllic time in college.  I had to turn off any sense of wants or dreams so that I could cope with the reality and limitations of illness, and get through the day-to-day grind of a meaningless job without becoming suicidal.

I try to get through five days of work so I can get to my two days of sleep.  I think more about paying my bills than finding purpose.  I think about my limitations more than I do my potential.  I don't really know what I want anymore, except I know I don't want this.  And the things I know that I do want--a cottage by the sea and a vegetable garden and a flock of schnauzers--are unrealistic without a job to finance them.  And so I dream of this vague life I want, but don't know how to get there.  And even though I feel stuck, I am terrified of getting unstuck because I don't want to get sick.  And illness seems to follow me wherever I go.

It seems silly for a person to feel trapped in his or her own life.  We think, "Go do something about it!"  But the logistics of actually doing something about it are profoundly more complex, generally because they involve money.  Do people with a lot of money ever feel stuck?  Maybe on an emotional level, but at least they have the means to physically remove themselves from lives they hate.  Or, perhaps I'm wrong.  I know money doesn't solve problems, but sometimes I think it might in some small way solve some of mine.

The article I read last night told me that I should stop thinking so much and just start doing things.  Anything.  Create things.  Learn things.  Keep myself busy.  And I think back to my time in college and how busy I was, and perhaps the key to my happiness was that I had so much going on and I was contributing to the world in a way that lined up with my values.  And perhaps the longer I've been out of college and the more sick I've become, the less I've been able to do.  And as I did less, I began to think more.  Exercise and church and seeing other people were no longer important factors in my life.  I blame my lack of involvement in anything on fatigue.  But is it that?  I don't even know anymore.

It seems there are many things I no longer know.  I have accepted this as my reality, but I don't want to settle for this.  This can't be it.  I won't let this be it.

"For most of us, we hit that 'stuck/fu**ed' spot right when we get the first secure job. It pays us good enough so that we don’t worry, we get a good enough apartment, then a good enough spouse, then a good enough marriage. And then life is 'Eh, good enough' for the rest of our lives. F**k good enough."

-Alexander Heyne

I know that my circumstances need to change.  I just need to figure out what I can realistically do to change them.  Please help me, God.

Date Ideas for Someday...

1. Scrabble, chess, and board games at a coffee shop
2. Walking around San Juan Capistrano's Old Barn Antique Mall with drinks from the corner Starbucks
3. Disneyland
4. An independent film at UCI's movie theater, followed by snacks and browsing in the plaza
5. An at-home round of "Would You Rather?" or some other discussion-based game
6. Hiking and bird-watching, complete with binoculars and guidebooks
7. Music, journals, art, and people-watching at Pines Park

I am a survivor.

That moment when you remember how your professors radically changed your life...

That moment when you're reminded of the vision you held for your future...

That moment when you realize you're a survivor.

Today is the 16-week anniversary of my total thyroidectomy, and thus my 112th day of being cancer-free.  These anniversaries are largely non-monumentous.  Every few weeks, I take a photo of my scar and post it on Facebook with a caption about which anniversary I've reached.  The photos always garner "likes" and comments, and they're a small and simple way for me to celebrate.  I have also been turning these photos into "covers" for my Facebook profile, after I add to them the statement "I am a survivor."

The fact that I'm a survivor has been a conscious reality since the day I was diagnosed with cancer.  But I have given the title (survivor) little meaningful thought in the past few weeks.  I don't know that I really considered what the word meant beyond the fact that it made a statement about my having battled cancer.  However, something in me shifted tonight as I read those words.

I've been struggling a lot lately with trying to figure out the future.  I realize that working in retail is unsatisfying and impractical for the long-haul.  I want to contribute something to the greater good of mankind--research, teaching, love.  I want to make a difference in the world.  As an INFJ, my heartstrings are always pulled in so many directions.  I read an article recently that said that career options for INFJs are always simultaneously exciting and heartbreaking.  As idealists, the world of possibility is thrilling and produces in us all sorts of fantasies about the future.  However, all of those possibilities are also crippling, because we come to realize that to pursue one pathway is to sacrifice another.  We can't do everything.  And so at once none of the options are appealing any longer because we can't do all of them in one self-designed career (wouldn't that be nice?).  It's frustrating.

So, I've been dealing with all of that INFJ confusion--the appeal and drawbacks of every job out there.  Add on top of this the fact that INFJs often feel misunderstood (and often are misunderstood) when sharing their intuitive insights, so people write off this deep analysis of future options as crazed neuroticism.  The INFJ then packs up all this thought and places it back into the very personal introverted intuitive luggage, and once again starts mulling over the more "conventional" options, because those aren't considered "crazy."

And then I get to throw an autoimmune disease, endocrine disease, MTHFR gene mutation, and histamine intolerance into the mix of my endless thought processes, which does result in a certain amount of crazy as I try to create a game-plan for my future.

The past few weeks I've been revisiting the idea of pursuing a Ph.D., as I think it may be one of the only career paths that affords me the level of freedom and time for contemplation that I'm seeking.  The struggle I have been facing with this idea is what kind of research agenda I would propose in my personal statement.  I want to write something honest and compelling, but to be honest would be to say that I really don't know what I want to do doctoral level research on.  Earlier tonight I read through old personal statements and academic essays, and then found a letter I wrote to my professors when I graduated from Cal Poly.  The letter mostly talks about how their mentorship and guidance is what made me want to become a professor in the first place (over eight years ago), and how I wanted to inspire my future students in the same ways my teachers inspired me.

When I finished reading the letter and closed it on my desktop, the first thing I saw was the cover photo I had posted on my Facebook profile earlier today.  It felt like the "I am a survivor" statement was boring a hole into my heart.  For the first time, those words made me want to cry.  They no longer just meant that I battled cancer, but that who I am in my very essence is a culmination of every event that has ever happened to me, both in the past and moving into the future.  I could easily say "I have hope" or "I have a future," and they would mean the same thing as telling people that I'm a survivor.

Writing this now brings to mind the verse that was a favorite for years and years--the one that all my friends knew I loved, and that caused them to give me knowing glances whenever we read or heard it.  It was my signature verse, for reasons that I won't outline in this post.  But, suffice it to say, the words still hold profound meaning in my heart, and are something I think I need a reminder of today.

Jeremiah 29:11

"'For I know the plans I have for you,' declares the Lord, 'plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future'" (New International Version).

or

"I know the plans I have in mind for you, declares the Lord; they are plans for peace, not disaster, to give you a future filled with hope" (Common English Bible).

I take the GRE in one week.  My prayer is that during the test, these words will be my companion:

I am a survivor.

I have hope.

I have a future.

For You, My Fellow Introverted Idealists, My Fellow Autoimmune Disease-Sufferers

What if I told a new narrative for my life?

Last year in one of my graduate seminars, we read a book by Geraldine Pratt in which she discusses transit lane versus trapped narratives.  Transit lane narratives are the dominant discourses of the most visible populations.  The ones told and retold by the media, in our schools, by way of a constructed cultural consciousness.  The trapped narratives are those of oppressed peoples, that get bypassed for the more "important" narratives--that stay hidden away because they contest our neatly-constructed cultural consciousness.  They would upset the status quo.

And, when I shift the concept of these narratives from macro to micro, I realize that I have designed the same system in my own life--for my personal narrative.  I have an idea of who I am or who I should be, informed by choices I've made over the years, words that people have spoken to me, beliefs I have been trained to believe about myself or have wrongly assumed about myself.  I have been fixated on one narrative that is defined by the woulds and shoulds and supposed tos.  A narrative that is neatly-constructed and deeply embedded in my self-consciousness.

Perhaps the real narrative for my life is trapped.  Or, a narrative for what my like could be is trapped.  All those beliefs I have believed and tales I have been told and assumptions I have assumed--but how many of them are part of His narrative, the meta narrative, and how many of them have become the story of my life simply because it is the same narrative repeated over and over...?

Can I frame a new narrative for myself?

Is there another narrative He wants me to tell?

My narrative for the past five years has been about disease and exhaustion and doctors' visits and medical bills.  It has been isolation and rumination and depression.  It has been giving up on a lot of maybes and possibilities.  The admitting that compromise and sacrifice are necessary evils of living with chronic illnesses.

I cannot rewrite my story.  I am who I am who I am.  I will always have my past experiences and my chronic illnesses and my passions and likes.  But my narrative doesn't need to be dictated by sickness or past experiences.  Illness is my transit lane narrative, but that doesn't have to be my narrative at all.

I don't know how to ride the line between living with a chronic illness and not letting it control me.  It affects a huge part of how I live my life.  But I think that I've for so long wallowed (I'm not sure that's the appropriate word) in the knowledge of my diseases that my every experience and very reality has been shaped by that wallowing.  I don't want to live life that way.

Additionally, before illness more or less came to control my life, I had certain ideas and ideals about what I wanted to do with myself--what I wanted to devote my time and talents to.  Sometimes I wonder if being diagnosed with chronic illnesses wasn't a sort of get out of jail free card--an opportunity to start out on a pathway I had never given myself the room to consider, at least not since childhood.

I'm still figuring out who I am.  What I like and what I'm good at and where my talents and passions will collide.  I'm still learning what it means to be an introvert (more specifically, an INFJ) and a Highly Sensitive Person.  What it means to be a cancer survivor and live each day battling autoimmune disease.  How I can live a healthy and happy life, finding balance between recognizing my limitations and not giving up on dreams.

I want to make a difference in the world, but that dream seems like such an amorphous and ambiguous thing.  I know I want to create, and organize, and contemplate, and help, and connect, and be independent, and embrace my values.  I don't want my work to just be work.  I want it to be my mission.  But I also want to take care of myself while on that mission.  No more grandiose dreams of high-stress overseas work with people.  I just want peace, and beauty, and authenticity.

I don't want to feel constrained by my past experiences or limited by my degrees or jobs or what people have told me about myself or even what I have wrongly or rightly believed about myself.  Can't there be a new narrative?  An emerging trapped narrative?  One that is true and good, but simply buried by more visible story lines?  Or, by ones that are easier to believe or that fit together more neatly as an unfolding narrative "should"?

What if I was brave enough to tell a new story?  To unearth a trapped narrative?  What if my life became something that no one, not even I, ever predicted or envisioned for myself?

I don't know what it would mean to live a trapped rather than a transit lane narrative.  Somehow it seems harder, scarier.  But also richer.  Better.  More beautiful.

And that is what I want.  Richer, better, more beautiful.

God, help me tell my story.

My Non-Linear Trajectory

Sometimes it's difficult for me to accept that my interests evolve.  In my mind, I would like my life to reflect some kind of linear trajectory--logical and focused.  I want the central unique purpose for which I was created to be obvious in all of my jobs and volunteer efforts, etc.

However, as I get older I realize that nothing in my life has ever (ever) gone according to plan.  I wanted to be a missionary.  That desire became more focused, and I decided that I wanted to work overseas with children.  I wanted to attend a Christian college, where I thought that I would receive the best training for my intended career.  I ended up at a (very good) state school.  I started out majoring in Liberal Studies, and within only a few weeks of my first quarter of college discovered the program was not a good fit.  I waffled in indecision over my major for nearly two years.  My university approved a new bachelor's degree in Comparative Ethnic Studies.  The program required two Ethnic Studies courses to switch majors.  I registered for the prerequisite courses and applied to switch majors, not really knowing what Ethnic Studies was, but certain it would better prepare me for work overseas.  I went overseas and worked as a missionary for a year.  I hated it.  I returned home to the U.S. and discovered that I actually really loved Ethnic Studies.  I wanted to get my Ph.D.  I was accepted into a doctoral program.  I went to visit the school where the program was and I freaked out.  Despite being offered a full fellowship, I decided not to go.  I considered divinity school.  I thought it would prepare me for religion-focused research in a doctoral program down the road.  I tried two different divinity programs.  I hated them both and dropped out of them both, one year after the other.  I ended up working in special education at the same time I made the decision to get a master's degree in Women's Studies.  I started the program, realized it wasn't a good fit, and then transferred into an interdisciplinary program that allowed me to take more education coursework.  I graduated and got a job in special education and hated it.  Now I'm in retail.

There has always been an innate drive to help people and make a difference in the world, but I don't know that I've ever pursued the best and most appropriate means of doing those things.  I've chosen very extroverted and emotionally-draining roles, and as an INFJ and Highly Sensitive Person, I burn out quickly.  I don't know that I've ever found a job that truly embraces all of my gifts without totally wiping me out on an emotional, spiritual, and sometimes physical level.

I loved the Comparative Ethnic Studies program at Cal Poly, not just because the subject matter fascinated me, but because during that time my lifestyle was perfectly suited for my personality type.  I spent countless hours pondering issues and ideas that were meaningful and aroused my passions for those treated unjustly.  I was in class during the mornings, but had most of the day to work on projects or papers and make decisions about how I would manage my time.  Focusing on the experiences of oppressed peoples made me feel like I was somehow making a difference in the world, if only because I was becoming a more aware world citizen--and thus could potentially educate others.  I wrote and read and had engaging intellectual discussions.  I worked for my professors doing editing and creating handouts and fliers, which tapped into my artistic sensibilities and need to organize and attend to details.  I conducted oral history interviews for a number of ongoing projects, which allowed me to connect with people in deep and productive ways that were based on pre-determined questions and thus didn't exhaust me.  In terms of my Clifton Strengths, Intellection, Responsibility, Relator, Input, Achiever, I was actively making use of all of my greatest assets.

The desire to go on for a Ph.D. was largely to mimic my undergraduate lifestyle, and not necessarily for the doctoral title or program itself.  With a high strength of intellection, I am drawn to any role in which I have a significant amount of time dedicated to critical thinking and making connections between ideas.  This is both a blessing and a curse.  I love to contemplate and learn and study and focus on big ideas, but my interests are at times so diverse and disparate that it would be seemingly impossible to focus them into one doctoral program.  Can't I just go to school forever?

The last few years have resulted in a significant amount of self-discovery and self-analysis.  After I lived in China and discovered that I am an INFJ, my entire self-perception and worldview shifted.  So much about myself finally made sense.  When I discovered last year that I am also a Highly Sensitive Person, it was like the final piece of the puzzle fell into place.  I'm not crazy.  I don't think I am unique as an HSP who struggles with deciding on a career path.  I wonder how many HSPs are also INFJs, and how many of them also have a strength of intellection?  How many of them struggle with autoimmune disease or other physical manifestations of living in an over-stimulating world?

I've been thinking a lot lately about continuing on in my education.  I really do love being in school.  However, I feel paralyzed when it comes to choosing a program.  There are so many programs, and it feels like choosing one would be at the expense of a whole realm of interests.  It's also hard for me to choose a program without some kind of practical application in my mind's eye, because I want a job to be at the end of it, but I don't really know what job I want to do.  Does the job I want even exist yet?  Do I have to create my own job?  I've been reading a lot of online articles lately that basically tell me that the best option for a Highly Sensitive Person is self-employment.  That seems easier said than done.  I'd love to work for myself, but what kind of business would I be creating in the first place?  Can I get paid to think and organize?  Wouldn't that be nice...?

I've thought about continuing my education in Disability Studies, pursuing psychology, becoming a naturopathic physician or nutritionist.  I've considered doctoral programs in traditional fields like Sociology or Education, or nontraditional fields like Sex and Gender Studies.  Unfortunately, Ph.D. programs require you to submit a focused research proposal with your application, and when it comes down to it, I don't really know what I want to study.  Do I really want to conduct a major research project?  Can't I just read and think without having to worry about a dissertation?  Can't I just skip over all the politics of academia?

I know there are other people out there in the world that think and feel like I do.  I wish I knew my tribe.  I wish we could all band together and brainstorm and discover what each of us is meant to do.  I don't always mind doing the work of self-discovery, but sometimes I feel stuck and want to move forward--but I just don't know how.  I see so many of my peers that are happy and progressing in the normal socially acceptable ways.  I don't necessarily compare myself to them, but it does leave me to wonder why I can't just make decisions and when I will actually take action steps to change my life.  Will I ever really know what trajectory I'm on?  If my past is indicative of the future, my path will never be linear.  I think I'm in denial about this.

What do I want to do?  What do I really want to do?  I know I want to work in a quiet, scenic environment and have lots of time for thinking and reflection.  I want to be able to do something creative.  I want to be able to use my hands to organize--to sort and categorize.  I don't want a boss hovering over me.  I want my work to contribute to the greater good of humankind.  My MAPP Career Test results list the following as my "top motivations":

• I have a strong preference to work under the supervision of someone who is knowledgeable. I seek clear direction. I like to "learn the ropes" and develop expertise.
• I am motivated to gather, record, departmentalize, store and retrieve information.
• I am talented at spatial measurement and arrangement, artistic ability for factual image reproduction, attention to detail, awareness of machines and their function, and tolerance of routine.
• I have the ability to remember exactly what was written or said.
• I perform well in roles where I feel I can share information that makes a positive difference to others.
• I am motivated to carry out instructions for routine tasks in a familiar environment.

I wish that someone could simply read that list and say, "Aha!  I know exactly what you should do."  Somehow, I think this journey of self-discovery is ongoing.  As much as it pains me, I think that I will probably continue to try things and hate them as I whittle my way down to my true purpose.  Or, perhaps my purpose is simply to be a sojourner trying all these things, never really knowing where I am headed, but trusting that God is in control nonetheless.  Perhaps I am meant to experience as much life as possible so that I can relate better to and serve all people, and the true linearity of my trajectory is actually found in its inconsistency.  If that's the case, Lord, give me a willing heart...

My Future: A Poem

I want to live in a small cottage by the sea

And have a flock of schnauzers

And drink tea

And write

And have a vegetable garden

A Smart Car

And a big desk overlooking the water

And an art studio

A husband who will with me: go to Starbucks and play board games,

peruse local antique markets,

read on the front porch

Sanctified Artistically and Creatively

At some point, I will conclude my account of the day my thyroid was removed. I've felt guilty for not spending any time writing as of late--actually, I've felt guilty for not wanting to want to write. To be honest, going back to work about a week ago was completely exhausting for me. Though my mood is mostly good and I can keep up with my co-workers and complete typical day-to-day tasks, there's not much of an energy surplus when I get home to devote to creative endeavors or even exercising. The gym is something I typically do on a daily basis, but right now my body wants rest, so I'm giving it rest. I think my brain also wants rest, so I'm giving it the same treatment as my other parts.

I've been mulling over some thoughts during the past few weeks, and especially the past 36ish hours. Being surrounded by artists and fine art supplies every day certainly forces me to confront the reality that I'm not devoting any time to my own art. My camera sits in its bag, unused. My paints sit in my ArtBin, unopened. My collage cutouts sit in my desk drawer, unglued. I know that I need to extend some grace to myself for not accomplishing any projects, given that the past couple of months have been so focused on my cancer. At the same time, I can't blame my cancer for the months before my diagnosis in which I still wasn't cultivating my seeds of creativity. I know that I've been battling ill-health for some time now, but I also know that I have a good many excuses, most of them stemming from my perfectionism, that keep me from acting on this yearning to create.

As a child, my desire was to become an artist. That was my career plan for probably the first eleven years of my life. I had student artwork displayed in my community's art gallery. I read all I could about Vincent Van Gogh (and even dressed up like him for a research report in fifth grade, bandage-wrapped ear and all). I came home from school and immediately turned on the television to tune into "It's Curtoon Time!" My mom bought me art and craft kits for birthdays and Christmases. I spent my weekends designing outfits with my Barbie fashion design kit.

I don't exactly remember when, but sometime after fifth grade I stopped wanting to be an artist. There was a brief period of time where I wanted to be a veterinarian (because of my new-found interest in reptiles, via my lizard, Sam). I wanted to be an actress (because of praise after performances in classroom skits and winning a play-writing contest at school). I wanted to be a special education teacher (because I was a "big buddy" to a kindergartener with special needs). As I got older, my desire was less and less to create, and more and more to help others, particularly marginalized people groups. I became more serious about my faith in sixth grade, and shortly after that I decided that I wanted to be a missionary. I think that this desire resulted in part from my drive to help others, but also from the belief that it was what would bring me into greatest intimacy with God. What I can now say in hindsight, after working in full-time Christian ministry for a year, is that I am neither called nor gifted to do overseas missions.

For the past few years, I've bounced around in terms of career ideas and pursuits. My sister told me that I change my mind a lot, but my coworker suggested that I just haven't found my place yet. Amidst my missions work and brief divinity school stints and plans to get a Ph.D. and jobs working in special education, deep down I have wanted to be an artist. I don't know exactly what that means, but I think that God has guided me to the place where I can discover the meaning behind that desire.

Several years ago, I sought prayer from a spiritual leader at my church. During one of our meetings together, without having any prior knowledge of my childhood desire to become an artist, the leader told me that I was created to be an artist. She told me that I had been sanctified (set apart) artistically and creatively, and while we were praying she said that God gave her visions of beautiful pieces of art pouring out of me. I don't remember the exact descriptions of her visions, but I do remember feeling equal parts surprised and skeptical. In the days following our meeting, I went to the gym and chose an elliptical machine, and then realized some type of artist magazine was left on it. This was somewhat strange because I had been going to that gym off and on for at least six years at that point, and had only ever seen celebrity gossip magazines. But what made it even more strange was that there was a post-it note inside the magazine with the words "your article," and it was flagging a piece of writing that discussed becoming an artist(!).

Last night, I had the opportunity to attend a lecture and demonstration at work that featured a local oil painter. Interestingly, several years ago when I was actively involved in college ministry, I somehow obtained a bookmark with a picture of the painting "The Last Supper with Twelve Tribes." I never paid much attention to the artist's name, but I remember always having a fondness for the work. Well, imagine my surprise when I started my job a few months ago and learned that the man who made that painting is a regular customer at our store. He is the one who spoke at the work event last night, and his words reminded me that I have a gift and talent that need to be nurtured. Because of my perfectionism, I'm prone to give up on creative endeavors because right now I'm not at the level I want to be at. However, hearing about the effort this man invested in practicing and learning and becoming a good artist made me see that I need to actually set aside time and space to practice art--without placing expectations on myself. With all the jobs I've tried and career paths I've pursued, I keep coming back to this small voice of desire deep down in my heart, telling me that I need to be an artist, and it's time that I listen.

As I said before, I don't know what kind of art I want to create or even what tools or mediums I will use. All I know is that somehow as this journey slowly unfolds, it seems more and more connected and logical. Despite a resting brain and potentially muddled writing, I am posting this as: 1.) accountability to pursue artistic endeavors; 2.) a reminder that last night God stirred something in my heart.

Side note: I would like to draw attention to my insightfulness as a first grader.  Jon Holland, a psychologist, came up with the "Holland Occupational Themes"--six primary career strengths that are assigned based on personality.  My top two Holland Codes are artistic and conventional, essentially creating and organizing.  On the Holland Codes hexagon, my two strengths are directly opposite one another, meaning that the combination of those two strengths is possible, but rare.  At the age of seven, I was self-aware enough to know about my desires to create and organize, thus my conclusion that I would work in retail part-time (a conventional job), and as an artist the rest of the time (an artistic job).

Birthday Avoidance

I didn't remember that it was my birthday until a PCOS support group that I'm a member of e-mailed me at midnight.  Oh, that's right.  It's my birthday.

It seems totally strange to have forgotten one's own birthday.  In fact, when my co-workers, or family members, or even the ATM machine wished me a happy birthday during the past few days, I was almost startled by the words.  Oh, that's right.

I think I stopped celebrating birthdays after my 23rd.  It was during the year that I would turn 24 that I was diagnosed with Hashimoto's and PCOS.  I still remember the day my doctor gave me the news.  I decided to go shoe-shopping at Nordstrom Rack after my appointment, and I meandered through the aisles in a haze.  All I could think about was how my life would change and all that I would give up now that I was "diseased."

Last night, I had a vivid dream in which a doctor was showing me lab results that indicated high LH and low FSH levels in my blood (two reproductive hormones).  When I woke up this morning, I immediately went to Google and asked what those results would indicate.  It's PCOS.  I'm not sure if my subconscious was already aware of that information and was simply processing it in my sleep, or if my body is smart enough to know that its hormones are out of balance, and it's telling me exactly what's wrong while I'm dreaming.  Interestingly, in past labs my LH and FSH scores have always been normal.

So, when I woke up this morning I was only semi-aware of my own birthday, dwelling on my whacked-out hormones, thinking about the thyroid ultrasound I was about to have, and then I came downstairs and saw a birthday present from my parents atop the kitchen table.  I burst into tears.  Presents, with their wrapping paper and bows and cards with well-wishes, symbolize happiness and celebration, and I realized that there was little I was feeling happy or celebratory about.  Sometimes it just feels like this life is happening to me, and I've given up even trying to be happy or celebrate in the midst of it.  My mom tells me I'm depressed.  I know I am.

I kept forgetting my birthday because I didn't want it to happen.  I don't want to acknowledge turning another year older.  I don't want a reminder of my illnesses, and age, and current set of circumstances.  When I begin to ruminate about all those things, it just makes me hate my life, and instead of feeling grateful for gifts, I cry over them.

Today I've been receiving "happy birthday" messages on Facebook and my cell phone.  I started to contemplate the fact that people are telling me to have a happy birthday, but that they should more aptly say "depressing birthday" or "annoying birthday."  That's how I feel about my birthday this year.  Go away, birthday.

After I wiped away my tears and composed myself, I headed over to the local imaging center to have my annual thyroid ultrasound.  While I sat in the waiting room, I thought about how no one there knew it was my birthday and I wondered if they thought I looked sad (realistically, none of them were probably paying much attention to me).  I also thought about the fact that I am at least 20 (and probably closer to 50) years younger than the people I usually see in those waiting rooms.  It actually made me feel momentarily young.  But still diseased.

And then I was called in for the exam.  I think this was the fifth time I've had my thyroid and its nodules inspected.  Unlike the other inspections, today the ultrasound hurt.  I know that my thyroid's been inflamed, both because my doctor told me it is and because it's been hard for me to swallow and I just feel that it's enlarged.  Having the roller on the exam wand roll around my throat, pushing into the inflammation, I remembered why I woke up feeling so blue today and why I haven't been doing well lately.  Hashimoto is on the loose in my body.

When the exam was finished, I walked out to the parking lot, opened my car door, sat down on the driver's side seat, and pulled down the mirror on the visor.  I tilted my head back so that my neck arched, and I scrutinized the area where my thyroid lies hidden.  Yes, definitely swollen.  In fact, the one side that hurt the most during the exam was actually visibly larger than the other side.  Oh, that's right.  Hashimoto's.

Somehow seeing my enlarged thyroid actually began to put things into perspective.  I am sick.  I'm allowed to be sick.  I'm not crazy.  I'm not doing something to myself.  I have a disease, and right now this is what my body is choosing to do.

I realized that instead of struggling against being sick right now, I think I need to just rest in the experience until a doctor helps me get things right.  Yes, my gland is inflamed.  Yes, I need to lose weight.  Yes, I'm exhausted.  Yes, I ache.  Yes, I have an autoimmune disease.  Oh, that's right.

I didn't choose this for myself, but this is my life.  And as much as I can ignore the fact that I have a birthday this year, I am turning another year older.  I am seeing a new doctor in a few weeks.  I'm going to talk to her about possibly switching to a different natural thyroid hormone.  I know this isn't how a successfully-treated person should be feeling.  And that is the one small hope I cling to--the belief that this is just a momentary lull in my treatment, and that things are bound to get better.  That next year they'll be better.

And so I celebrate, not for what is, but for what I am confident will be.  I celebrate the hope that next year I will remember my birthday.

The Slow Life of Recovery

A fellow autoimmune-disease-sufferer recently described the healing process as "slowing down life to a crawl and setting boundaries."  For a lifelong perfectionist and overachiever, the "slowing down life" part of autoimmunity can be wearing on the self-esteem.  Mind you, I have no trouble at all with the actual slowing down of life; I can lounge and binge-watch Netflix like any good couch potato.  It's the thinking related to the slowed-down life that sometimes gets me down.

I am fairly content right now with my circumstances, not because I feel like I am fulfilling my dreams and passions, but because I feel like I can breathe and wake up in the morning without wanting to die.  I know that sounds melodramatic.  But, I know that my autoimmunity has gotten the better of me when I struggle to get out of bed, when tears constantly seem to be seeping out of my eyes, when I stop being able to make decisions and feel like my sanity has left me.  My body becomes inflamed, my thyroid swells and affects my swallowing, my joints hurt, I crave sugar and fatty foods.  I can't sleep at night.

I recently made the difficult decision to leave a full-time job after only two months of employment.  I had been pursuing special education for the past few years, and I applied to jobs like the one I took in an effort to maintain a cohesive resume.  However, it only took about a month for me to realize that the job was killing me--really--and that I needed to seek other employment if I didn't want to end up hospitalized.

A retail position in my hometown providentially opened up right at the time I finally had the courage to give notice at my old job.  I was offered a new job that has nothing at all to do with my bachelor's or master's degrees and really doesn't formally require any specified education, but it doesn't add stress to my life.  In terms of the amount of mental exertion it requires and stress it causes as compared to my previous role, the position would be classified as slow--a slow job for a slow life.

It's actually been fascinating to see how my body has responded to stressful situations in the past few years.  Normally I shut down completely and have the urge to flee.  I am thankful that my body takes care of itself even when my conscious mind tries to push me beyond reasonable (for me) limits.  I dropped out of graduate programs, moved across the country and back, changed majors, changed jobs.  It may seem reckless and confused to an onlooker, but really the back-and-forth nature of some of my decisions and life activities has been nothing more than a battle between my body protecting itself from breaking down and my mind telling me that I need to live up to my own unrealistic expectations.

It is humbling working in a retail position with a master's degree in hand.  I am not making very much money (not even enough to meet my basic monthly expenses).  I live with my parents.  Sometimes I feel as though my intellect is atrophying.  But I'm breathing.  And I'm alive.  And I'm not just surviving.  I am still inflamed and my thyroid is still swollen and my joints still hurt and I'm still 30 pounds heavier than I normally am.  But I have hope.  It's going to be okay.  I'm going to be okay.

The same person that described healing as a slowing down of life also said that it is how we recover from autoimmune burnout that is most critical.  I can think about how I'm not using my graduate degree; or, I can think about how amazing it is that I was able to earn a master's degree despite the mass of obstacles I've endured in the past couple of years.  I can think about how I don't have a career and haven't met my earning potential; or, I can think about the ways in which my current job suits me and allows me the freedom and flexibility to sleep in and see doctors during the week because of my nontraditional schedule.

My fellow autoimmune-disease-suffer said that as our lives slow, we not only heal from years of exhausting our adrenals, but we discover our purpose.  And, according to him, it is after that simultaneous healing and finding purpose that we can thrive.  When my life is slower, my mind gets quieter.  And when my mind is quieter, I stop pushing myself.  And I listen to my heart.  And I let my body lead.  When my life is slow, the first threat of stress immediately gets pushed away.  That's how I know I'm not ready.  And somehow it's easier to listen to my heart when I know I'm in a season of waiting.  The perfectionist, over-achieving tendencies get shelved because I know there is nowhere to push myself.  I'm waiting.  I'm not ready.

And I think that when I am ready, it won't be my conscious mind pushing me anymore, but my heart guiding me into the happiest, healthiest places where my body knows it will thrive.

A Commitment to Newness

Last summer, I dragged my brother along with me on a field trip of sorts to our local Barnes and Noble.  My goal was to gather a variety of magazines to be used in creating a vision board.

For those of you unfamiliar with the concept of a vision board, it's basically a poster filled with a collage of pictures that cast a vision for an individual's life.  They are like a map of dreams, and supposedly have some sort of psychological effect on people so that those dreams are more likely to be fulfilled (I have no data on this, just a recollection of something I read in Oprah's magazine once).

My sister is a passionate proponent of vision boards, and is now fulfilling many of her own dreams by way of her recent move to Brazil.  So maybe the boards do have some underlying powers over the subconscious.

After choosing a variety of relevant magazines, ranging in central topics from photography to women's health to interior design, I dutifully searched for and cut out the photos and text that seemed to best represent what I hope for in the immediate future.

Pictures of chiseled abs, runners, women lifting barbells.  The words look good feel better, healthier, diet, gym, healthy weight, fight off cravings, exercise, strong, respect yourself.

Pictures of church steeples.  The words believe, change the world, truth, love, renewed views.

Pictures of camera gear, interior design drafts, paintings, drawings, hands holding pencils, marble busts.  The words photograph, crafting, create, design.

Pictures of women posing, pretty dresses.  The words confidence, myself.

Pictures of dogs.  The word dog (did you think I'd create a board without this?).

Pictures of yoga poses, women free in creation, women on scooters, women smiling and laughing.  The words content, peace, embrace, live, still, play, centered, free.

Pictures of brick walls, houses surrounded by fields, plant-adorned walkways, brightly-painted buildings, the coastline.  The word beauty.

Pictures of groups of people smiling, girls laughing together.  The words people, friends.

Pictures of libraries, writing desks, people sleeping in fields with their notebooks, home offices, hands cupping mugs next to open books.  The words ideas, influence, words, dream, think, your heart's desire.

Despite the fact that I spent so much time scouring each of my carefully-selected magazines for pictures and words, I have yet to actually create a vision board.  The cutouts sit in a stack hidden away in my desk, perhaps symbolic of the way in which my dreams stagnate.

For those who celebrate a religious Easter, the holiday commemorates newness--the new life given to people through the death and resurrection of Jesus Christ.  He rose again so that we might be able to be spiritually reborn.

With the theme of newness in mind, I think back to the pictures for my dream map.  I have a renewed desire to take the time to actually assemble them together on a poster, much in the same way I have a renewed desire to act on and pursue my dreams.

Newness.  A commitment to healthy eating and exercise that pushes my body.

Newness.  A commitment to my faith and finding a church that fits.

Newness.  A commitment to my creativity and continuing to experiment in as many mediums as possible (without letting me talk myself out of anything).

Newness.  A commitment to accepting and loving who I am, flaws and all.

Newness.  A commitment to continuing to be a good dog-mom.

Newness.  A commitment to enjoying life fully.

Newness.  A commitment to creating and finding beauty in the world.

Newness.  A commitment to forming new and nurturing old relationships.

Newness.  A commitment to time for contemplation, reflection, writing, and pursuing my dreams.

So Easter is my New Year, a time that marks the newness that I hope to find in my life in the coming months.  Sometimes I'm so busy concentrating on my illnesses that I forget that it's not time for me to mourn my life (or what would have been a "normal" life).  While my conditions do place some limitations on the future, there is no reason they should be stopping me from living.  I need to renew my mindset so that I no longer think that way.

Newness.  A commitment to moving forward in spite of my diseases, allowing them to make my life richer instead of allowing them to stunt me.

Behold, He is making all things new.