For the past two weeks I have been barely been able to function. I slept the entire weekend away (4 hour nap on Friday and Saturday, 5 hour nap on Sunday.) and I still woke up on Monday morning feeling like I hadn’t slept in days. The strange thing is that I started taking my new (higher) dose of medication a week ago and instead of feeling better, I was feeling worse.
UNTIL TODAY.
Today is the first day in two weeks that I don’t feel extremely tired. It’s the first day where I have laughed at things I’ve read (as opposed to sitting here like a zombie reading words but truly unable to process what I was reading.) It’s the first day that I actually saw the dirty floor and did something about it! Because I had the motivation and the energy to actually plug in the vacuum! I am so excited about this that there very well maybe tears streaming down my face as I have one fist held high in the hair while listening to “It’s a Beautiful Day” by U2.
These past few days have been awful. I’ve cried more times than I care to admit. My frustration level with this entire ASSHOLE THYROID (Not to be confused with an actual asshole IN my thyroid, Jenn-ay) has reached an all time high. I am willing to accept that it takes time to get my “levels” just right and all of that but HOLY PREMATURE HEARTBEAT, I’ve been dealing with this for over a year now. I would just like to feel semi-normal again. Look! I’m not even asking to be completely normal again! I’ll settle for SEMI normal!
Honestly, I just want to be able to clean my house without it feeling so overwhelming. I just want to be able to go to the gym and not fall of the elliptical because whoops! My knees buckled again! I just want My Horny back.
Last night, my Dad came over for a little unexpected visit (HATE THOSE!) I had just woke up from one of my naps and he could tell I wasn’t feeling well.
I began to tell him how frustrated I was because they increased my medication but I wasn’t getting any better blahblahblah thyroid blahblahblah tired.
“Do you know what it says in Isaiah 53, Mija?”
“No. I don’t know.” I said (which, TOTALLY should know. I spent the entire first 25 years of my life in church.I blame my thyroid! It makes me forget things!)
“It says ‘Surely He has borne our griefs and carried our sorrows; yet we esteemed Him stricken, smitten by God, and afflicted. But He was wounded for our transgressions, He was bruised for our iniquities; the chastisement for our peace was upon Him, and by His stripes we are healed’ not MAYBE healed, it says we ARE healed. You just need to have faith, Mija. Faith that God has healed you. Believe that he has healed you!”
“But Dad! You don’t understand. My body is killing my thyroid! It’s not going to magically get better! I need medication! For the rest of my life!”
He just smiled and shook his head softly. “Let me pray for you. Will you let me pray for you?”
I agreed to let him pray for me, but the entire time he was praying, I was kind of rolling my eyes because HE DOESN’T GET IT! God isn’t a magician!
But as he was praying, asking God to heal me, asking God to reveal himself to me, to give me faith to believe, I stopped rolling my eyes and began to really listen to what he was saying. And in that moment, I actually envied my Dad. I envied his ability to trust in God and his promises. It’s easy to roll my eyes and dismiss people who have faith, but how wonderful would it be to live life trusting that God will heal you, will take care of your needs? I think there are people who go overboard with the whole “having faith in God thing.” You know, the people who refuse to seek medical care for their sick children because “God will heal them.” I think that’s utter bullshit. However, I also think there is a healthy balance of having faith in God (or a higher power) while doing your part to take care of yourself (seeking medical care/taking medication.)
I don’t know that I’ve ever truly had faith in God. I’ve believe in God, but is believing in God and having faith in God the same thing? Can you believe that God exists and yet not fully trust that he’ll heal you/provide for you?
I want to have that kind of faith and I suppose there’s no magical way of obtaining faith, you just have to like, believe right? HOW DOES THAT WORK? How do you say to yourself “I have faith that I am healed!” and believe it? And if you have faith that God can heal/already has healed you, does that mean you don’t go back in 4 weeks to get your blood tested because “I have faith that I’m healed!” Or, if you do go back to get your blood tested and you find out that you’re NOT healed, does that mean you didn’t actually have faith? Or does that mean that you’re the one person Jesus DOESN’T love? I’m pretty sure that faith is supposed to be this beautiful,simple thing, but to me, it’s the second most complicated thing for me to understand (eternity being the first. Really? FOREVER AND EVER AND EVER AND EVER HAPPY WITH JESUS? That scares me a lot.)
Perhaps it is time that I start going back to church to explore these things because I’m not sure this is something The Internet can solve for me. (See, there I go not having faith again.)
Category Archives: This Thing Called Life
OVER!!EX!!AGERR!!ATOR!!!! (Now, With Update!)
I swore that I wouldn’t drink another drop of liquor for the rest of my life after being saturated with it the entire time that I was on the east coast last weekend. (Wine tasting! Coffee with Baileys! Beer Pong! No, seriously, BEER PONG!!) But! When I swore off liquor, I hadn’t considered the possibility of the words “MOM! There’s a snake in our backyard!!” being uttered from my children’s mouth just two days after my return home.
That’ll make a girl pop open the $2.99 bottle of Wild Vines she’s been saving for that special night when her husband wants sex and she’s like “I AM TOO TIIIIIIRED.” And he’s all “have a glass of wine and just lay there.” And she’s all “Dude, that sounds so awesome. Give me a few minutes to chug some of this shit down and get naked!”
My old neighborhood was not the kind of place I was proud to live. People stabbing each other, people having sex in my front yard, drug deals, restraining orders, rat infested neighbors, tweekers and so on and so forth, but at least I never had to worry about snakes slithering about in my backyard, or fearing for my life when I went to take the garbage out because OH MY GOD RACCOONS! AND COYOTES! AND MOUNTAIN LIONS!
I don’t know if this bottle of wine is enough to calm my nerves right now because Dudes. A snake. In my backyard.
UPDATE!!
After consulting Google, PigHunter is 100% convinced that the snake we found in our backyard is a harmless Garter snake.
And so a cage was built (without my permission) and a new pet was welcomed by everyone (except me) into our family.
Meet Sneaky The Snake.
For “The Record,” I’m SO not ok with this and if I have this crazy feeling that Sneaky just might “accidentally” escape from his cage while the boys are at school.
P.S. DEAR INTERNET,
WE’RE NOT ACTUALLY GOING TO KEEP THE SNAKE. WE WILL SET HIM FREE TONIGHT! So! You can stop worrying about the snake now! Apparently, PigHunter just wanted the boys to experience the snake up close and personal for a bit, but tonight, we shall set him free!
Full Length Version IS NOT AVAILABLE SO DO NOT EVEN ASK.
Next time you’re in New York City and you’ve been drinking and you meet up with a bunch of friends to do a little karaoke and Jesse’s Girl comes on and lose your shit because OHMYGOD JESSE’S GIRL IS ON, grab the microphone and proceed to sing 3 steps off key/20 seconds off time and think it would be really cool to do a Microphone Air Drum Move, you miiiiiiiiight wanna make sure that there aren’t any video cameras in the room ahead of time, unless you’re 100% ok with the sober internet seeing it in the future.
Why Can’t I Find a Woman Like That? from mizzjenny on Vimeo.
She knows me.
Tonight while I was blow drying my daughter’s hair before saying goodbye to her, she reached out, wrapped her hands tightly around my neck and said “I’m just so happy for you, Mommy. I don’t know what prompted her to say it, because she’s been crying all day when we talk about me leaving on a plane, but I do know that was exactly what I needed to hear.
I’ll think of that moment every time I feel like crying tomorrow. Well, THAT and also…
This.
I mean, how can I cry when I think of my little Tammy Faye giving me TWO THUMBS UP?
(comments will be held for approval while I’m gone. I don’t want my blog getting killed by spam.)
Rushed (and also: Jers-ay!!)
I’m insanely busy because I’ll be leaving tomorrow at 4 in the morning (!!) and I have packing to do and meals to plan and meatballs to make and lists to type and laundry to do and WHY DO I WAIT TIL THE LAST MINUTE TO DO EVERYTHING?
My kids are going to stay the night with my mom tonight and I keep cry every time that I think about not being able to kiss them goodbye when I leave for the airport. I’m such a wimp when it comes to leaving my family. I’m sure I’ll cry on a few shoulders while I’m away, lucky every single person who talks to me while I’m gone!!
I was pretty stressed about my weight and seeing people that I’ve not seen in a long time (or in EVER) but then a friend sent me an email that helped me snap out of it.
And you being big bothers you more than it bothers everyone else, you know, which is understandable…, but its also not like every time you write to me I’m thinking “oh it’s Yvonne in her mrs&plus size shirt”. Dude, like it’s Yvonne . Yah, so what, she wears mrs&plus size.
I really need to get over myself, yes?
I hate being fat, I do, but I love my friends and for maybe the first time in my life I’m choosing to love my friends MORE than I hate being fat.
Now, if only I could learn to love to fly because, MY GOD, I hate flying and have been known to scream things like “help me Jesus” during turbulence. I’m not proud of that, but I also am not ashamed to ask Jesus to save me from death by plane crash.
I should go pack, but before I go, I have to ask you, do you read The Blogess? If not, you really should, especially this post. It doesn’t get much funnier than that, folks.
(Except, on her blog, it totally does.)
I Wanna Soak Up the Sun.
Yesterday, a a friend asked me how I was doing.
My response?
I’m doing good today. I’ve just been keeping myself busy, going outside to enjoy the sunshine and soaking up the love of my family.
It’s amazing to me how dramatically my spirits lift when I step outside and feel the warmth of the sunshine on my skin.
For too long, I’ve been dwelling on the fact that my body is at war with itself. I’ve been dwelling on the fact that I no longer recognize my body in the mirror. I’ve been dwelling on the fact that I’m going to have to take medication for the rest of my life. I’ve been dwelling on the fact that I wasn’t taken seriously the first time that I knew something was wrong.
Oh! Poor, poor puffy me.
I have made a decision to stop dwelling on the negative, as real as it is, and to start focusing on that which is good and that which is wonderful. I am blessed to have health insurance that allows me to seek treatment for that which is wrong with me. I am blessed to have an imperfect, but wonderful family who continue to love me and support me even though I’ve not been the most pleasant of people to be around.
I am choosing to seek out that which is beautiful in the world around me. I pay close attention to the little things. The pretty flowers that are blooming around me. The sound of my boys jamming to “Under the Bridge” in the garage. The soft touch of my daughter’s hand on my arm as I read her a bedtime story. The unexpected hug from my husband as we pass each other in the hallway.
It is these ordinary, every day moments of my life that give me the strength that I need to keep me from crawling back into bed and dwelling. I grab onto each little moment with both hands and hold it close to my heart.
While this shift in thinking hasn’t magically turned my life into one big Chocolate Covered Strawberry, it most definitely has helped me pick myself up off of the tear soaked floor and try to enjoy life again. And for that, I’m grateful because, ALL things considered, I have a pretty sweet life.
In closing, I would like to leave you with some pictures of the absolute funniest thing in my life at the moment.
My daughter attempting to “cross her eyes” and yes, I ask her to do it at least 10 times a day.
I realize you won’t find it as funny as I do, but even still.. enjoy.
Eight Eighty
Last night we had a dinner for the basketball team. I had made up my mind that I wasn’t going to attend because I didn’t have anything to wear.
I know! I have a new tracksuit! And a pretty stripped shirt. But, I also wear those two tracksuits to every game and I was not about to go to a dinner in one of those outfits.
I promised myself that I’d never miss out on another event because of the “I don’t have anything to wear” excuse, but I had completely justified “this one time” in my mind. “It’s just a dinner for the basketball team. It’s not like it’s a wedding, or an awards ceremony!”
The dinner was scheduled to start at 6:00. At 4:30, Tony came home from work. I informed him that I was going to attend the dinner. He wasn’t happy about it at all.
” I want you to be there.” He said. “Baby, you’ll have a great time without me. It can be a bonding time for you and your son.” He looked at me and said “But I want you there with me.” I paused for a minute. “You’ll be fine, Tony.”
I left to go to the grocery store to buy the stuff I needed to make a salad for the dinner. On the way there, I kept hearing my husband’s voice. “I want you there with me.” Over and over. I was, yet again, being a selfish jerk. I kept thinking about what I was missing out on all because of effing clothes.
I was overcome with guilt and I knew that if I didn’t go, I’d regret it.
And so, before I went to the grocery store, I made an impromptu trip to Kohls. (Ah, Kohls. I hate you and yet I can’t quit you.) I thought if I went there and couldn’t find anything to wear, at least I could say “I tried! Now, you all have fun without me!”
I made my way to The Wimmin’s Section. I felt sick to my stomach. It’s been months since I’ve shopped for real clothes (also known as: Clothes that are not tracksuits). I’ve avoided it like the plague because shopping for clothes in the wimmin’s section is painful for me. I started at the clearance rack, because well, I ALWAYS start at the clearance rack. I was ready to give up after about 3 minutes because DEAR GOD MAKE THE PAISLEY/FLORAL PRINTS GO AWAY when suddenly, I saw a light shine down from heaven and the FUGLY clothes parted and right there before my eyes, I saw pair of black. In my size. I grabbed the tag and that is when I heard the angels sing.
Yes, Jesus loves me, the price tag tells me so.
It was as if God was speaking to me, right there in the clearance section of Kohls and he was saying “Y. I don’t want you to miss out on a night with your family. Here are some pants, the shirts are 50% off. ENJOY THINE SPAGHETTI DINNER.”
When God speaks to you in the aisles of Kohls, you LISTEN and so, I rushed home, made the salad and got ready in less than 20 minutes (can you say “pit wash” and “spot shave?”) and went to the dinner.
And it was wonderful. I even made a new friend and she’s fabulous.
Oh, Self. How you’ve grown.
(And ha! ha! I wasn’t referring to “growing in size” but I can’t help but bring it up because WHEN IN THE HELL DID I GROW STRIPPER SIZED TITTAYS?)
And the Flooding Don’t Stop ’til 4 in the Morning
It’s one o’clock in the morning and guess what I just finished doing?
I just finished frantically moved things all over the garage to make sure there wasn’t anything on the ground that could be destroyed by water because…
Church
Every Sunday, at some point in the day, I think about church. I think about how much I hated it as a child, I think about how much I loved it as an adult (for the brief period that I went). I think about how we’ve become “Those Parents.” You know, the ones who send their children to church with Grandma and Grandpa while the congregation prays for our souls.
My boys love church, because they have had a completely different experience with it than the experience that I had.
If my experience as a had been different, I think I would love church more than anything.
When I think back to my childhood, I have good memories. My mother stayed home with us while my father worked a good paying job for the post office.
I remember making mud pies, playing with neighborhood kids. I remember trips to Disneyland. I remember my mom making food for school parties. I remember my dad being firm, but loving when I’d misbehave. I remember going to church on Sundays and going out to eat after the service.
I was a happy kid with an ordinary, but happy life.
All of that changed the day that The “Apostle” came into our lives.
The Apostle was a little, elderly man from India. I am not quite sure how my parents met him, but I’m sure it was through a member of the church. (My dad was/is a pastor.) At first, he was a delightful man—soft spoken, loving and kind. I used to love to sit in the front row and listen to him preach the Word of God.
But then, he started to teach “his” version of what being a Christian meant.
And my parents (along with every one else in the church) began to accept his teaching as The Word of God.
One sermon, one “AMEN, brother!” at a time, my life as I knew it would be changed forever in a way that haunts me to this day.
The Apostle taught us that women needed to dress modestly. The definition of modest changed every time he spoke of it. And he spoke of it often. The definition became very specific. No makeup (JEZEBEL!). No pants. No arms or legs showing. “Wipe that makeup off of your face, Monkey lips!” He once said to a women sitting in the front row of church.
Suddenly, it became a “sin” for a woman to wear make up. So the women all began showing up to church free from the evil makeup that was made with “ground up bones from aborted babies.”
He also taught that a woman was to submit to her husband and her “place” was in the home, not out in the workplace.
Suddenly, it was a sin for a woman to work outside of the home, for The Apostle said it was her place to breed and cook dinner for her husband.
The church agreed.
The Apostle read a scripture from 1 Corinthians that said “but every woman who prays or prophesies with her head uncovered dishonors her head, for that is one and the same as if her head were shaved.” He told us that women needed to “cover” their head before they set foot in the church. “Cover your heads, women!” He said from the pulpit. And without question, women began wearing “coverings” on their head whenever they entered the church.
The women who didn’t wear coverings were scolded and gossiped about for not submitting to the Word of the Lord.
Church was no longer a place to learn the teachings of Jesus. It no longer was a place where we learned how to live a Godly life. It was no longer a place that brought comfort to my soul, but rather a place that I dreaded to be because I had no idea if the outfit I was wearing would be condemned from the pulpit (“Button those buttons up, little girl!”) or if I would get a beating when I got home because I disrespected the “apostle” by acting like the ten year old that I was.
Eventually, my father realized that things had gotten out of hand and that this man wasn’t teaching “the word of God” but rather his own interpretation of God’s word.
I’ll never forget the moment that my father stood up to him and it is one of the reasons why I forgive my father for all that happened (although, clearly, I’m having a really fucking hard time forgetting.)
The “apostle” (Asspostle?!) was, once again, preaching AT the wimmins. He was talking about head coverings. Apparently, it wasn’t good enough for “God” if you wore the covering on your head. Oh! No! God wanted the covering to be pulled down over your forehead, just above your eyes! No, seriously! God said that to him!
My dad was translating the message into Spanish (because there was a large part of the congregation who did not speak English.)
“Pull your coverings down!” Asspostle shouted. “Pull them down and cover your foreheads!”
He waited for my dad to translate.
My dad stayed silent.
“Pull your coverings down!” He shouted again.
My dad remained silent.
He looked over at my dad. I knew something was about to happen from the look on my dad’s face.
“Translate that, brother!” He said to my dad.
“No.” My father shot back. “I will not.”
The “apostle” was stunned, as was everyone else in the church.
“I will not translate what you have just said, because that is not coming from the word of God. Those are YOUR words coming from YOUR mouth and I will NOT take part in telling people YOUR version of the bible.”
It was in that moment that my father acknowledged what had been happening was wrong.
My father has apologized repeatedly for what happened in those years and I do forgive him.
However, I have never been able to rid myself of the pain that came with losing my childhood, with having the most formative years of my life stripped from me, leaving me riddled with shame, insecurities and “what if’s.”
When I think of the high profile cults of the past—the People’s Temple, The Branch Davidians—I think about how EASY it is for people to get caught up in such teachings. Because people are afraid to question these men, they’re afraid of speaking out. They want so badly to believe, to be a part of something so great and Holy. Even when everything in their heart, soul and mind is saying “This is wrong”, they continue to follow blindly, because who are they to question GOD?
I’m not sure what my point is in writing this. I suppose I just wanted to finally put in writing how my once normal, happy childhood was irreparably damaged by one’s man interpretation of the word of God and by my parents’ willingness to blindly follow those words.
I am grateful for the experience it taught me to never blindly follow the words of a man and in learning that, my children will never have to go through such an ordeal. However, I can’t help but wonder if not taking them to church because of MY experience has harmed them in a different way.
I just don’t know.
I want you to just TRY and imagine how popular I was in high school.
Sometimes when I think back on my teenage years, when I think of the things that I wasn’t allowed to do, the things I was forced to do, I get angry and bitter and I cry. Other times, I just have to laugh.
When I look at this picture, I choose to laugh. Because it IS funny. (Is that a Sprush in your pocket? Ha! Ha! Haaaa!)
But then, I remember how it felt to be me at that age and I want to cry. I was 15 years old. While my friends were out enjoying their youth, I was being forced to cover my head and to dress like a 35 year old apostolic woman. I wasn’t allowed to do ANYTHING that most 15 year olds do. I was taught my role as a woman was to find a good husband, submit to him, have his children and make it my life work to raise them.
I wasn’t taught that I had other options. In fact, the other “options” were ungodly and would condemn me to an eternity in hell.
I like to say that I’ve moved on from my past. When people tell me that I’m bitter and that I need to grow up and move on, I point to my beautiful family and say “I have moved on.”
But have I really?
Obviously, not.
I can say that these thoughts no longer consume me. But I can’t say that what happened to me has no affect on me to this day.
I’ve spent most of my adult life feeling out of place, unable to relate to the world I live in. I lived a sheltered life in which I was not allowed to discover who I was or what I wanted to do with my life.
So, I married young, had a child at the age of 22 and continued to live a life that I was told was the one God had planned for me.
I never imagined a life in which I wasn’t going to church and serving the Lord, but somewhere along the way, the bitterness and anger consumed me and I no longer wanted anything to do with church or the things of God.
I’ve been missing church lately. Missing the peace that I would feel in my soul as I sat in the presence of God. But then, I think of The People. The Christians who made my life a living a hell and I can’t bring myself to go back.
I may still be holding on to bitterness from my past, but I do believe that I’ve tried to make the best out of my life with my husband and my children.
Maybe it’s not the life I would have chosen given a different upbringing, but it IS the life that I choose now.