I was on high school ministry staff for six years at the church I went to about ten years ago. High school ministry staff was a weird thing back then. It was "the thing to do" if you were a church kid when you graduated from high school. Very clique-ish. You got a lot of publicity. Everyone knew who you were. Everyone knew everything about your life. Everyone dated each other. Weird, right? Or, maybe this is what it is like everywhere at any church when you are a staff member of a ministry group - I wouldn't know. I only know what I experienced.
We had staff retreats twice a year and would go to Sun River, rent a cabin, and live together for a weekend. The weekend was always full of "team building" activities. One year, one of these activities was a personality test. We all took an hour to answer the questions individually, add up the different columns and find out what "box" or quadrant we were in. Then, we all got together in a big group and told everyone what we had been labeled. Our names were then written in permanent marker inside a grid so we could all see where we were at. The purpose was supposedly to learn how all of us were wired differently and how we contributed different things to our ministry group. Seemed like a good team builder - interesting; fun, even.
The four quadrants were Amiable, Expressive, Driver and Analytical. How it worked is that everyone had a dominant trait and a secondary trait. The dominant trait was just that - the way that you responded in most situations. The secondary trait was what you flipped into when you were pushed, angered or operating outside your comfort zone. I spent a lot of time answering these questions and took it very seriously as I was anxious to find out what boxes I fell into; I wanted it to be accurate. I found at the end that my primary and secondary trait were "Expressive." So, when it came to be my turn I knew that I would say "Expressive, Expressive." Initially, I didn't see a problem with this. However, it became clear very quickly as everyone told the group what they had found that my result was not one that would be looked on kindly. I knew this based on the fact that the Student Ministries Pastor was "Driver, Driver" and my other two male friends that made up "The Trinity," (not kidding, this is what they called themselves), were "Driver" and "Analytical" blends. Apparently, these were the things to be.
Let me be clear that this public process was not simply saying out loud where you had fallen in the quadrants and moving on to the next person. A "discussion" ensued after each person took their turn. A discussion defined by making fun of each other, bringing out specific examples of why this was true/not true, etc. Loosely speaking, if you were a "Driver" or "Analytical" you were strong and/or smart. If you were "Amiable" or "Expressive" you were a pushover and/or crazy. I feared that my answer made me "Crazy, Crazy" and could think of no worse place to be on that grid covered in permanent marker.
I decided to lie. It looked like this...
"Alright, Jamie Joy, this should be interesting! What ya got?" said the Student Ministries Pastor.
"Analytical, Expressive," I said sheepishly without making eye contact with anyone.
Silence. Silence. Silence.
My heart beat out of my chest. I knew I was a horrible liar and felt as the silence continued that they all knew I had made it up. So, I told the truth.
"OK, OK, that's not what I got. Expressive, Expressive."
Silence. Then laughter. Lots and lots of laughter.
"THAT sounds more like it. Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha! Yes! Ha, ha, ha, ha! Yes, you are!" said the Student Ministries Pastor. "I can't believe you tried to lie your way out of that one! Ha, ha, ha, ha! Oh, man! Jamie, that is FUNNY!"
I sat and laughed along with them, feeling extremely small on the inside. Verdict - Jamie was emotional, emotional or crazy, crazy or loud, loud or thoughtless, thoughtless. My shame was hidden but intense. Finally, the attention moved from me to the next person and I was left with a sick feeling in my stomache. Always being labeled as the "bad party girl gone good" in this group, I desperately wanted to be respected and acknowledged as having something to contribute to the ministry I was involved in. Instead, I had very much been type-cast as the girl who had "experienced a lot of life." The girl they had work with the popular, non-churched girls in the ministry. The girl they had tell her testimony most often in large groups because it was "dramatic" and "redemptive." I had a tattoo. I had a body piercing. I was not a virgin. I had done drugs. I was different and always felt alienated and ironically - in this story - put in a box I was not allowed movement from. Now, I was literally in a box.
My saving grace came when it was my friend, Paul Ramey's, turn to speak in front of the group. He made direct eye contact with me, said "Expressive, Expressive" proudly, paused - and then came over and gave me a high five. Paul got the same response I did. People nodded and talked and laughed about how we were male/female versions of each other and all sorts of "funny" stories came out about the two of us that "proved" we really were what the test had showed. Again, we laughed and laughed along with them.
I am still very close with Paul and his wife, Mer, to this day. Very recently I was at their house and the story I just told came up. He told me that he did some research after that staff retreat and came upon some very interesting things. He said being prophetic is often-times affiliated with "Expressive" people. I don't know about you, but when I hear the word "prophetic" I automatically think things like having the gift of being able to see or tell the future to a certain extent. This is not all this means. It also means having the ability to speak Truth into people's lives with an unapologetic clarity. A clarity that has the potential to be deeply grasped and take real root in another's heart. Another's life. This is a gift. When he shared this with me, I smiled. I believed him. I could acknowledge there was Truth in what he said.
I have a very strong reaction to people that try to put me in a box even now. I think one of the most important gifts you can give someone you love is the ability to move, change and grow. If we aren't allowed this freedom to change, where does grace fall into the picture? For that matter, what kind of love and respect and forgiveness can we have for others and ourselves if this freedom is not extended to us? As much as I hate it, I find myself putting myself in a box at times - and more times than I would like to admit I have put people I love in a box as well. This does myself and others a huge disservice. We can't love ourselves and we can't love others if/when we do this. Not really. People do make mistakes. We all struggle with our personal demons and natural inclinations towards self-destructive behavior. But I am a firm believer that everyone can change - everyone is capable of breaking cycles and adopting new, positive behaviors rooted in the heart...the soul.
Who am I? My name is Jamie Joy and I will be fine in my "Crazy, Crazy" permanent marker box all day long if you love me enough to allow me to figure out that I am much more as well and understand that this in no way, shape or form defines me.
Wednesday, September 14, 2011
Thursday, September 1, 2011
Ugly Duckling
I went through a very long awkward stage when I was growing up - six years long, to be exact. I was a very unfortunate looking girl at a time in ones' life where it is important to feel good about yourself. I had big, thick glasses, braces, and to add insult to injury - a mullet hairdo. Rail thin and very tall for my age, I stuck out in a crowd in a way no one wants to stick out.
My family moved us around a lot growing up, and I was always the new girl in school. I hated getting up in front of the class and saying my name and where I came from with my thick southern drawl. Everyone stared. No one talked to me. It was terrible. All I wanted in the world was to stand still for awhile - no more moves, no more new girl. I wanted to have a friend that had known me for longer than a year. I wanted to have friends to eat lunch with in the cafeteria. I wanted to sit with someone on the bus. But more than anything, I wanted to be a different person; I wanted to look different, act different, talk different. I wanted to be pretty and popular. I wanted to have a boyfriend. I wanted to wear stylish clothes. I wanted to walk into school and not feel like throwing up. I wanted to not be shy...and I especially wanted to not be a pastors' kid. I hated myself and despised my life.
When my mom and step-dad moved us to Oregon, I was 15 years old and going into my sophomore year of high school. For once, we had not moved in the middle of the year. This meant I would be starting high school at the same time as everyone else (back then, high school was only 10th-12th grades.) Miracle of all miracles, my awkward stage ended that summer as the braces came off, I started to wear contacts, and the mullet grew out. I was no longer tall for my age and had finally started to develop a more feminine body. I was ecstatic and dreamed at night about a new Jamie - a pretty, popular, outgoing Jamie that got invited to parties. I practiced speaking without my southern accent every day and lost it quickly. I was determined to be this new person by the first day of school, knowing full well that I would have to become the best actress in the world to pull it off but also knowing that I was desperate enough to try. And pull it off I did.
I went to all my classes that first day of school with my head held high. I actively pretended I was confident and at ease while I shook on the inside. I pretended not to care that I didn't know anyone and flipped my long hair back and forth like I had seen the popular girls do in the South, smoothing on my lip gloss nonchalantly across my lips during the breaks between classes. I was an active observer, taking note of who the popular people were and positioning myself in such a way to be noticed by them. One week in, I had it made. All the girls asked for my phone number and I had invitations to all the best parties. People bombarded me with questions about my past life and my family and I answered in lies.
"My dad is a lawyer."
"You were voted best looking in junior high? I was voted Most Popular!"
"I totally miss my boyfriend. He was so hot."
"Do you guys party around here? I haven't had a drink in so long!"
"Does anyone skip class? I hate school. I can't wait to go to college and be in a sorority."
I had completely re-invented myself and felt completely justified doing so. I started to swear for the first time in my life and denied going to church every Sunday. I pretended not to care that boys were noticing me for the first time in my life and turned down every one of them that asked me out for the first 3 weeks because "I had a boyfriend back home." Eventually, I had to lie to cover up the lies. I felt panicky every once in a while that I would get caught but the bliss of popularity overshadowed every other part of me and the guilt I would have normally felt. I began to treat my family horribly. I began to treat people that weren't popular at school horribly, making fun of them for what they wore or who they hung out with. I took bets from my new friends to say and do awful things to boys that had crushes on me because they weren't "cool." I snuck out at night to drink and smoke pot and make out with boys who would talk about it afterwards.
I would love to be able to say that this only lasted a short while before I changed my behaviors. I would love to be able to say that I felt guilty about who I had become and the shallow things I held dear to me. The truth is, this person I spoke of is who I pretended to be for the duration of my high school years and one year after that. On paper, I got everything I wanted - everything I used to dream about in my mullet, braces and glasses. But on the inside, I was slowly dying and hurting myself on a deep level that I am still seeing the repercussions of to this day.
Over the years, I have run into people that I knew back then that have point blank told me what a horrible person I was; how the way I treated them was something that they had to deal with for years after the fact. My attempts at explaining to them the ways I have changed and my sincere apologies for my wrong-doings fell on deaf ears and I can't say I blame them for that. I have learned the hard way that you can't take back words and actions - that sometimes, you have to live with the consequences of your behaviors. I made things right with my family years ago and they have graciously forgiven me for the horrible way I treated them in that time, but sometimes - even when there has been forgiveness extended, memories and scars of the heart still hurt and affect relationship to a certain extent.
I am still in process of forgiving myself. Not so much my behaviors of more than 10 years ago now as much as for how I continued to pretend long after high school in a different way. Being authentic and honest both in front of people and in my heart might always be a struggle for me. So much of the time, these things hurt. It hurts to look back on my life and accept responsibility for my behavior. It hurts to admit the truth of how I really feel on the inside and who I really am. It's scary to trust and be honest about where I am at in my heart when I have been hurt very much by people I loved in this way...people I trusted to treat my heart in the way it should have been treated in the face of honesty.
I firmly believe that God turns every hard, painful experience into good. My struggle with trusting people with who I really am is no exception. I have learned, and continue to learn so much about grace through the mistakes I have made in the past. We will never go wrong in being real and honest with each other in the long run - not ever. Even when people inevitably fail you - and you fail them - grace exists. Complete healing of my heart and soul will never become a reality as long as I am pretending. It takes great strength to take a long, hard look at yourself and deal with what you see head on. Much of the time, I don't feel like I have the strength...and this is true. I can't do it alone. I need Him to hold my hand and encourage me in my dark moments of looking deep into my heart. Lucky for me, He loves to do this. We all have to face into ourselves and be honest about what is there in order for true healing and peace to transpire - I believe this with everything I have in me. My prayers for the healing of my heart and change in my perspective do not and will not fall on deaf ears. Of this I am sure.
My family moved us around a lot growing up, and I was always the new girl in school. I hated getting up in front of the class and saying my name and where I came from with my thick southern drawl. Everyone stared. No one talked to me. It was terrible. All I wanted in the world was to stand still for awhile - no more moves, no more new girl. I wanted to have a friend that had known me for longer than a year. I wanted to have friends to eat lunch with in the cafeteria. I wanted to sit with someone on the bus. But more than anything, I wanted to be a different person; I wanted to look different, act different, talk different. I wanted to be pretty and popular. I wanted to have a boyfriend. I wanted to wear stylish clothes. I wanted to walk into school and not feel like throwing up. I wanted to not be shy...and I especially wanted to not be a pastors' kid. I hated myself and despised my life.
When my mom and step-dad moved us to Oregon, I was 15 years old and going into my sophomore year of high school. For once, we had not moved in the middle of the year. This meant I would be starting high school at the same time as everyone else (back then, high school was only 10th-12th grades.) Miracle of all miracles, my awkward stage ended that summer as the braces came off, I started to wear contacts, and the mullet grew out. I was no longer tall for my age and had finally started to develop a more feminine body. I was ecstatic and dreamed at night about a new Jamie - a pretty, popular, outgoing Jamie that got invited to parties. I practiced speaking without my southern accent every day and lost it quickly. I was determined to be this new person by the first day of school, knowing full well that I would have to become the best actress in the world to pull it off but also knowing that I was desperate enough to try. And pull it off I did.
I went to all my classes that first day of school with my head held high. I actively pretended I was confident and at ease while I shook on the inside. I pretended not to care that I didn't know anyone and flipped my long hair back and forth like I had seen the popular girls do in the South, smoothing on my lip gloss nonchalantly across my lips during the breaks between classes. I was an active observer, taking note of who the popular people were and positioning myself in such a way to be noticed by them. One week in, I had it made. All the girls asked for my phone number and I had invitations to all the best parties. People bombarded me with questions about my past life and my family and I answered in lies.
"My dad is a lawyer."
"You were voted best looking in junior high? I was voted Most Popular!"
"I totally miss my boyfriend. He was so hot."
"Do you guys party around here? I haven't had a drink in so long!"
"Does anyone skip class? I hate school. I can't wait to go to college and be in a sorority."
I had completely re-invented myself and felt completely justified doing so. I started to swear for the first time in my life and denied going to church every Sunday. I pretended not to care that boys were noticing me for the first time in my life and turned down every one of them that asked me out for the first 3 weeks because "I had a boyfriend back home." Eventually, I had to lie to cover up the lies. I felt panicky every once in a while that I would get caught but the bliss of popularity overshadowed every other part of me and the guilt I would have normally felt. I began to treat my family horribly. I began to treat people that weren't popular at school horribly, making fun of them for what they wore or who they hung out with. I took bets from my new friends to say and do awful things to boys that had crushes on me because they weren't "cool." I snuck out at night to drink and smoke pot and make out with boys who would talk about it afterwards.
I would love to be able to say that this only lasted a short while before I changed my behaviors. I would love to be able to say that I felt guilty about who I had become and the shallow things I held dear to me. The truth is, this person I spoke of is who I pretended to be for the duration of my high school years and one year after that. On paper, I got everything I wanted - everything I used to dream about in my mullet, braces and glasses. But on the inside, I was slowly dying and hurting myself on a deep level that I am still seeing the repercussions of to this day.
Over the years, I have run into people that I knew back then that have point blank told me what a horrible person I was; how the way I treated them was something that they had to deal with for years after the fact. My attempts at explaining to them the ways I have changed and my sincere apologies for my wrong-doings fell on deaf ears and I can't say I blame them for that. I have learned the hard way that you can't take back words and actions - that sometimes, you have to live with the consequences of your behaviors. I made things right with my family years ago and they have graciously forgiven me for the horrible way I treated them in that time, but sometimes - even when there has been forgiveness extended, memories and scars of the heart still hurt and affect relationship to a certain extent.
I am still in process of forgiving myself. Not so much my behaviors of more than 10 years ago now as much as for how I continued to pretend long after high school in a different way. Being authentic and honest both in front of people and in my heart might always be a struggle for me. So much of the time, these things hurt. It hurts to look back on my life and accept responsibility for my behavior. It hurts to admit the truth of how I really feel on the inside and who I really am. It's scary to trust and be honest about where I am at in my heart when I have been hurt very much by people I loved in this way...people I trusted to treat my heart in the way it should have been treated in the face of honesty.
I firmly believe that God turns every hard, painful experience into good. My struggle with trusting people with who I really am is no exception. I have learned, and continue to learn so much about grace through the mistakes I have made in the past. We will never go wrong in being real and honest with each other in the long run - not ever. Even when people inevitably fail you - and you fail them - grace exists. Complete healing of my heart and soul will never become a reality as long as I am pretending. It takes great strength to take a long, hard look at yourself and deal with what you see head on. Much of the time, I don't feel like I have the strength...and this is true. I can't do it alone. I need Him to hold my hand and encourage me in my dark moments of looking deep into my heart. Lucky for me, He loves to do this. We all have to face into ourselves and be honest about what is there in order for true healing and peace to transpire - I believe this with everything I have in me. My prayers for the healing of my heart and change in my perspective do not and will not fall on deaf ears. Of this I am sure.
Saturday, August 6, 2011
Bridge
I lost my virginity at the delicate age of 16 to my best friend. He and I would stay up till all hours of the night talking on the phone about any number of intimate things including family, past relationships, hurts, hopes, joys and our mutual curiosity about sex. Neither one of us had been with anyone on that level and we decided that it would be safest to explore this uncharted territory with each other - someone we trusted and knew inside and out.
It was finals week of our junior year in high school and we had it all planned out as we had talked about our "first time" extensively. He didn't care about where or how it all went down, but I had high expectations due to my exposure to movies, music, etc. and I wanted it to be "perfect." I had voiced to him that I wanted it to be dark and romantic - candles, music, the whole nine yards. He tried his best to accommodate me, but dark and romantic turned into him hanging up towels over his bedroom window to block out the sunlight and Nirvana blaring over his alarm clock radio. He had also laid down old Muppet Babies sheets over his bed in case there was any bleeding involved. Very romantic.
It took us awhile to get it to "work" and I never felt any of the explosive things I had seen in movies - cries of ecstasy and moans of pleasure were things I never came close to and the whole thing was over and done in approximately 45 seconds. I was very disappointed, but covered it up for him and told him it was great and exactly how I had always imagined it to be. He felt like a rock star and I felt awful. I went home and cried buckets of tears for both my loss of innocence and my anti-climactic experience of sex as a whole.
Over the next few weeks, we decided to be in a committed relationship with each other and I had my first official boyfriend. I fell in love with this boy eventually - my best friend turned into something more. I let my heart go and it was fully his...I trusted him and thought he would never do anything to hurt me. When he left for school a little over a year later, he dumped me. He told me he was going to rush a fraternity and that he wanted to have the full experience of hooking up with random girls at parties; that he was sorry but we were young and obviously didn't have a future together. I was crushed, as he had never communicated to me that we didn't have a future together at any point and I very much thought in my young state of mind that we would eventually get married and have lots of babies.
This was my second time around of feeling disposable to men; the first being a result of my father leaving. From where I was standing, they had both left me for the same reason - other women. I thought that all I had given of my heart was worth nothing; that I was worth nothing.
More than a year went by before I gave my heart away again; this time to a man who would have given me anything I needed or asked for. He loved me unconditionally in spite of my "baggage" I brought to the table. He thought I was perfect and put me on a pedestal I couldn't stand on for long. I stepped off the pedestal eventually, broke his heart - and my own in the process. To this day, I have never been loved by a man as he loved me.
I carry my book of broken hearts with me every day. I have been on both sides multiple times and believe that there are few things worse than being the giver or the receiver of a broken heart. Being on the receiving end in this moment has forced me to reflect on my own patterns of behavior in life and love. A theme I am currently meditating on and praying through is how I put everything I have into someone I choose to love and let my identity be wrapped up in the exchange of hearts that inevitably happen over the course of time. I live in a paradox of serious trust issues and giving my heart away too quickly and too much to men who are emotionally unavailable for various reasons. I have been the "bridge" more than once for men - someone who helps them through a significant time period in their lives and gives them hope for a romantic future; just not with me on the other side.
My girlfriends are helping me to believe that my desire for authenticity, openness of heart, and deep connection with people is a beautiful and rare quality that I possess; that I only need to be more careful about how much I give of myself in the process before it has been reciprocated and deemed "worthy" of my gift. I am taking a hard look at why I have a tendency to love so hard and fierce far too quickly, and I know that it has to do with where I base my identity. I was created to love this way for a reason, but somewhere in the process I lose sight of the invaluable truth that my ability to be loved back does not lay in what I say or do not say; what I do or do not do; how I look or do not look. My identity should lie solely in how He views me and how He loves me. No other person and how they view me matters - not really; not in the end.
I am once again on a path of painful self-discovery and desire desperately to make a change in my perceptions. I am getting lost along the way and am very discouraged, but the Truth continually speaks to me in my darkest moments to let me know that I am well on my way and that unspeakably beautiful things are on the other side waiting for me.
It was finals week of our junior year in high school and we had it all planned out as we had talked about our "first time" extensively. He didn't care about where or how it all went down, but I had high expectations due to my exposure to movies, music, etc. and I wanted it to be "perfect." I had voiced to him that I wanted it to be dark and romantic - candles, music, the whole nine yards. He tried his best to accommodate me, but dark and romantic turned into him hanging up towels over his bedroom window to block out the sunlight and Nirvana blaring over his alarm clock radio. He had also laid down old Muppet Babies sheets over his bed in case there was any bleeding involved. Very romantic.
It took us awhile to get it to "work" and I never felt any of the explosive things I had seen in movies - cries of ecstasy and moans of pleasure were things I never came close to and the whole thing was over and done in approximately 45 seconds. I was very disappointed, but covered it up for him and told him it was great and exactly how I had always imagined it to be. He felt like a rock star and I felt awful. I went home and cried buckets of tears for both my loss of innocence and my anti-climactic experience of sex as a whole.
Over the next few weeks, we decided to be in a committed relationship with each other and I had my first official boyfriend. I fell in love with this boy eventually - my best friend turned into something more. I let my heart go and it was fully his...I trusted him and thought he would never do anything to hurt me. When he left for school a little over a year later, he dumped me. He told me he was going to rush a fraternity and that he wanted to have the full experience of hooking up with random girls at parties; that he was sorry but we were young and obviously didn't have a future together. I was crushed, as he had never communicated to me that we didn't have a future together at any point and I very much thought in my young state of mind that we would eventually get married and have lots of babies.
This was my second time around of feeling disposable to men; the first being a result of my father leaving. From where I was standing, they had both left me for the same reason - other women. I thought that all I had given of my heart was worth nothing; that I was worth nothing.
More than a year went by before I gave my heart away again; this time to a man who would have given me anything I needed or asked for. He loved me unconditionally in spite of my "baggage" I brought to the table. He thought I was perfect and put me on a pedestal I couldn't stand on for long. I stepped off the pedestal eventually, broke his heart - and my own in the process. To this day, I have never been loved by a man as he loved me.
I carry my book of broken hearts with me every day. I have been on both sides multiple times and believe that there are few things worse than being the giver or the receiver of a broken heart. Being on the receiving end in this moment has forced me to reflect on my own patterns of behavior in life and love. A theme I am currently meditating on and praying through is how I put everything I have into someone I choose to love and let my identity be wrapped up in the exchange of hearts that inevitably happen over the course of time. I live in a paradox of serious trust issues and giving my heart away too quickly and too much to men who are emotionally unavailable for various reasons. I have been the "bridge" more than once for men - someone who helps them through a significant time period in their lives and gives them hope for a romantic future; just not with me on the other side.
My girlfriends are helping me to believe that my desire for authenticity, openness of heart, and deep connection with people is a beautiful and rare quality that I possess; that I only need to be more careful about how much I give of myself in the process before it has been reciprocated and deemed "worthy" of my gift. I am taking a hard look at why I have a tendency to love so hard and fierce far too quickly, and I know that it has to do with where I base my identity. I was created to love this way for a reason, but somewhere in the process I lose sight of the invaluable truth that my ability to be loved back does not lay in what I say or do not say; what I do or do not do; how I look or do not look. My identity should lie solely in how He views me and how He loves me. No other person and how they view me matters - not really; not in the end.
I am once again on a path of painful self-discovery and desire desperately to make a change in my perceptions. I am getting lost along the way and am very discouraged, but the Truth continually speaks to me in my darkest moments to let me know that I am well on my way and that unspeakably beautiful things are on the other side waiting for me.
Thursday, August 4, 2011
The Personality Girl
(re-posted from July 28, 2011 - Black Becomes Me)
I was 17 years old and experiencing my first broken heart. It was summer and my mom typically lay out in the sun for hours in the mornings before it got unbearably hot. I didn't feel close to my mom at that point...I was a teenager and completely consumed with myself, but in the midst of heartbreak the desperation to connect with someone who loved me unconditionally was palpable. I found her there on the balcony when I could drag myself out of bed that first morning. She saw me at the door and motioned to the chair beside her, inviting me to sit wordlessly. I sat down hard, closed my eyes and let the warmth of the sun wash over my body as tears streamed down my face.
"Mom, I'm never going to love anyone the way I love him," I choked out. My body shook with sobs and I squeezed my eyes shut tight, trying in some way to close out the hurtful thoughts, feelings and memories.
She sighed and said nothing for several minutes as I continued to cry. Eventually, she sat up in her chair and looked at me sitting beside her, stared for what seemed like an eternity, taking in my pathetic state with a kind of thoughtful meditation. Slowly, she reached for my hand and held it wordlessly for quite some time before she spoke.
"J, I know it doesn't feel like it right now, but you are going to be OK. This isn't the first time you have had your heart broken."
Confused, I looked at her through my blurry, tear-filled eyes. I shook my head vehemently. "No! I haven't! He is the first person I have ever been in love with."
"Yes," she agreed. "The first person you have ever been in love with. But not your first feelings of heartbreak; not your first rejection by a man. Do you know what I'm talking about?"
"Daddy?" I asked.
"Yes, daddy." She sighed heavily and leaned back again in her chair.
"But that was different," I objected again.
"Yes, different. But I would venture to say that it feels very similar. Am I wrong?" she asked.
I thought back to when I was 12 and my dad had left us. I thought about how angry and confused and heartbroken I had, indeed, been when he told us he was in love with someone else and was going to marry her. I thought about how my family had fallen apart and I had been left to pick up the pieces of my mother and sisters' broken hearts with all the inexperience of a 6th grader. I remembered how it had hurt when I saw him checking women out behind his sunglasses at the pool; how I had decided then and there that the most important thing to a man was a woman's physical beauty. Earlier just that year we had all undergone another serious blow to our hearts when we found out he had an addiction and had hurt young women throughout his entire life as a result of it...defenseless women; children, even.
My mom broke into my reflections and asked again pointedly, "Am I wrong?"
"No," I choked out. "You're right. I remember feeling like I wasn't good enough. I remember feeling forsaken and left behind by someone I trusted. I feel all those same feelings now."
She nodded and sat up again, this time very intentionally. "J, you got through that. You may still be muddling through residual thoughts and feelings about your father; you may be doing that your entire life. But you stood up and you took care of all of us. You were the only one who could be strong. You taught me a lot. I wouldn't be here right now if it weren't for you."
"Mom, this hurts so much. I don't know how you did it...how you woke up every day knowing he had chosen someone else after so many years together. I don't think I can do this. You are the one who is strong. I'm not strong like you. I feel like I don't want to wake up," I cried loudly and hung my head.
"But you can wake up and you will wake up, J. You have to. I wish I could say that this will be your only broken heart but I can't. You will have your heart broken again and you will break hearts as well."
"No," I said firmly. "I will never make anyone feel like this. Not ever! Not someone I claim to love. It's so mean and devastating and changes a person forever. I would never do that to anyone."
She smiled back at me sadly. "But you will, J...you will. It's a part of life," she said softly.
I remember that morning like it was yesterday. My mother was right. I went on to break many hearts of men that I claimed to love and have experienced more heartbreak than I think is fair in my short life of 33 years. My solid, stubborn belief that men only care about a woman's aesthetic beauty and not the beauty of a woman's heart has been a theme and played a large part in my romantic relationships. I have come to believe that I am the "personality girl" and have nothing to offer men in the way of physical beauty. I have come to believe that my only shot is that a man fall in love with my heart and then accept the fact that I have other things to offer outside of physical attraction - he, then, chooses whether that is enough for him. At no time have I stood up for what I feel or know I am worth. Sadly, this is due to the fact that I don't feel like I am worth much.
I have an amazing spiritual mentor/counselor who uses a metaphor of a diamond that I love. She asked me once - Jamie, if I told you I have a diamond that is worth a million dollars and I go bury it in the ground underneath a pile of shit, does it make the diamond any less valuable? Would you still go after that diamond, dig it up and treasure it? If I piled even more shit on top of it that you had to dig in for days to get to - would it make that diamond any less valuable? Would you not still go after it? YOU are that diamond. We have all this shit on top of us but that doesn't make us less valuable. Hold out for a man who sees your diamond and goes to great lengths to go after you in spite of how dirty you feel on the outside. The only man worthy of you is the man who sees you as a diamond.
I have learned the hard way that I love hard and as a result, hurt hard. I take rejections personally. It's my knee-jerk reaction to think that I am not worth anything, that the person I have chosen to love has seen that I am not worth anything - and I live in that place for a long time. But somewhere deep down I believe that I am a diamond; at least, I want to believe that I am a diamond. I struggle very much because of my rejections by men with this but - I know on a logical level that I cannot be the one exception...God can't have created me to be the only non-diamond worth shit of all the diamonds He has created. I have to believe and cling to the hope that one day, a man will see me for the diamond that I am and choose me - chase me and treasure me. But first and more importantly, I have to believe this about myself. Until then, I will continue to give my heart away to men not worthy. This is where I am at today - the "personality girl" with another broken heart and clinging to a hope I do not believe in my heart just yet that maybe, just maybe, I am a diamond too.
I was 17 years old and experiencing my first broken heart. It was summer and my mom typically lay out in the sun for hours in the mornings before it got unbearably hot. I didn't feel close to my mom at that point...I was a teenager and completely consumed with myself, but in the midst of heartbreak the desperation to connect with someone who loved me unconditionally was palpable. I found her there on the balcony when I could drag myself out of bed that first morning. She saw me at the door and motioned to the chair beside her, inviting me to sit wordlessly. I sat down hard, closed my eyes and let the warmth of the sun wash over my body as tears streamed down my face.
"Mom, I'm never going to love anyone the way I love him," I choked out. My body shook with sobs and I squeezed my eyes shut tight, trying in some way to close out the hurtful thoughts, feelings and memories.
She sighed and said nothing for several minutes as I continued to cry. Eventually, she sat up in her chair and looked at me sitting beside her, stared for what seemed like an eternity, taking in my pathetic state with a kind of thoughtful meditation. Slowly, she reached for my hand and held it wordlessly for quite some time before she spoke.
"J, I know it doesn't feel like it right now, but you are going to be OK. This isn't the first time you have had your heart broken."
Confused, I looked at her through my blurry, tear-filled eyes. I shook my head vehemently. "No! I haven't! He is the first person I have ever been in love with."
"Yes," she agreed. "The first person you have ever been in love with. But not your first feelings of heartbreak; not your first rejection by a man. Do you know what I'm talking about?"
"Daddy?" I asked.
"Yes, daddy." She sighed heavily and leaned back again in her chair.
"But that was different," I objected again.
"Yes, different. But I would venture to say that it feels very similar. Am I wrong?" she asked.
I thought back to when I was 12 and my dad had left us. I thought about how angry and confused and heartbroken I had, indeed, been when he told us he was in love with someone else and was going to marry her. I thought about how my family had fallen apart and I had been left to pick up the pieces of my mother and sisters' broken hearts with all the inexperience of a 6th grader. I remembered how it had hurt when I saw him checking women out behind his sunglasses at the pool; how I had decided then and there that the most important thing to a man was a woman's physical beauty. Earlier just that year we had all undergone another serious blow to our hearts when we found out he had an addiction and had hurt young women throughout his entire life as a result of it...defenseless women; children, even.
My mom broke into my reflections and asked again pointedly, "Am I wrong?"
"No," I choked out. "You're right. I remember feeling like I wasn't good enough. I remember feeling forsaken and left behind by someone I trusted. I feel all those same feelings now."
She nodded and sat up again, this time very intentionally. "J, you got through that. You may still be muddling through residual thoughts and feelings about your father; you may be doing that your entire life. But you stood up and you took care of all of us. You were the only one who could be strong. You taught me a lot. I wouldn't be here right now if it weren't for you."
"Mom, this hurts so much. I don't know how you did it...how you woke up every day knowing he had chosen someone else after so many years together. I don't think I can do this. You are the one who is strong. I'm not strong like you. I feel like I don't want to wake up," I cried loudly and hung my head.
"But you can wake up and you will wake up, J. You have to. I wish I could say that this will be your only broken heart but I can't. You will have your heart broken again and you will break hearts as well."
"No," I said firmly. "I will never make anyone feel like this. Not ever! Not someone I claim to love. It's so mean and devastating and changes a person forever. I would never do that to anyone."
She smiled back at me sadly. "But you will, J...you will. It's a part of life," she said softly.
I remember that morning like it was yesterday. My mother was right. I went on to break many hearts of men that I claimed to love and have experienced more heartbreak than I think is fair in my short life of 33 years. My solid, stubborn belief that men only care about a woman's aesthetic beauty and not the beauty of a woman's heart has been a theme and played a large part in my romantic relationships. I have come to believe that I am the "personality girl" and have nothing to offer men in the way of physical beauty. I have come to believe that my only shot is that a man fall in love with my heart and then accept the fact that I have other things to offer outside of physical attraction - he, then, chooses whether that is enough for him. At no time have I stood up for what I feel or know I am worth. Sadly, this is due to the fact that I don't feel like I am worth much.
I have an amazing spiritual mentor/counselor who uses a metaphor of a diamond that I love. She asked me once - Jamie, if I told you I have a diamond that is worth a million dollars and I go bury it in the ground underneath a pile of shit, does it make the diamond any less valuable? Would you still go after that diamond, dig it up and treasure it? If I piled even more shit on top of it that you had to dig in for days to get to - would it make that diamond any less valuable? Would you not still go after it? YOU are that diamond. We have all this shit on top of us but that doesn't make us less valuable. Hold out for a man who sees your diamond and goes to great lengths to go after you in spite of how dirty you feel on the outside. The only man worthy of you is the man who sees you as a diamond.
I have learned the hard way that I love hard and as a result, hurt hard. I take rejections personally. It's my knee-jerk reaction to think that I am not worth anything, that the person I have chosen to love has seen that I am not worth anything - and I live in that place for a long time. But somewhere deep down I believe that I am a diamond; at least, I want to believe that I am a diamond. I struggle very much because of my rejections by men with this but - I know on a logical level that I cannot be the one exception...God can't have created me to be the only non-diamond worth shit of all the diamonds He has created. I have to believe and cling to the hope that one day, a man will see me for the diamond that I am and choose me - chase me and treasure me. But first and more importantly, I have to believe this about myself. Until then, I will continue to give my heart away to men not worthy. This is where I am at today - the "personality girl" with another broken heart and clinging to a hope I do not believe in my heart just yet that maybe, just maybe, I am a diamond too.
Wednesday, June 29, 2011
Friday Night Lights
It was the first football game of my senior year in high school and I was drunk. This was not unusual for me or any of the people I hung out with for those three years. Since sophomore year, we had always found a place to drink before any school sporting event or dance or assembly we frequented...and we frequented all of them. I didn't think this was strange; it was all I knew about high school. It wasn't until years later when I had conversations with people from other schools than the one I had attended that it came to light not everyone consistently arrived at school events three sheets to the wind.
Kiya was the "DD" that night; "DD" loosely used as she had been drinking as well. We always voted before leaving whatever party we had been at who would play this role based on who was the least drunk. This was always a hard thing to determine as our drink of choice at the time were two cheap bottles of wine consumed by each girl, accumulated through shoulder tapping at grocery stores or big sisters/brothers or sometimes even parents. Our fake ID's didn't come into play until that winter.
After parking the car a few blocks away from the football field, we walked and talked about how epic our senior year was going to be. We felt invincible. As always, security would be in attendance at this game but we already had them wrapped around our little fingers. It was strange, but our security guards actually cared about being popular with the kids and we had long since locked down an "understanding" of them looking the other way when we misbehaved in exchange for positive recognition and conversation with them in the school halls. Many days, we opted not to go to class and would sit in a big group in something we called "Senior Hall." The security guards would walk right past us, wink, and continue on their way. We would smile, wink and blow kisses at them until their backs were turned and then talk about how sad, pathetic and stupid they were.
Our class had named myself and my six best girlfriends the "Sacred 7." We pretended to be surprised, humbled and even embarrassed about this nickname given us while we quickly drew up ideas for T-shirts advertising it. They were basic tight, white, crewneck T-shirts from the Gap that had our emblem of Sacred 7 on the front and and our individual nicknames on the back. The nicknames for each of us derived from the name of the award we had each been given in junior high at our graduation ceremony. These awards were things like "Best Smile" or "Prettiest" or "Best Eyes." Mine was "Best All Around" so mine was abbreviated "BAA" on the back. We wore these T-shirts to every football, basketball and baseball game we attended despite our boyfriends pleas to wear their jerseys instead. This name was sadly our identity.
We walked up the bleachers to the 20-30 people that we consorted with, and the game commenced per usual. Small talking, bad-mouthing, flirting and bouncing around from group to group is all we did...the only reason we would make note of the final score of the game was because our boyfriends would be hurt if we hadn't watched them play. The game was over and after determining whose house we were going to continue to drink at, we made our way back to the car.
"You guys, this year really is going to be the BEST," I said dramatically. "The security guards didn't even LOOK at us. We can do whatever we want," I happily added.
"Absolutely!" Brooke said. "And those junior bitches are going to be put in their place. It's a rite of passage. Right, Jamie?" She looked over at me with a knowing look that had everything to do with my personal hell I had endured the year before. The senior girls when we were juniors had openly hated me, calling me names while they sat in Senior Hall and challenging me to play in our annual powder puff game with threats of killing me, kicking my ass, etc. Lucky for me, our powder puff game with them had been canceled the year before due to the bloodbath we had witnessed between the junior/senior girls when we were sophomores.
"Ha, ha! Duh!!!" I said in my standard sing-song voice. "Did you SEE what Laura was wearing?!?!? Skank." I flipped my hair away from my face disdainfully and added, "Her and her little friends think they are so F-ing special. Pathetic."
We rounded the corner, car in view, and began to skip ahead towards it. "Shotgun!" I called out, assuming my position by the front seat door. "Ummmmm, who's the dumbass that left a beer can in the window?" I asked casually. "Krissy?"
At that moment, three policemen literally came out of nowhere with their flashlights shining in our bewildered faces. "ID's please," one of them said solemnly. "You girls are in big trouble."
We looked at each other and stayed completely motionless. My heart was beating so fast I thought I may die of a heart attack. Considering how much trouble I knew I was going to be in with my pastor step-father and frail mother, I remember actually hoping I would, in fact, die.
"ID's!" the police officer demanded again.
Brooke and Kiya jumped visibly and started for their bags. The rest of us followed suit. Denise and I began to cry as we handed over our drivers licenses. "Please," I whimpered. "We didn't do anything wrong."
"Whose car is this?" the police officer asked, unaffected by my tears.
"It's mine," Kiya said quietly.
"This your beer can?" he asked, reaching inside the back door and holding the PBR in front of him.
No one said anything.
"THIS YOUR BEER CAN?" he repeated.
"No," Kiya lied. "It must be my brothers' that he left in here. He's 21."
"I need everyone to step over here with me. I need you all to blow," he said as he held out the device used to determine blood alcohol level.
We all blew into the contraption he held out and we all, of course, were noted as having alcohol in our bloodstream. As they asked us all for our parents' phone numbers one by one, we were separated and told that our parents were going to have to come pick us up. We were told that we had a decision to make. Either we would all get MIP's or they would turn us over to the school and go through whatever disciplinary action the school deemed fit. All of us chose to go through the school.
As my step-dad drove up, I prayed for my life. Deep down, I was ashamed and embarrassed. I knew how disappointed he would be in me. I got into the car silently as he got out and talked to one of the policemen. Five minutes later, he got into the car and started to drive home.
"What was the score?" he asked brightly.
I was dumbfounded and remained silent.
"J. What was the score?" he repeated.
"I don't know," I said quietly, shifting uncomfortably in my seat.
We were silent for a long time. "I love you, J. You make really bad decisions, but I love you," he said softly.
Silent tears streamed down my face as I reflected on how out of control my life was. I consistently felt deeply unhappy, but refused to acknowledge it or take any steps in a different direction to change. I felt very alone and very unloved, trapped in a lifestyle that was empty and meaningless but at the same time provided me my only identity at the time.
I ended up being suspended from school for a week and grounded for a month. Looking back, my step-dad's reaction to that incident was the first grace-giving experience I allowed myself to feel and acknowledge. I continued to allow myself to be viewed by my friends as something I was not for another two years, but I never forgot that my father loved me from where I was at.
Kiya was the "DD" that night; "DD" loosely used as she had been drinking as well. We always voted before leaving whatever party we had been at who would play this role based on who was the least drunk. This was always a hard thing to determine as our drink of choice at the time were two cheap bottles of wine consumed by each girl, accumulated through shoulder tapping at grocery stores or big sisters/brothers or sometimes even parents. Our fake ID's didn't come into play until that winter.
After parking the car a few blocks away from the football field, we walked and talked about how epic our senior year was going to be. We felt invincible. As always, security would be in attendance at this game but we already had them wrapped around our little fingers. It was strange, but our security guards actually cared about being popular with the kids and we had long since locked down an "understanding" of them looking the other way when we misbehaved in exchange for positive recognition and conversation with them in the school halls. Many days, we opted not to go to class and would sit in a big group in something we called "Senior Hall." The security guards would walk right past us, wink, and continue on their way. We would smile, wink and blow kisses at them until their backs were turned and then talk about how sad, pathetic and stupid they were.
Our class had named myself and my six best girlfriends the "Sacred 7." We pretended to be surprised, humbled and even embarrassed about this nickname given us while we quickly drew up ideas for T-shirts advertising it. They were basic tight, white, crewneck T-shirts from the Gap that had our emblem of Sacred 7 on the front and and our individual nicknames on the back. The nicknames for each of us derived from the name of the award we had each been given in junior high at our graduation ceremony. These awards were things like "Best Smile" or "Prettiest" or "Best Eyes." Mine was "Best All Around" so mine was abbreviated "BAA" on the back. We wore these T-shirts to every football, basketball and baseball game we attended despite our boyfriends pleas to wear their jerseys instead. This name was sadly our identity.
We walked up the bleachers to the 20-30 people that we consorted with, and the game commenced per usual. Small talking, bad-mouthing, flirting and bouncing around from group to group is all we did...the only reason we would make note of the final score of the game was because our boyfriends would be hurt if we hadn't watched them play. The game was over and after determining whose house we were going to continue to drink at, we made our way back to the car.
"You guys, this year really is going to be the BEST," I said dramatically. "The security guards didn't even LOOK at us. We can do whatever we want," I happily added.
"Absolutely!" Brooke said. "And those junior bitches are going to be put in their place. It's a rite of passage. Right, Jamie?" She looked over at me with a knowing look that had everything to do with my personal hell I had endured the year before. The senior girls when we were juniors had openly hated me, calling me names while they sat in Senior Hall and challenging me to play in our annual powder puff game with threats of killing me, kicking my ass, etc. Lucky for me, our powder puff game with them had been canceled the year before due to the bloodbath we had witnessed between the junior/senior girls when we were sophomores.
"Ha, ha! Duh!!!" I said in my standard sing-song voice. "Did you SEE what Laura was wearing?!?!? Skank." I flipped my hair away from my face disdainfully and added, "Her and her little friends think they are so F-ing special. Pathetic."
We rounded the corner, car in view, and began to skip ahead towards it. "Shotgun!" I called out, assuming my position by the front seat door. "Ummmmm, who's the dumbass that left a beer can in the window?" I asked casually. "Krissy?"
At that moment, three policemen literally came out of nowhere with their flashlights shining in our bewildered faces. "ID's please," one of them said solemnly. "You girls are in big trouble."
We looked at each other and stayed completely motionless. My heart was beating so fast I thought I may die of a heart attack. Considering how much trouble I knew I was going to be in with my pastor step-father and frail mother, I remember actually hoping I would, in fact, die.
"ID's!" the police officer demanded again.
Brooke and Kiya jumped visibly and started for their bags. The rest of us followed suit. Denise and I began to cry as we handed over our drivers licenses. "Please," I whimpered. "We didn't do anything wrong."
"Whose car is this?" the police officer asked, unaffected by my tears.
"It's mine," Kiya said quietly.
"This your beer can?" he asked, reaching inside the back door and holding the PBR in front of him.
No one said anything.
"THIS YOUR BEER CAN?" he repeated.
"No," Kiya lied. "It must be my brothers' that he left in here. He's 21."
"I need everyone to step over here with me. I need you all to blow," he said as he held out the device used to determine blood alcohol level.
We all blew into the contraption he held out and we all, of course, were noted as having alcohol in our bloodstream. As they asked us all for our parents' phone numbers one by one, we were separated and told that our parents were going to have to come pick us up. We were told that we had a decision to make. Either we would all get MIP's or they would turn us over to the school and go through whatever disciplinary action the school deemed fit. All of us chose to go through the school.
As my step-dad drove up, I prayed for my life. Deep down, I was ashamed and embarrassed. I knew how disappointed he would be in me. I got into the car silently as he got out and talked to one of the policemen. Five minutes later, he got into the car and started to drive home.
"What was the score?" he asked brightly.
I was dumbfounded and remained silent.
"J. What was the score?" he repeated.
"I don't know," I said quietly, shifting uncomfortably in my seat.
We were silent for a long time. "I love you, J. You make really bad decisions, but I love you," he said softly.
Silent tears streamed down my face as I reflected on how out of control my life was. I consistently felt deeply unhappy, but refused to acknowledge it or take any steps in a different direction to change. I felt very alone and very unloved, trapped in a lifestyle that was empty and meaningless but at the same time provided me my only identity at the time.
I ended up being suspended from school for a week and grounded for a month. Looking back, my step-dad's reaction to that incident was the first grace-giving experience I allowed myself to feel and acknowledge. I continued to allow myself to be viewed by my friends as something I was not for another two years, but I never forgot that my father loved me from where I was at.
Sunday, June 26, 2011
Pool Secret
When I was a little girl, my family went to Myrtle Beach every year for a week in the summer. We drove there from whatever state we were living in at the time because we couldn't afford plane tickets. I loved everything about this vacation. We always left in the middle of the night, and my two sisters and I would stay up whispering in bed the night before about how much fun it was going to be. Three or four o'clock in the morning would finally arrive and we would be ready, sitting on the couch in wait for our parents with our suitcases at our feet; each of us smiling from ear to ear.
We were uncharacteristically nice to each other for the first three hours of the car ride, at least. We had self appointed assigned seats in the car; Erin and I lay facing each other at opposite sides of the backseat, toe to head. Holly had the misfortune of the floor and had to maneuver around the bump. We knew not to argue with each other and to talk quietly and not too much or my daddy would "turn this car around and we wouldn't go on vacation at all." These were the "traveling rules" and for the most part, we adhered to them; the thought of turning around and going home was horrific. I liked to watch the street lights streak past us at night as our car zoomed through various cities on the way.
Looking back I'm sure the car ride was anywhere between 12 and 16 hours, but it seemed like it took days to get there in my 10 year old mind. We were only allowed to ask my parents "how much longer" three times total before they would stop answering, so we would discuss very carefully amongst the three of us what the most strategic times were for posing the question. I monitored the time with my Mickey Mouse watch and shared with my sisters at intervals what time it was, what state we were in and why it made sense to ask them at such and such time. They always agreed and after asking, my parents would praise me for my logic behind waiting to ask for this reason and that, which I always pridefully shared with them after the fact. My sisters would glare at me after this exchange between my parents and I as I leaned back in my seat, satisfied with myself as a stray cat licking its paws after a long awaited meal. Erin called me a "know it all" and told my parents they helped decide, too, and Holly swatted at me from the floor. I didn't care at all. They were just jealous.
One year in particular, we arrived at our standard Holiday Inn mid-day. My sisters and I thought it was so fancy that we stayed there. It had an indoor swimming pool that stayed open till 10 pm and even though this was way past our bedtime, my daddy would take us there till close every night if we were "good girls." We loved to swim...our daddy called us "little fishes."
The three of us bounded out of the car as I yelled out a challenge to Erin to race me there. I was tall for my age and all legs at that point and I used them to propel me at top speed for the entrance. I put all my might into that race and felt like I was flying; I couldn't even see her in my peripheral vision I was ahead by so much. All of a sudden, a very loud thud vibrated out into the wind as I flew backwards and landed in a sitting position 10 feet from the door. I got very dizzy and just sat there as my mom flew towards me and bent down asking me over and over again if I was okay. I blinked back at her blankly as my sisters and daddy started to laugh so hard they cried. They thought it was hilarious that the door to the entrance was so clean that I hadn't realized it was closed and had run full speed right into it. Mortified, I walked with them into the hotel as half the staff fussed over the huge knot that had already started to materialize on my forehead and the other half made sure there were no cracks in the door. My entire family called me "Lumpy" that week.
Our days in Myrtle Beach were split between the beach and the outdoor pool; our nights playing cards together as a family. One day at the pool, my sisters and I were playing one of the games we had made up. Daddy would throw a penny somewhere into the deep end of the pool and the three of us would dive down and look for it with our goggles (we couldn't open our eyes underwater.) First one to come up to the surface with the penny got a point. We would play this game for hours until Daddy said he was tired of throwing and we had to come up with another thing to play that didn't involve parental interaction.
All of us hated to get out of the pool to go to the bathroom. We hated to miss out on the fun that would happen without us in those five minutes and we hated pulling our wet bathing suits down and up again. It was hard to do; it was cold and would get twisted up and feel weird as it made a thomping, sucking noise as it settled back into our bodies.
One afternoon in the middle of the penny game, the urge to go to the bathroom hit me. I had to go bad. But I was winning and they would keep playing no matter who had to take a time out to go to the bathroom. Those were the rules. The chance of losing was unacceptable to me. Worse, I had to go Number Two. I continued to play as the "feeling" got worse and worse. Finally, I made the executive decision to not get out of the pool. I looked around me from the spot I was treading water in the deep end. No adults were sitting out on this end, and my sisters were in the shallow end with my parents laying in chairs right by them. I pulled my bathing suit over to the side with one hand and kept myself afloat with the other as I relieved myself of my Number Two right there in the deep end of the pool. No one was the wiser.
I quickly swam back to the shallow end with my sisters and had it all set in my head what I would say when the Number Two was discovered...it was only a matter of time. Less time than I was prepared for, really, as Daddy threw the penny in what I inwardly measured as right around where the Number Two lay at the bottom of the pool. My sisters launched off at top speeds toward the deep end after the penny with me only slightly behind them. I didn't want to go over there at all, but if I didn't it would look suspicious. They treaded water over the penny, took deep breaths in and dove under after it. I followed suit. Sure enough, I could see with my goggles the Number Two laying menacingly on the bottom of the pool, slightly to the left of the penny. I came up for air and waited for it to enfold.
Sure enough, my sisters came up screaming and sputtering that there was a "Stinky" (that's what we called Number Two back then,) at the bottom. The three of us swam furiously for the shallow end to get away from it, screaming the whole way back. We jumped out of the pool and Daddy went to investigate. Sure enough, there was a Stinky down there. The lifeguard made all the kids get out of the pool as they fished around for it with a net. Most of them left with their parents before it was brought up, disgusted and not planning to swim anymore. We stayed to watch.
As the Stinky came up in the net, my sisters and I murmured "gross" and "who would do that" and "do you still want to swim." We decided we did, and somehow my parents let us with warnings to keep our mouths closed in the water. I kept that secret with me for years and we were all adults before I told my sisters it was me. They laughed and laughed before my sister, Erin, gasped for air and said out loud the very reason I had never told them about it - "But J. You don't even have the excuse of being a little kid. You were ten!"
I looked at them sheepishly, still embarrassed after so many years and simply said quietly with a shrug of my shoulders, "Well...I didn't want to lose."
We were uncharacteristically nice to each other for the first three hours of the car ride, at least. We had self appointed assigned seats in the car; Erin and I lay facing each other at opposite sides of the backseat, toe to head. Holly had the misfortune of the floor and had to maneuver around the bump. We knew not to argue with each other and to talk quietly and not too much or my daddy would "turn this car around and we wouldn't go on vacation at all." These were the "traveling rules" and for the most part, we adhered to them; the thought of turning around and going home was horrific. I liked to watch the street lights streak past us at night as our car zoomed through various cities on the way.
Looking back I'm sure the car ride was anywhere between 12 and 16 hours, but it seemed like it took days to get there in my 10 year old mind. We were only allowed to ask my parents "how much longer" three times total before they would stop answering, so we would discuss very carefully amongst the three of us what the most strategic times were for posing the question. I monitored the time with my Mickey Mouse watch and shared with my sisters at intervals what time it was, what state we were in and why it made sense to ask them at such and such time. They always agreed and after asking, my parents would praise me for my logic behind waiting to ask for this reason and that, which I always pridefully shared with them after the fact. My sisters would glare at me after this exchange between my parents and I as I leaned back in my seat, satisfied with myself as a stray cat licking its paws after a long awaited meal. Erin called me a "know it all" and told my parents they helped decide, too, and Holly swatted at me from the floor. I didn't care at all. They were just jealous.
One year in particular, we arrived at our standard Holiday Inn mid-day. My sisters and I thought it was so fancy that we stayed there. It had an indoor swimming pool that stayed open till 10 pm and even though this was way past our bedtime, my daddy would take us there till close every night if we were "good girls." We loved to swim...our daddy called us "little fishes."
The three of us bounded out of the car as I yelled out a challenge to Erin to race me there. I was tall for my age and all legs at that point and I used them to propel me at top speed for the entrance. I put all my might into that race and felt like I was flying; I couldn't even see her in my peripheral vision I was ahead by so much. All of a sudden, a very loud thud vibrated out into the wind as I flew backwards and landed in a sitting position 10 feet from the door. I got very dizzy and just sat there as my mom flew towards me and bent down asking me over and over again if I was okay. I blinked back at her blankly as my sisters and daddy started to laugh so hard they cried. They thought it was hilarious that the door to the entrance was so clean that I hadn't realized it was closed and had run full speed right into it. Mortified, I walked with them into the hotel as half the staff fussed over the huge knot that had already started to materialize on my forehead and the other half made sure there were no cracks in the door. My entire family called me "Lumpy" that week.
Our days in Myrtle Beach were split between the beach and the outdoor pool; our nights playing cards together as a family. One day at the pool, my sisters and I were playing one of the games we had made up. Daddy would throw a penny somewhere into the deep end of the pool and the three of us would dive down and look for it with our goggles (we couldn't open our eyes underwater.) First one to come up to the surface with the penny got a point. We would play this game for hours until Daddy said he was tired of throwing and we had to come up with another thing to play that didn't involve parental interaction.
All of us hated to get out of the pool to go to the bathroom. We hated to miss out on the fun that would happen without us in those five minutes and we hated pulling our wet bathing suits down and up again. It was hard to do; it was cold and would get twisted up and feel weird as it made a thomping, sucking noise as it settled back into our bodies.
One afternoon in the middle of the penny game, the urge to go to the bathroom hit me. I had to go bad. But I was winning and they would keep playing no matter who had to take a time out to go to the bathroom. Those were the rules. The chance of losing was unacceptable to me. Worse, I had to go Number Two. I continued to play as the "feeling" got worse and worse. Finally, I made the executive decision to not get out of the pool. I looked around me from the spot I was treading water in the deep end. No adults were sitting out on this end, and my sisters were in the shallow end with my parents laying in chairs right by them. I pulled my bathing suit over to the side with one hand and kept myself afloat with the other as I relieved myself of my Number Two right there in the deep end of the pool. No one was the wiser.
I quickly swam back to the shallow end with my sisters and had it all set in my head what I would say when the Number Two was discovered...it was only a matter of time. Less time than I was prepared for, really, as Daddy threw the penny in what I inwardly measured as right around where the Number Two lay at the bottom of the pool. My sisters launched off at top speeds toward the deep end after the penny with me only slightly behind them. I didn't want to go over there at all, but if I didn't it would look suspicious. They treaded water over the penny, took deep breaths in and dove under after it. I followed suit. Sure enough, I could see with my goggles the Number Two laying menacingly on the bottom of the pool, slightly to the left of the penny. I came up for air and waited for it to enfold.
Sure enough, my sisters came up screaming and sputtering that there was a "Stinky" (that's what we called Number Two back then,) at the bottom. The three of us swam furiously for the shallow end to get away from it, screaming the whole way back. We jumped out of the pool and Daddy went to investigate. Sure enough, there was a Stinky down there. The lifeguard made all the kids get out of the pool as they fished around for it with a net. Most of them left with their parents before it was brought up, disgusted and not planning to swim anymore. We stayed to watch.
As the Stinky came up in the net, my sisters and I murmured "gross" and "who would do that" and "do you still want to swim." We decided we did, and somehow my parents let us with warnings to keep our mouths closed in the water. I kept that secret with me for years and we were all adults before I told my sisters it was me. They laughed and laughed before my sister, Erin, gasped for air and said out loud the very reason I had never told them about it - "But J. You don't even have the excuse of being a little kid. You were ten!"
I looked at them sheepishly, still embarrassed after so many years and simply said quietly with a shrug of my shoulders, "Well...I didn't want to lose."
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