Rev. Susannah tasked the youth group to come up with 100 things for which they are grateful at worship this morning. Here are mine.

1. People that work for social justice.
2. Soldiers & Intelligence all over the world that keep us safe.
3. Music, without which I would not be whole.
4. Friends who drop everything when you need them.
5. Angels who show themselves in human faces, like the little boy who gave his piggy bank to the mosque that was attacked in Texas.
6. Cold, bright, clear weather.
7. Warm jackets, sweaters, hoodies, scarves, and gloves.
8. Cheap streaming media. Grateful for Hulu, Netflix, Amazon, et al. I never get bored when I’m cleaning my room.
9. Medicaid
10. Therapy
11. Matt Smith, the actor that played the Eleventh Doctor. He inspires me creatively, both as The Doctor, and in my current favorite movie, Christopher and His Kind.
12. My therapist, Sarah
13. My nurse practitioner, Leighton.
14. Peace with Argo.
15. Inner peace with Dana.
16. Jeffrey Thames and Hope Restored.
17. New possibilities abounding.
18. Samantha and the rest of my “host family.”
19. My mom, dad, sister, and aunt who’ve all visited me in DC this year.
20. My cousin Nathan and his wife and children being close in proximity.
21. Prianka being a part of my life in reality instead of just virtually.
22. Reconnecting with Kathryn and picking up right where we left off.
23. Meeting Stephanie and becoming her friend.
24. Finding a church that has welcomed me as much as I have welcomed them into my life.
25. Finding a choir with whom I have a ton of fun.
26. Learning more about who I am, and who I am not.
27. Virtual friends that still check in and think of me, even when I am not in physical proximity.
28. My health, which continues to improve.
29. Comfortable walking shoes, because I do a lot of it.
30. Uber when I don’t.
31. The DC public transportation system, which allows me a chauffeur so that I can think and read instead of drive.
32. Books. My love of books knows no bounds.
33. Finding clothes that fit my personality. I wear a size 16 in boys, allowing me crispy shirts where the shoulders actually fit…. and the sweaters. OH, THE SWEATERS. Also, in boys’ clothes, the sizing is always right. No matter where I shop, a 16 is a 16. Grateful that I don’t change sizes from store to store and have to figure that shit out.
34. The youth group that is slowly teaching me how to lead them.
35. Not getting the job as the youth director so that I have a mentor.
36. Rev. Matt, from whom so many blessings have flowed, from firing me up with his words to helping me be a better preacher just by listening.
37. Being brave enough to say to myself, “it’s time.” I need a Bachelor’s and an MDiv like, yesterday. Want to wear it like I “stole” it.
38. Grateful to God, but also FOR God, because in my innermost self, I’m still not alone. Just like Jack Lewis, praying flows from me ceaselessly.
39. Not having so much anxiety. Having a direction and not a distraction.
40. Airplanes. No one is very far away.
41. Anonymous joining the fight against ISIS.
42. Information at my fingertips. I may be umbilically connected to the Internet, but it has its advantages.
43. All of the bosses I’ve had who’ve encouraged me to be more than I am.
44. Growing up as a preacher’s kid and then becoming a lay preacher at Bridgeport UCC. Lessons were learned that couldn’t have been impressed upon me any other way.
45. The Episcopal Church. Just, all of it… but particularly the Episcopal Church in Texas, because they really have their work cut out for them and they’re not afraid of it, either.
46. Doc Morgan, my jazz instructor at HSPVA. I would not be half the woman I am today had we not met.
47. Aaron Sorkin and the legend he created out of a knife made by a Boston Silversmith named Paul Revere.
48. The 7-Eleven clerks that don’t know my name, but they know my coffee order and make sure the Brazillian Bold is fresh when I’m out of tea.
49. Tea itself. God’s gift to writers.
50. My own ability to tell my own story and my readers’ ability to respond to it, even when they don’t agree with me. This space has pulled me from the depths of despair, and your gifts have meant more to me than millions.
51. Meeting Ingrid in choir, who could possibly be funnier than I am, but you’ll never hear me say that again out loud.
52. Doctor Who, a show that explained God to me way better than I could explain God to myself.
53. Matt Damon, who inspires me to be a better writer every time I watch Good Will Hunting.
54. Great lines. In “The Unlikely Pilgrimage of Harold Fry,” the author talks about Harold seeing his mother’s dresses strewn about his house after his mother has left him like “empty mothers.” “Empty mothers” has stayed with me as a sentence so great I could only hope to write one that good.
55. My room. My space of refuge that rises to greet me each morning.
56. The Oprah Winfrey Show, which I watched from the time I was 9 until the very last episode. It has ended, but lines in my head from it have not.
57. Craig Ferguson, who is always fearless and hilarious.
58. Getting to see the trailer for the new Star Wars movie in IMAX, because I didn’t watch it online and nearly came UNGLUED in the theater with joy.
59. All of the movies I’ve seen this year that have given me joy, particularly Annie (2014).
60. The Smithsonian Empire. I love it all. I could explore it until the day I die and not see everything.
61. My friend Judy, without whom I would see the world differently. Our long lunches have made such a big difference in my life here.
62. Taking off the mask and getting vulnerable about my disorder. It has helped to a tremendous degree, and I am grateful to myself for allowing grace to happen when I let people in instead of suffering in silence.
63. Losing the ever-present need to think about my teenage years because the puzzle is solved.
64. Getting divorced, because while I am not grateful for it, I am grateful for the self-development in which it created room.
65. Losing toxic relationships, even when I realized that I was the toxic one.
66. Having every relationship, bad or good, teach me something.
67. Soda. Grateful for every bubbly sip.
68. My glasses. When Anh, my optometrist, suggested wearing glasses with prisms, my world opened further.
69. I’ve mentioned music, but J.S. Bach in particular because he sets my brain on fire, as does Jason Moran (Currently listening to Study No. 6 from “Ten.”).
70. Having attended HSPVA and getting to know people who’ve gone on to great things professionally, and getting to say “I knew them when…..”
71. My first love, singing.
72. My second love, Ryan.
73. My third love, Meagan. She goes by Meag now. Can’t get used to it. It’s only been 20 years.
74. Having had the experience of working in restaurants, both front of house and back of house. It changes you for the better. Really.
75. The craftmanship that goes into a really great coffee/tea mug.
76. My front porch, where I do my best work when it’s not freezing cold or raining.
77. Advil, Zyrtec, and Sudafed.
78. Real Kleenex, with the aloe and everything.
79. Good memories of my entire life that float by, both in wakefulness and dreams.
80. Nadia Bolz-Weber and Jay Bakker, without whom I never would have thought there’d really be a place for me in ministry.
81. Regular Show, which can instantly change my mood from a bad to a good one (Really Real Wrestling! Really Real Wrestling!).
82. People who follow my Facebook feed as “The Hot List.”
83. People who are unimpressed with me. That’s how I know they love me, anyway.
84. Getting two tweets directed at me from Diana Gabaldon, and gaining Ben Vereen as a follower (no, I don’t know how).
85. People-watching all around DC. It never fails to impress me.
86. The Wounded Warrior Project, for which I now have a sticker on my laptop.
87. Americans who actually care what happens to veterans the day they come home.
88. Being able to preach from this web site. It’s different than getting up in front of a congregation, but not by much. The congregation on this web site is much bigger than any I’ve had in person.
89. Not having to preach every week…………. yet.
90. Learning to take care of myself without input from anyone else. I’m better at it than I thought I was.
91. People who know the distinction between listening and offering advice.
92. Getting to know my stepsister before she died, and having those memories of her with me still.
93. The ability to recognize what a good relationship entails, and healthy patterns emerging from my own brokenness and humanity.
94. My soccer fandom, and my scarf collection. It has brought me so much joy over the years. Before the Houston Dynamo was even a thing, I was a DC United fan. Raul Diaz-Arce was my first love, sports-wise.
95. Sportsmen that stand up for what they believe. I have Chris Kluwe’s Vikings jersey, and when people don’t recognize him, they ask me what position he plays. I always say, “blogger.”
96. People who came out publicly in the ’90s. It helped.
97. Pastors who stand up for gay rights, because YES! THE GOSPEL IS MEANT FOR GAY PEOPLE, TOO!
98. Every time someone has ever said, “I forgive you.”
99. Every time I’ve been vulnerable enough to say simply, “I’m sorry.”
100. You.

This morning I can’t get her off my mind. It started with thinking of her as I put a pen on the collar of my t-shirt, because without one, she feels naked. Now I have about an hour before I have to be at choir, and every good memory I’ve ever had with her is flooding my brain like dopamine on fire. It’s better than drugs. I knew I would come to this point in my grief, the one where good memories outweigh the bad. But it’s taken such a long time. There are so many bad things I had to work through that Sarah is recommending group therapy for it, those that have gone through domestic violence on both sides of the equation. There was no winner in that fight, only sadness and an aching hole in me that won’t go away, no matter how hard I try. When I wrote the entry in that link, I was more angry than I had ever been in my life, and while I can’t (and won’t) take anything back, I do have regrets. Just not about telling the story. I have a snapshot of how angry I was in the moment, and how betrayed I felt that Argo and Dana were, in some ways, making me out to be a lot crazier than I was. It got bad, but not bad enough to move across the country for someone I didn’t know, and someone who didn’t want to have anything to do with me at the time. Not moving to NoVA was just letting Argo scare me away from all of my familiar.

I cried all the way to the airport, holding tears back until I couldn’t. It made me feel safe that even though I was going to a place where I knew no one (Silver Spring, specifically- lots of friends in DC), it was still in the area I loved, my Paris. I cried because in a lot of ways, I felt like I was abandoning Dana and couldn’t be friends with her all at the same time. Once I got into therapy, I realized that I hadn’t abandoned her at all. She had a job she loved where she made friends quickly, and she was on her own path away from me, and that’s how it needed to be. We really did need to find out who we were on our own, and I hadn’t found what I needed in Houston- she had.

As I have said before, getting into therapy and getting Medicaid while I didn’t have a job (that may change by Monday or Tuesday) helped me realize that I was not running away from anything. I was running back. I never should have left Alexandria in the first place. I still miss 803 N. Van Dorn, but at the same time, Montgomery County had more resources to help mental patients like me and it is a miracle how far I’ve progressed with them.

In fact, Samantha has said that she thinks I was sent to them for a reason. It’s true. I have found an adopted family I adore, and I think Samantha and I have something special between us. That women friendship where we both get to be giants together. The model I needed before I met Argo and didn’t get.

Even Dana, my best friend of three years and some change, didn’t come without those romantic feelings. For her, it took six weeks. For me, it took all those years to see that what I wanted in a great marriage had been standing in front of me the whole time. Yes, it got bad… and it got dangerous… but that’s not all there is to the story. To everyone, even us, we were the perfect couple, even behind closed doors until we moved to Houston and Dana betrayed me within the first week. I will not and cannot say why, but it was BIG and we broke up immediately at my request. I do not know why I didn’t make it stick- probably because I thought we could get back to where we left off, but we never did. The emotional swings started getting bigger and bigger until neither of us could handle the other. But in my heart of hearts, there will never be another Dana and I’m not even going to try.

I have lots of friends in AA, and what they tell you when you first get to rehab, the professionals tell you no relationships for at least two years. I want to try and stick to that as well. There is no way that I can recover from so many years of a perfect marriage right up until it wasn’t overnight, and I refuse.

It’s been almost a year now, and I haven’t felt romantic feelings for anyone but myself. I know it sounds crazy, but I have to fall in love with myself before I can fall in love with anyone else. It has to be real. Deep and abiding. Otherwise, I will throw away my worth and become the Lanagan Search & Rescue system for which I am emotionally famous.

It’s coming along nicely, actually. I know my highs and my lows, and I love me, anyway. I try to be kind and considerate with my heart, considering how much I’ve lost. When the mood swings between Dana and me spiraled out of control, I felt thrown away, even though I was the one that ultimately called it. I just thought that Dana would see that I made that decision while I was on the floor after she hit me, and it wasn’t how I really felt about her. I popped off in anger, thinking there was redemption down the road.

The truth is that I would give a limb to have her right here, my face buried in her neck with apology, even if it was only in a buddy kind of way. But I know myself. I fall in love quickly and easily. Until we are healthy enough for each other, it would be the worst move ever.

I chose DC because I knew our paths would be perpendicular that way. Her parents are out in NoVA somewhere, the only thing I know about where they live is that it’s the closest Waffle House, and not close enough to reach by Metro. But still. Close enough.

But we aren’t, and it’s hard to live with every day. I used to call her my “Nayna.” Before we were married, I called her Bana Damberger. She called me Leslie Lanagan, and it took me far longer than it should have to realize that she was reversing the letters, too, they’re just the same (jackass).

Now I have to walk to choir, and all I hear in my ear is her whisper of “sing pretty,” what her dad used to say to her mom every Sunday as well.

Don’t worry, Nayna. I will.

I’m sitting in a Silver Spring Starbucks, waiting for Rev. Susannah to get here, but not really. I needed some time to decompress after my job interview, so I got here early to eat lunch and blog… because of course I did. I think in longhand.

The person who interviewed me was kind and funny, as was I. 🙂 We got along well, and he said that there were a few different positions open, and he was sure they would find a place for me whether it was DBA or not. He asked me a few technical questions, like whether I knew SELECTS and JOINS and all that, and I gave him examples of each. For those not in the know, it’s how to use text to manipulate databases instead of using a graphical interface like Microsoft Access. I’ve said this before, but am saying it again for those who are just joining us (hi!).

We also talked about social media presence and how I felt about jumping on a plane to go and meet a customer face to face. I didn’t have a problem with either, and in fact, would enjoy it very much. I love doing stuff like that, because it’s not personal. I can be in front of customers/a crowd easily because they don’t want to know about my feelings. The interactions are orange juice glass-level deep and are supposed to stay that way (although I do tend to have a jackass magnet on my forehead where people tend to go deep with me whether I want them to or not. It’s awkward at best.).

It’s nice to know that I have someone so interested in hiring me, and I should know by next Monday or Tuesday if I have a job. It’s a salaried position, but there are plenty of opportunities for bonuses when things go well.

Things are going well. I feel so much better in this life, this thing I have created where I’ve been able to focus on myself and no one else. It paid off to be selfish for a while and isolate in order to lick my wounds and get over the massive trauma that the last couple of years have dealt. I feel stronger than I ever have, because I have come into the fullness of myself. I am so much more than the credit I’ve been able to give myself in the past. I’m still bipolar, so it’s not like I’m not going to have ups and downs, but they are less extreme and highly manageable now. Having drugs on board (Neurontin & Klonopin) that are specifically designed to take away the physical responses to anger have slowed me down long enough to really make me think before I react. It’s a lot harder to rattle me, and therefore, a lot harder to say things to me that will end up with me spiraling out…. which I hope never happens again. Once was enough to last my whole life.

I am trying to create the Zen-like countenance that comes with age and experience. I have enough behind me to prepare for the future without being so afraid of everything and trying to cover it up. It’s okay to say, “I’m afraid.” It’s okay to say, “I’m angry,” as long as it doesn’t come with a rash of words behind it that are just designed to hurt. That’s the part that comes with not being vulnerable. That’s the cover up. It’s important to know the difference between those two different versions of myself, the one I want to throw away and the one I want to keep. I do not want to live my whole life as a person who hides from their emotions in order to keep people at a distance, most often by keeping them from wanting to interact with me in the first place. It worked so well with Argo that I spend a lot of time regretting the things I’ve said in the past and trying to reach peace within myself so I can stop feeling like such a douchebag.

I have received the blessing of her forgiveness, but it’s not about that anymore. It’s about not being that person in the first place. The person who reacts instead of responds. Reaction is the first thing that comes to your mind, and not the reasoned, well-conceived idea you have that comes up after some thought.

It’s something that helps at work, too. What would happen if we all took a breath before responding to that e-mail? You know, the one you get where your eyebrows go over your forehead? Facebook is full of reaction instead of response. We destroy each other over stupid shit when it just isn’t necessary. Even I am guilty of it. I’m just trying to stop because I see the problem.

Some people never do.

Occasionally I watch a children’s show built on two levels so that I enjoy it very much. It’s on PBS, and it’s called WordGirl. Her superpower is that she can define any word, and she is an alien from a planet called “Lexicon.” Her parents found her (not sure at what age) and she lives a double life as “Becky Botsford,” and for some inane reason, when she “Words Up” (code for putting on her super suit) her parents still interact with her, but they do not recognize her, even though her face looks exactly the same. I think it’s a throwback joke to Lois Lane, who for some reason never recognized Superman when he took off his glasses.

Dana (my ex-partner [we broke up in February]) and I both love the show, but the funniest story is that while we were watching, I was high as a kite on some kind of medication and she was talking about WordGirl’s superpower and I said, “Dana, she can fuckin’ fly…………” She can also pick up any object, no matter how heavy it is, and hurl it without breaking a sweat.

In between episodes, there’s a game show called “May I Have a Word,” hosted by a guy named “Beau Handsome.” It’s hilarious as well, and Chris Parnell as the narrator sometimes makes me laugh so hard my drinks come out of my nose (as of this writing, I am drinking Cheerwine). I feel like this show is just built for writers, because it is so smart. If you’re a writer, I’m going to bet you’ll love it as well. My favorite character is Chuck the Evil Sandwich-Making Guy, a whiny New York Jew with a sandwich for a head voiced by Fred Stoller. I don’t think he’s the best villain, but I do think he’s the funniest character. If you get a chance, check out the episode called “Chuck E Sneeze.” It’s so funny I don’t even want to reveal the plot.

Anyway, I think my superpower is close to WordGirl’s, just in the world of geekery. I have done many different things computer-wise, so I have a very well-rounded education when it comes to using them. I have an interview with the company I mentioned in my last entry, and it’s for a beginning database analyst position. I thought I would be interviewing for a customer service job, but I would give anything not to have to say, “may I help you,” so perhaps this is a good thing. I’ve done DBA before, so I know how to read and write SQL (structured query language, pronounced “sequel” for those not in the know). It basically involves designing ways to store data by relating tables. If you’ve ever used Microsoft Access, you know what I’m talking about. You know, like having customer data in one database and being able to match it up with what they bought in another. SQL is just a way to do this with a text editor instead of dragging and dropping relationships, for which Access is famous.

If I get the job, I’ll have a lot of built-in reading time, because I’m fairly far out on the red line and the job is on the orange, changing trains at Metro Center. I’m always in the middle of at least six books, so this seems attractive.

It’s been a few hours since I started this entry- I had to take a break from writing to go to therapy. My homework for this week is “planning pleasant activities.” I thought it was a really funny title for an assignment, but I already have plenty. Tomorrow I’m having coffee with Rev. Susannah to talk about the youth group after my job interview, and then choir practice that night. It’s going to be a very busy day, and today was fairly occupied as well. I went to the church and practiced all my choir music… although I’m not sure it did much good. There was no metronome, and I am not that great with rhythms, especially without the constant ticking. To tell the absolute truth, I stopped at the church because I had to go to the bathroom, and in order to get in, I told the office I was there to practice. Peeing and singing. Two great things that go great together… or not.

I also walked to and from therapy, which made me feel amazing because it had to have been two miles altogether. When my endorphins are up, it abates the depression quickly. I’ll have to remember that. I do, and then get in the habit of walking, and then like all habits, I forget them after a couple of weeks. Today reminded me how important getting exercise is for a mental patient, because the body/mind connection is no joke. I am proud of myself, because it’s been cold lately and I was dressed for it… and then found out after I left the house that it was 78 degrees and walked anyway. I  figured it was more of a workout that way.

Speaking of pleasant things, I am invited for coffee tonight with friends, but I just can’t do it. I’m already tired and I need to be in bed early to get to the Metro on time for my DBA Analyst job interview.

Nerrrrrrrrrrrd UP!

What a great pleasure it was to wake up to this e-mail today. I haven’t had a bigger smile in weeks. It’s cool he thought I was male; there’s no picture associated in your MWEJobs profile and I don’t care what gender people think I am, anyway. He can think I’m a purple people eater if that’s what gets me the job. What surprised me the most was how thoughtful and personalized this e-mail was. Not a recruiter, not a form letter. Impressive…. Touching, even. I’ve gotten so many spam form letters on Monster.com that I really didn’t expect anything like this, even with a government web site.

I’m not usually speechless, but I’ve stared at this e-mail for the past ten minutes without saying anything.

Dear Mr. Lanagan,

I noticed your resume in the MWEJobs database. You appear to be a very versatile and articulate person with strong computer skills. We are a 20+ person Landover-based company that owns, licenses and supports an enterprise software application. We work with uber-large databases with billions of transactions. We have software developers, database administrators, and IT/Support people and we have a few openings.

I notice you seem to prefer Linux operating systems and open source software. In our case we’re primarily a Microsoft shop; not so much by preference but because of the types of clients we support.

What type of position are you looking for? Perhaps there may be a fit for you. Let me know.

Regards,

Name Redacted
Company Redacted

When I was in high school, I wanted to be in the Air Force. I had no idea what being a soldier would entail, but a jazz band called “The Airmen of Note” came to HSPVA and blew my mind. I think the words “hot damn” came out of my mouth more than once, especially when the trumpet players were up in the stratosphere. I talked to a recruiter for about an hour on the phone, explaining my medical condition (monocular vision), and the hour ended abruptly. They wouldn’t take me, and I was never going to be an Airman of Note unless Jesus came down and spat on my eyes. I remember the conversation like it was yesterday, because I had a million questions before they got to the part about how I wasn’t fit for duty.

As I said, I had no idea what being a soldier entailed, and I wanted to find out before I signed on the dotted line. The gist is that it would take a long time to work up to being in the jazz band, because I’d have to become a soldier, first.

I was maybe 15 at the time, and of course, at  15, you think you’re going to live forever and you can do anything under the right circumstances. I didn’t have a problem with scary or violent. It just came with the territory.

Many of my classmates went on to join the military, and as they rose in rank, they became something that I wished I could be, but wasn’t. They became guardians and gladiators in the same breath. The ones willing to rush toward danger when I couldn’t, willing to put themselves in harm’s way just to keep me safe, and I never forget that fact.

They get to see a chessboard that most Americans aren’t even aware we’re on, much less able to see the pieces move. Russian bishops and Iranian rooks and African queens and on and on and on and on. As we go through the drive through at Starbucks, as we watch our iPhones for every piece of e-mail and Facebook notification, as we go to church and work and school, they’re out there… and out there is as nebulous a place to me as it is to many others.

It is in these moments I have nowhere to go but gratitude. When it didn’t happen all that often, I’d see a soldier in uniform at the airport and my eyes would water with tears. I would struggle to hold them back as I went up to them and said, “thank you for your service,” or “thank you for your sacrifice.” Now that I’m in DC, I see uniformed soldiers all the time, and the tears have dried up but the gratitude has gotten deeper. There have been times where I’ve walked up and down the Metro stop, shaking each soldier’s hand.

There’s been one time I’ve completely lost my shit in public, though. Just snot and tears running down my face and I COULD NOT EVEN. It was the military float in the DC pride parade, one soldier from each branch and all the flags. I couldn’t talk, I couldn’t move. I was just thinking about what it must have been like before.

Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell was a crock of shit as witch hunts continued to take fine men and women from the careers they deserved, sometimes even when they weren’t gay to begin with. Back then, and I know this because a soldier told me, a straight guy was caught in a gay bar hanging out with friends and “gay by association” was close enough for government work.

We’ve come such a long way since that phone call when I was 15. They didn’t ask, and I didn’t tell. However, I do not have to wonder what my life would have been like had my eyes not kept me out of my precious jazz band. My friends have filled me in more than once, a painful education no matter who was talking.

Being a soldier is tough shit, straight or gay. I’ve heard stories that curled my hair, straightened it, and curled it again. You don’t come away from stories like that without being changed, hopefully for the better because it moves one to act instead of just shaking hands.

When I was younger, I had a soldier friend in need and called in reinforcements to give him Christmas. I could have just shaken his hand, but I knew too much. Service and sacrifice were daily words with a depth of meaning that we, as mere mortals, could never understand.

I don’t always agree with the Commander in Chief, and you don’t have to, either. But my take on it is that boots on the ground deserve all we can give them, because we’re not talking about The Powers That Be.™ We’re talking about people who sign on the dotted line as boys and become men on the job. We’re talking about women who, despite all odds, have overcome incredible obstacles just to be thought of as equal.

I hear their stories, and sometimes I cry. You have to let pain out somehow, and as salty, bitter water drips down my cheeks the only thing I want is to be able to take that pain away, not for me, but for them. You just come to a point of helplessness because there’s nothing you can say that will do it.

Except, perhaps, to listen…. and at the end, say simply, “thank you.”

I found this sermon in my Google Docs folder, and wanted to put it here for safe keeping.

(singing in Gregorian-style chant)

The law of the LORD is perfect
and revives the soul;
the testimony of the LORD is sure
and gives wisdom to the innocent.

In ages past, Psalms were sung rather than spoken. This is because elders in all religions discovered that if they gave their congregations melodies to put with them, it was easier to remember. The practice is not limited to the Abrahamic religions, however. Surviving from the 3rd century BC is a collection of six Hellenistic hymns written by the Alexandrian poet, Callimachus. It is an astounding discovery in the modern era that these ideas, the ones that occurred organically in those days, are now at the forefront in the healing arts.

Doctors are unsure of the complete explanation as to why, but over the years, several theories have been examined. Dr. Paul Broca, whose research was publicized in the 1880’s, is most famous for his discovery of the speech production center of the brain, now called “Broca’s area.” He arrived at this discovery by studying the brains of aphasic patients- persons with speech and language disorders resulting from brain injury. He was most focused on a small area in the frontal lobe, which he discovered aided in the sequencing and rhythm of words. Another part of the cerebral cortex, Wernicke’s area, discovered by Dr. Karl Wernicke, is responsible for creating pathways to understanding the meaning of words.

This is all technical information that boils down to a simple idea. Music literally makes the two areas of the brain work together, forming deeper neurological pathways. Religious leaders learned that before science. People remember music because they are, quite literally, wired that way. Music therapists have long discovered that if either area of the brain is damaged, the other one will compensate, creating new neural pathways to restore the brain to normal… and sometimes, the easiest way to jump start that process is by singing.

Think about it. How many of you could recite the words to your favorite song, completely out of context? Yet when you’re driving in your car, listening to Journey, all of the sudden you know every word to Don’t Stop Believin’?

Or when you’re walking along, and the soundtrack to your life starts playing in your brain. All of the sudden, you can remember every word to Twisted Whistle’s cover of Gin & Juice. [Note: The lead singer of Twisted Whistle was in the congregation that day and I sang her version in this small bit.] If you’re like me, you’ll forget where you are and all of the sudden, with so much drama in the LBC, it’s kinda hard bein’ Snoop D Oh-h Double G. Somehow-w some way… It’s the same for Snoop Dogg’s version. Rap gets under your skin not because of the melody, but because of the rhythm and sequence of words.

Bet you never thought you’d hear Snoop Dogg quoted in a sermon.

You’re welcome.

No one is a better example of the strides in this research than Gabrielle Giffords, an Arizona congresswoman. After a major gunshot wound, she traveled to my hometown of Houston, where one of the most advanced clinics of neurological rehabilitation resides.

From the time she was wounded until the time she could speak full sentences was about nine months. One of the reasons she made such incredible progress was due to the use of music in her therapy. She couldn’t recite the words to songs like “Happy Birthday,” but because she was familiar with the rhythm and sequence of the music, when she started to sing, the words came to her easily.

It is at this point we are ready to study the letter of James. He writes:

Are any among you suffering? They should pray. Are any cheerful? They should sing songs of praise. Are any among you sick? They should call for the elders of the church and have them pray over them, anointing them with oil in the name of the Lord. The prayer of faith will save the sick, and the Lord will raise them up.

In order to research this sermon more fully, I turned to the Biblical criticism of theologian William Barclay:

Here we have set out before us dominant characteristics of the early church. It was a singing church; the early Christians were always ready to burst into song. Christians speak to each other in psalms and hymns and spirituals; singing with thankfulness in their hearts to God.

James, meet Paul Broca. Paul Broca, meet James.

SINGING ALLOWS THE BRAIN TO CREATE DEEPER NEURAL NETWORKS, WHICH LEADS TO A DEEPER UNDERSTANDING OF THE MATERIAL.

Singing to God is literally understanding God.

This higher consciousness, this reaching for the divine, is a gift that only humans have. Apes may have a special fondness for God in their hearts, but they will never sing about it. That’s because Broca’s area is nowhere to be found in their brains. This ability for sequence and rhythm supporting comprehension is only found in us.

When you think about it that way, it just becomes more and more apparent how great a blessing music is to the life of a church. And while music is gaining more and more ground in physical rehab, it has long been a voice in the emotional healing of a family, a community, a plantation:

If you get there before I do
Coming for to carry me home
Tell all my friends I’m coming too
Coming for to carry me home

Easy to remember codified instructions set to music. If you get to the plantation before me, and can only take some of the slaves, tell everyone else that I’m coming for them. In short, be ready. You never know when I’m going to show up, and when I do, your bags have to be packed.

Your sandals have to be on your feet. And there is no turning back.

Be. Ready. At. All. Times.

Harriet Tubman led over 70 slaves to freedom with Paul Broca’s help. She may never have read a single word of his research, but she understood the content. Put a melody to the words and people are more likely to remember it, critical because nowhere was it safe to write them down.

So what’s the take-home message here? What does this have to do with modern day life in Portland, Oregon?

(singing in Gregorian-style chant)

God can break into our lives at any moment;
Always be ready for a miracle.
If you are in pain, in body or mind,
Call upon me in song.

Amen.

The intro to the sermon was taken from that day’s Psalm. The outro was written by me.

On Sunday, I volunteered with the youth group for the first time. I’d met Rev. Susannah at worship that morning (yes, I made it, thanks for asking) and told her I’d be there that night.

It was amazing how self-conscious I was about the way I was dressed. I wore my “Jesus Loves You” t-shirt as a joke, not realizing they wouldn’t get it (too young to have seen “Say Anything”), and I was wearing sneakers, but about half the kids were wearing Chuck Taylors and I thought to myself, “DAMNIT! I knew I should have worn my Chucks.” I wanted to fit in, not because I was trying to recapture my youth, but because I wanted to be relatable to the kids. I was shy and awkward until I realized I was one of the adults in the room… but that came into play later, when I was in charge of the high-schoolers.

At 5:30, we all ate tacos together, and then broke up into small groups so that we could put things we wanted to go into the covenant for the CCC youth group as a whole. I went up to the Rev. and asked her which group she’d like me to take, and she said, “you can either take the senior high or the junior high girls.” Since I’d been a high school Sunday School teacher before, I chose them. They’re kind of my favorite, because even though I’m good with any age, I haven’t forgotten what it was like to be in high school myself. It’s also a little bit easier for me to relate to people who are on the cusp of adulthood. I make jokes they might actually get… except for my “Jesus Loves You” shirt, apparently. Plus, junior high was so large that they divided up into boys and girls, while senior high was small, so it was coed.

The covenant is basically the set of rules we agree to live by in youth group, and we all had to come up with ideas that would then be taken all together and compiled into one list. My kids were great, but I was also proud of myself. I kept them from wandering too far with the conversation, saying “come on guys, focus” when I needed to and offered helpful suggestions, like, “have we covered drugs and alcohol? Have we covered cell phones?” Later on, I heard one of the parents say to Rev. Susannah that she loved how the senior high had come up with a framework, and I smiled to myself.

I’d known I’d be a good youth director, and getting to work with the senior high and hearing that feedback reinforced my belief. I also knew that I’d made the right move by volunteering, because even though I’m not getting paid, I am still earning street cred, and at this point, that’s worth more than money. Rev. Susannah is also her own blessing. I love that when I told her that I wanted to spend some time with her, actually get to know her, that she agreed. We’re going to go for coffee soon, and I can’t wait.

It is right now that I am learning the things I need to be able to fly solo, and I couldn’t have chosen a better group of kids with which to spend that time. One of these days, I’ll have my own youth group, and my own covenant with them. Right now it is enough for me to help Rev. Susannah create the group she wants to lead. Right now it is enough to ask, “what do you want me to do?” Learning how I can best serve now is learning how I can best lead later.

But next week, I am totally wearing my Chucks.

Following the social upheaval of World War II, many people in the United States felt a fervent desire to “restore the prewar social order and hold off the forces of change,” according to historian Barry Adam.

Spurred by the national emphasis on anti-communism, Senator Joseph McCarthy conducted hearings searching for communists in the U.S. government, the U.S. Army, and other government-funded agencies and institutions, leading to a national paranoia.

Anarchists, communists, and other people deemed un-American and subversive were considered security risks. Homosexuals were included in this list by the U.S. State Department in 1950, on the theory that they were prone to blackmail. Under Secretary of State James E. Webb noted in a report, “It is generally believed that those who engage in overt acts of perversion lack the emotional stability of normal persons.”

Up until the night of the police raid there was never any trouble there,” she said. “The homosexuals minded their own business and never bothered a soul. There were never any fights or hollering, or anything like that. They just wanted to be left alone. I don’t know what they did inside, but that’s their business. I was never in there myself. It was just awful when the police came. It was like a swarm of hornets attacking a bunch of butterflies.

-Shirley Evans, neighbor to the Stonewall Inn

Homosexuality is, in fact, a mental illness which has reached epidemiological proportions.

-Charles Socarides, noted educator and author regarding “homosexual behavior.”

We really did it, but we were going to pay.

-bystander to Stonewall Riots

Sometimes, pride is hard. Gathering pride hurts. Gathering pride hurts because the pieces you’re trying to quilt are small and fraying. Sometimes, it seems like pride is gone. And that is when we come to you, O God. When our pride is broken, our spirits are weak, and our bodies are weighted with fatigue.

If you’ve been keeping up with me on Facebook, you know that last night at about 9:00 I posted a status update:

Why did I agree to preach Gay Pride Sunday? I don’t know anything about gay people!

Now, we all know that’s not true, but how in the world do you condense “Gay Pride” into one sermon? We’re headed for the parade as soon as church is over and this is like a three hour endeavor all by itself!

As I was telling Martina last night, preaching “Gay Pride Sunday” is kind of like being asked to do a sermon on The Bible. Are there any parameters here? Can I buy a vowel? It reminds me of the associate pastor who gets up in front of the congregation for his first sermon. It’s great! They laugh, they cry, they take up offering. Preacher is on top of the world because his first sermon is such a raging success. Monday morning, the associate preacher takes his Bible to the senior pastor and says, “that was great! Got any other books?”

Gay Pride is too big for one sermon.

I also joked with everyone that I was going to come out dressed as Boy George. I said Boy George specifically because my dad is straight as an arrow, and in the 80s, he told his MYF group (Kristan, what does it stand for?) that he had booked him.

So my dad goes on for weeks and weeks about how Boy George is going to come and visit the youth group at our church. It is at this point, ladies and gentlemen, that I began to completely fall apart laughing while I was writing this.

So, the night arrives, right? The kids are waiting. They’re out of their minds excited when BOY GEORGE starts coming down the stairs into the fellowship hall. My mother has done exquisite makeup. Flawless. My father’s face is completely powdered white. He has black liquid eyeliner perfectly drawn and dried so there are no lumps. His mascara is perfect.

My sister used to have this puffy doll face with long, long braids made out of yarn so she’d have a place to put all her barrettes, right? So, picture this.

My dad has taken the puffy doll face and laid it flat upon his head so that the yarn braids with all the multicolored plastic kiddie barrettes are falling to his shoulders. He puts on a Boy George style hat and wears one of our family quilts whose majority color is pink draped over his shoulder.

The kids are laughing so hard they can barely breathe because this is the associate pastor of the church in drag and they’ve rarely seen him in anything but a suit and tie, or in his robes during worship.

So if you’ve ever seen the movie …But I’m a Cheerleader, congregation, That. Is. My. Root.

I love that joke. I could only make it in front of a GLBT audience and have them start rolling on the floor. Thank you, thank you for feeding my ego. As a cook, I work with people younger than some pairs of my pants. It’s important to me that, on days like this, you all are here to remind me that I’m only 10 or 15 years older than your average line cook, and for me, pride is being able to tell these jokes without you reacting as if I am Methuselah. Because I’m not. Dana is.

No, seriously. All kidding aside, my dad is one of the first people to ever teach me about pride, even though he didn’t know I was gay at the time (or did he?). Pride, he taught me, is the systematic willingness to be yourself.

I think that’s worth a second look.

Pride is the systematic willingness to be yourself.

• Pride is knowing that you have to be yourself whether the law wants you to be or not.
• Pride is knowing that your mind and your heart bring something to the world that no one else ever can or ever will.
• Pride is knowing that the Gospels of Christ are meant for you in the same way that they are meant for everyone else.
• Pride is knowing that the Gospels of Christ are still meant for you even when someone else tells you they’re not.

It is interesting that today’s Epistle to the Galatians we talk about the law in just this respect. At issue in the new church is whether Gentile Christians must keep certain Jewish practices to remain Christian. It is a bit like what the Jews and Muslims of Spain experienced during the 15th century, as Muslim Spain gave way to Catholic Spain. Those who remained often “converted” to save their lives, but didn’t give up their original faith.

Paul says this isn’t right. He is a Jew, but righteousness doesn’t come by way of keeping the Law – for Jews or Gentiles. Instead, it comes by way of the faithfulness of Jesus, who lives with us and works through us. Before Christ freed us with his own covenant, there was no pride in spirituality. Spirituality was by the book. Spirituality was “27 8×10 color glossy pictures with circles and arrows and a paragraph on the back of each one explaining what each one was to be used as evidence” (If you get that reference, you’re allowed to react like I’m Methuselah, because obviously we are professional colleagues).

It is here that we can do a little bit of rabbinical exegesis, which is a cool phrase for “we’re going to study this in-depth for a second.”

There’s this new Internet video going around that I will absolutely not show you in church because it’s filthy called “Samesies.” The premise for the skit is that it’s an early tribe of people (most probably Biblical, but not necessarily) who have no idea what sex is or really, what it does. What they have noticed, however, is that when they do “samesies,” no people come out.

It is an hilarious demonstration of Talmudic law. The leader of the tribe decides that they will do “opposites” so that they can grow the tribe, which is what binds Gay Pride with our Scripture for this morning… as absolutely freaking unlikely as that sounds.

Talmudic law prohibits every kind of sex that does not try to further the life of the tribe. Any sex that does not lead to procreation is forbidden. However, with Seven BILLION people on the planet, our need to “further the tribe” is not as dire as it once was. It is a law that is no longer useful to us as a society, but I do not base my response on science alone.

Paul tells the Galatians that this upholding of these type laws isn’t right. He is a Jew, but righteousness doesn’t come by way of keeping the Law – for Jews or Gentiles.

Instead, it comes by way of the faithfulness of Jesus.

The faithfulness of Jesus?

What does that mean?

How are those two things different, the laws and the faith of Jesus?

When you were a baby queer (and I apologize if that word offends you- I am only trying to be absolutely inclusive), were there rules?

Come on. Stay with me. You know what I mean- you have worn that place on your skin; there are rules to being gay. What are they?

• You can’t be fat if you’re male
  • Magazines tell our men that they are not skinny enough, that the bodies they have are less than perfect even when the scale doesn’t lie and neither does the mirror. Everything is in the right place and nearly flawless but you believe the article that says you only need three or four hundred calories a day to function.
• You can’t be too femme if you’re female
  • Well, technically, you can be as femme as you want if you’re in a relationship. I have never seen a woman successfully pull off the blonde cheerleader look with any success while single, though, because no one will actually think you’re a lesbian in that kind of outfit.
• You can’t be poor
  • Gay culture tells us that spending money on toys, clothes, and cars is your ticket to being fabulous. Your house has to be a beautiful memory picture. You max out your credit trying to understand the rules of being up and coming, fashion forward, and whatever else the industry tells you to make raging debt look attractive.
• You can’t be sober
  • We all know it and we cannot avoid this truth. Our culture started in bars. Going to the bars was a rule of being gay.

Lucky for us, this last one is changing as gay becomes mainstream and the need for utmost secrecy has dissipated. In very few places do we literally have to look over our shoulders for gay bashers. Never let us forget, though, that when we had no place to meet, no place to be ourselves in public, bar owners took us in and gave us shelter. Very few of them were even gay. Some of them were even run by the mafia. I don’t say this to scare you, just to impress upon you how awful a situation it must have been to be gay in the ’50s and ’60s if running to the mafia was the safest choice.

Even advancing in time, there are just so many rules.

As for myself, I carried a picture of the woman I loved in my math book, and I had a very strict schedule as to how I would look at it. I think I only allowed myself 2 peeks a day, and actually felt very angry with myself if I cheated. My rules were important to me because I thought they were helping me to hide the fact that I am gay. I have always been gay and it takes hindsight to see just how ridiculous it sounds. But I had rules, and I followed them.

We give our rules away when we realize we are carrying them around for the sake of “that’s how it’s always been done” and not because they are helping us to achieve any particular goal. It’s deciding when they aren’t useful anymore and getting rid of them that’s the hard part.

As Paul writes in 2 Corinthians 5, the old is passed away, the new has come. It is a call for reconciliation so that Jews and Gentiles might live together as one body, both reconciled through Christ. Ultimately, this is a call to participate in Christ’s own faithfulness, by allowing him to live in and through us. It is also an invitation to throw out the rules, and live in the love- apart from sexuality or any other constraint that takes the focus off our humanness.

As Carolynne Hitter Brown puts it:

All work toward social justice, then, is based on the principle that Christ lives in us. As we strive for reform, we do so in a manner that loves and respects others, believing all people are called to covenant with God through God’s grace. So throw out the rules.

We’ve all heard of those churches where there’s no dancing, there’s no music, there’s no laughter… no pride. We’ve all heard of those churches where hiding your light under a bushel was the safest option at the time… even if the church itself is completely safe and it’s your own mind stirring up trouble.

When I was 12 years old, I saw someone for the first time… at my church. If you’ve ever had a romantic feeling ever in your life, you know what I mean. She was the one for whom time stood still, the only one in color in a room full of gray. She was so stunningly gorgeous that, at first, I forgot to notice that she was female. In fact, I forgot to notice she was female until I realized that I wanted my lips to touch hers… and that girls didn’t do that with other girls.

It was a trap. I knew that my lips were supposed to kiss girl lips. I also knew that since I was female, this might be considered, well, a problem. For starters, this girl was on my radar. There wasn’t a way that we wouldn’t run into each other. I had to find a way to ration out feelings, because to leak out too much was to “show.”

I didn’t want to love my girl because I thought I would “show.”

No pride that day.

When I was fourteen years old, I told a girl in my class that I liked her. She took me into a practice room in the instrumental music department and yelled at me until her voice was hoarse. Then, her friend came up to me and said that the girl I liked was now throwing up in the bathroom because I’d told her I liked her and she was straight.

No pride that day.

When I was fourteen years old, the girl I liked in the instrumental music department told everyone in my entire grade that I was gay. When the bell rang at lunch, several people with Bibles marched over to my table at lunch and started a dramatic reading of all the Scripture that would damn me to hell.

No pride that day.

When I was 18 years old, my girlfriend and I kissed in the dark, arms around each other, windows steaming… until she had to go and meet the boy her parents thought she was dating.

No pride that day.

We all have these moments. We all have these flaws and insecurities that pop up all day, every day, and we listen to them. We listen to the moments in which our minds tell us that it’s ok not to be proud of ourselves. It’s ok to treat ourselves like crap, because hey! Everybody else is doing it.

If we wait long enough, the domino reaction is that everyone’s brokenness collides. Pain meets pain and pride meets pride so that pieces of both are inextricably interrelated, scattered on the floor in no particular order… just as are we,
gentle souls, flung to the corners of the earth, complete pictures of pride and pain walking upright on solid ground. You are the complete picture of pride and pain, flung to the four corners of the earth. You are the reconciliation of the laws of the old testament and the loving Christ of the new. You are what God holds in God’s own hand and calls you perfect by name. Rejection of the law and acceptance of Christ to heal all the ills of the world.

And may we all say it together:

We’ve all got pride today.
Amen.

My sister introduced me to a web site called “Thumbtack,” where you can basically hang out your shingle and get into business quickly. Mine is computer instruction, because there are plenty of little old ladies that have no idea how to use an iPhone in my zip code. I also put that I can lock down routers, because in my neighborhood, there are an alarming amount of homes with no security at all. I’ve got a profile up, and paid the money for a background check. However, what I did not know going in is that if you get a text message regarding a job, you have to buy credits in order to be able to answer them. For instance, if someone says, “I need an admin assistant,” to reply is 3 credits. 30 credits is $35.00, but I didn’t pay it (at least not yet), because the admin assistant position has gone off on my phone four different times, all from different people, and talks about package delivery in Vermont that can be done via e-mail. I believe it is spam, because never in my lifetime have I been able to lift a 50-lb box using only the power of my typing skills.

I also never have to worry about a background check. I once worked in an airport as a line cook in a pub. If I can pass that one, I can pass any of them. As you can imagine, airports are quite strict about who can be there every day.

The other thing I’m working on is tremendously difficult, but not because it’s beyond my capabilities. It’s just methodical and time-consuming, a mountain of work for what hopefully is a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. I signed up with a web site called Udemy, which is similar to Blackboard or WebCT, and making a basic linux class. The copy for it flows naturally. The hard part is recording my desktop. The David Attenborough part comes later (is there, in fact, any nature video not narrated by David Attenborough?). “So you see the cursor in its natural habitat, about to strike the submit button…”

It’s going to be a series of at least ten videos, because I don’t just want to demo linux. I want to be able to show people that you can get an operating system and a full set of software for free dollars. It’s not just about having a linux desktop and knowing shell commands, although that’s part of it. It’s being able to tell people that you don’t have to pay exorbitant sums of money for Microsoft Office, PhotoShop, Norton AntiVirus, etc… and you especially do not have to go to Best Buy just to get software to backup DVDs and Blu-Rays.

When I walk into a software aisle, it literally makes me sick, because manufacturers are releasing products that have a pretty box and it costs money so it must be better… and in fact, the more money it costs, the better quality it must be.

I will probably create a separate course for LibreOffice all on its own, because the ways to create formulas in Calc and format paragraphs in Writer are just enough different to make an inexperienced user’s eyebrows go over their foreheads. I am surprised at the number of people who cannot wrap their brains around software just because it looks different, but has the same functionality.

But then again, I wouldn’t make any money if people actually read manuals and tried to learn software on their own. It’s just little things that surprise me, like the upgrade from Office 2003 to Office 2007. The ribbon wasn’t introduced until later, so the products looked basically identical and people were still frozen in fear.

In fact, one of the reasons that LibreOffice is so popular is that it looks a lot like Office 2007 and people who still can’t use the ribbon have a word processor again. Because I’m not mean, I’ll also tell people how to install Microsoft Office on their linux machines. This is because sometimes documents do not translate from one suite to another as easily as LibreOffice says they do… but I do not view this as a drawback because Microsoft Office documents won’t stay together formatting-wise in different versions of *itself.*

In terms of my personal preferences, if no one else has to edit the document, I print to PDF. That’s because I’m a font nerd, and I want my resume (or whatever) to look the way it did on my screen. If I don’t, it will end up as Arial and Times New Roman (most likely). I like to branch out a little, and if the font isn’t installed on the receiver’s computer, it will be replaced with something else.

Did you know that? If you didn’t, here’s a free sample of what I can teach you if you hire me.

Have SmartCard, will travel.

My sister was into Girls for a while, and when she’s into something, I generally check it out because she’s cooler than me. I binged a little bit of it when I split my tooth down the middle and had some time on my hands due to the Tylenol 3. I watched a little more last night because I went to get a new temporary crown (the first one broke, so they gave me a stronger one), and the benzocaine topical anesthetic made me a little loopy. I think they may have given me a little too much, because I was, as my family calls it, “duh-headed,” for several hours afterward… but not duh-headed enough not to realize that I’m not afraid  of much of anything except Hannah Horvath.

I am old enough now that I would not make the conversational faux pas of asking her editor’s widow if she knew the name of a new editor because her book had been shelved, but I did see myself in her egocentric world and her complete downward spiral… although, for me, it was a warning and not shared experience. Yes, I thought about killing myself, and got down far enough that I realized something must be done about it or I would succeed.

And to tell the truth, I didn’t notice. Argo did. She just put it succinctly (as she does, and I love her for it) that I needed to help myself, and it was good advice. I don’t think I would have responded as easily to people trying to hospitalize me as I did to someone just saying “figure it out.” No one would have tried to hospitalize me, because I never would have let anyone know how much I was suffering. It was something I had to do on my own, because I had to prove to myself that I was worthy of getting better.

I say that it was not a shared experience because Hannah’s mental illness manifested itself differently than mine, but it was no less traumatic watching it on TV. It was a warning to watch myself as I continue writing, because I believe that there is a correlation between telling your own story and how it affects one’s brain. You, in a sense, spend part of your day living in the memories that cause you pain and trying to turn them into something if not beautiful, at least thought-provoking.

It also hurts that when people I know accuse me of revisionist history, they’re not remembering that I’m going to have different memories than they do. OF COURSE they’re going to have different stories than me, because their stories are their own, as well. Using Diane, Dana, Argo, and Aaron as examples because I talk about them the most, if you read what they thought about me, some things would line up perfectly and some would seem like stories from a different planet. There are so many levels to communication and memory which come into play during stories.

I also think that when they hold the mirror up to my face in the same way I do with them, sometimes I don’t like what I see, either. But it’s not my story to tell. It’s theirs. They have as much emotional room as I do, and I take nothing away from it, although I have not been as gracious about it in the past as I am now. I needed to calm the fuck down, first. Because of my PTSD, I was living my life as this big ball of id, my ego and superego underdeveloped because of the trauma I experienced as a teen.

Sarah (my therapist) and Leighton (my nurse practitioner) are helping me in a way that I’ve never experienced, because I’ve never had enough money to have both kinds of therapy at the same time on a consistent basis. Medicaid is slowly and clearly saving my life, not that it is still in danger, but because I have been failing to thrive. Every day was a battle of will to put on the mask and let go of my emotional background so that I could think logically through practical things.

It has been a job all on its own to adult. My old tapes rendered me into a puddle on the floor, my mind struggling to accept that I didn’t have time to think about them, because it was indeed a skill. In dealing with trauma, it’s a fight to keep moving on.

Watching Hannah deal with her own insecurities in some ways gave me tools. In others, it gave me nightmares. I don’t want to be so insular that I don’t notice the world around me… and yet, it’s my job. If I want to keep writing, I need to notice the world to have something to write about. If I want to keep having friends and loved ones, I cannot be so wrapped up in myself that it seems like I don’t care, when in reality there are times that I take on their problems more than my own. I do care, deeply, but sometimes showing it is hard when I am driven and focused to the point that I can’t see anything around me but what’s on my computer screen, staring back at me.

My biggest fear is a blank page, and I combat it daily. I attack it with gusto, because in healing, there is no way you’re going to come to this web site and get platitudes. You’re never going to hear me say “just snap out of it.” You’re never going to hear me say, “God has a plan for your life if you’ll only tap into it.” God doesn’t have a plan for shit. Divinity is reaching up for the mystical, but I do not believe that it works the other way around. Many people think that doing good works is what gets you into heaven. No, doing good works is what brings heaven to you. I do not believe in fear-based theology, that if you stray one little bit from what the Bible tells you, it means that you are going to burn in hell.

I believe that if you stray from the things that the mystical and divine are trying to tell you, you bring hell to you. God doesn’t happen to you. God just is. What you do with it is up to you.

It works the same way for Atheists. It doesn’t take belief in God to realize that if you are making bad decisions for your life, you are creating your own hell. It doesn’t take belief in a deity to know that when you put good into the world, it comes back to you.

The bottom line is that Christianity needs to stop focusing on the afterlife, because it does not take death to go to heaven or hell. We have heaven and hell right here. Why wait? Why “store up your treasures in heaven” hoping that the next life will be fruitful when you have the ability to make this one powerful?

I hold myself to higher standards than you can possibly imagine, which is why it’s so hard to watch myself fail. For a long time, I didn’t realize why I couldn’t get it right, especially in relationship with myself. Finding out that trauma wires the brain differently helped to an enormous degree, not to have an excuse, but an explanation.

I write so much because I believe in the power of context. Nothing happens in a vacuum. Not only do I have to own my role in relationships, I am a product of my own circumstances as well. I do not see cognitive dissonance in believing both. There are things I can control, and there are things I can’t. The journey of this life, the creation of heaven and hell for myself, is realizing what those things are and how to tell the difference.

I can’t control everything, and I cannot give in to the temptation that comes with not controlling anything. When I try to control everything, life bites me. When I control nothing, life owns me instead of being able to create my own reality. Control of nothing is a central theme of abuse, as is trying to control everything, and each path is its own hell because there is no balance. No give and take.

Watching Hannah try to navigate life by focusing only on herself was watching the consequences of taking without any give, because she wasn’t attuned to it. The best she could do was mutual weirdness.

I tried to control my life in a major way this weekend, and it failed. There was no balance between preaching on this web site and being responsible for showing up at CCC. I worked on my sermon until 6:00 AM, and told myself that I could watch TV until it was time to go to church, because I can ususally do that. Because I didn’t feel good anyway (this cold is hanging on), I fell asleep and didn’t wake up in time for choir or church. I worked on this web site for St. James and let a whole bunch of people down, because we were singing something high and difficult and I could do it in a way that the other sopranos couldn’t, not because they’re not good singers, but because I am more practiced at it than they are. It takes an amazing amount of work to keep a sectional high B flat in tune, and we had it when I was there on Thursday.

I don’t know what happened on Sunday, and it weighs on me because I wasn’t there to know. I was so driven in working on me that I dropped out of being a team player. It was a secondary injury, because the primary injury was thinking I could control not sleeping until I got home from church the next day.

And in terms of my sermon, I Monday-morning quarterbacked and realized that I could have said a million different things that could have had more impact, and then I realized that the scriptures I was working on would come around again in three years, so that sermon is done. 🙂

Small comfort for a big mistake, though. I lost control of myself at a time when I really didn’t want to. Because I was so sleep-deprived, there was no amount of caffeine that helped, because I took a caffeine pill and had a cup of tea while I was watching TV and didn’t go to church, anyway.

I created my own hell when I could have created my own heaven- getting enough sleep to wake up early before church and finish my own sermon before I went to choir. I thought I was being selfless in trying to get out my sermon before Matt’s, which I always try to do so that if anyone from my church reads this web site, they know that my ideas are my own and not something I picked up and decided to use it.

In the end, though, selfless became selfish. Watching “Girls” showed me in HD the ways I was capable of it. I didn’t show up… and showing up is how both heaven and hell happen in an instant…… whether you’re trying to control it or not.

My instinct as an abused person is that the more I let them down, the less they will want or need me and I become more insular. The battle is to keep breathing, and find ways to create the balance that Hannah could not. But at least she scared me into keeping up the trying and not so much with the isolating.

It’s wrong to think of hell as a place to go when you die. Hell is isolation into your own head, because you can drive yourself crazy better than anyone else.

I saw it on TV.

I met Brian O’Leary at GLOBAL (which I think stands for Gay, Lesbian, or Bisexual Alliance; it’s been too many years for me to really retain that kind of information.) He and his partner, George, had moved from Boston after George graduated from Harvard with his MBA. He was traveling the world because at the time, he was a consultant for McKinzie & Co. While he was gone, we partied at their house, thus the picture for George to enjoy while we drank at his house without him. It is one of my fondest memories of college, because not only was I crazy in love with the girl holding the small G, I’d been chatting online with the guy holding the capital G, who’d just moved from Ohio after attending Oberlin conservatory and wanted to know more about GLOBAL before he attended his first meeting. It was love at first e-mail, since my high school girlfriend was Canadian and Giles is from Nova Scotia. He was also a vocal performance major, and that also won him accolades in the new friend department. It is interesting to note that all three of us are now living in the DC area, although Kathleen and I are still estranged.

Whether that’s good or bad, I really don’t know. But what I do know is that when Brian posted this picture on Facebook, I saw it this morning and was filled with gratitude at the reminiscence of it all.

Giles and I are both much smaller than we were in this picture. We’ve both lost a lot of weight, and now Giles looks like a model while I look like a 7th grader (except for the wrinkles around my eyes, which is the BEST part about getting glasses). Case in point: my roommate, Samantha, smokes Marlboro Lights, and I agreed to buy her a pack if she would just drive me around for a day because it was much cheaper than Uber. I got carded and the clerk nearly fell on the floor when he saw my birth date. It’s the little things in life. It really is.

But back to the party at hand. I was in a happy-go-lucky mood, and I really enjoyed hanging out with the GLOBAL crew, as well as getting to meet some of Brian and George’s other friends. Additionally, the house was gorgeous, with sumptuous chairs and what looked like a professional decorator had their way with them. Turns out, it was all Brian all the time. He did a wonderful job of making the house look modern and comfortable all at the same time. It made me jealous that even as a college student, Brian knew how to adult LIKE A BOSS. He also knew (knows) how to be a gracious host and a fine mixologist, meaning that he put everything out on the table and let us experiment.

The thing I remember most about that party is it was the time before social anxiety, one where I could just relax and start up conversations with everyone without feeling all self-conscious and like it was time to go home 15 minutes after I got there. Shortly afterward was when Kathleen and I moved, which was really the start of my downward decline into Friday and Saturday night Netflix and pajamas, or books and cookies with hot tea. Now I throw parties with me as my own guest, the kind where I only have to put on pants if I want to……. the exception being if you’re coming over to have Netflix and kettle corn or read with me in companionable silence. 😛

And, of course, if you come on Friday, it’s pizza night. That is beauty in and of itself, because I know my way around pizza. If you don’t like what I pick, we’ll order two.

Thanks to Humibid, Pseudophed, and ibuprofen, my cold has not gotten any worse… but I’m not better yet, either. To top it all off, today is the first day of my period. I just feel like crap all over. Seriously, body. Thanks for that…. although it does explain why, two days ago, I ate half a pan pizza all by myself. Then, the next day, I ate the rest of it. During PMS, it’s the only time I am truly hungry. My body just says, “EAT ALL THE THINGS.” The rest of the time, I am content with very small meals and a granola bar every now and again.

I need to go to the grocery store (still), because I am running out of things to eat AND I still don’t have any cough medicine. It’s time to up my game. When I truly have a cough, I skip right from Robitussin to Delsym, which I believe is actually the better choice. It also comes in my two favorite flavors, orange and grape. When I’m on Delsym, it really does work as well as codeine, except that sometimes codeine works better at night. We’ll see how it goes. My GP wants to see me back in two weeks, but if my cough gets any worse, I may go back earlier and get a prescription for the codeine version of cough syrup. It makes me sick to my stomach, but it’s worth it when I’m asleep and can’t feel the nausea, anyway.

Speaking of nausea, and I’ve had a lot of it over my lifetime, my favorite remedy in the world is ginger Altoids or Gosling’s ginger beer. Gosling’s is the best ginger beer on the planet, because it gets real. It’s hot and spicy, amazing straight out of the fridge as not to water it down with ice. I’ve been on Lamictal for almost ten years now, and one of the manufacturers of the generic included an ingredient that made me feel pregnant all the time. I called it the “blue diamond of death.” I also carried ginger Altoids in my bag to avoid throwing it back up, thus my nausea recommendation above. Haribo also makes an amazing lemon-ginger gummy that works just as well if you can find them- they’re pretty rare as children don’t like them much (they burn with the hotness).

Now that my pharmacy has a different manufacturer, I don’t get that ever-present nausea anymore, because the “blue diamond of death” has been replaced by a white, round pill with no side effects at all. I am a simple woman. It doesn’t take much to impress me, but this certainly did. It improved my quality of life by quite a bit.

As of right now, I am sitting in bed with my iPad and Bluetooth keyboard, with a roll of toilet paper (I don’t have any Kleenex, either.) and a trash bag next to my bed so I don’t have wads of toilet paper all over my room. Yesterday, I was in full-on nesting mode, what Dana and I used to call “lose the egg” day. My room is spotless except for the full laundry baskets filled with clothes I need to wash and put away. In order to motivate myself, I am listening to a channel I created on Spotify called “The Real Slim Lady.” It’s everything that Eminem has ever put out.

Don’t judge me. The Slim Shady albums (both I and II) are AMAZING. “Headlights” on SSII brings me to tears every time, especially if you’ve seen “8 Mile.” I have therapy at 4:00, plus some worksheets I need to finish before then. There are certain “homework assignments” that my Medicaid requires to make sure I’m progressing in the right direction. It’s the “gangsta rap and handle it” approach this AM… although I don’ think Em is really gangsta because there’s so much pop mixed in. I may need to switch to Mike Jones later in the afternoon to make sure I’ve got it “all sewed up.” Sarah will be so glad to hear about my job interview, even though I didn’t get the job. I can’t wait to tell her all about it. Afterward, I think I will go to the liquor store and treat myself to a six-pack of Gosling’s. It makes me feel wird to go to a liquor store just to buy soda, but I haven’t found a grocery store that carries it.

The last time I went to buy it, one of the other customers asked me what it was good for. I told her there were two excellent cocktails she could make- Kraken and ginger or Old Overholt and ginger. Rye and ginger carries so much weight in my heart, because I’d never heard of it before I went to Ottawa and hung out with Meag. Apparently it is not popular in the U.S., but one of the best cocktails I have ever put in my mouth. It was another Canadian that introduced me to Old Overholt, a friend invited to “orphan Thanksgiving” at Susan & Diane’s. It has a great price point, about $17 a bottle and tastes much better (to me, anyway) than anything much more expensive… the exception that I don’t have any because I don’t drink much anymore. I’m just over it. My taste buds have changed, with the exception that I was so nervous during a date I drank more than I should’ve and suffered the consequences.

Being two years away from 40 makes hangovers not even worth it, especially since I don’t enjoy alcohol much anymore. For instance, Dom gave me a 12-pack of Tecate left over from one of his parties, and that was in June. There are still six left. It doesn’t matter- I am so up for fun and shenanigans that people think I must be drunk, anyway.

There are two things that began changing my taste buds. The first is that I do not enjoy drinking in front of people in recovery, and I have a lot of friends who have suffered with addiction.  The second thing is that I would rather make caffeine my drug of choice, because it makes the evening last longer. I remember going to clubs and karaoke with recovering friends in Portland. The first time I came home wired for sound because the bar gave free refills to designated drivers, and I must have had, like, seven Diet Cokes. The second time, the bar sold Monster.

Mission accomplished.

My favorite energy drink is Rock Star Recovery. I am sure it is supposed to be for the seriously hung over, because it has B vitamins in it. But it is delicious beyond belief. Most convenience stores carry the lemonade, but the orangeade seems to come straight from heaven. The grapeade is good, too, and so is the coconut water.

When I worked at the airport as a line cook, though, I depended on Monster 2x. These are not for the faint of heart, but work beautifully if you are on the brunch shift.

Speaking of the brunch shift, one of the funniest lines that Anthony Bourdain wrote in “Kitchen Confidential” is that he’d gotten fired from some kind of fancy restaurant, and the only job he could get was brunch cook. He wrote that “the smell of failure is Hollandaise.” At the time, I was a brunch cook as well, and I laughed so hard there were tears and snot running down my face, especially since I HATE THE SMELL OF HOLLANDAISE… although one of the best compliments I’ve ever gotten from Dana is that my Hollandaise is better than hers (she’s Cordon Bleu certified), and she was REALLY impressed that I never used a blender. I would just add the eggs and the vinegar or lemon juice and whisk like a motherfucker until I reached sabayon and began to add the butter.

Luckily, at Biddy’s we didn’t use Hollandaise, but Bearnaise. It smells so much better that I actually do like it a lot. Even though the smell of Hollandaise makes me nauseous all on my own, there was another tipping point. The dishwashing liquid we used at Biddy’s smelled strongly of lemon, and washing the egg pans at the end of our shift (Dana and I worked together at brunch) made it a hundred times worse. No, I take that back. It made it a THOUSAND times worse.

Sometimes I wish I could go back to that time in my life, because Dana and I were so good together in the kitchen. We had the dance down perfectly. Not only did we have “the dance” perfected, we also had such a strong connection to each other that we could save tons of time on tickets by being able to have entire conversations with our eyes. There was only one time that I made a true mistake. I had a migraine and thought I could handle cooking on my own, anyway. I cut Dana and she went to the bar for her shift drink. I got so sick I just wanted to curl up on the floor, but according to Oregon law, if you’ve had an alcoholic drink, you CANNOT come back into the kitchen. That was a pump up the gangsta rap and get it HANDLED moment as well.

There’s nothing like cooking in a pub when you’d literally rather be dead than feel the migraine coursing through your capillaries. I can’t remember who walked to the convenience store for me, but one of the cooks did and got me a Monster and I took some ibuprofen. I “Kept Calm and Sold the Rail,” but it was literally the worst day of my life in terms of professional cooking. You cannot imagine my relief when the kitchen closed for the night.

It makes me go to my happy place when I think of working at Biddy’s, especially since I feel so bad right now.

Kleenex me, Jeeves.