Say

Posted on September 13 2011 by J.W. Richmond

I had something(s) to say.

But now I’m not so sure I want to say it – or them. At least not yet.

The thoughts aren’t ready – yet. (Or I’m not ready. Yet?)

Once formed and almost out there, I don’t think they are really what I meant to say. I don’t take them the way I thought them at the time.

The thoughts are unclear. It would be bad communication. I could be nice and say poor. But most of the time, it’s just bad.

What I would have said used to mean something else, even just a few days ago. But now, the connotations are different. The situations have changed.

This is my life (so) much of the time.

I don’t want to hold back (too far). But based on my experiences (etc.), I would rather wish I had said something different – or at all – that time (or twelve) – than regret the things I have.

Recur

Posted on September 10 2011 by J.W. Richmond

After only a short time, I see some small patterns forming:

“I” (hate that).

And yes, this may be some (twisted) version of therapy. But nobody else cares about that.

Am I too focused on myself?
Am I being selfish in writing all of this?
                        (In thinking all of this?)

It may not be straight across the board, but as a generalization, I’m not sure I can trust my feelings. At least not all the time. Overall, they are not a fully reliable source.

The problem is some are (too) real, and some are dead-on reliable, so I’m still trying to reconcile that.

All the questions about God? I knew those already.

I’m not funny.

Friends have told me I am. But I don’t see it. I try to be, but I don’t think I am. I mostly just laugh at how stupid I seem at times.

Am I being too honest? Does the humor only come out as a defense mechanism?  Or some kind of self-deprecation?

Or, as I suspect, I’m just not funny.

And that’s okay. (I think.)

Humor may be more of an ideal than reality.

Because it makes me (seem) fun.

But maybe that’s just what I want to be. What I wish I could be.

And maybe I’m just not.

Therapy

Posted on September 8 2011 by J.W. Richmond

I’ve tried therapy.

By force.
     and
By choice.

When forced in junior high, I couldn’t buy into it. It was so silly. I knew the approach was to get me to play stupid games so I would open up. Or smack a bat at something I wasn’t even mad at. I couldn’t help but laugh. And be pissed off that I was forced to be there. And cringe that I might be forced to go back again. I saw right through their games.

When forced in high school, I quickly figured out that nothing I said was confidential.
               Because I was a minor?
               Then what was the point?
               Why should I bother?
               Where was the trust?

When I decided to try therapy as an adult, many years later, by my choice – acknowledging my past experiences in counseling – I was ready to try.

The therapist and I were not a good fit. We were done long before that 50-minute hour was over.

Of all the psychology approaches, I cannot identify with humanism. As selfish as I can be sometimes (sometimes more than sometimes), I know and believe that life is not entirely about me.

I am a part of life – somehow. Not sure how, exactly. But I am clearly not the center.

So I tried again. Counselor #2 focused on feelings, past experiences, how my past shaped – but not defined – who I am now.

Feelings (expressing them, at least) may not be my strength. (Okay, aren’t my strength). Feelings are (mostly) fine if I don’t have to talk about them.

I feel the entire spectrum fully
                                 completely
                                 strongly.
But figuring them out – the why, where did they come from, how do I change them to move on? – I can analyze all that to death.

I worked hard to be all in with my feelings
                                                 experiences
                                                 all of it.
I tried to go there. Strived to be present. Be open. Accept whatever (hopefully constructive) criticism came my way.

My counselor said maybe therapy wasn’t a good fit for me. Maybe it wasn’t the best avenue to help me through my stuff.

I thought (knew) that too.

And I had forced myself to go through a few more sessions, to put myself out there – just in case. Because maybe I was wrong. I didn’t want to run away or avoid it, if it could help. Or avoid it because I was afraid, or because with every other counselor, I had a bad experience.

Most of what I got from those sessions was reiteration of things I already knew. Stuff I had already gone over (and over and over). Already figured out. (Mostly, at least.)

I was back to confronting issues that I had confronted before. But not getting anywhere new. Just repeating. Rehashing stuff I had already previously hashed out. (I think.)

But one thing resounds (echoes) in my head.

“Where is God?” she asked.

I always pictured Him up in heaven. Busy with other things. Just there. Doing whatever He does. Involved, but in His own (bizarre) way. Moving the chess pieces around on a giant board. On a bad day, He was up there laughing at me. Or ignoring me.

Or He was somewhere near me, just out of reach. Like He was playing keep-away and never let me get near Him. Or would tap me on the shoulder, I would turn around, and He was gone.

But then she said: If I asked Christ to be in my life, if I had chosen to follow Him, then – the Holy Spirit was in me.

<Breathe out.>    

It was like I just learned what letters were. And that those letters could form words.

Why was that such a new idea? I had never put those simple concepts together.

I didn’t look down when I prayed, even. Getting into the zone or focused or whatever. Unless I might be (too) obvious or distracting to someone else.

I looked up. As if He were up there – somewhere. Out of reach.

I still do that – sometimes. Habit. Ingrained.

But this one small (maybe huge) thing from therapy – still resonates.

And now when I look up, I’m not so sure I’m looking in the right place.

Roof

Posted on September 5 2011 by J.W. Richmond

I used to sit out on the roof at night. I would take the screen off my window and crawl through.

The sky was amazing.

There were so many stars. And I could hear the frogs croak near the lake.

I’d sit out there, listen to music – low enough that my dad wouldn’t hear it – and I would make up my own constellations
                         and think
                              dream
                              breathe.

My parents freaked when they found out. It was the third story, so there were two full ones below…

But I was nowhere near the edge.

And I wasn’t afraid of falling.

I was fearless.

What happened? When did that change?

I used to take chances.
I used to enjoy the awesomeness of the world.
I used to dream.
I used to have fun.

And now – I am an adult. I work. And think through everything – every little decision.

I’m not normally anxious. Situationally, sometimes. Not as a norm.

But when I look out our window now, the roof looks (is) steep. I see the concrete below.

Jeff would probably kill me for even thinking about getting out there.

Love.

I know. My parents did too.
Still do.

Which I appreciate.

But sometimes –

I miss that fearless part of me
                   that is muted now.

(Un)shy

Posted on September 3 2011 by J.W. Richmond

Some people have called me shy.

Of course, those people don’t actually know me.
My friends – family – know otherwise.
Sometimes they know me too well.

They understand that I don’t talk just to talk. I don’t speak just to fill the air.

But I speak up if I have something to say.

They are okay with me participating through observation. They know I am still fully engaged. And that when I have something to say, I’ll say it.

They know me.

They have seen me do stupid, crazy, silly things. They were there the times I made a totally fool of myself.

Asking a guy I liked to dance, when the song that was starting to play was dedicated to him – by someone else… I was so focused on asking that I never heard the dedication.

Saying yes to Prom when I didn’t even want to go with the guy. But I hadn’t learned how to say no, yet. I didn’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings. My friend wasn’t into her date either, so she and I said goodbye to our dates and took off together.

Walking up to Hugh Hefner when we saw him at Disneyland. I wasn’t sure what to say, even. Something about our Psychology class studying him and his personality… Didn’t matter because his bodyguard stopped me way before I got close.

Getting a friend’s car stuck – at her wedding. Having to ask her drunk brother to help get it out.

Singing a U2 song at a coffee house night. (Why my friends didn’t stop me then is still a question.)

We have had the hard
                          deep
                          intense conversations too.

Lies. Cheating. Breakups. Divorce. Custody. Dad’s stroke. Moving. Abandonment. Daughter’s stubbornness. Rape. Abortion. Molested. Suicidal. Daughter’s abuse. Crazy parents. Broke. Dad’s death. Son’s death. Mom’s murder. Drugs. Anorexia. Overeating. Infertility. Unexpected pregnancy. Single. Step-son’s tenacity. Anxiety. Depression. Incarceration. Unrequited love. Surgery. Therapy. Bad memories. Nightmares.

One side or the other, I have been there with –
                                                       for – my friends.
Through it all.

Always will be. And they know that. I think. (I hope.)

My friends challenge me
                love me
                come alongside me.

I love them. And I know them. (Mostly.) I think.
They know me – mostly.

I love each one of them for who they are.

And they don’t try to make me be someone else.

Discern

Posted on August 31 2011 by J.W. Richmond

When can you trust your feelings? When are they reliable? How do you know when a feeling means something real, even if the (available) logic may not add up to something substantial?

When is it clear that God is telling you something –
     that may not be obvious
                             defined
                             recognizable to others around you?
That there’s just something off about someone. And you can’t explain what that something is.
               vs.
You feel something that isn’t.really.real?

I don’t want to rely on feelings.
So strong.
So subjective. (Usually.)

I don’t like when life isn’t logical.
When there isn’t an explanation.
When I cannot justify how I got from point B to point C. Or what even happened to point A.

Does this feeling come from my past experiences? Times with my friends? Teachings from my parents? Bosses? Trusted advisors? A revelation of sorts from (the often-elusive) God?

Some of my friends have an intuition that leads them somewhere
                                        specific
                                        real
                                        true.
It’s tangible and other people still recognize it.

But there are situations where I cannot say something.
Or I already have.
Or I don’t stick around long enough to find out the results. The hairs on the back of my neck stick up and I’m gone. (If I can.)

But what if it’s not about me? What if I am perceiving an imperceptible danger that may be directed toward someone else?

How do I discern the source? Know what’s true?

Did He reveal this?
Did He make me feel this way?
Why is it not clear to everyone – sometimes anyone – else?

Examining myself, I don’t see transference – previous patterns, or relatable connections with other people in my memory.

And I hate this feeling. This neverending feeling.

I know what doesn’t fit in this context.
I know who doesn’t.
I think.

Is it discernment?
Intuition?
Transference?
Situational awareness?
Am I paranoid?
Crazy?

What do I do?

I pray that He will reveal His truth.
Or make this feeling (intuition/crap/whatever) go away.

And I pray that again.
And again.

Again.

Real

Posted on August 27 2011 by J.W. Richmond

Youngest. By far. So also an “only.” But not really. Something in-between.

INFP.* Dreamer.**

Different. Think (too much) first. (Sometimes.) Question. A lot. Bold. (Bold?) Bold-er. (Maybe? Maybe.)

Some might see me as noncompliant. There is a little of that. But mostly I just don’t view things the way many others do, so I don't do things the way others would.

I am not the fighter
                 argumentative
                 obstinate one in the family
        (although I have some of all of those in me).

I need people to be real
                           authentic
                           true.
There are always essences of stuff in the air that we still need to work out, still need to work through. But the truth is essential. – Hard. Crap. Sucks. Painful. – And I don’t always like it. But I need it.

And I don’t want to walk on eggshells. 

I try to have (most) conversations earlier. Before the conflict becomes conflict. Before it becomes hard(er). Might be my way of avoiding it. Might be my way of getting us all through it before it becomes big(ger).

But sometimes I can’t. Sometimes hard conversations are unavoidable.

(Dread.)

But when did the Dreamer become the spokesperson?
The one who would say it out loud?
The one who would even have the conversation?
Sometimes the only one who will.

I hate this position. I didn’t ask for this.

But I need to be here.

I need to say what none of us are saying. I need to be able to speak up. Not be mean about it, not be harsh (I hope) but I need to speak the truth.

I need to say it in the way that is the least hurtful
                                                     but truthful at the same time.

I need to be able to say what we all need to say.
                                  What we have been feeling
                                                                thinking
                                                                not saying
                                                                         for so long.

And I’m sorry for how you may feel.

But the relationship with you/him/her/them is worth more than feelings.

It means more because you mean more.

 

*Myer’s-Briggs Type Indicator (MBTI). INFP: Introversion/Intuition/Feeling/Perceptive.

**Your Unique Design: Originally Developed by Taibi Kahler; Adapted by Dr. Bob Maris and Dr. Jerry Richardson. Dreamer: imaginative, reflective, calm. Just to save you some time, bold is nowhere in the description.

If

Posted on August 24 2011 by J.W. Richmond

I got sent to my room (a lot) when I was little.

I wouldn’t eat my lasagna (yuck!), I fought with my brother – always, I would (try to) explain my point-of-view about [something] and it came across as arguing.

Alone time when I was a kid was part punishment and part refuge. Being alone really wasn’t so bad. When toys, books, and other people weren’t allowed, I found ways to entertain myself.

Every kid does.

Imagination: Every kid’s friend. A part of a child’s life that parents tend to (choose to) forget about sometimes.

The stories I made up, the crazy things I did, the pretend situations I inserted myself or someone else into…

Even just staring at the wall became interesting, because I would see colors in the blank spaces, after focusing for a long time. I’m not (entirely) crazy. They’re called phosphenes.*

And I would question life and everything when I was (or felt) alone.

What if life is just a dream?
If life is a dream, whose dream is it?
What happens when they wake up? Or I wake up?
                          Or they die?
              Do I disappear? Do I not exist? Would I die?
              What would happen to my family?
              Would we (I) start over?
Am I even really here?

I remember asking those questions – and following their trails – when I was 7, looking out the window of the car as we moved to Southern California from Oregon.

Moving didn’t feel entirely real. And I didn’t want it to be real.

This was before U2 said it: “You're kept awake dreaming someone else’s dream.”** This was way before Inception.***

Sometimes life doesn’t feel entirely real.

When someone dies. When someone gets diagnosed with [      ]. When your experience of something exceeds your expectations – good or bad. When you see someone hurting right in front of you and you are powerless to stop it.

Sometimes I would love to be able to insert myself into another life, or insert someone else’s into mine, or pick my life up and place it in a different setting or a different time.

Maybe those questions were my 7-year-old way of escaping my life (and the move).

But this was – is – my life.

I can’t wake up from it. I can’t have a do-over. I can’t hit the Backspace key.

I couldn’t when I was 7. I can’t now.

As unreal (or too real) as it feels at times, it’s my life.
And I am not a character in someone else’s dream.

 

*One definition: Experienced by “people who go for long periods without visual stimulation.”

**“Electrical Storm,” – U2

***Inception ©2010 – [Tangent: I thought Inception was terrible. It started off with what could have been an interesting premise, but then it disintegrated, turned into an action movie and forgot its own plot for a while. Couldn’t decide whether it was supposed to be a suspense thriller or action or something undefined. If it couldn’t decide what it was, how was I supposed to? It changed focus – I checked out.]

Girl

Posted on August 22 2011 by J.W. Richmond

“Yes, I would love some chocolate.”
“A pedicure sounds fabulous.”
“I’m an autumn.”
“My favorite color is pink.”

Sometimes I’m not sure I make a very good girl. Not emphasis on good (although there’s truth in that too) but emphasis on girl.

Those phrases don’t come out of my mouth. They don’t even enter my head – except in the context of what I wouldn’t say.

I don’t talk about make-up. I don’t even know what most of it’s for and I would have no idea how to use it.

My pockets tend to be full because I don’t carry a purse.

When my friends talk about the different chemicals and processes they do to their hair, I can pick out a few phrases here and there that I recognize, but things beyond the basics of shampoo, conditioner, a brush, and a box of hair dye (in a fun color) don’t really enter my vocabulary.

I hate shopping. Clothes shopping, especially. (Get me out of here!)

Shoes are not my thing. I pretty much switch between two pairs of flip-flops and two pairs of tennis shoes. I have a nice-ish pair of shoes that can go with dresses (ugh) when I absolutely have to wear them – like at a wedding. And I can barely walk in heels. I can barely walk straight in normal shoes.

I’m not into jewelry. I didn’t even want a diamond in my wedding ring. Jeff insisted. So we compromised and I got the (almost) smallest one we could find.

I hate gossip.

I don’t grab my friends to go with me when I head toward the restroom.

But I do love some good girl time. Emphasis on girl.

A cup of coffee at The Grind with a friend.
A walk with my mom.
A phone chat with my sister.
An all-girl lunch at work.
A two-minute conversation with one of our nieces.

Those moments aren’t superfluous
                              superficial
                              extraneous.

They matter.
And the girly part of me needs them.

Edit

Posted on August 20 2011 by J.W. Richmond

I wish I could edit stuff
                        things
         (so many) experiences
                                    out of my life.

Remove them and put the scenes back together like they never happened. Seamlessly.
Nothing would end up on the cutting room floor, because it wouldn’t even exist.

Take this thing I said and erase it.
Insert this <other thing I meant to say> and move on.

Remove – entirely – this completely stupid thing I wish I had never done.

And not have to deal with the consequences.
Not have to say I’m sorry.
Not pretend it never happened.
Not try to forget about it.
Just remove it.

Remove all of the its.

But I don’t work that way.

Dealing with some of the decisions I have made is messy. Consequences keep filtering through a sieve, and every time I think it may finally be over, another drip finds its way through.

I can say I’m sorry over and over, and mean it every time. But I still can’t fix it. I can’t go back and change it.

And I can’t (won't) just pretend. Everything always reappears somehow. In some way. Comes back – again – until I acknowledge it and work through it. I don’t need a psychology degree to figure that out.

I can’t just choose to forget. Because everything always reappears…

And it baffles me that the God who knows everything – every little (horrible, unimaginable, ugly, thoughtless) thing I have ever done – can choose to forgive me (1 John 1:9).

And forget it all (Hebrews 8:12).

Is that true? Did I read that right?

Are there contingencies?
       Like asking for His forgiveness?
       Is He only speaking of Israel?
Is it out of context?

(Because that can’t be true for me. Right?)