well, here I am. (caution to reader)

Life is good, full, but good. I'm trying to handle the stress better, but that's something I'm not gifted at. If the stress doesn't manifest itself in mind fog or emotions it manifests itself in my body in various ways. I'm sorry body, you're going to get old fast if I don't cut it out. :( I'm really sick of talking about how stressed and busy I am though, but it just continues to be very true. Next semester I am NOT taking 13 units, it's insane! 9 units is a full load, I should stick with that.

When's the last time I wrote something insightful on this thing? I'm thinking August. I feel like that's really out of character for my writing. And that's sad. Lately I've been thinking a lot about my writing and that I really need to pursue that more. I've had several people discuss my writing with me. A professor liked one of my papers so much that she had me make her a copy she could use in future classes. I don't know. I guess it feels really good to be noticed for something... I don't mean that to be prideful.

That's it for my rambling.... I'm debating whether I want to blog something I wrote for a class. (Not the one where the prof. wanted a copy) It's pretty much the cliffnotes of my life story. It's rather intense actually, I read it to my class because we all had to present our narratives of otherness in class. The response from the class was absolute silence when I was done. So read on if you're comfortable with that, but if not I suggest you stop here.


_Grace_

I once was lost...

I was not a very social child, but was considered to be very beautiful when I was little. Once I hit nine years old, my awkward stage seemed to take away the beauty of my childhood, at least in my eyes. I noticed how different my body looked compared to my classmates—my arms seemed to be the same size as their twiggy legs. Horrified and angry, the abuse started. I hated the person I saw in the mirror—she was bad and ugly.

I felt guilty for who I was… or wasn’t.

To make up for my perceived lack of beauty I relied on my talents to compensate. Blind to the unconditional nature of my parents’ love, I tried to earn it. My mom loves sports, so I tried desperately to be good at sports, but no amount of determination, baggy shirts, or basketball shorts could allow me to successfully pose as an athlete. My dad is intelligent, so I decided to work hard in school—that worked. I became one of the smart kids. It made me feel better that I was good at something.

Hinging your worth on the approval of others is never a good idea. Somehow the person you were gets lost.

I was a chameleon, trying to be whatever people wanted. Then I found myself not liking who I was, finally I was rejected by my friends. Something that was growing thin finally broke. That rejection seemed to prove my feelings of worthlessness. Through jr. high and high school, I felt alone and desperate for acceptance. I limited myself to labels: “smart” and “nice.” I tried so hard to live up to some image, but felt dissatisfied and wondered if anyone could like me just as I am.

Trying so hard to be someone else because who I was wasn’t acceptable.

My brother made the process of growing up more complicated. I didn’t want to be noticed, but going out with him made that impossible. He has pervasive developmental delays and when he was little he used to throw tantrums. I remember the stares. I wasn’t sympathetic, to say the least. Everything in myself that I hated, seemed to be embodied in him. He was chubby and vulnerable, he attracted negative attention and he was mentally challenged.

In spite of his challenges or rather because of them, God used him as a divine instrument to break down the walls I had built up.

My relationship with my brother has taught me how to accept myself as I embraced all of him, especially the parts that marginalize him. As we have grown older we have both grown softer. There have been many hard learning moments, mirror moments, times when something reflects who I am. I remember clearly after dinner one night, as my brother and I were cleaning up, I grew frustrated with him. After my repeated orders, he grew upset and started crying. He yelled, “You always want everything perfect, perfect, perfect! I can’t be perfect!” His words couldn’t have sunk deeper. His words seemed to even be my own heart’s words to me. I wasn’t being fair to him or myself.

The pursuit of perfection leaves little room for grace and authenticity.

The process is painful and slow, but I’m releasing my desire to fit into a certain mold and forgetting what it means to be normal. I’m learning grace and love for others and myself. The past few years have brought healing. Finally I am becoming the person I am meant to be. I’m even beginning to love the younger me who I used to hate so much.

My story isn’t meant to blame anyone. Even the lines between victim and perpetrator are blurred.
My story is about a girl, a boy, and God. It’s very long, but the ending is good.

God wove us into being,
Meet J.P., and you see me.
Meet me, and you see J.P.
He introduced me to the divine love that has chased me since birth.

I once was lost, but now I’m found.