Posted by jessica on May 26, 2010 with
23 Comments
in
I Lift My Eyes Up,
Thoughts and Feelings
as
Christian,
God,
homemade cards,
idea,
intonation,
kind,
oil change,
room,
Rosie,
rosie the riveter,
Somebody,
staple gun,
therapy
I have the feeling that some people keep what I am about to say a secret.
Which is totally fine.
But, see, I grew up with the idea that this is the kind of thing that is very normal. Like getting the oil changed in your car. Or maybe even, God forbid, changing it yourself (which is something that I need to learn to do, if I am really gonna be like Rosie the Riveter. Does an oil change perhaps take a staple gun? Cause I am handy with one of those, you know).
But since my mom has her master’s degree in counseling and my pop, being a pastor, counsels on the regular too, I am not at all embarrassed of the fact that I am about to get some real good therapy.
And I can’t wait.
See, I haven’t been able to afford it, so I was just trusting that God would take care of my bruised up heart and funny little thoughts, but turns out, he’s doing that and letting me get some therapy.
And it’s one of those kinds of things in which I cannot help but keep going over the scenario in my head. I walk into a room and there he or she is: my counselor. Or even advocate, which is a fancy and nice word that my friend Christian used to describe this person. And he will probably be proper enough to use all three syllables of my name and he will say it with the kind of intonation that isn’t quite musical but certainly makes you think of warm things like fires. But contained fires, you know. Cause it’s real safe all up in this room. And he will ask me why I am here and I will have at least a thousand things to say but I will start at the beginning, just as soon as I figure out exactly where the beginning is.
Is it my first memory? When I was three and my brothers were visiting me at the hospital? Traipsing into my little room like the smallest boys orphanage there ever was, giving me homemade cards and telling me that they hope I get better soon.
Or was it when I was turning 13 and terrified at the idea of growing up? I thought that if I hadn’t disappointed my parents by now, then becoming a teenager surely would; that growing up was something that I didn’t know how to do, but knew how not to do even less. And there it was, inevitable. While there I was, scared. But then I turned 13, and I was still me, and that has been a lesson that I’ve learned over and over again–that no matter what happens to me, nobody can take me from me, if that makes any sense at all.
Or was it when I came home to a husband that was no husband at all? To the news that everything I held sacred had been put up for sale and bought by a cheap story that was supposed to make somebody feel better, but that somebody was far from me.
ding ding ding ding
I think we may have a winner.
But then again, I think all of my story is worth talking about to a professional. I think that people benefit from sharing their heart in safe places and, like I said, ooh, somebody pinch me, cause this girl’s going to therapy.
And I couldn’t be happier about it.
It is highly unusual for me to already have done something before I go to church.
Other than get dressed and brush my teeth, of course.
But today was a special kind of Sunday because Shane and I went and played a show at the very un-rock star hour of 9:00 am. And, oh wait, I must let you know that a facebook invite just went out to let everyone know that the paper shanes are playing at Lickety Split in Philly this Wednesday night. Good to know. Again, so glad Shane let’s me be in his band.
And let’s me use a staple gun.
It was pretty awesome, actually. Because yesterday a friend named Pat who knows a lot about recording sound was helping to make Shane’s studio better by putting in sound panels. For a while there, I was helping out a lot by talking to Shane’s family upstairs, playing the piano, or just watching the guys work, but eventually there was much gun stapling going on and Shane suggested I try it. And Pat laughed. And then proceeded to not hand me the gun. Until later, when Shane suggested I try it again, and I have to admit that the little burst of air when I pulled the trigger was a surprise, but definitely one of the better surprises that I have experienced in my life as of late.
And I really liked stapling.
With a gun.
I felt like I could be the next poster girl for the WE CAN DO IT! campaign. Because we can. Or at least I can. If what we’re still talking about is using a staple gun, that is.
Oh, but I was, at one point, talking about playing in Wilmington early this morning. We played at a 5k on the river front and we got paid money to do it. Those gigs are pretty nice, actually. The ones that pay. Not necessarily the ones that are really early and outside when it’s kind of cold and you’re kind of tired. Although, this one turned out to be quite fun. We played whatever we wanted for about forty minutes while people ran or walked and generally felt proud of themselves. Which they should, because, good job for walking or running like that when goodness knows it’s easier to just sleep in on a sunday morning.
But sleeping in does not usually afford such a feeling of accomplishment, I’d bet. And if it does, then you might need to lift your goals a little higher.
And also, I ate a banana.
And wore rain boots.
Which I only mention because those are two things that I don’t normally do. So, noteworthy, right? Or maybe those are the kinds of sentences that shouldn’t make it past editing. But rain boots–I love them. They are British. Or seasonal. Or interesting. Or all of the above and I wish I had a yellow pair. Then life would finally be perfect. Because it’s that easy, right? And bananas. Well, they are yellow, I suppose, but other than that, I don’t like them all that much and so they do not warrant their own paragraph. Not that I limit myself to writing solely about things that I like– like the way you can click on some of those good statuses on Facebook.
And I will end with this: a new friend told me something right out of the blue the other night. He said that married people are creepy. At which point I didn’t know what to say. I mean, I used to be one of them. So was I creepy, but am no longer? I suppose, according to his idea, I have decidedly un-creepified myself. But still, he doesn’t know this. And I didn’t want to lie, but I also don’t feel the need to open up that can of worms with just anybody, just anywhere. So I said that I think married people are people. Period. Some are creepy, some are not, and left it at that.
But the interesting thing is that I like how I keep meeting new people who know nothing about what I’ve been through or the fact that, according to at least one person, I used to be a “creepy person.”
And yes, I need those people in my life who know my story like it’s a book they’ve read time and time again; but still, it’s nice to see how my life keeps moving forward and the past is just a tinier and tinier dot on the horizon that once loomed so large, that once was all I could see, that once surrounded me like the kind of air that is not air at all, it left me choking so badly.
