My Tongue Has Become Tied From Fighting Back My Insides

   I don't have any special news to share.  I don't have any points I want to stress to people.  I don't have any fun stories I want anyone to know.

I do like elegies

I need to love You more
I don't want to love you less
I can't do either by myself

Just thinking
  Love is absolutely foolish, yet I'm still in love with it

Beautiful
   Stars, cars, reflection(s), God, and gauges
   And tears
~

Sleeping Giant
   You could have spread out
   I wouldn't have bothered you
   You couldn't have bothered me

An unpretty picture
Upsetting
Comfort?
   As she lay
   Herself groaning
   Within herself
   Her colors vanishing
   Blues stealing their places
   Gasping for air and help
   Needing to be noticed
   But without avail
   More blue
   Less oxygen
   Again she gasps
   GRATEFULLY she's acknowledged
   Help is on the way
   (cr)ying she whispers
   I don't want to die
   I don't want to die
It's not your time
 
Thoughts on a friend's link
   Love isn't given to be gained~
   Although it's excellent when received
   Love hopes all things
   It delights in truth
   But it's dangerous to call just anything love
   And you shouldn't be afraid to call love love

I love Your ever-presence
Please
Become my effervescence

Hope
   So misunderstood
   If it's all you have
   It's all you need
   If you can see it
   It's not even there
   Seeing what is hoped for
   Is like being brave without fear
   Within hopelessness
   Hope flourishes
   It doesn't disappoint

   This morning
I found a tick sucking my brain out
Unable to see
I burned it with a lighter
Hoping it was dead
I pulled all of it out
Then flushed it

Once An Alcoholic, Always An Alcoholic?

   A friend of mine texted me last night.  She's one of my favorite teenagers.  She wanted to know if she could ask a question.  I encouraged it and said yes.
   "Why'd you stop cutting?"  That was the question.  She's asked me numerous times before, and every time I give her a different answer.  But, they are true answers.
   I started thinking about every time I've "stopped" and why.
   First time.  A neighborhood friend of mine, whom had the same birthday as me, noticed my arm and asked me about it.  I told him I was bored, and he told me to come get him if I ever get that bored again.  I didn't want to make things awkward, so I just quit.
   Time passed; he moved elsewhere.
   I'd say I was foolish.  Not because of the actual actions, but because I'd create them in obvious places.  Like my knuckles.  A close friend of mine had found out a little, and then I shared more.  I felt safer with her.  I knew that she had also cut in the past; that comforted me.  When I'd tell her or show her, she seemed to hurt to.  I cared for her, and when I saw that it hurt her, I wanted to stop.
   Again, time passed.  Comfort became fear.  Guilt and stress eventually got to me, and I decided to do it now and again.  Her new reaction was angered annoyance.  This usually didn't help.  I decided to add it to my stress and guilt.  Eventually just deciding not to share anymore.
   Life moved along again.  One morning I woke up, and my knife was gone.  I usually slept with it, just in case I needed it.  Not for protection.  A good blanket can hide a lot of things.  This knife was perfect.  Just open, apply pressure, and then pull.  Repeat two and three until tired, or content.  The night before I let indifference tug on me, and I left it open before falling asleep.  I'm thinking my dad found it open before I woke up and took it...  Or it's hidden somewhere deep within my love seat.  I'd tried some kitchen knives afterward, but they just didn't seem right.
   Later on Shannon started asking people to share testimonies, once per service.  She asked me.  I agreed, but didn't know what to say.  It felt right to share that part of my past.  I was definitely afraid.  I didn't want the church people to think I was weird.  I didn't want them to not talk or jest with me, because they'd be afraid I would take it the wrong way.  In between praise(the faster songs) and worship(the slower songs) we took an announcement break and I was given the chance to share.  I stated that a relationship with Jesus was just the start of a journey; not the end.  I shared that to cope with guilt and stuff, I'd hurt myself.  I also shared that I usually kept it to myself.  Then I stated some scriptures and said that they encouraged me to quit.  They did.
   Shannon then said an appropriate analogy about masks, that she hadn't even been aware, and then continued with the service.  One church friend in particular asks me now and then how I'm doing about it and I answer honestly.  Other church friends have said that they've felt more willing to share things after hearing my testimony.  And then others have spoken to me about the same struggle in their lives.
   Time again went on.  This is the last time I recall.  I had overly upset a very dear friend of mine.  At first I didn't think I did it on purpose, but after further evaluation, it seemed like I did.  This gave me an unpleasant feeling about myself.  Using my great sense of right and wrong, I scratched, and scratched, and scratched a few spots on/onto my arm.
   That was, I want to say, many months, but less than a year, ago.  My current reason for stopping?  I have absolutely no desire to do it.  Some time ago I realized a bit more of how intimate God's love for me is.  It feels so nicely, I feel like I'm more than lovable, and act that way toward myself.  I wish I had verses to share that would help you understand, and well, I probably do, but I think it would be better for you to search and find ones for yourself.

   But, being open with people that I care for, that also care for me; being distanced from my usual means of cutting; and true love, seem to have been my biggest reasons for stopping.

He's Got The Hole; She, The Stitches

   New Heart!  New Heart!  New Heart!

   "Hurry!  We've found a donor!"  Expedited the doctor.
   "But, he's living...  Healthily," crept out of another worker.
   "Don't argue with the man!"  again said the doctor.
   "Yes, please hurry.  Don't worry about procedures or the anesthesia; just get this out of me and into her."  And so they began.
(I'm a bit clueless to how open heart surgeries go/should go/have gone/will go)
   Yes, they began, to tear away.  To carve and etch.
   His words were now unintelligible.  He was saying something, but no one could comprehend his maniacal cries. (Still we fail to understand)
   "Rip him open!"
   "You aren't stabbing hard enough!"
   Beginning from the epidermis they peeled and peeled the skin away.  The marrow filled ribs were next.  The head doctor stepped in for this; he knew what needed to be done.  He reached inside forcefully and grabbed one rib with both hands.  Without hesitation you heard the snap.  Again, he did the same with another.  Then, he whispered,
  "For safety, let's do another."  Once the third cracking was finished, you could peer inside.  This wonderful organ, disgusting looking, covered in ooze, still thriving with all of it's strength to keep this man alive.
   That last fracture obviously wasn't for his safety, but the heart's.
   They carelessly dove in, severing each conduit, tugging more and more at his life-pumping organ to remove it.
   It was out.  No one wasted any time next, but at the same time, their concern had infinitely increased.
 
   I couldn't help but think, that if this were Operation, the buzzing sound would have been a perpetually ignored nuisance.

   They brought it to her room.  She couldn't speak, not that she wanted to be grateful.  Apathetically she lay, comatose.
   The starry blanket nestled cozily around her was lifted off.  Her shirt was gently removed.
   The head doctor's eyes lit up.  The day had finally come.  He attached himself to her hand as his eyes lit with fire.  Hers stayed the same, not even a hint of nuance.  He loved her so much, yet she had never grown to like him.
   The time has finally come.
   "Go slowly," he commanded them.  His hands became moist as his tears contently fell.  They sliced into her delicately, leaving no room for error.  They miraculously managed to maneuver around each of her modest ribs.
   They reached their destination.  It was different from the last.  This one had no goo; nothing to ooze.  Just dryness.  It was so small.  A scabbed crust had formed.  Perhaps it was beating.  No one could tell.  The pseudo-movements may have just been their imagination.  Their hope that something was still alive in their.  With painstaking accuracy, they detached her body from this worthless, dead/dying, tool.  With every breath held it was cautiously removed.  Again, silence was present.  It screamed violently.  The void was ready for its completion.  The doctor again handled this heart.  With fervor and vigilance he place it deep inside, avoiding any unnecessary pain.  Her chest was shortly sewn back together.

   The girl awoke with new life.  Her eyes had changed, from even before she was told she needed a new heart.  This heart pumped better blood, perfect blood.  Everyone noticed this difference, even though for the time it was only an inner change.
 
   The doctor, crying tears of sorrow, tears of joy, tears of anger, tears of relief (To be honest, it seemed like he had tears for and of everything at this moment) spoke.
   "You see, that man was my son, and this little girl; she's my daughter.  His work had been finished, but hers, hadn't even begun until now."

   I've read, and believe that God gives us the desires of our hearts.  Also that our hearts are wicked and deceptive.

   Trust in the Lord, and do good; so shall you dwell in the land, and verily you shall be fed.  Delight yourself also in the Lord; and he shall give you the desires of your heart.  Commit your way unto the Lord; trust also in him; and he shall bring it to pass.  And he shall bring forth your righteousness as the light, and your judgement as the noonday.  Rest in the Lord, and wait patiently for him; fret not yourself because of him who prospers in his way...
 
   I agree that our hearts are deceptive and wicked, but I also believe that God gives us new, holy hearts, full of honesty and good desires.  : )

   I would have loved to have more detail describing the dirtiness and stuff, but it just didn't happen.  I haven't proof-read, but it's time for me to leave.

   I also wanted a picture of someone's chest, with a heart shaped cut.  I searched, but did not find.  I've thought in the past that it would be cool to have give myself a heart shaped cut on my chest; I've seen crosses like that, that were pretty cool in my eyes.  I'd want to call it art, like a tattoo without ink.

Words To Me

   So sometimes God talks to me.  I hear Him, but it's an inaudible voice, directed to an organ that doesn't have special sound vibration sensing abilities.  This happened for me yesterday.  At church.  Imagine that  : p.
   It wasn't something that seemed life changing.  But I did see life in it for me, and hopefully for you(the reader)/others.  It was something I already knew, I think.  But it was something I needed reminding of, for some reason.  Anyhow, here goes.
   I was reminded that words are powerful, especially to me.
   That's it.  That's what I was told.  Then I thought about how powerful they are.  I would rather take physical abuse than verbal abuse.  Probably sounds weirdly, but it's true.  Words have been such a big deal that I've decided to use physical feelings to alleviate their pains at times.
   Now not all mean words are that bad to me.  If someone says something mean to me, and I'm sure it's a lie, lacking truth, then I can most likely brush it off.  But if someone says something offensive to me, and I know for a fact that it's true, it greatly affects me.
   On the flip side though.  Words, being as powerful as they are, can have a positive affect on me.  I much, much rather positive words than positive touches.  The Bible states that the tongue (word-maker) has the ability to give life and to take it.  I fortunately agree.  I have an easier time believing The Bible when I agree with it, even though it's true regardless of my opinion.  I took a quiz a while back, and it pretty much said that the biggest way I feel love is through words, but I'm thinking that that's the biggest way I feel the opposite of love as well.
 
   I was involved in some learning about The Holy Spirit, and well, I'd like Its help.  My words are usually just words, spoken to peoples' ears, but His Spirit speaks inside of hearts, and I'd like for Him to do that, to mine and to others'.

   I've liked the songs I've listened to today.  Three of them used words that usually mean to open.
One said, "Spread wide, in the arms of Christ."  This one's a little different from the others, but spread does mean to open.
The next said, "Fling wide the door to my soul, open up the door to my heart,"
And the last said, "Open wide my door, my Lord, my Lord, open wide my door to whatever makes me love you more."
   I did choose to listen to each of them, but they all reminded me of another song : p
It's straight from the Bible and says, "Open to me."  To even have a desire to open to Him, I need His Spirit to call me, which it does, and does, and does.  Then even after hearing that call, I need His Spirit even again to actually open the door.

   More lyrics, they seem kind of irrelevant, but I'm sure there's a relation somewhere.  There usually is.
 
   From "The Dryness and the Rain"
   "And I'm going to take that grain, I'm going to crush it all together, into the flour of a bread, as small and simple and sincere, as when the dryness and the rain, finally drink from one another, the gentle cup of mutual surrendered tears, come on, a fish swims through the sea, while the sea is, in a certain sense, contained within the fish"
   I first liked the end, but then liked the parts before as well.

   Now the end, hahah.
   "My Lord, how long to sing this song?  And my Lord, how much more of this pretending to be strong?  When she stands before your throne, dressed in beauty not her own, all soft and small, you'll hear her call, 'You brought me here, now take me home.'"

Not Much Spirituality Here

   All right.  I've heard many people talk about chivalry.  I think I hate it.  They say that men are supposed to open doors for females.  Men are supposed to pull out chairs for women.  Men are supposed to help girls out.
   I've always asked myself why.  Why should I do that?  What benefit does it do for me?  What help is my favoritism doing?  I guess that girls will like me more if I do it.  So do I do it to impress them?
   I told my sister that I've never felt very chivalrous.  She jokingly (I think) said it's because I'm a jerk.
   I've also always heard, "I don't hit girls," from people.  Is that a form a chivalry?  Maybe it's respect?
   I think people like to help girls, and keep from battering them, because they usually have less physical strength.  "It's not right to hit a girl because she can't defend herself."
   If I were female, I might take a bit offense to that.  Females are capable of defending themselves.  It's a funny story, a bit embarrassing, but I've lost a tug-of-war battle to a female that was two years younger than myself.
   I like to pull chairs out for people.  I like to open doors for people.  I like to speak politely to people.  I like to refrain from hitting people.  But it isn't because they're girls.  It's not because they're are weaker than me.  It's not because I want to impress them.  It's not because I think they're incapable.
   I do things like that because they're the right things to do.
   If a male hits another male, one of them are probably weaker than the other.  Is that supposed to be different than hitting a girl that's weaker?  If people can't defend themselves, they can't defend themselves.
   I've felt this way since I can remember, even before I met Jesus.  Because of that, I was thinking this wasn't much of a Christian life-teaching.  But it is.  Otherwise He wouldn't have talked to me about it earlier. He wouldn't have written about it.

   My brethren, have not the faith of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Lord of glory, with respect of persons.  For if there come unto your assembly a man with a gold ring, in goodly apparel, and there come in also a poor man in vile raiment; and you have respect to him that wears the gay clothing, and say unto him, sit you here in a good place; and say to the poor, stand you there, or sit here under my footstool; are you not then partial in yourselves, and are become judges of evil thoughts?

   I sometimes think of women as being made with gold rings/goodly apparel, while men are made in vile raiment.  Just because someone's more beautiful, that doesn't mean they should be treated better.  Everyone is a person.
   I'd like to say that you aren't supposed to hit anyone.  Male/female, stronger/weaker.  You are supposed to show love to everybody, not just those that look better.  You don't give your seat up because a female is incapable of standing.  You give your seat up because you love someone.

   Let nothing be done through strife or vainglory; but in lowliness of mind let each esteem other better than themselves.

   I've always thought of chivalry as a, "treat girls with more respect than other people," rule.  I looked it up though.  "The sum of the ideal qualifications of a knight, including courtesy, generosity, valor, and dexterity in arms."  I guess I don't dislike chivalry.  Just biased, incorrectly intentioned favoritism.

Loneliness

   I read some of my old note pads the other day.  Tonight I was given a cd to listen to.  It had a good bit about loneliness.  It reminded me of the notepad.
   I took a writing class my first year of college.  I enjoyed it.  One book I read for it was, Writing Down the Bones, by Natalie Goldberg.

   -Last night I was sitting with a very old friend in my living room.  "You know, Natalie, I know you've talked about being lonely, but last week when I was really lonely, I felt that I was the only person in the world who ever felt it."  That's what loneliness is about.  If we felt connected to people, even other lonely people, we wouldn't feel alone anymore.
   When I was separated from my husband, Katagiri Roshi said to me, "You should live alone.  You should learn about that.  It is the terminal abode."
   "Roshi, will I get used to loneliness?"
   "No, you don't get used to it.  I take a cold shower every morning and every morning it shocks me, but I continue to stand up in the shower.  Loneliness always has a bite, but learn to stand up to it and not be tossed away."
   Later that year I went to Roshi again: "It's really hard.  I come home and I'm alone and I get panicky."  He asked me what I did when I was alone.  Suddenly, it had a fascination.  "Well, I wash the dishes, I daydream and doodle on pieces of paper, draw hearts and color them in.  I pick the dead leaves off the plants and I listen to music a lot."  I began to study my own desolation and I became interested in it.  I stopped fighting it.-

That's the beginning of this chapter.  The assignment I had was to pick a few paragraphs and write about them.  Here is what I picked and wrote:

-Writing can be very lonely.  Who's going to read it, who cares about it?  A student asked me, "Do you write for yourself or do you write for an audience?"  Think of sharing your need to talk with someone else when you write.  Reach out of the deep chasm of loneliness and express yourself to another human being.  "This is how it was for me when I lived in the Midwest."  Write so they understand.  Art is communication.  Taste the bitterness of isolation, and from that place feel a kinship and compassion for all people who have been alone.  Then in your writing lead yourself out of it by thinking of someone and wanting to express your life to him.  Reach out in your writing to another lonely soul.  "This is how I felt when I drove across Nebraska, late August, early evening alone in my blue car."
   Use loneliness.  Its ache creates urgency to reconnect with the world.  Take that aching and use it to propel you deeper into your need for expression--to speak, to say who you are and how you care about light and rooms and lullabies.-

   Excuse any of my fluff in this next part please.  : p
   "I'm thinking that Golberg's point is to help show how loneliness can benefit writing.  Most people usually experience it at some time, and it can be a very interesting topic to read about.  I think it's important because it not only seems true to me, but I kind of like the idea of loneliness.  I think it can be a pretty helpful thing for people to experience.  I also like that it can really help to relate with others, which is a good thing when writing, since it gets more readers usually.
   It relates to me personally because I like to think about loneliness.  I'm not a super lonely  person, but when I feel lonely, I try to think of it in a good way.  It helps me see myself more clearly.  I'm not around other people, so I can't be trying to please them; it's just me at those times."

   I used to overly care about who would read what I wrote.  I've made a number of blog-type things in my past that have been posted privately, only for my viewing.  As a kid, when an adult reads something unhealthy about you, "they're supposed to tell your parents," who then "are supposed to try to get you fixed."  That was always a fear for me.  But as an adult, when an adult reads something unhealthy about you, they talk to you personally.  Fear or sharing through writing has been taken away from me for some time.  If I try to conjure any bad possible outcomes of people reading what I've written, I just see each of those ideas as fruitless.

   Without a doubt, I know I become much more pensive when I'm sad, and often times loneliness brings me to sadness.  With this, I become so much more aware of God, others, and myself.  I should look to God at all times, but it's so much easier for me when I have no one else to look to.  When times seem badly, I'm usually at my best.  This idea has been a great encouragement to me recently.  If I take any big risks, the very worst thing that I can see happening is acquiring this beneficial lonely feeling.  When I'm sad, I care, and then notice much more about other people.  I have a greater concern for their hurts then, because I'm so  aware of that same unhappy feeling, and would rather that they didn't have to feel it.

   He is despised and rejected of men; a man of sorrows, and acquainted with grief: and we hid as it were our faces from him; he was despised, and we esteemed him not.
   Surely he has borne our griefs, and carried our sorrows; yet we did esteem him stricken, smitten of God, and afflicted.

   That's about Jesus.  He's the one who's been the closest there ever was to God, and he's been the loneliest person there ever was, I'd say.  As he was giving up his life he cried out, "Eli, Eli, lama sabachthani?"
   My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?