believe

day 10: what if?

Tuesday, 3/15/2016

Blerg blerg blerg blerg blerg (sung to the tune of Rhianna’s “Work.”) 

My favorite word to chuck around when I’m less than amused my something is blerg. Oddly close to the word blog.. 

I am feeling blerg about my blog. That is to say, I am feeling afraid about my blog. 

In the past five minutes, I have realized that in my beckybrain, fear (my arch nemesis,) is almost always accompanied by two small, yet mind-numbingly frustrating words… “what if?” 

What if…. what if…. what if….

“what if I tell my story and am forever labeled ‘Becky - you know my friend that was raped?” 

“what if people, much like the police, don’t believe me?” 

“what if no one reads it?” 

“what if this insight into who I am (aka, me sprawling out some of my innermost thoughts for anyone on the internet to read) causes people I know to dislike me?” 

“what if I like a guy (and we're friends on Facebook so he knows I have this thing) and he reads it and he is like 'whoahhh, no thanks?'” 

“what if people ask me questions that I don’t know how to answer?” 

“what if I tell my story and those involved feel disrespected?” 

“what if giving people such unfiltered insight into my soul is a horrible idea?” 

“what if people close to me are shocked by decisions I made (that they don’t know about and I may write about) in the aftermath and push me away?” 

“what if I’m an idiot?” 

Two tiny words…. but oh so much power. What. If. 

But then, almost out of nowhere - 

What if in someone labeling me in a way I fear, they immediately think to reach out when they have a friend who goes through something similar? 

About a year after my attack, one of my guy friends turned to me and said, “but that can’t be right. Things like that don’t happen to girls like you.” What if the realization that things like this happen to girls like anything changes how he sees the women around him and it has a ripple effect?  

What if even one girl reads this who needs a voice? 

What if reading this blog causes those I love to understand me more

What if I like a guy and he reads it and thinks, “wow, she’s [insert positive notion here]?” 

What if people ask me questions and I’m honest? 

What if in writing about it, it lets those who helped know how grateful I am for what they did? 

What if giving people such unfiltered insight into my soul does just that - gives them insight into my soul? 

What if those decisions I wish I’d made differently resonate with somebody going through a similar time and it helps them know that nobody gets to judge or determine your path to healing? 

What if I’m smart? 

And the biggest one - WHAT IF this is not about me and not about you but about the person that reads it that needs to know she’s not alone? That needs to know the pain ends and the joy does in fact come? 

And just like that, what if, has become a phrase I love. 

PS - Coldplay has a song called "What If," as if I needed anymore of a reason to decidedly love the phrase. 

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 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?