day 9: yoga + police reports

Monday, 3/14/2016

Yoga is changing my life. I will say it 45,000 times no matter how cliche I sound since we’ve already established that I semi love cliches. 

But for real - I did two catch up yoga sessions today (writing takes a lot longer than I thought - lesson 87 million in 8 days.) And my body and mind feel 75,000 times different. Can you tell I’m into big numbers today? 

My mind feels so much clearer and my body so long after yoga. I have never had so much awareness of what it is to feel physically squished as I do now that I’ve started regular yoga practice. No more squish for me. I used to have a fish named Squishy actually. 

                       RIP Squishy

                       RIP Squishy

.After yesterday’s entry, and my digesting it, I decided to request a copy of my police report. So I emailed the detective who was in charge of my case for form clarification (the NYPD website, like all government websites, is hella confusing.)

I've got a lot of mixed emotions about filling this piece of paper out but also a weird peace in knowing it will provide me something tangible. Almost as if in some weird way, it's proof that it happened - why I go through spells of feeling that I need that proof is complicated. Partly because my memory is so foggy and partly because the police didn't believe me. One of these days, we will get to that part of this experience. 

It’s crazy to think that I’m almost two years down the line and only just now getting to this point where I'm ready to read their take on it. That’s a lesson in being patient with others and myself. 

I doubt that it will shock you to learn that I do NOT excel at patience even a little bit, 

day 8: rape & the righteousness of God : a glimmer of grateful light

Sunday, 3/13/2016

I watched the documentary “The Hunting Ground” today. I also had a conversation about the righteousness of God with one of my pastors. Talk about juxtapositions. 

These are two conversations that don’t go together. And yet, deep down in a place somewhere looking to get a little light, I know that they kinda do.

I know this because the idea that God is righteous in ALL circumstances, even circumstances that are heinous, is at the very core of my grievances with Him and this whole experience.  

Only 36% of rapes, 34% of attempted rapes, and 26% of sexual assaults get reported to the police. (National Institue of Justice)

26% of rapes reported to the police lead to an arrest. Of that 26%, 20% are prosecuted.” - FBI Uniform Crime Reports - 2010

The documentary is full of statistics, but these two haunt me and I have to do the math for myself:

- In 2011 reports from a 2010 study called "the National Intimate Partner and Sexual Violence Survey” (which took place with the support of the National Institute of Justice and the Department of Defense) stated that 1 in 5 women had been raped or experienced attempted rape. Other outlets report 1 in 4, and some 1 in 6, so to be somewhere average, we’ll go with 1 in 5.

Ok so:

If 1 in 5 women in America are victims of sexual assault and there are about 157 million women in America   - that takes us to 31,400,000 women assaulted.  

- only 36% report their rape = 11,304,000 reported rapes 

- only 34% report attempted rape = 10,676,00 reported attempted rapes

- only 26% report sexual assault = 8,164,000 reported sexual assaults

The math in all of those situations brings you to at least 20,000,000 unreported assaults. So regardless of the fact that we can’t measure which 1’s in 5 experienced what version of assault, we can assume that 20,000,000 sexual assaults of some kind are unreported. 

Talking about rape only, 26% of the 36% of reported rapes (11,304,000) lead to an arrest - ok so that’s 2,939,040 arrests which = 8,364,960 cases without arrest. 

Of the 2,939,040 arrests, 20% are prosecuted - so 587,888 prosecutions, which = 2,351,152 cases without prosecution. 

So why does it shock people that survivors are hesitant to press charges? Especially when 98% of rapists will never spend a day in jail. (RAINN.org) Why report and go through the grueling process of attempting to bring a perpetrator to justice with those odds? 

Trying to give logic to that night and my decision not to press charges is a never-ending cycle. 

Trying to reconcile it with the righteousness of God is on another level.

But then I get a glimmer of light. And that inner conversation with God goes something like this: 

"What are you grateful for in that situation?" 

"What? Are you serious? What am I grateful for? Are you (expletive) kidding me?” 

“No.” 

“I’m not grateful. There is nothing to be grateful for.” 

“Really? What were you afraid of that night?"

“I was afraid that they wouldn’t let me leave. I was afraid that they would kill me. I was afraid that she’d been taken forever. I was afraid that I would have to call her mom and tell her that she wasn’t coming home and that I had no idea where she was. I was afraid that I was responsible for a horrible life she may be subjected to by whoever took her.” 

“And did that happen?” 

“No” 

Once I found one thing to be grateful for, it was a lot easier to come up with some more:

  • I’m grateful that my friend got out of that apartment.
  • I’m grateful that she doesn’t remember what happened there.
  • I’m grateful that this didn’t taint our friendship - she doesn’t blame me and I don’t blame her.
  • I’m grateful that I don’t remember the bulk of my time inside the other apartment.
  • I’m grateful that I had someone to call the next morning who answered the phone.
  • I’m grateful that my parents had the means to fly to New York from Europe.
  • I’m grateful that this was not the time that these criminals escalated to something even worse.
  • I’m grateful that I’m alive.
  • I’m grateful that I have amazing family and friends who have so graciously walked with me through the healing process.
  • I’m grateful that I’m not alone. 

I’m stunned to see even this tiny glimmer. 

Gratitude is a weapon of worship. It is allowing me a glimpse into where the righteousness of God exists in this situation.

My thoughts often veer off to,  “why did God save my life? Why me? Why not any of the other millions of people facing potential death each day?” 

In our conversation, my pastor stops me in my tracks - “stop trying to make yourself worthy of the righteousness of God; you’re not and you never will be. That’s the beauty of it. When you rest in your unworthiness, you honor His righteousness.”

This may seem harsh. I may never see the righteousness of God in that night. But somehow, it was exactly what I needed to hear. It removed the all-about-me attitude that was blocking me from seeing what I do see:  

- I do see that I not only survived, but fought my way through the recovery, and have come out the other side stronger and with a blazing passion to fight for change. So when God tells me that He will never let me be pushed past my limit, I know He’s right. (1 Cor 10:13, the MSG) 

- I do see that something guided me in the direction of home. So when God tells me that He will never leave me or forsake me, I know He’s true. (Deuteronomy 31:6, NIV)

- I do see that instead of this pushing my friend and I apart, we are closer than ever. I also see that my friend who helped me came, regardless of our history. So when God says that a friend loves at all times (is always loyal) and a brother is born to help in time of need, I know He cares about my heart. (Proverbs 17:7 NLT) 

- I do see that this experience has been one of the greatest trials I’ve ever faced, but that through it, I’ve experienced more growth than I could have imagined. So when God tells me to consider it a sheer gift when tests and challenges come my way because it means that my faith-life will be forced into the open, allowing me to become mature and well-developed, deficient in nothing, I know He is always on my side. (James 1:2-4 The MSG.)

- I do see that within hours of originally posting this blog, I had quite a number of people reach out to say that they were also survivors of rape or assault, and felt like they finally had a voice; or that their friend went through this and is struggling and they were sending it along so that they would know they aren’t alone. So when God says that He works all things together for good, I know that He can take even the most broken situations, and use them for good. (Romans 8:28 NIV.)

Now let me be abundantly clear - I AM NOT SAYING THAT RAPE IS RIGHTEOUS. What I am saying is that in my own personal experience, I am beginning to see that even in the most UNrighteous situations (caused by free will,) God can take what was meant for evil, and He can use if for good. And that right there, is in fact, the righteousness of God. 

So I’m understanding it just a little through the lens of gratitude. And this little glimmer of light shines ever so much brighter with each passing second. 

day 7: smoothie-gate

Saturday, 3/12/2016

On Saturdays I am part of a baller film acting class. No, really. I wouldn’t be rolling my ass out of bed to be there at 11am on a Saturday if it wasn’t as good as it is. 

Sidenote: When my sister and I were little, my dad gave us the first of many life lesson attempts about how we were not allowed to curse (I’m still learning) outside our favorite Saturday morning breakfast place, Shipley’s Doughnuts (there is little I would not do at any given moment for one of those damn (also in the Bible - that'll make sense in two seconds) doughnuts. The only ‘curse word’ we were allowed to say was ‘ass,' because it was in the Bible and was another word for donkey. You can imagine how much fun my sister and I had that day calling my dad an ass everywhere we went, and met his protestations with, “But it’s in the Bible!” Who can argue with that? He did not find it as amusing as we did. 

this is from a few years before the "ass" debacle, but I just love this photo 

this is from a few years before the "ass" debacle, but I just love this photo 

A class at 11am on a Saturday requires advance breakfast planning. Enter: smoothies. Also known as, manna from heaven. What is it about smoothies? I don’t know, but I have a problem. A real problem. It is a hint of warm outside and my smoothie world transforms. In one particularly bad week last spring, I spent $70 on smoothies, which I only realized  after a friend asked me how many smoothies I drink on the regs due to the volume of snapchats devoted to them. That embarrasses me on many levels and I started making my own smoothies the next day. So (homemade) smoothies, hello lovers, and welcome back to my world.

just one more Liquiteria for good measure

just one more Liquiteria for good measure

 

Apparently, the winter, and therefore, lack of smoothies, made me forget that you have to actually put the lid on your personal smoothie maker... I came back to see my kitchen decorated in my version of Liquiteria’s blue velvet smoothie - 20 minutes before I’m supposed to be in class. And because I’m still new at transforming my negative thought process to a positive one, it went something like this:

“ooohhhhh f***ing sh**balls no. (looks up at heaven) seriously?!! Craaaaaap. This freaking blows. Ugggghhhhhhh. BECKYYYYYYY you freaking idiot. See this is it! This is the proof that you will not get your life together and should not do this journey and should DEFINITELY not write this blog. You can’t even put a lid on a smoothie maker, how the heck are you going to do actual life things?”  

Now, is this a logical thought jump? Absolutely not. But it allowed me the excuse of remembering the plethora of reasons that I don’t want to write about this journey, let alone be on it. Or actually, the only reason : fear. And in that fleeting moment, that was comforting.  

Sidenote: I’m starting to wonder if I should forewarn those featured on this blog that they are making guest appearances. Probably should. Hopefully they won’t be as annoyed at their guest appearances as I am at my constant appearance, but if they are, maybe they’ll just begrudgingly oblige?  Er, I don’t know. I should think on that. 

So here I am, sweatily sitting in class, 45 minutes late from having to clean up my smoothie mess, the MTA sucking the life out of my soul (as it regularly does,) and all out sprinting to get there before the hour, talking about an episode of 'The Good Wife’ with a group of girls - and this guy, Jack, who I don’t really know, turns to me and says, “you should start a blog.” Ok. So. Uhhhh. Here’s the thing. Acting class is weird because I don’t actually really know the people in it. I don’t know where they’re from or what their favorite food is or if they like their parents or really anything about their lives. But because we do this awkward thing where we get up in front of a camera each week, which believe it or not is very invasive and off-putting, and read scenes together - and sometimes you’re meeting someone one minute and reading a scene about penises in the 1800’s with them the next (I'm not kidding you, I can't make this stuff up) - you know them. So like, I don’t know them, but I know them. 

So Jack's “you should start a blog,” threw me for a loop. Now, granted, Jack was talking about me starting a blog in regards to TV shows. But I truly think that sometimes God (or the universe - hopefully by now we’re at a place in your reading of this thing, where you know that my faith is the foundation of my life, but if you don’t believe in God, and the universe is your higher power, or maybe you don’t believe in higher power, you can go to your relatable place of understanding when I make references to God because I certainly don’t want to be EXclusive, but I also don’t want to keep taking breathers to not “offend") uses people to tell us things in whatever way we need to hear, regardless of context. He kept talking but I was just kind of staring and not hearing him because the first time in the history of my life that a person who I truthfully, barely know, tells me I should write a blog is on the same day that I spent the entirety of smoothie-gate clean up coming up with reasons not to write a blog.  

Try and tell me that’s not a sign. Now because I am this way, I immediately jump to, "ok, but why am I meant to do it?" Well, that I don’t know. There are about a bajillion potential reasons swimming up in my head, but since I’m not the orchestrator of the universe, I’ve learned that sometimes its best not to try and figure out the ‘why.’

I also learned that I need to get back to running on purpose. Like going on runs. Not out of necessity. Because there were moments in that sprint to class where I thought “this could be it."

day 6: answers wanted

Friday, 3/11/2016

Roomie night. Allow me to let you in on a little secret ladies who live with a roommate that you adore. Adopt the roomie night thing. For real.

Anyways - some things to know about my roommate and I before I dive in to the serious stuff. 

                [sidenote: I am aware that the real word is anyway, without the s, but I like the s better.]

             BeckY and BeccA

             BeckY and BeccA

  1.  her name is Becca. Yes. Becky and Becca. It confused our doormen for the first 6 months that we lived in our building. 
  2. we met in college but weren’t close friends. Different departments, different friend groups. Saw each other at parties - our mutual friend forced us to hang out when we first got to NY and it was an idea of sheer brilliance
  3. we are polar opposites. Firstly, she’s a blonde and I’m a brunette (as if that matters.) She’s messy, I’m a neat freak. She loves Kate Spade, Haute Hippie is my jam. She loves Seth Cohen, I love Ryan Atwood. (I will never stop loving the OC for all that it was and all that it is and I may or may not regularly jam to the OC mixes...) 

Our roomie nights, which happen pretty much every 6-8 weeks, consist of the following, in this order: 

  1. Champagne 
  2. Indian food 
  3. Cookies 
  4. Champagne
  5. Sex and the City 
  6. Champagne
  7. Serious talks
  8. Pajamas 
  9. The Dixie Chicks and Justin Timberlake’s Future/Sex Lovesounds album dance party

On this roomie night I expressed that I have a lot of questions about the morning of my attack and the only person with the answers is the one who came to pick me up from my apartment that day.

At some point after being thrown out with the trash, dismissed by the police (more on that at a later date,) and going back to the bar to ask for help, I made my way home and called to ask for help, even though we hadn’t spoken in six months. I don’t know how I made it home, but since the Lower East Side and it’s inconvenient subway situation is annoying, I’m going to go ahead and assume I took a cab. I don’t really remember calling, but I do remember sitting on the steps of my Upper East Side walkup at some point in the early hours of the morning, drenched by the rain, talking on the phone, and repeating versions of, “They took me and I tried to leave and they wouldn’t let me” over and over again.

My first recollection of seeing him that morning is that hearing him yell my name was like being ripped out of a trance. I didn’t know how long I’d been standing in the middle of the street, in the rain, but when I turned around to see him coming towards me, I understood something that was happening for the first time in eight hours. The age-old concept of cause and effect made sense - I called for help, and someone came. The next thing I remember is being in the East Village. I made us go down there because I wanted to find the apartment I had been taken to. In my nonsensical state, I thought maybe we’d find my friend, who I was still unable to make contact with. He convinced me to go to the hospital and the next thing I knew, I was standing in the emergency intake area desperately searching for words to describe what happened. 

When I crawled onto that hospital bed and was finally able to lay down, after being awake for over 24 hours, everything that had been remotely keeping me human faded away. I was seeing double and vaguely understood that my thoughts weren’t making sense, though I was desperate to explain what happened and for someone to take me seriously about finding my friend. I think I heard him say my name before it all went black. 

The day begins to become clearer when I woke up. I have no clue how long I slept. It starts in flashes and then slowly becomes long sequences. At some point I was given sweats to change into. My most vivid memory is when I saw myself in the bathroom mirror after they performed the rape kit. I couldn’t help but stare. My eyes were so swollen from crying that they were almost completely shut. I looked white as a ghost and my hair was ratty after being in the rain for so long. It’s a strange feeling to not recognize your own reflection in the mirror, to be observing your life from the outside. 

In the two years since my attack, the hardest part has been the not knowing. To have parts of your life be completely blank, as if those hours didn’t exist, when you know that they did, is infuriating. The doubt has, at times, made me feel crazy. And for a while, I thought that since I couldn’t remember, I could pretend it didn’t exist. Unfortunately, that doesn’t work. 

I have a long list of questions to ask about that morning that I’d like answers to. But complicated history well, complicates things. So I guess the question becomes, can I survive without the answers? And, without second thought, I know the answer is yes. Do I want to? That one’s a little trickier.

Sometimes it’s good to sit in the unknown. Even if it’s the most uncomfortable place to sit. I mean, seriously, I might as well be sitting on a hot stove. 

Sincerely, 

the girl with the burning bum 

day 5: pick six

Thursday, 3/10/2016  

When I was nine years old, I went to visit my new school that I was dead against being forced to attend. It had been a long application and interview process and this was the day where I would tour the place that was to be my new stomping grounds. The fact that they accepted me was, in and of itself, shocking. In my interview, when the headmaster asked me why I wanted to attend the school, I broke down crying and said that I didn’t and that it’d be good if they denied me admittance. Then I proceeded to wipe my snotty nose on my yellow pearl snap button down shirt with a denim collar and little navy blue baby’s breath flowers all over it. He then very gently offered me a kleenex. 

I remember moments in life by what I was wearing. That was my favorite shirt at the time. Heck, if it still existed today in an adult size, I’d wear it. My fondest memory wearing it was at my Granny and Grandpa's house in the English countryside. We have a photo somewhere that I can't seem to find...

Granny and Grandpa Paul’s house was the keeper of my secret spot (which I now know was not secret at all.) In the very back of their garden was a big bush, and nestled up against the back of that bush, was a wooden bench. I would sit on my bench for hours, telling myself stories, dreaming about what my life would be, and laying down on it, just looking up at the sky. If I stood on the bench and got up on my tiptoes (thankfully, the trusty bush was tall enough to hide this occurrence from my Granny’s manner minding eyes,) I could see over the back fence and into a field that stretched for what seemed like a hundred miles - you couldn’t see beyond it. This last Christmas, we took a detour past the cottage and the new owners have changed everything. I hate change. I so desperately wanted to knock on the door and ask if I could go sit on my bench for just a moment, but the fear that I might discover that in all their changes, my secret place no longer exists, stopped me. I want to remember it in all its perfection - a place untainted by the realities of life. My greatest desire when I was a little girl peering over the fence, was to jump it and just run through those fields until I couldn’t anymore, collapsing in a fit of giggles, gasping for air. I’d still love to do that.  

My new school scared me. I knew that I was being sent there because it was a more academically focused school with the structure needed to tame my wild and rambunctious spirit. I wanted to be left wild.  Leaving my old school made me realize that I would have to make new friends. I’d never even realized that making friends was something you do and I wasn’t scared that I wouldn’t.

Sitting on the big leather chair inside the school office waiting for the tour to begin, a little blonde girl that I recognized from a basketball camp I’d attended earlier that summer, walked in with her parents and plopped down right next to me. 

“I like your Nike watch. I’ve got a turqouise Baby-G, see? But I like yours too. I’m Kitty.” 

“Thanks. It was my Christmas gift this year. I like it because it’s sporty, but I like yours too. I’m Becky.” 

Kitty and I didn’t know as we sat in our soon to be art room later that day, bonding over the Mary-Kate and Ashley movie, “Passport to Paris,” that our friendship would stand the test of time. We should have known - because any friendship that begins because of Mary-Kate and Ashley is obviously a good one. 

We had no idea that we’d become a part of the same friend group and watch each other go through our most formative years. We didn’t know that I’d be there when she got her heart broken for the first time or that she’d be there to see me and cheer me on as I fulfilled one of my biggest dreams. We were definitely clueless when it came to all the questionable decisions we would have a ton of fun (sorry, Mum and Dad) making together in high school. We couldn’t have predicted that during out senior year of high school, I would be rushed to the hospital, and that when I was discharged a week later, it would be with the knowledge that I was sick with life-threatening conditions. We might not have even believed how fun our 'senior summer’ would be - when our group of friends saw each other every single day, until that gut-wrenching day when the first of us went off to college, and the weeks involving lots of teary goodbyes began. None of us were going to the same schools. It was the first time that classes would finish at the end of the day, and the option of just driving to Kitty’s house to lay out in the pool or hang out on the third floor didn’t exist. 

The group text started almost immediately after the first of us left. Well, this was 2009, so it started as a group Facebook message. We had to be completely up to date on every nitty gritty aspect of each other’s lives. Our first Thanksgiving home was the reunion of all reunions and our best tradition began. Every Thanksgiving night at about 9:45pm, we all go to Kitty’s house, light a bonfire, make smores, eat her leftovers, have a few drinks, and talk into the night. (#holeyjeans) Personally, I like to think that in our subconscious we do it because it's Thanksgiving and this group of girls is one of the things we are most thankful for in our lives - but writing that down, I can see the girls rolling their eyes and going “ohhhh gawwd” at my puttering on. Thanksgiving is truly “our” holiday though. In college, that five day weekend was like the holy grail…always the scene of our most memorable, or not so memorable, nights. It still is. Though in our old age, we’ve become much more responsible. I think.

                                                           Thanksgiving

                                                           Thanksgiving

We know each other so well that sometimes it’s just weird. And other times it's perfect. The first time I had my heart shattered into a million pieces and told them via group text, not one of them called me for a few days, because they knew I wouldn’t be able to, or want to talk. But you better believe that my phone never stopped buzzing with messages for three days. We have seen each other at our best and at our worst, been there for each other’s highest highs and lowest lows…and those lows have been pretty dang low. We’ve fought hard and made up hard. We once went over a year without one of us, and it sucked every single day. But it took us all of about five minutes to get over it and welcome her back with open arms the first time she showed up to our standard “last night we will all be together before one of us leaves” dinner - and it’s never been different since.

Our lives are changing and so are we. We’re adults now who live in different parts of the country, with jobs and responsibilities. Our dreams, beliefs, and priorities have shifted and changed, but I have to believe that at the core of it all, our deep rooted friendship won’t. A few months ago, the last time all six of us were together, I threw out the idea of giving up on everything I came here to do - and every single one of them just yelled at me a version of “absolutely not” (Melanie’s version may have had a few choice words thrown in there...) because they know me and they believe in me - even when I don't believe in myself. (I’m vomiting at how corny I sound.) 

I can’t imagine my life without Mary Ellen’s long lasting bear hugs, Mel’s high pitched scream when I walk through the door or when a particularly funny part of a story is told, Eleanor’s bringing Curly Sue (her dog) everywhere we go - she’s basically the 7th honorary member of Pick Six, Kitty’s chuckle laugh, or Sarah’s “heyyyy” when she walks into a room. I have learned everything I need to know about friendship from these girls. They are my chosen family. They are a massive part of why I miss TX, but an even bigger part of what keeps me here. Whenever I come home, one of my mum’s first questions is - “Well, what are your plans with the girls?” because she knows. 

The group text that began seven years ago lives on strong today, and as I write this post, with tears in my eyes on and off at the gratitude I feel, my phone just buzzed to say I have a new message on our thread, and all seems right with the world. 

*~hugz n kisses~*

Day 4: busting a move with my tribe

Wednesday, 3/9/2016

I danced around my apartment today for no reason. Like, full on, out of breath, makin' moves. My general work from home attire is a sports bra, harem pants, unwashed lion hair, and no makeup. So it makes sense that when my boss FaceTimed me the first day I ever worked from home, I had a total Carrie moment. 

Today, I felt a need to full on just dance (so weird.)

And let’s be clear about one thing...

Everyone else when they dance: 

Me when I dance: 

Oh Chris Martin. Just moving where the music takes him. I unashamedly adopted his style of dancing from the day my obsession with Coldplay began at age 12. I mean, when I go to the club, it's just awkward - because everyone is bumping and grinding and I’m like, "can I just get some space for my baller Chris style moves?” It won't come as a shock to you that I cannot. 

Coldplay is my all time favorite band in the history of the world and Chris Martin is essentially my spirit animal. He's at the top of my artistic tribe. If you don’t have one of these, you should 100% make that list. Even if you don’t consider yourself an “artist.” (blegh - that phrasing has such an hoity toity connotation that stinks because most artists I know aren't hoity toity at all.) It is SO FUN. I give myself a lot of leeway because I think ‘artists' exist in all forms. Artists, athletes, and even things, are in my tribe. Anyone or anything that inspires me to live positively, chase my dreams, or who I would love to share a meal and converse with, goes on my list. Coldplay, Elton John, Peyton Manning, Jesus, fringe (yes the type that hangs on clothes and bags,) Kate and Leo (Winslet and DiCaprio respectively, duh,) the 70s, One Direction, Gwyneth Paltrow, Roger Federer, country music as a whole, Ellen DeGeneres, the ocean and palm trees, Brigitte Bardot, Sophia Bush, the Beatles, elephants… I mean I could go on and on… 

But for real, can you imagine that dinner party? The amazing conversations and perspectives on life? I can. I’m learning to sit in the moment these days.

Meditation and yoga y’all. I’m not even kidding, they have changed my life.  So today I’m sitting in joy (and envisioning that dinner party.) 

Joy. I have to say it to myself a couple of times to get used to it.  

It makes me feel a little crazy that in 48 hours I have gone from feeling absolutely helpless in church and lifting my hands in a desperate plea to God for a renewing of my mind, to dancing around my apartment for fun… But then, why am I surprised? That’s how it works.

Weeping may last for a night, but joy comes in the morning. - Psalm 30:5

There is so much promised to me - the question is, do I believe it? Not do I say I believe it - but do I really believe it?

I’m starting to. 

And now I'm gonna go dance it out-

Day 3: tidal change

Tuesday, 3/8/2016

Today I had what I believe will be a key breakthrough in this 52 day journey that deals directly with the negativity issue discussed in day 2. Funny how the universe (or for me, God) works. And the fact that it happened on day 3 only fills me with utter excitement because 3 is my favorite number in the world.

Disclaimer: when it comes to this blog, the deepest desire of my heart is that people who share my faith, and people who do not, will read it and identify with it. This post will discuss two things that people who do not share my faith may find weird and freaky, but also may not! If you’re willing to approach it with an open mind (that does not ask you to believe what I believe, simply to read about it) I think you’ll more than likely identify in some way. So, if you can get through like three Bible verses and a little explanation…press on. And hey, why not get weird early on? At least that way, you know what you’re getting yourself into. 

Ok - so:

I think regardless of faith or religious beliefs, most people believe that there is good at work in the world and there is bad at work in the world. Some refer to it as good energy and bad energy. Forces for good and forces for evil, good spirits and evil spirits. How else could we explain things like war or famine or abuse or addiction? In the Christian faith, we believe that Satan, a fallen angel, is the author of evil and of lies and thus arrives a term that is often accompanied by assumptions of craziness or weirdness: spiritual warfare.

In the bible it says,

“For our struggle is not against flesh and blood, (we are not fighting against flesh and blood enemies,) but against the (evil) rulers, against the authorities (of the unseen world,) against the (mighty) powers of this dark world, and against the spiritual forces of evil (evil spirits) in the heavenly realms (places.) - Ephesians 6:12 - New International Version (New Living Translation)

Humans are spiritual beings, so it makes sense that there would be good spirits and bad spirits, regardless of where we believe the spirits come from. 

Alright,

Christians believe that God did not accidentally drop any person onto earth; that every single human being was deliberately placed on this earth for a purpose <- what’s up Bieber album?

The Bible says that God knew all about us before he formed us in our mother’s womb, that He set us apart for a holy purpose (Jeremiah 1:5,) and that every hair on our head is numbered (Matthew 10:30, Luke 12:7.)

“It’s in Christ that we find out who we are and what we are living for. Long before we first heard of Christ or got our hopes up, he had his eye on us, had designs on us for glorious living, part of the overall purpose he is working out in everything and everyone.”  - Ephesians 1:11-12 (The Message) 

Christians often call this God’s plan for our lives. Others might refer to it as destiny. 

So, if God has a purpose for my life, and I ultimately believe that God is good (which despite the anger expressed in recent posts, somewhere deep down I still do,) then I also believe that the purpose for my life is for good and not evil. For joy and not pain. For provision and not lack. And if I believe that satan (or the enemy) is the author of evil, then his goal would understandably be to derail that plan for my life. 

Or in non-faith terms - why would evil forces or negative energy be excited for good to prevail? 

You’re probably like, ok Becky thanks for the religion lesson, but could you get to the point? 

Ok the point is this: I believe that satan’s greatest weapon against the human race is to attack the mind. Or, in other terms, for the bad energy at work in the world to create a mine field of negativity. 

I’ve been pretty transparent about my negative thoughts on this blog so far, but there’s a deeper level to that negativity that is almost embarrassing to admit. Negativity is a kind way to refer to how I’ve been dealing with myself. The more accurate description would be self-hatred. 

I was on the phone with my therapist (yeah, I’m back to that, but this time I’m actually being honest and it’s crazy how much that changes things…except it’s not crazy and makes total sense) and was narrating a recent experience when she stopped me and said, “Wait- what did you just say?” I quickly repeated myself so that I could get on with my story when she stopped me again, “Becky - do you hear how negatively you are speaking about yourself?” The honest answer was - no, I didn’t. I have become so used to the way I address myself, that it no longer strikes me as abnormal. She asked me to expound upon my general self-talk patterns of late: 

  • “You’re fat” 
  • “Your skin - ew, why would anyone want to look at you?” 
  • “You’re a whale.” 
  • “You’ve got so much baggage, no one will ever want to take all that on."
  • “See, there you go f*****g up again. You are SO past the line of God’s actual forgiveness. Prepare for withholding of blessings, big time.” 
  • “You’re SO negative- look at all these terrible things you think - geez, it’s no wonder you’re depressed. You’re depressing."
  • “You’re on your own - good luck.” 
  • “You don’t deserve good things.” 
  • “When will you ever learn? Are you this stupid?"
  • “You’re a liar and a fraud.” 
  • “Can you imagine if people knew that this is how you truly are? My god, you’d have ZERO friends. You can’t tell anyone."
  • “Whey even try for the life you long for? Never. Gonna. Happen.” 

— and then I’d get mad at myself for thinking all of these horribly negative things: cycle repeat — 

My therapist asked me what I feel like is keeping me from the life I want - because believe it or not, this ain’t it! 

The best way I can describe it is this: I can see the life I want. I can picture it vividly. I can almost touch it. It’s just waiting on the other side of this impermeable, multi-layered plexiglass wall.  I’ve tried bulldozing it down, walking around it, punching it, body slamming it - and nothin'. It will not budge. She asked me, “if words were written on this wall, what would they be?” 

     hopelessness 

     give up now 

“You know what? That is not your voice and that is not the voice of the Lord,” she said. "That is the voice of the enemy. What would God say in response to all those statements?”  (Go with me here, y’all - I know to some of you, this is SO WEIRD.) 

  • “I’m a child of the most high God.”  
  • “I’m a daughter of the King” 
  • “I am set apart for such a time as this” 
  • “I am beautiful and there is no blemish in me” 
  • “I am cleansed, washed clean, and restored” 
  • “I am found” 
  • “I am a lover and not a hater"
  • “I am free” 
  • “I am gifted with a beautiful mind, equipped with love and positivity.” 
  • “I am created with a purpose.” 
  • “I am promised more in this life than I can even think, ask, or imagine.” 
  • “I am a servant of the king.” 
  • “There is a plan, set apart before the beginning of time, for my life.” 
  • “Every hair on my head is numbered and known to God.” 
  • “I am known for all that I am, and I am loved.” 
  • “I am never alone.” 
  • “Jesus is my truth and His voice is gentle."

Without any concentrated decision, the statements immediately switched from what I like to call, you:accusatory statements, to I:ownership statements. Because my spirit recognized the truth on its own. And I felt my heart lighten.  (for those of you who are Christians, I think it’s worth noting that satan is no dummy. It’s no coincidence that the pride surrounding his beauty and intelligence, and his desire to BE God is what caused him to fall from heaven in the first place.) 

It’s amazing how the truth can turn your whole life around. I have been believing versions of those you:accusatory statements since the spring of 2013 without even realizing it. 

Not anymore. 

Tides are changing sweet friends! 

I am committing to amending #11 on my prep day list from “no needless negativity” to “NO negativity - especially in my mind.” Anytime a negative you:accusatory statement arrives in my mind, I will answer it back with an I:ownership statement. 

“Your beliefs become your thoughts, Your thoughts become your words, Your words become your actions, Your actions become your habits, Your habits become your values, Your values become your destiny.”
- Mahatma Ghandi

I hope that this post was enjoyable and made sense to anyone who read it. While my faith is the most foundational thing in my life, I think that faith so often needlessly divides people - “oh, she believes in something so big that I don’t believe in, that there’s no way we can relate.” I just don’t buy into that. We’re all sharing the same human experience - we’re just sharing it in different ways. 

It’s strange to be going to bed not dreading tomorrow. I can’t remember the last time that happened. 

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Day 2: don't ya know that you're toxic?

Monday, 3/7/2016

So in the past few weeks I’ve become pretty obsessed with the idea of removing any and all toxic chemicals and allergens from my life in my food, beauty products, and household cleaning products (yes, yes - this is me being your typical white girl. Case in point: I simply cannot let the chance for an apropos Britney gif go by without taking it.)

But seriously, I was shocked when I learned about the harmful chemicals present in what we are lathering our bodies with ladies (and gentlemen.) Unreal.

What’s more unreal, is the junk we allow into our minds. I’m realizing that part of my desire to remove all this material toxicity from my world might stem from my subconscious knowing that I need to deal with the mental toxicity too.

Chemicals are the toxins affecting my physical body, and negativity is the toxin affecting my mind. 

boat jump.jpg

Negativity: well, that’s general. But I think it’s only general because it’s so widespread. It’s a pesticide that seems to spray every part of life. When was the last time I didn’t feel negative? Four days ago on the speedboat in Antigua. Jumping off the boat, eating on the beach, flying through the waves (sometimes whilst seriously questioning if I was about to go overboard,) hearing JD’s story, and laying in the water while it rained. Four days?! Four days is a long time. The inner knowledge that my life doesn’t look the way I want it to still existed that day, but I felt the teeniest part of my adventurous spirit peak it’s head around the corner and say, “hey, nice to see you again.” I remembered that I get to choose which steps I take next. 

Not too long later, I got some news that inspired one of the worst feelings around. Envy. 

Envy is an icky icky thing. There’s a reason that its known as one of the seven deadly sins.     

[Can we talk about that ‘America’s Next Top Model’ seven deadly sins photo shoot though from like a million seasons ago for just a second? So good.]

Envy makes me feel gross. Like what type of person doesn’t want to be happy for someone else when something good happens for them? I don’t think anybody wants to feel envy. It’s certainly not something we go around advertising. “Hey everybody!! I’m so jealous of blah blah blah, hear me roar!” But we do feel it. We are human after all. 

What’s interesting about my experience with envy these days is that it always turns to annoyance at myself. Probably rightly so. My thought pattern tends to go like this:

  1. “I wish                            would happen for me!” 
  2. “ Yeah but how could                            happen for you when you're too afraid to try?” 
  3. “Uhhhh hello have you seen the last two years of my life? Cut me a little slack.” 
  4. “Yeah, Becky, you’ve given yourself enough slack - it’s time to put your big girl pants on and get over yourself. If you want                    ,  go get it.” 
  5. “You’re right. But what if I try and                    happens and [insert negative emotion or experience here.] 

So, I have the awareness to know that envy is childish and unhelpful. Thank God. #winning (at least a little bit.) What I have trouble getting away from is the “slack" part. The me version of the little Lizzie McGuire cartoon that tells us Lizzie’s thoughts on the show, Lizzie McGuire, (a very important part of my pre-teen years) having this internal convo is not wrong.

I have needed to cut myself slack - yes. But I’m thinking it’s been the wrong kind of slack. It’s been the slack of excuses instead of the slack of mindfulness. And excuses lead back to negativity. And negativity leads back to the pit. And the pit sucks.

Negativity accuses and mindfulness observes. Negativity beats you down and mindfulness asks to help you move forward. For example: 

Thought: “I really need to prioritize my health and wellness.” 

Negativity: “ Yeah but today has been a tough day. And if ordering Indian food and cookies makes you feel better, you go ahead and do that. But don’t complain when you’re fatter tomorrow.” 

Mindfulness: “Am I actually hungry? If not, what am I trying to ignore by eating Indian food and cookies? If I am, is there a healthy option that doesn’t employ deprivation?” 

Negativity complicates everything. It strips away the simplicity of - this is how I feel - ‘x.’ This is what I want - ‘y.’ 

The more I read about life and health, the more I realize that to live a life of mindfulness requires retraining the brain. It is 100% the opposite of how the world communicates with us and therefore, 100% the opposite of how we’ve been conditioned to communicate with both ourselves and others.

I now feel overwhelmed. 

This whole 52 day thing is starting to feel like a total chore and why did I even set out to do this in the first place? I need a little reminding. So I go stalk the Team Wadadli (the Antiguan rowing team) Facebook page, and subsequently stalk a ton of other teams' Facebook pages and blogs, as one does, and I’m reminded why I started. (Don’t even try to tell me that you do not do some social media stalking every once in a while!)

The fact that I need reminding on DAY 2 scares me a little, but hey - keep on keeping on. And looking at those photos and videos of them coming into the harbour, the excitement, the sense of accomplishment, the victory... well, it gave me just the reminder I needed. 

In case you can’t guess it by now, I don’t believe in chance encounters, but I do believe in divine appointment. I believe that people are put in our paths and we are put in others’ paths for specific reasons, usually without knowledge of it. I know that JD was put in my path to jolt me awake to the adventure of life. It’s only with a sense of adventure that I would be willing to fight my way back. And the only way I'd hear that was if the vessel was completely new.

PS: I can’t decide if this is going to be suuuuuuper awkward if for some bizarre and very unlikely reason JD ever reads this. Hopefully it would fall on the - I’m so glad my story impacted a complete stranger in a positive way spectrum and not a - this random chick is crazy spectrum. But as one of the best people I've ever had the pleasure of knowing once said to me, “it’s none of your damn business what anybody else thinks about you."

I have no idea where this leaves me and I have no idea what the next step is. There seem to be a bajillion to choose from. But I do know that the negative part of me wants to say that I’m getting nowhere, while the mindful part of me wants to encourage me to keep moving, even if at a snail’s pace. And for the first time in a long time, I'm going to choose to be mindful - not negative.

Day 1 : pants-less

Sunday, 3/6/2016

Well, I woke up in denial about not being in Antigua. Utter denial. Pure denial. Like, I don’t think a greater denial exists in the world that what I was in. I mean - would you want to have gone from seven days of doing nothing but waking up, eating, laying on the beach, basking in the sun, being on or in the water, reading, talking with your parents (who also happen to be two of the people you’re closest to in the world) and sleeping? If your answer is yes - go ahead and keep that to yourself, because you’re a weirdo, because I was here: 

I am rarely happier than when I am at the beach and in the water. I was born in London and raised between there and Texas - mostly in Texas, but I swear my soul was born in the ocean and out of the sun (go ahead and mock me for however cheesy that sounds - I’m aware, with you, can take it, and also love it)

Bottom line: New York is hard for me.

It’s dirty, smells bad (versions of bad include: pee, body odor, and trash,) is crowded, expensive, often cold, people are mean (or crazy,) there’s no space, if you want to see the sky in most parts of the city you have to crane your neck up, you can’t walk around barefoot or easily put your feet on grass, fresh air doesn’t exist, you can always hear your neighbors, the catcalling is ob-nox-ious, it’s transient, getting out of the city takes an immense amount of effort - the list could go on, but if you (and I) remember correctly, one of the things on my Prep Day list was to not be needlessly negative, sooooooo…yeah…I think you get the gist.

Basically, I need…..wide open spaaaaaaces…. if you don’t know who the Dixie Chicks are, we legit cannot be friends and I don’t know if I even feel comfortable with you reading this blog. Kidding. But please go listen to them on Spotify - conveniently and thoughtfully linked for you here ASAP as it will only make your life better. 

To be frank, there are many days in New York where I feel like I’m suffocating. "But you were born in London" you say, "that’s a big city, you should be used to it." Yes. But in London YOU CAN SEE THE SKY. But I (semi) digress. 

I recently read a book that asked you to list the things that make you happy - things that you’re grateful for - which are often, and not coincidentally, one in the same. My list included, (I won’t list everything because 1. you probably don’t care (I wouldn’t either) and 2. who’s got time for that?) in this abridged but unchanged order:

the beach, sunlight and how warm it feels, wildflowers, art in all forms, football, Texas, family, best friends, driving, safety, love, adventure, travel, food, joy, yoga, elephants, babies, wine, reading, cheesy things, sports, sweating, going for runs in the rain, cozy sweaters, photos and videos.

So you can more than likely see that being back in New York isn’t exactly thrilling for me. But add to that that I had decided to embark on this 52 day journey challenge thing - and I just didn’t want to wake up. They say the first step is the hardest for a reason. Changing my life (which is the basic way to say what I hope the next 52 days bring) is going to be hard because it’s going to mean I have to change. And the stuff I want to change isn’t like changing a pair of pants. Wait - actually - yes, yes it is. It’s like trying to change in and out of your skinniest leather pants. 

You wind up pants-less, trying everything you can think of to get them back on, covered in a baby powder-lotion messy paste that you made when you tried to get out of your predicament, realizing you have no other option but to take the first awkward step… without pants...  It’s actually not that far off. I’m stripped to my core, covered in a mess I made myself after finding myself in a predicament that wasn’t my fault (how was Ross supposed to KNOW that the leather pants would be hell’s prison?) 

                                                                                                    Side-note: never did I think that I would tie a Friends episode into a metaphor for life... This may be a high point.

The only difference is that Ross called Joey - and I’ve been reluctant to call anyone. I may have admitted to some hard days here or there, but have I told anyone it’s been consistent hard days since August? Nope. Because that means accepting that I haven’t been honest with myself about the place I didn’t just magically arrive to out of the blue. It’s been a slow descent to a pit that has felt seemingly impossible to crawl out of. So I did some research and wasn't exactly thrilled with what I found.

If I’m honest, my first thought is - “oh good - one more lame statistic to fall into. First I’m a sexual assault victim and now I’m depressed.” (I’m not saying that’s a kind or valid thought, but I also pledged to honesty yesterday….dang those annoying pledges.) Prior to doing some research, I thought clinical depression was the term we only stamped on people who were always depressed and needed to take antidepressants forever due to a chemical imbalance in the brain. I was wrong.

Clinical depression is "marked by a depressed mood most of the day, particularly in the morning, and a loss of interest in normal activities and relationships  -- symptoms that are present every day for at least 2 weeks.” 20-25% of adults will suffer a bout of it in their lifetimes and women are at a higher risk (twice as many women experience this than men.) Two weeks, huh? Errrr try 5 months… Depression can be triggered by grief, social isolation, major life changes, personal conflict and any type of abuse. And it doesn’t always stick around forever. It can pass. 

Well, hallefreakinlujah. There’s a bright spot of hope.

Recommendations to treat clinical depression include, among other things, therapy. I was attacked in April 2014 and was in therapy until July of 2015. I struggled heavily with depression for the first four-ish months (with the fleeting thought of suicide coming once,) and then it more or less 'went away.’… there’s also a chance I willed it away and quit therapy that July because I just didn’t want to talk about it anymore. But the residual effects that I refused to deal with once those first fourth months were over, did not go away. They bubbled and boiled, always turned down at the last minute, until Thanksgiving 2015, when circumstances beyond my control finally turned the stove on HIGH. Every ignored and stifled piece of pain came bubbling up, blew the lid off the pot, and everything in me boiled over, creating a complete mess. The pot was empty and I had nothing left to give…and here we are. 

Tonight I went to church for the third time since abandoning it altogether last May. Showing up is hard. I more or less feel a silent rage when it comes to God and it feels hypocritical and fraudulent to sit in church when, if God was a person standing in front of me, I would probably punch said person in the face while screaming a few choice words… After all, nothing happens in heaven or on earth without His ok, right? So, where was He that night and why did he ‘ok’ this? 

Louie Giglio preached a sermon entitled 'The Comeback' and within the first five minutes of preaching he says, “God Almighty can turn the page of your life tonight and begin writing you a new story.” Well, ok. Day 1 of 52 days, and that seems pretty fitting. Not shockingly, I took that as another sign (I warned you in entry one about me and signs: see 52 Days.) I mean, write you a new story? And I’m writing about the 52 day journey? And today is day 1 which is basically page 1. And journeys are always stories to be told…I’m telling you - coincidences are not a real thing. 

He went on to talk about how we are so often shaped by what was and don’t lean enough into what we could be; that we have to stop re-reading the old chapters and walk in new life. Merp. Sometimes when you’re mad, hearing the truth is hard. Forget that - anytime you’re mad, hearing the truth is hard. Hard like, I go to a church where people ’shout down’ our pastor, (it’s not as terrifying as it sounds - stuff like - “That’s good, Louie!” or “Amen!” or “That’s real!”) and I just wanted to shout him down with, “Go away! Stop somehow weirdly seeing into my soul. It's annoying.” I restrained myself and through my severe annoyance, I felt a little truth slide through a crack of the barely open door of my heart and mind tonight. With it came the smallest amount of light. Maybe I should stop focusing on how mad I am at God. I’ve been doing a very solid job of making that clear… So now my question is, how do I actually deal with the old chapters without dwelling on them? No clue. 

But Louie (is it weird that I feel like I’m on a first name basis with a pastor after they speak a message I connect to? Probably, but it is what it is) suggested two things:

1. A desperate plea

2. ask God for the faith to actually believe for a new chapter. 

At the end of the service, another one of our pastors gave us the opportunity to raise our hands in prayer if we needed a renewal of the mind, and I (awkwardly and through tears) raised my hand. That was tough for me - for my pastors who once trusted me to be a leader in our church, to see that I’m in this place? It’s a pride thing (that I need to work on.) But you know what else? It was brave. And in that bravery, I felt a weight lift. It was trust. And it that trust, I felt my heart lighten just a little.

So I’ll start there even if it feels weird and I’m annoyed. Clearly, I don’t have any better ideas. My journal entry tonight finished with, 

“well on day 1, I cried out to Jesus for help and was honest for the first time about where my heart is at. what will day 2 bring?” - 

who knows? 

Prep Day

Saturday, 3/5/2016

“What can you do for 52 days?”

“What can you stand for 52 days?”

“What can you change for 52 days?”

“What can you believe for 52 days?”

“What can you be for 52 days?”

This morning, as I meditated on the beach in Antigua, these questions plagued me. 

Three days ago I met a young guy who rowed the Atlantic ocean on a team of four guys in 52 days and it rocked my world. He challenged every thought I have about the way my life should look - dreams, resilience, willpower, determination, fear, insight, purpose. He hadn’t planned to row the Atlantic or been working towards it for as long as he could remember - he literally got a call one day and said yes, if the guy asking was serious, then yes. He came from a place of yes. 

If I approached my life from a place of yes, how different would it look? Would it likely look much more the way I dream it to? If I were going to say yes to ten things for 52 days, what would they be? Hmm.. well right off the top of my head...

  1. Honesty - with myself and others 
  2. Determination 
  3. Trust
  4. a regular yoga practice
  5. Meditation 
  6. Commitment 
  7. Joy 
  8. Practice
  9. Forgiveness 
  10. Peace in the moment

JD peed in a bottle, pooped in a bucket, ate space food, slept in the fetal position next to another dude, didn’t shower, and didn’t talk to anyone besides the three other guys on the boat with him, for 52 days. They got caught in a hurricane that blew them 20 miles off course for three days and heard about a fellow rower going overboard and never being found, and still never gave up. Other teams quit or were forced to quit due to extenuating circumstances and were picked up by tankers. Not them. When I asked him if he cried at any point, his answer (with a laugh,) was simple; “No. What good would that have done?”

He focused on what was necessary. How often do I allow my mind to drift to far off places that have no bearing on the present moment? We are all in the middle of our own Atlantic- and every day, we choose whether or not we want to keep going, or whether or not we want to call for a tanker --- The only person in control of my thoughts is me. If I focus on what is necessary in the present moment, would the peace I crave be much more attainable?

I found myself envying JD’s life and questioning everything about my own. I met him on a Thursday and the next thing on his agenda wasn’t until Monday - “there’s a surf session coming in, so I’ll probably do that and then have lunch on the beach." By that time, I’d be back in snowy New York City (the concrete jungle as we referred to it most of that day,) sitting in my flourescently-lit office combing through hundreds of emails. Having already completed the toughest hikes Antigua and her sister island have to offer, JD's more distant future plans included going to a nearby island to have a go at it’s tough trails, and going to Alaska to hike and see the Northern Lights. He says that his experience on the Atlantic totally changed everything he thinks about life - it's is an adventure to be lived. That wasn’t new information to me, but to meet someone who actually lives that way…well, that was new. 

He lives the adventure. He doesn't just survive. The life I’ve been living the past three years, it’s not the adventure I dream of now, or have ever dreamt of for that matter. I can’t be JD - at least not currently. But I can certainly live my own adventure. I didn’t come to New York to work in an office, punch a clock, and put money in a 401k. I do not want to be one of those people who goes on vacation twice a year for a week and runs the rat race the rest of the time. For some people, that’s the ideal -and hey, I’m not looking down on you, in fact, more power to ya - but for me, it’s like living in a prison. It stifles every instinct I have. I moved to New York to pursue dreams that have been with me my whole life - to live out my purpose. And up till now, fear has quenched the adventure. It has taken the driver’s seat of my life and absolutely directed my steps - what is that about?! Has that fear gotten me any closer to my dreams? No. It’s pushed me away - run me in the opposite direction. What if I abandoned the fear and lived the adventure? What if I fed every adventurous instinct I have? 

I’ve got two dream lives. There’s the one where I fulfill my dreams as an actress, singer, and entertainer, telling stories that matter, all while being involved in ministry, becoming a speaker, activist, and writer, get married and have kids and influence the world, and there’s the one where I travel the world working odd jobs, learning about people and cultures, get married and have kids somewhere along the way all while just continuing the adventure - nothing tying us down… the problem is that if I skip town now, I know I’ll regret it for the rest of my life. A huge part of me wants to - and has wanted to for a long time - but I can’t. Something stops me every time. And no matter how much it IRKS me, part of honoring yourself, is honoring your desires and your fears - giving voice to the desires, and telling the fears to shove off. 

I’ve got to tell my fears to peace out. 

Do I want to have no plans except to surf and have lunch on the beach? Absolutely. And I haven’t counted it out for one day, whether that’s in three months, three years, or when I’m 60. JD and I talked about me working on a boat as a deckhand or a day worker - that that would be a way to start this free life I dream of - “yah man. Just do it. Just go for it.” - well, I won’t be working as a deck hand or day worker on a luxury yacht, but I do plan to “just do it. just go for it.” Like an experiment. For 52 days I will come from a place of yes. I will focus on what is necessary. I will live the adventure. I will tell my fears to peace out. I will just do it. I will go for it. 

JD is in the top five people I’ve ever met. Presidents, celebrities, and Desmond Tutu (who complimented my shoes by the way!)… they were great, but what makes JD so inspiring is that he is the most normal guy. He’s normal - but he’s obviously also got tested persistence, a love of life, and a contagious desire for adventure; whatever your version of adventure may be. When I think about dreams and legacy, I realize that I want people to remember me like I remember JD, which means I’ve got a lot of work ahead of me!

52 Days

out of the ashes and into the light

When I sat on the beach meditating that morning (you may already be like, "oh geeeeez make it stop!") and had the thought, “if JD can do that, what can you do for 52 days?”, I decided to begin a 52 day challenge. I’d been stuck in a negative space (that's a kind way of putting it) for months and wanted to drastically change my life. So, I starting thinking of personal mantras that I could adopt for 52 days, all with the underlying feeling that this was a silly, new-age-y, foundation-less idea that I was concocting. Basically, I was annoying myself. 

But then I felt prompted to count out 52 days on my calendar. Day 52 would land on April, 26, 2016. Uhhh what? That couldn't be right. So I counted again. And again. And one more time for good measure because I don’t believe in coincidences, (also because anything in the math realm, even something as rudimentary as counting, is not my strong suit.) My friends might tell you that I have a tendency to take things to be signs. I can categorically say that this was not one of those instances. Because of that, I decided to not only go on this journey, but write about it. Don’t fear - that idea was immediately accompanied with humbling and self-deprecating thoughts like: “Becky, who the actual eff is going to want to read a '52 day journey' about some random, normal chick who doesn't have any idea what it is she's journeying toward or even what she wants out of it, inspired by a random encounter on an Antiguan speedboat?” But that date...

Two years ago, on April 26, 2014, nine months after moving to New York to pursue my dreams, I was drugged at a bar, taken to an apartment with the promise of finding my missing friend, forcibly held there, assaulted, raped, and then physically thrown into the rain with the trash. It changed the course of my life. 

Sadness, anger, depression, anxiety, fear, recklessness, shame, confusion, pretense, destruction, excess, bitterness, self-hatred, and doubt became the foundations upon which I very secretly, and somewhat unknowingly, rebuilt my life. (Geez, that's a lot of emotions for one sentence.)

I didn’t want to be hurt. I didn’t want to give my attackers any power. I didn’t want to be another statistic. I definitely didn’t want people to identify me as this. And I certainly didn’t want anyone to know the deep wounds, previously healed with some antiseptic and a bandaid, that this ripped wide open. I didn't want to think about any of it.

So while bleeding out, I stuffed some lap pads in there (avid Grey’s Anatomy watcher over here,) abandoned my dreams, and said I was fine and “healed."

I “knew" that one day I would understand why this was allowed to happen and that "God was at work somewhere in it." But I didn't actually believe that. I just knew it's what I was supposed to say. When you really know something is true, you feel it in your bones (or in your fingers and toes… Love Actually anyone?)

I felt like I was being blown around in a tornado. But because I didn’t want to be feeling enraged and embarrassed, I decided to "trust God" the way I have been taught to my whole life. And I believed that the longer I blindly trusted Him, the healing would just come; the more that I got on with life and ignored it, this would fade into the background. That I was exhibiting faith. But I wasn't and it didn't.

Within a month, I stepped into new leadership roles at my church. Within nine months, I decided to start a foundation (this is how I ARISE was originally born) that would raise awareness towards the issue. But being a highly functioning, jerry-rigger of an emergency surgeon on my heart helped no one, least of all me, and the in-between was filled with patterns of self-destruction, often hidden in the dark of late night and early morning hours. 

I wanted I ARISE to be a non-profit, activist, organization that pioneered change, raised awareness and shifted the reality of so many women in the world. My free time was filled with researching sexual assault statistics, finding people who wanted to partner with me, watching documentaries, building a website, putting together a support team, partnering with a production company and filming the beginnings of a documentary. But I quickly burned out. How could I build something designed to help others when I hadn’t even begun to truly pick up my own pieces? But instead of asking for help, I ran in the opposite direction. I stepped down from leadership in my church and within two months, stopped going to church altogether. 

A blog was certainly never on my agenda. The thought just kind of arrived in my mind a few days prior to meeting JD, and I immediately dismissed it. I’m one of those cynics who is almost instantly annoyed at anyone who starts a sentence with, “Well on my blog…” - oh yes, please do tell me about your surely earth shattering blog filled with political opinions, healthy recipes, spiritual guidance, conspiracy theories, and an essay on how if you were the coach of your favorite sports team, they would absolutely, positively, never have suffered such an embarrassing and clearly avoidable loss to                          (insert winning team here.) Not that I don't understand the anger that drives that last one - I mean, I still feel personally victimized by the Texans loss to Miami last season where at the half, they were down 41-0. Sorry. Not the point and I will now get back on track.

Despite my hoity toity attitude toward the blogosphere, here I am blogging, so clearly God humbles our negative attitudes and pride even when it blows - actually let’s just be real here, being humbled pretty much always blows because it means admitting you're in the wrong….oh wait, is that just me? 

So the idea is this: one entry for each of the 52 days of this journey. The day of the idea is March 5 and will go up tomorrow, April 30. Day 1 = March 6 = May 1. 

I have no idea what these 52 days will hold, and therefore, no freaking clue what this blog will look like. Today is March 14, aka day 9. I started writing this introductory entry on March 8, aka day 3, and it'll probably get another edit before it goes live. All other entries will be in the voice of that present day. Here’s what I do know: this will not be a curated blog where everything falls under the same well thought out theme, follows a fluid storyline, or depicts photos all edited the same way for aesthetic consistency. It will be honest (likely to a fault) and at times will seem random - but uh HELLO, we all have a million random thoughts a day...I'm just the ding dong that's putting mine out on the internet for all to see - I'm also the ding dong who is immediately beginning to question this decision.  

But here I go - 52 days, huh? Doesn't seem so long until you come up with a weird idea to span them, and then it's like uhhhh what was I thinking? But if JD could survive his 52 days (I tell you all about that tomorrow,) I can get it together for this. And if I can't, well, I've got a lot more to figure out than I realize! 

 If you've stuck it out thus far, thanks for reading. Hopefully you'll come back and see what happens. 

One thing I've learned already - adventure isn’t for the faint of heart, that’s for dang sure.