who tells your story

If you’re a fan of Hamilton, sorry not sorry for the ear worm.

 

I wish this blog post was a little more cheerful than any I’ve really posted lately. Spoiler alert, it’s really not. This year is a journey of discovery and living into the reality that things I take for granted are not guaranteed. Things I enjoy and look forward to may mean harsh times for others. Fall/Winter weather has finally arrived in Tucson. Temperatures that make my friends up North scoff mean we shiver and put on jackets. And while our heat was broken and our maintenance man, Mike, was super concerned, I realized I was whining about how my blankets barely kept me warm enough in my house, where I have a bed, a roof, and food. A chance to take a shower everyday, and wash and dry my clothes whenever I please.

 

And I go to work everyday to serve women who don’t have those things. Tomorrow I’ll go in and sleep on a cot with a mat with the women we are able to shelter. And there will be many more who sleep on the street, in the cold. Unsafe and unsheltered. We give them what we can, sleeping bags, blankets, warm clothes, and a breakfast and sack lunch. We hope to have enough time for everyone to shower and do laundry, but there is never enough time. Everyday I ask myself, how can anyone who has the ability to make this stop, the ability to make sustainable, long term change sleep at night if they choose not to? I can barely sleep sometimes for knowing I have tried to make all the change I can, for knowing that in the past two years I have realized more about my privilege, my ability to sit in discomfort and allow it to gnaw at me, and that it still isn’t good enough. That until every woman that walked through those doors today and the day before and will walk through them tomorrow and the next and the next and so one is housed, it will never be good enough. I am one small voice. But I will keep speaking. Because at some point those who sleep soundly in their beds writing policies that allow fortunes to pass hand to hand comfortably from generation to generation on the backs of the poor will have to answer to the poor who work for them. I believe it.

 

Enough listening to my soapboxing, I started writing to tell you a story, not to preach to the choir, because you’re reading this for a reason. Everyday, a mass of human experiences teems through our double doors. Right now, we’re decked for a myriad of holidays, Kwanza, Hannukah, Christmas, you get the idea. It’s light and bright in an attempt to bring joy. And it does help. So two more stories. We’ve had a new guest lately, I do not know her name, because she’s not in everyday and she’s very soft spoken. She wears full Hijab and I was curious how others would respond. She carries her prayer mat with her things. Somehow, amidst being on the street and experiencing homelessness, this remarkable woman still manages to do her prayers five times daily as she is called to do in the Q’uran. Today, I overheard her speaking with another of our ladies who was asking about her practice and how she does it. her first prayer time is at 4am. All of the ladies know her now and make space, allowing her to use the library for her prayers. They have learned not to walk in front of her when praying, that it breaks the direct contact with Allah (God in Arabic, for those who have missed that memo). It was one of those moments where you realize when people share being so very marginalized already, learning about another piece of someone’s marginalized culture is not scary to them. It made my heart feel light.

 

The other was watching a new woman come to the center who clearly needed much help and interact with our executive director. Hearing someone explain the pain that drove them to alcoholism, to drinking, to staying on the street away from family. This woman’s story of having been incarcerated, of learning of the death of her children while she was in prison, and being unable to do anything but attempt to numb herself. It was gut wrenching. I wanted to rip my heart out for her. To give her something that might be broken, but maybe a little less so. Jean found out what she needed. Not only got her those needs, but knew who would be a good person to help comfort her. And then did something that amazed me. “Promise me you won’t leave without telling me first.” She wanted to make sure to say goodbye. That has stuck with me throughout this day. She wanted to make sure, I think, that this individual was welcomed, and that she would know she was welcomed back. “I’m so tired.” That’s all I remember her saying, over and over.

Tonight, I want to pray, for those who are tired, weary, out in the cold whether it is their first night or their five hundredth night. They all have a story, whether someone has listened, another person experiencing homelessness or an angel on earth like Jean. We have no right to decide if they deserve help. They are human. They are us, with a different set of life circumstances.

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All Souls: Who Mourns the Homeless?

Today I answered the phone to learn we lost one of our ladies. I have written about her before, in my last blog post. I called her Eugenia. My heart stopped. I had been told she was sick and in the hospital, but to learn she had passed made me hurt. Jean spent part of the evening telling the ladies, and as part of the time where the ladies can gather to pray before the meal, she was remembered. Tomorrow there will be an ecumenical service in her memory, because the ladies have asked for such a thing. This is a special place, sisterhood is present here. The women care for each other. They genuinely mourn their sister.

My heart is aching at the loss of this soul that I knew only for a short time. She was full of fire and spunk. She was ill, yes, but that did not define her. She was caring, loving, and kind. She was always welcoming to those who were new. She would come tell you about the simple accomplishments that made her proud. “I finished my breakfast and lunch, Miss Rachel.” All the volunteers were Miss so and so. A redhead (I know my stepmom and a dear family friend or two who will enjoy that) and it suited her to a t). She would find an outfit she loved and come to show it off. If the dinner looked particularly good, she would say “Oh man, I’m coming back for seconds!” While I can’t tell you her full name, I will tell you that she proudly signed her middle name, Hope. And it suited her. She brought Hope to all. She was hopeful, loving, and kind. I will miss her. I will never forget her words to me, the last thing I remember her saying to me, “I just appreciate that you listen and really make me feel human again.” In her, I feel like I met an angel, one that was sent to give charge and benediction. Meet people where they are and give them the simple things you can, allow them to feel human again. Treat them as people, listen, don’t judge. Just be and feel. Be open. Another woman who need us desperately walked through our door. I can’t tell you her story. I just hope I can live up to that charge.

I know that tomorrow I will be here to mourn a wonderful person that I was lucky to know. So many go unmourned. I hope you will remember them today, tomorrow, and forever, because they deserve people who miss and remember and mourn them, too. No one should go unmourned. No one should die forgotten. Today that’s all I can think. My heart is heavy with this, except that I know heaven gained another angel who is waiting with a kind spirit and a loving word and smile.

operation streamline: people as livestock

This is my second time going to this court proceeding. I don’t think I will ever forget either one.

Operation Streamline occurs five days a week, 52 weeks of the year in Tucson at the federal court house. 70 migrants a day who have been picked up within the last few days are tried for illegal reentry and illegal border crossing. The former is a felony and the latter a misdemeanor. The judges have no leniency, the sentence increases based on the number of times they have been apprehended.

 

That right there should tell you it is not effective. If it was effective the mandatory sentence wouldn’t need to increase. But it does. From one month to six. To, as I understand from one trial today, unless I was mistaken in what I was hearing, the defendant is unable to plead guilty and agree to a plea deal and must proceed to court to be charged with the felony, which carries a sentence of two to twenty years and a fine of up to 250000. These are people who have traveled from their homelands for whatever reasons. If they come from Central or South America, they have walked to take “La Bestia” or “El tren del la muerte”. Many are severely injured or die just doing that. Then the trek through the desert with or without coyotes. If they don’t die, or aren’t killed, in our case to get to this trial they are detained and caught.

 

That brings us to court. They are bused in from detention centers or border patrol holding and  meet with court appointed lawyers for a little bit. Each lawyer has 5-6 clients. They have to assess if they speak and understand enough english or spanish to proceed. Plea bargains are written and signed, and then court begins. At any point, a migrant may make a statement of fear. If they make one to border patrol, they shouldn’t wind up going to court. Today, a few did. The agents know that they should not, this means they are seeking asylum and in fear for their life, afraid to return home.

 

Last year, I remember the sound of chains as seventy people, men and women, young and old were brought in. Their personal affects are taken. When deported they are often never returned. Today, they were not all in the court together, and as each line was brought in, there were no chains and no one in prison garb.

 

The attempt to play at humanizing the inhumane was obvious. But this practice, this costly ineffective practice is still inhumane. It was like watching cattle be stamped and processed for sale. I will never forget it as long as I live. The chains may not have been visible this time, but I could still hear and see them.

The Power of a Story, to be seen as Human, to be seen as Woman

I should tell you now, most of the stories I will have to tell of clients at Sister Jose’s will not be easy to write or read. Many may be triggering. But they deserve to be heard because it is rare that someone sees these women, let alone listens.

 

People experiencing homelessness are often highly visible and yet unseen. Think about it, especially if you live in a city. How often do you see someone with a sign and keep your eyes facing front and keep driving. If they approach you, do you give a grimacing smile and keep walking, if any acknowledgement at all, possibly thinking silent judgments in your head? If you, like me, spend most of your time on a bike, or on foot, or public transport you come more and more in contact, do you skirt around, switching sides of the street going out of your way to avoid? Do you know which parks to avoid in town? Really think. Do you see the homeless? Do you actually actively look and see them or do you just look and try to avoid thinking about the reality that you have no idea what brought them to that point.

 

I do the data at Sister Jose Women’s Center, and I will slowly bring more numbers, but the reality is this. We are the only center for unaccompanied women, both cis and trans,  experiencing homelessness in Tucson. There are no children and no men. As in I’m not going to debate with you about your thoughts on trans rights because transwomen are women. Period. The rate of PTSD and mental illness among the population we work with is particularly high because of the rate of domestic and sexual violence both prior to homelessness, leading to homelessness and during homelessness. The lack of services available without men present is staggering. Many women won’t seek help because of this, because the mere presence of men can be triggering to them. We don’t allow them inside the gate unless they’re dropping off donations/deliveries/contractors. You can call it sexist, we’re more concerned for the safety of our guests.

 

I’m not blogging to talk about that though, after figuring out what was best for safety and power dynamics in story telling, I wanted to talk about some of what I have experienced at the center. Some of these stories will be from our night program, some from day guests. I’ll tell more about day to day operations as I go along. Names and identifying details will always be changed to keep the lovely and wonderful ladies safe.

 

First, I would like to start with Eugenia. She is in her late sixties, I would guess, which is not uncommon for our population. Our average age is late 40s to 60s mostly, which surprises most. She’s a petite lady with fiery hair, which I’m not sure is dyed or real, you never know! One of the things I absolutely adore about her is her fashion sense. I hope that I am half as cool as her when I grow up. She puts together the coolest things. Sparkly, colorful, pattern. She wears funky shoes she gets from our “shop” (we get donations and ladies may pick things for free). She often feels sick, but boy, she is a spitfire no less. She really made me want to write more about stories, because the other night during dinner when I overnighted, she looked at me and said “Rachel, I just appreciate that you listen and really make me feel human again.” It kind of shocked me. I don’t know that I’ve every thought about it? Sometimes I feel like I’m too rushed and short with some of the ladies, just like I know I could get with my students, but something about Eugenia pulls at my heartstrings. She doesn’t always eat much, she doesn’t feel up to it, which reminds me of my own Nanny Lovins, but she proudly tells me when she does, and I tell her I’m proud, and ask her what was in the lunches from Caridad that she liked best. Or if she liked dinner the night before and I wasn’t there I ask. It’s little things. My wish for her is that she continues to eat and we get her strong and healthy to find her housing!

 

The other story from this week is from the day program and does come with a strong trigger warning. I was actually getting to leave from my overnight that same night, making sure the desk was clear, when a woman, clearly in pain, came in. We don’t open until 9am, but before I could say anything, she asked to use the restroom. They had just started to be cleaned, floors were wet. I let her know that they were being cleaned and asked if she wanted to wait. She let me know she had just started bleeding, that she was in her first trimester and was miscarrying. This is I think one of those moments where there is no preparation for what to do. I asked if she needed me to call the hospital and she said no. I knew that if I called, as much as I wanted to, they would say that she was an adult and if she refused treatment they’d leave. She went back outside. When I came back for my later shift, she was still there and in pain. I don’t think anything has ever been in my head so much as that. The matter-of-fact way with which she stated it, that it had happened before, that there was nothing the doctors could do. I was distraught. Angry for her because she had no where to go. Angry at the system because the reality is there are people who would blame her for that without knowing the whole story. I never even learned her name. I still don’t think I will ever forget her face.

So, what can you do? First, pray for me, for the women at the center, and for those on the street who have no where to turn. Push for better places for them and better laws to help those experiencing homelessness. Donate to centers for homelessness instead of thrift stores. They need it. Donate to my year. And don’t look through those you see on the street. Look at them. See them. Find a place to do the work. Volunteer. It won’t be easy, I guarantee, but someone has to help. Maybe it should be you.

 

In love.

 

Rachel

Sistering, in pursuit of Humanity

When I decided to do a second year of the Young Adult Volunteer program, I didn’t really know what it was that God had in store for me. I just knew that I would be in Tucson doing something. I knew I would have an intentional community and spend time discerning more about what my call was. My vocation. I didn’t really know that already, a month in, it would be a vastly more emotional journey than I feel like the first month of my first year even came close to being. Admittedly part of that lay at the feet of Transition Retreat, which, on the whole, was a wonderfully needed experience. There was some closure to be had in that place, in the cold, in the rain, watching the Aspens change with the weather and being reunited with the YAV class of 16-17.

This year is all about Sistering for me. I work at the Sister Jose Women’s Center. I live with three other women. It is truly a year that makes me think of the one women’s retreat I got to attend with NAPC and the idea of Sistering, the note I closed with at the Community Food Bank last year. Incidentally, it was an agency write up about Sister Jose. Sistering is a construction term. It uses sister beams to support a beam that has been under stress where it sits in the structure. Sometimes one, or two. You can sister a sister beam. Whenever you use this technique, the person doing the building has to figure out where to put the support would be, how many it needs, and so on, because each beam is unique and is carrying a unique burden. Not any one has the same situation going on. The builder recognizes that we don’t throw away the beams, we don’t discard them, because each of these beams is essential, it has a purpose. We put others alongside it to take care and hold it up, to help it carry what it can no longer bear alone.

In my first YAV year, I learned that there are many things that we can bear when we have those who come alongside us in covenant community. Without the support of my community, both my YAV-mates and my friends I made in the larger Tucson community, I don’t know if I would have made it through my year. I struggled with it, especially the medical diagnosis, adjusting to meds, to the change in freedom, but I had people alongside me to help bolster me. I was held up to be able to bear my burden.

This year, I live in a community with three other women. I work at an organization that is run by women in support and care of women experiencing homelessness. My year is all about sistering. Some days, I leave Sister Jose’s and I wonder who the sister beam really is. I know the women I work with are there to receive services and I am there as a volunteer to help with showers, laundry, clothes, data entry, and just about anything else you could think of, but often I think I have stepped into a place where I might just receive more from the laughter and interactions I have. Certainly, there are difficult days. Anytime someone asks for something we can’t provide, a deodorant, a bed, a lunch if we’ve run out, I hurt for the inability to give them something. But when I can find them exactly what they need, or when they come in for something they need and it also happens to be something they enjoy. Like last night, there was cake with dinner, and one of the ladies who stayed was so excited. She hadn’t had cake in years and you could tell she was savoring every taste. Something as simple as the skill of learning names quickly, being able to remember faces and using that. It is that small human connection that we all crave. Just today, I was calling ladies back for the night program, called a name of a returning guest and even though I always have her down she was shocked. “I wouldn’t forget you! Don’t worry!” She smiled and laughed when I told her that, but it’s so true. It hurts me to know that, at some point, I think she has learned that she is forgettable.

We’re only a month in. None of these women are forgettable. I know I will think of their stories daily after I finish this year. I hope others do as well, because they deserve that. They do. They deserve people that know their names, that notice who loves color, who loves sparkle and print and handbags and that for some reason people don’t think that women experiencing homelessness are still women. They donate things women don’t use, which is odd to me. So in sistering, I think about this, we are all brought close to disaster at different times in our lives. Very often, it is nothing short of chance that prevents you from being where you are. Think about that. See the people, and think about who they are. You never know, they all have stories. I’m lucky enough to be along side them, while we sister each other.

In wonderment and peace,

 

Rachel

 

PS, as always, I’m fundraising for my year. National YAVs are asked to raise $4000 this year. If 100 of you donate $40 dollars, that’s all I need! I’m going to donate to myself as well.  You can go to tucsonborderlandsyav.org to donate online or send a check to 400 E University Blvd Tucson AZ 85705. Make them payable to Tucson Borderlands YAV.

If you would like to support Sister Jose Women’s Center, we always need items. Contact me directly and I can tell you what we need most and where to send them. I see what’s in our warehouse everyday and interact with the women directly and know what they like. They are women just like the women you know. So if you want to send some stuff, let me know and I’ll let you know what we’re really running low on, or what kinds of things would really brighten their day!

Your Five and Two

First, let me say, going home is 1) for a visit, and 2) always to two places for me at this point: Atlanta and Tallahassee. We’ll get to Five and Two later.

This blog has been brewing and thinking since the beginning of April, and I’ve almost started it several times, but haven’t. I don’t think that was purely my own procrastinatory (is that a real word?) habits, but some of the spirit wanting me to fully be present for everything the month had for me. All the learning in this Lenten and Easter season, as well as my trips to both of the places I call home and to all the people I consider family, both biological, church, musical, and any other kind of family there could possibly be.

We’ll start with how these trips came to be. I wasn’t expecting to really get to go to Atlanta or Tallahassee at all this year. Plane tickets are expensive, and I had resolved myself not to GoFundMe a trip for this YAV year, thinking that if I did a second year, I’d do it then. I’ve never had a year where I lived away from family where I haven’t been able to visit them, and I know that’s a reality for many folks, and if that was part of this year, that was a part of this year. Clearly, other plans were in the works. I’m thankful for those plans, really and truly. My wonderful friends John and Jen Washburn (does it feel cool to see that in writing guys? It feels so good and right to write it!) wanted me to sing their first dance song. I don’t know that I’ve ever gotten a better Christmas present in my life. Maybe the present that was Linda Tracy before I was born, but I didn’t know about that then 🙂 So I got to go to Atlanta. And then, the now Rev. Linda Pitts wanted me to sing with a quartet for her Ordination to ministry (she’s now officially a hospital chaplain. What an amazing ministry! She’s an amazing person, and I’m so thankful to have her in my life and have grown up with her and her husband as role models!) and so I got to come visit home as well!

So I went from a first year in my life of not getting to see any of my family, which if you know me, is odd. My family has always been close. Very close. And by family, I mean extended and immediate. We don’t always agree on things, we differ in views. Some folks don’t understand my opinions or beliefs, but we love each other. We’ve struggled through so much together, and to not get to see anyone, that was going to be hard. So I’ve been blessed by this. And the community there in Atlanta, that is family. Yes, we’re not related by blood that runs through our veins, but we are rooted together in the blood of Jesus Christ and a love for each other and for building community and a better understanding of what it is to be friends and to be together. I really do feel that the Young Adults, more commonly known as the “Humans of North Ave” helped lead me back around to becoming a YAV. Back to this program I’ve thought and prayed and interacted with so frequently throughout my life.

So that brings me to the last piece of this, what I’ve learned. I’ll write more soon about the trips and more specifics, because there’s a lot to unpack and a lot I’ve thought about and prayed about and everything. But the five and two. So during the service of Ordination, a young pastor named Bobby Hulme-Lippert (I say young, I have no idea how old he actually is, but you’re as young as you feel, and he seemed young to me, so we’re going with young!) preached a marvelous sermon using Psalm 23 and the Feeding of the Multitude (I can’t remember which version now, I want to say it was either Matthew or Mark though). He had a few points, all of which seemed to call to me about my YAV year this year. The Disciples had been sent out to preach and heal and come back telling Jesus everything they’d done. Jesus tells them to come away and rest. Emily Curtin (shout out) said before I left she had a feeling this year, while difficult and stretching, would be a rest for my soul and would rebuild so much. Emily, I want you to know, that was such a prophetic word to me. It has been. Jesus called me away. It has been hard, yes, but so much has been right. I’ve learned so much.

That being said, as Bobby pointed out, the story tells us, the crowd sees them as they travel to the deserted places, and goes ahead and meets them there. Jesus has compassion. Compassion. This year has taught me what it is to have compassion for myself. Also for others, but really, to be compassionate towards myself in a way I never knew was possible. I don’t know that I have EVER realized how little care I have taken for myself before. I’ve spent so much time in the care of others that I just forget, or ignore. Self-care doesn’t mean neglecting compassion to others though, it’s a healthy balance. That’s what I’ve learned here. The balance of self-care and care for community. I’m certainly not done with that learning, and I am so grateful to Mirra, Mary, Erik, and Graham for being amazing community members who struggle in that learning with me, and Alison for helping us along in our learning. I’m thankful for Leona and Dora and Alma and Candace for being amazing co-workers and leaders in teaching me how to care for others in the work we do, and Pam and Barb and Ed for being the best Ambassadors and Rubin and Greg and Efrain for being the feet and hands who provide the food people need through our agencies. There are so many others of course, but just those immediate folks come to mind when I think about folks teaching me compassion. Finally, Jesus doesn’t call us to think about what we don’t have. He calls us to think about what we do have. Go and see what you have, he tells the disciples. That’s your five and two. Sometimes, I think back to this point last year. I don’t know that I thought I even had five and two. Some days now, I don’t know how in the heck my five and two will fit into some kind of call, but I’m learning so much. This past discernment with Amy Beth Willis and Katie (whose last name I can’t remember) and Emily Miller and my whole community…it seemed so much more tangible. And that brings me to the last piece here. I’m going to continue to discern more of what to do with my five and two, how to use them, where God is calling me and what he is calling me to by coming back for another year here in Tucson as a YAV. I don’t know yet what my work site will be, but I am working on that mutual discernment process now, and am looking forward to seeing what God has in store for me here in my second year!

 

Peace and love, Y’all!

 

Rachel

 

PS: If you’re in Tallahassee, go see Tallahassee Community Chorus perform Bach St. John’s Passion with period instruments. I heard their dress rehearsal last night and it is going to be STUNNING.

 

And as always, I need your support, prayers, letters, care packages, comments, emails, cards, and financial donations! I’ve got another year to fundraise and the amount is increased for 2017-2017 to $4000. Obviously we’re still working on this year, but please  be thinking and praying about next year. Donations can be made via the pay pal button on tucsonborderlandsyav.org or you can send a check to 400 E University Blvd Tucson AZ 85705. Checks made out to Tucson Borderlands YAV. Just make sure to put my name in a memo or a note so they know who you sent it to support!

Adventures in Health or Making the Choice for Self-Care and Adulting

So I’ve been thinking about how to write this blog post for about a week, since this whole saga began. It’s tough to know where to start and it’s something that a lot of people don’t talk about, but here we are and here I am deciding once again that, well, life lived as an open book can be a good thing.

Last Wednesday (March 8) on International Women’s Day, I decided to go for a well women visit at Planned Parenthood. I felt good about it. It felt like fighting by doing something I needed to do anyway, which made me even happier. Adulting and resisting at the same time? GO ME! Started off as one would expect, people with nothing better to do than to shame women (and men, incidentally) coming in to use accessible, affordable healthcare. That was kind of annoying, but I just rolled my eyes and moved on. I was met with very kind, able staff who listened and a doctor who listened to me for the first time and said she wanted to do both a test for a thyroid disorder and PCOS. Which would require blood work. No big deal, and I was actually excited because for once someone wasn’t just saying “well just try harder and we’re sure you could lose weight quickly and easily and all of these other things that are totally symptomatic of these disorders will disappear!”  She listened. And then the nurse managed to get my vein without bruising, without hurting, without sticking and re-sticking like so many others or rolling veins, it was magical. And then it all went wrong. In the space of less than a minute, I went from perfectly fine to passing out and seizing. When I came to I had no idea where I was. It took a while to reorient, but I felt okay and went home.

So that brings us to now. I’m not allowed to bike by myself. I can’t drive. The latter is less concerning, but the former absolutely feels soul-crushing almost. I just got to the point where being on my bike feels like freedom and joy. Wind in my helmet and sun on my face like where I want to be. And I can only do that with other people. So for the past week I’ve had to ride the bus everywhere. I’ve been feeling fairly up, but this has brought me to a place where I’m fighting feeling low to an extent that I recognize is dangerous as someone with depression. And seeing that happening means I’m also holding the anxiety at bay. And not having an outlet for energy as I have been means my ADHD has been absolutely intolerable in a way I have never experienced. Living in my own mind and body for this last week has been an absolute trial of epic proportions. But I’ve reached the light at the end of the first tunnel, because today I got in to see a doctor. And she also listened. Not about the same things as the other doc (unfortunate, but we’ll take what we can get, and hopefully the blood work from before will provide justification for other things).

So as of today, I’m starting back on a course of meds for different things. That’s why I say the first tunnel, because if you’ve ever been on any kind of meds for any kind of mental illness, you know it can be messy. And seizure meds are messy, and I’m back on anti-migraine and ADHD meds now, too. So it’s a lot. I’m worried, but also relieved. We have somewhere to start. And at the same time, going in, finding out how much these meds were going to cost after insurance, and realizing how much it would be without insurance made me realize how vastly privileged I am. That right there is going to be a whole other blog post (one I almost started here, until I realized how very long this was going to get).

But here’s what I want you to take away, dear reader person. Health is messy. Mental health is messy. It’s okay to feel down about the answers you’re given and to be worried. And there is no reason not to be open. Screw the stigma. I’m saying screw the stigma because there are millions and billions of people suffering in silence and dying because we don’t talk about it. I am Mentally Ill. Shout it from the damn hilltops. God made me this way. I said it. It’s a fucking struggle and some days I wonder if it’s worth it. And other days I feel like a super hero. Today I feel like I’m starting a long slog towards something and I’m pissed off that I came somewhere because I wanted to push myself to ride a fucking bike to commute and I can’t ride my bike alone. I realize that I have craved that time on my bike. Not wanted or needed. Craved. I’m angry because I don’t know why this thing happened or what God wants me to learn from this, or if he does want me to learn from this. And that’s okay. And I’m struggling with sitting in that okay-ness. So here we sit.

I also hope you know that God created you in all your grandness and flaws and that you should shout those flaws from the hilltops because it might save someone. Some days, I honestly think the reason I am candid about mental illness is because shouting my flaws saves me from myself and that is pretty cool too. I’m not sure though.

P.S. This is the last blog post you will get from me before going on the meds for my ADHD, I have intentionally left it as stream of consciousness as I can. Most of my blogs have been. I’m curious to see the difference. Maybe there won’t be a difference. We’ll find out I guess.