Negatively Positive

Not long ago, I was filling in a new-ish friend on some of my trauma lore -- 2015, the miscarriages, and the early years of my marriage.

 

That last bit is something I have not really spoken to anybody about. I had already learned that honesty was an offence punishable by public dismemberment and being buried alive, plus I couldn't reconcile being honest about the pain while simultaneously loving my husband. I shut down. I spent probably four years in an eternal present. I had no past and no future. No thoughts besides how to prevent the next blowup or smooth over the current one.

 

Early on, I had been messaging my friends about my confusion at his sudden change in attitude. How the calm, generous listener had overnight started screaming insults over basic use of the English language. Their response was unanimous: Leave him.

 

The thought was very tempting, I won't lie. But I had seen who he had been before, and I was unwilling to believe that kind act had been only an act. This isn't who he is. He wasn't always like that. It has to be just stress or something.

 

When I tried to explain this, with my rapidly-decreasing ability to think (let alone write) in comprehensible English, they escalated. I will not watch you self-destruct. If you don't leave him, I will not be a part of your life.

 

How do you respond to an ultimatum like that?

 

I had been friends with some of these people for over a decade. I had helped most of them through life-threatening crises of their own. I had offered so much time and energy to them freely, even in times when my own life was crumbling. Now I was in crisis, and they could not remember the times I had moved heaven and earth to help them through worse.

 

I don't have the mental capacity for your problems as well as my own, they told me, one by one. I can't handle your negativity. Don't bring me into your problems anymore.

 

But it won't always be like this. It'll get better... right? Marriage is hard and we're both learning and it'll get better, it just sucks right now.

 

I was speaking to an empty room by the end, with only my own voice for company.

 

It has to get better. This isn't who he really is. I made him a promise. I made a vow before God.

I promised. 

 

I hung onto that thought with all my strength. But my fingers were slipping. 

 

Five years earlier, when my world had crumbled around me, when the Angel of Death took a combine harvester to every part of my life, the friends who didn't die in the devastation turned on me: you're too negative. You always see the worst in everything.

 

Now, as my loving husband turned into a monster before my eyes, as I clung to the insane hope that this was only a season and not an eternal condemnation... my friends still left me. I chose to look for a sunrise while buried alive, and that still wasn't good enough.

 

When everybody died, I was too negative, too sad. When my husband turned out to be a real-life Jekyll and Hyde, I was too positive, too hopeful.

 

Make it make sense.

 

Like if you hate my guts and are just looking for an excuse to cut me out of your life -- this is a Pro-Tip, by the way, take notes -- just say you hate my guts. Just be honest. Don't do this 'you're too X' song and dance. It's like trying to kill a grizzly bear with a spoon -- it takes way longer than necessary, and everyone involved feels way more pain than they needed to.

What's more, I am sorely tempted to message every single one of those people who couldn't find a scrap of compassion in their hearts -- hearts that in some cases were still beating because of me -- and tell them you know what? I was f--king right.

 

We are coming up on another wedding anniversary. If anything, we are happier now than we were even in those early days of dating. And if I had followed their advice and left him, he would be dead and honestly I might be too.

 

 

P.S. -- Do you want to know what the problem was? Why my husband went from sweet, romantic, caring, and generous to angry, manipulative, vicious, and did I mention angry?

An allergy.

A food allergy to a very common seasoning.

By the time I convinced him to go to the doctor about it, it had mutated into five other major chronic health conditions which we are still trying get treatment for, to say nothing of the ongoing emotional fallout for both of us individually and in our marriage. Our marriage still exists only because I'm a stubborn German who is still too bitter about my uncle leaving my aunt (for literally zero reason) to give up on my own marriage for any reason at all.

The People Of God

The greatest single cause of atheism in the world today is Christians, who acknowledge Jesus with their lips, then walk out the door, and deny Him by their lifestyle.
That is what an unbelieving world simply finds unbelievable.

(Quoted in dc Talk's 'What If I Stumble?,' 1995.)

Lately, as I navigate my calling as an artist (and all it entails), coming to terms with the trauma in my past, the faith community that has by-and-large told me God can't love me because (any number of stupid self-centered reasons but mostly because God made me an artist), and the loss of several friends because I'm 'too depressed,' I'm becoming increasingly disillusioned with the whole thing.

I grew up in the Christian bubble. I freely admit that. In a lot of ways, I'm still in it. But I don't like what I'm seeing. It doesn't make sense. And it's not necessarily God that I have a problem with (although I do still have trust issues with Him due to my cousin's entirely unnecessary death in 2015). It's the people.

The people of God -- oh, that's a lofty title. The people who reflect God -- all His love and compassion and kindness and joy and wisdom and justice and gentleness and patience. The people entrusted with His work of restoring broken people and reminding them they are valuable. The people originally called 'little Christs' because they were so much like Him.

You know who the people of God really are, on an individual level?

They are that person at church who tells you you are too negative and that you need to be more happy or else you can't be friends anymore.

They are that church leadership figure that actively stifles your gift (and no-one else's) because they have a 'feeling' that 'people might not like it.' (Not 'is this a direction God wants us to go?' not 'is this gift forbidden or approved in Scripture?' not even 'does God have something to teach us through this person's use of this gift?')

They are that other church leadership figure that talks behind your back -- telling your friends not to associate with you because you're 'too negative.'

They are that friend who's been through darker valleys than you have, who literally stops talking to you BECAUSE you're 'too depressed' -- then gets upset when you go to someone else for support.

They are that friend who, even after learning you're in therapy following a suicide attempt, keeps telling you to 'get over it.'

They are that best friend who basically cuts off the friendship -- hoping you won't notice -- and when questioned, their excuse is 'you're too personal.'

They are that person who told you they cared about you and then began literally grading every email you sent them, based on 1. whether they were 'too long' or not, and 2. whether or not they had a 'good balance of positive and negative.' Without addressing anything you actually said in the email.


I sense a theme. God's ambassadors are consistently telling me that I'm annoying and too talkative and too deep and too negative. Ergo, this must be the way God feels about me too. I mean, that's what His representatives are telling me.

You know what's really stupid?

All these same people keep telling me 'God loves you...'

Motivation

15 March 2016; 1.30am.

Is there a place for anger in an artist?

I guarantee I won't figure out the answer in one blog post, but I'm thinking it's something I should consider. I saw a thing on the Humans of New York Facebook page the other day, a quote from an artist, talking about how important humility is in an artist. And I absolutely agreed with him, but it made me aware of whether or not I'm very humble. I don't have to think about that long -- I'm probably one of the most prideful artists ever. (How much do I rail against modern dance and modern music because I think it sucks and I can do better?)

But where did this come from? I don't think I've ever been humble to begin with. There have always been things I hated in art and while I have always wanted to capture what I love about the world, I have nothing but contempt for the things that don't touch me. Is that just me? Or is this normal? Should it be so?

Further down the thought trail I realised most of my art -- indeed, most of my life -- comes from a place of anger. Sometimes it's resentment, sometimes it's jealousy, sometimes it's frustration, but it all fits under the same heading. I always had an interest in writing, but I started writing in earnest in the depths of my self-pity after being told by the church youth group that I was unloveable. So I sat in my room and composed stories, mostly about a lonely, rejected main character who either commits suicide (causing everyone who met her to finally realise what jerks they were), or goes off to college somewhere -- effectively falling off the face of the earth -- and climbs the ranks of society or show business and then runs into her detractors by chance years down the road when she's in a higher social class than they. It was my only way of being vindicated -- in my own handwriting, in reams of looseleaf that no-one has ever seen. Later this started to spawn novels with a more diverse plot range, but it started with my rage against all those who claimed to be reflecting the God of love but spread only hate and favouritism against me.

On a different track: I first realised I wanted to make dances when I was about eight years old. I even made a few false starts in my mid teens. But what finally got a dance finished was this: when I finally grew brave enough to even mention to my mother that this was what I wanted, she took it well -- to my face. But that night, after we were all in bed... I went upstairs to get a drink or something and I heard her talking to my dad about me.

"She wants to be some big-shot choreographer now. I don't know where she gets this stuff from. She'll never do it. She doesn't want it bad enough."

I was incensed. This was my life's dream. For years she had been begging me to talk to her, to tell her what was going on in my mind about something, anything. And I finally decided to trust her with this, my deepest and most precious thought (at the time)... and she calls me stupid?

I don't want it bad enough, huh? We'll see about that.

I made a vow that night. I would finish the next dance I started. And if I couldn't finish it, that would be a sign to me that choreography was not what I was meant to do and I would accept that she was right.

I had spent my entire life being a failure. A nobody. Someone who would be better off dead. I'd already written half a dozen novels by that point in my life, but apparently that didn't matter and I was still a failure. With my vow in mind, I started work on Sing Your Freedom not long after that. I finished it.

And I said nothing about it. I finished several more dances. I'm not sure at what point she realised I was finishing them. But by that time I was beyond telling her about my accomplishments. They were worthless anyway. These were for me now. When they went through my stuff after I died -- whenever that would be -- they would find out what a great artist was in their midst. And then they would be sorry for treating me like that.

Delusional? Almost certainly. But I was blind with rage. I was no longer creating to enrich people's lives. I was creating to prove -- if only in my daydreams -- that I was not as worthless as I felt everyone was making me out to be. And in a final twist of pride, I didn't even talk about my work or my accomplishments outside of this blog and occasionally Facebook. The very people I thought I had gone into art for were not privy to the work that I was theoretically doing for them. My gift -- if I even had one to speak of -- was being used for me only, for my own edification and satisfaction. I told myself 'they'll never love you no matter how great your work is so why bother trying?' So I focused on proving to myself that I was great. And thus I started creating art in a complete and total vacuum.

This Shouldn't Bother Me Anymore... But It Does

This is going to be a bit of a self-pity post. Consider this your fair warning.

So my grandmother is still on her 'Kate-needs-to-get-off-her-presumably-lazy-backside-and-get-a-job' kick. Never mind that I'm working one full-time job and two part-times and am still crazy enough to be seriously considering another potentially full-time job and another part-time.

Anyway.

So today at church, one of the worship team members came up to me as my grandmother was telling me about this utterly fantastic job opportunity she saw in the paper, and tried to thank me for running the PowerPoint.

I don't get a lot of compliments (and most definitely not in real life), so I was carefully recording this moment in my head for future reference.

But instead of letting me have the moment, my grandmother butted in and told him to tell me to get out and get a job.

Sensing a potentially explosive situation, he cut his compliment short and left. So then did my grandmother.

And the recording in my head, meant to preserve a rare compliment, contains only another reminder that I will never be good enough.

I know what you're all thinking. I know what you're going to say. You'll say that I have a lot of talent, that I shouldn't give up just because of one person, that she probably doesn't understand any of this, that I'm not the only one to feel this way. And I do thank you all for that. Those reminders are definitely helpful.

But just once, I'd like for someone to look at me and not automatically assume (or be told before they have a chance to form an impression) that I'm stupid and lazy. I'd like them to be able to hold a conversation with me without telling me everything that's wrong with me (as if I didn't already know and hate myself for it!), to be able to look at me and be able to truthfully say they appreciate me. That it's okay for me learn this whole life thing as I go, that I don't have to have it all perfect the first time. That even if I mess up, they will still love me.

The Jealousy In Me

Someone from our church was recently in an accident.
She's the associate pastor's wife and a very sweet person, but for some reason I'm jealous.
Everyone in the church has sent out emails and posted on Facebook to pray for her.
Last year I was in a very serious accident. My life (or at least the use of my legs) was spared by five inches.
Aside from four cliché comments on my status requesting prayer for the baby in the other vehicle, nobody gave a crap about it.  'Oh did you hear Kate was in an accident?' 'No. How is she?' 'Fine.' 'Hmph. Figures.'
I realise this person is a lot more popular with the general congregation (not to mention more widely known), but this bothers me. Why does everyone fret about her and not me? All I got was a couple of half-baked 'oh yeah sure, glad you're okay' from everyone who heard about it (save one close friend who actually was concerned) and this person gets dozens of people sending out petitions through various mediums to pray for her plus people saying 'Oh no! I'm so glad you're okay! We love you -- take it easy!' and similar sentiments.
You know, when I was in my accident, I was basically fine -- the standard whiplash and some recurring breathing problems but nothing too serious really. But was it too much to ask for a little sympathy? How would these people feel if I had died that day -- ripped out of the world at such a young age?
Apparently they wouldn't have missed me.
I know it's ridiculous to suddenly get all offended about it nearly a year later, but would it really have been too much to ask to get an 'I love you' or a hug along with one of those 'glad you're ok' clichés? Was the only reason they were glad I was okay because since I was okay they wouldn't need to feel guilty about wishing me dead and then having it come true?
If I bring so much to the world as they say, why then were they so blasé about it? Certainly, this person in the church is lucky to be alive, just as I was, and I really am glad she's all right, but... how come everyone loves her and not me? Have I alienated that many people already? Have I hurt so many by careless words (the last of which were spoken almost three years ago, prior to this being brought to my attention and the subsequent efforts I've made to curb my tongue)? Have I ruined the lives of so many by simply existing? Is my perfectionism (which I'm openly trying to tone down) that intimidating that people would find it a relief to have me wiped off the planet?
Perhaps I should have died in that accident, because apparently nobody needs me here no matter how much they say they do.

The Attack Of The College Jerk(s)

I've spent the better part of my life being ignored. One can get used to that after a while (albeit a long, long, long while in my case), but what's infuriating is when people can no longer settle for ignoring you and instead start to insult you every second chance they get, ripping out every thread of happiness you've ever had, slowly, methodically, steadily.
As if it couldn't get any worse they spend the other half of their time with you (notice I said 'every second chance' in the preceding paragraph) being quite decent friends. Not bosom buddies or anything of that sort, but fairly open and friendly-like. They probably wouldn't defend you if a robber were to get his hands on you, but they listen and they have no problem conversing with you.
Luckily, most of the worst offenders in my life are now going to college. Even better, all of the worst are going fairly far abroad -- far enough that they only return for Christmas break and then they're too caught up with family things and the few people they've somehow managed to retain as friends to bother looking for me and insulting me.
The problem is, in April they all come back for the summer and stay until September. There's three of them, although two of them seem to have really mellowed out as of late.
The third one, however -- let's call him RJ -- seems to grow more and more irritated with me every time he sees me.
This probably wouldn't bother me so much if I wasn't so close to his mother and younger brother.
I can tell when he's returned from college even before he says anything on Facebook. His mother's whole attitude toward me changes when his return is drawing near. She stops talking to me, gradually distances herself; giving only vague excuses for it that mostly place the blame on her chronic illness.
I realise he's her son and she loves him more than me and wants to spend time with him, but honestly, must our friendship go through this roller coaster based on her son's location? It's not that she and I spend that much time physically together anyway, most of our contact is through e-mail.
Something just occurred to me.
So many people who know both him and me -- and there's quite a few, seeing as we attend the same church -- have said that RJ and I are very, very alike (in personality that is, not appearance). I've seen it too. His mother comments on it almost every time she sees me -- how I remind her of RJ.
So is this it then? Am I just a replacement for RJ while he's gone off to college? When he's here, is that reason enough for her to ignore me because now she has the 'real thing' living in her house again?
Or has RJ 'brainwashed' her (for lack of a better word)? Does he exercise such subliminal power even over his own mother that she has nothing to do with me as per his (possibly unspoken) wishes?
Or am I just a conspiracy theorist?

Broken Wings

There's a girl with wings. Let's call her Alida. She spends her days soaring through the sky, carefree, happy. Another girl comes along and befriends her.
Together they fly, best friends in the world.
One day though, the girl deliberately tricks Alida into crashing hard into the rocks. She laughs cruelly and flies away, leaving Alida caught in the rocks.
After days of struggle Alida finally gets free. She's unable to fly, her wings are torn and broken. So she wanders alone among the desolate rocks for a long, long time.
Finally someone takes her in, saying he's going to fix her wings. After some thought, she decides to give him a chance.
He earns her trust, pretending, quite convincingly, to help her. Indeed, her wings slowly begin to heal. She sees nothing but his clever disguise of tender care.
After a time though, he leads her to a cliff, pushes her roughly over the edge, and tells her to fly.
She can't, she's not ready. She falls off the edge and starts to spiral downward.
He watches her for a few moments, then turns and walks away.
She can't fly, her wings haven't had enough time to heal properly. Now she's falling, down to the sharp jagged rocks below, down to certain death.
There's no one to stop her. No one to catch her.

Found in some old papers of mine, dated 31 December 2007. How prophetic it is too. ~ Kate