A Cigarette and a Cinnamon Roll: Smoking My Grief Away

Friday night I went out to see a local cover band I love, A Band in Kansas.

I paid my $10 cover and went to the front row, ready to lose myself and dance. As I do!

But this time, I was overcome with tears. Immediately I was sobbing. I ran inside to the restaurant, hoping to order some food. Kitchen closed. I started texting my friends, hoping someone could calm me down.

Full-blown panic attack mode. I felt like such a freak, sitting in a booth by myself and ugly-crying.

I called Kristin, a local friend who answered. I could barely talk, my breathing was ragged.
“Where are you?” she asked. “Are you safe?

I told her that yes, I was. Just mortified.

“I just baked some fresh cinnamon rolls,” she said. “Do you want to come over?”

It was 10 p.m. and she has a family, but God bless her. I did.

“Calm down first,” she told me. I nodded.

I went to the bar, still gasping. “I need a drink of water.”

A young staff girl was to my right, sweeping the floor. She made eye contact but didn’t respond.

“I NEED WATER,” I said louder.

The bartenders looked at me with pity, handed me one.

A staff in a yellow t-shirt asked me gently, “Do you want to get some air with me?”

I nodded and followed her outside to the alley.

She offered me a cigarette. I haven’t had one in years. I used to smoke socially, but never buy my own.

“Do you want one?” Her lighter was small and had a weed leaf on it.

“YES I fucking do,” I said.

Taking a deep drag, I instantly calmed down.

The nicotine flooded me with relief. I love the taste of smoke.

I’ve been doing everything right– managing my anxiety and feelings in “healthy” ways.

I’m in therapy and medicated. I’ve tried running, focusing on work, blogging, hot baths, talking it out, prayer, Mass, Confession, martial arts, Adoration, the Rosary, Bible study, volunteering. I even have a spiritual advisor!

But WOW, how immediately that cigarette worked.

I decided to just surrender to what I needed and not judge myself.

Because no one can judge me like I can!

I started to explain why I was freaking out.

“My ex,” I managed. “I came out to have fun… but–

She gave a knowing nod and a “Mmmmmhmm.”

“Girrllll, me too. My baby daddy…..” the staff in a yellow t-shirt said.

And THEN the band began playing “Creep,” by Radiohead.

“He died a year ago,” I said. “And he LOVED this song, dammit!”

“I wish I was special

You’re so very special…”

I started laughing.

That fucking song– a favorite of Dan, my First Love.

He used to play that in his truck constantly. ‘

I’ve been trapped within myself this week, ruminations as I grieved the one-year anniversary of his death. I’d been obsessively reading my old journals, revising the tribute blog I wrote about him. I couldn’t figure out the bottom line about us: what was the truth?

I couldn’t let him go and I couldn’t commit to the end of that blog.

It was not good for my mental health.

Then I leave my apartment to try and get out and have fun, and this happens?

I mean, COME ON.

At that moment, I honestly felt HAUNTED.

Like my love was saying to me, “Don’t let go, baby. I’m still here!”

I felt angry.

Angry at the choices we both made.

I felt as if my grief would never end. He also was a smoker.

And a guitar player who sang in several bands. It was the music triggering me. Music used to be my happy place.

How dare he invade my happy place, when he’s dead?!

I think, since then, I’ve felt guilty.

As if it’s not okay for me to be okay without him.

As if it’s not okay for my heart to beat, for me to be happy, without him.

But it is okay. I gave him all I could. He knew.

He’s okay now.

I know he would want me to be okay now.

He introduced me to Grunge, the smell of weed, desire.

Now it makes sense. I casually liked music before I met him.

But it was all pop– New Kids on the Block, Debbie Gibson, Ricky Martin. N*Sync, Britney Spears.

Sure, I liked Aerosmith, Meatloaf, Guns n’ Roses. I loved Mtv as much as anyone did.

But until I met him, rock and roll was just a genre of music.

When I became involved with Dan, he brought the rock n’ roll INTO my life.

Passion. Conflict. Longing. Rebellion. Trouble. Heavy breathing.

He actually played guitar– acoustic and electric.

For the first time in my life, someone was serenading me.

Dan introduced me to Soundgarden, Pearl Jam, Alice in Chains, STP. Later, Audioslave and Chris Cornell solo music.

It was dark and emotional, just like him.

He gave me a love letter with a Fender Heavy guitar pack taped to it.

Dan viewed himself the way the persona in the song did, immortalized and sang by Thom Yorke.

He never felt comfortable in his soul, although he possessed one that endeared me deeply. Officially, he didn’t believe in souls at all. Although I knew something changed toward the end of his life, as he spoke with hope about God. A fledgling acknowledgement, despite his militant pro-claimed Atheism.

He was overtly masculine in his build and the structure of his face. His voice was just deep enough. He exuded this cave man sexuality that made me burn.

But despite how often I tried to show him, to envelop him, to prove his beauty and power– he would lose faith in himself so easily. He was the biggest personality in the room, but so fragile.

And because I had issues with myself, my OWN anxiety and despair- I did the worst thing.

I shut down, desperate to convince myself that I didn’t love him. Didn’t need him.

There must be someone better-adjusted, someone sober and not so dangerously attractive.

So I would break up with him.

I would hate myself afterwards, but thought I was doing the “right” thing.

I would run– from my true feelings, from his power over me.

“She’s running out the door (run)

She’s running out

She run, run, run, run

RUNNNNNN..”

And really, I kept dating different versions of him. But they weren’t real the thing.

After I got my breathing calmed own and chatted with the staff girl a few mins, I thanked her.

I left for Kristin’s.

I smoked the whole cigarette.

I arrived, and we talked and laughed on her porch and in her kitchen for two hours.

The gooey sugar frosting was the perfect wholesome anti-dote to my black mood.

I needed sisterhood.

And she was wonderful! Kristin really listened, she asked questions.

No judgement. She affirmed that I hadn’t been unfair, that all my feelings were valid.

We told stories about who we were in high school and boys we dated in our past.

And laughed, and laughed and laughed.

“My cheeks hurt!” I told her, pressing my hands to my face.

“That’s a good thing,” she said, smiling.

I felt very lucky to have a friend who was there for me at my most vulnerable.

She also told me that my calling her had fulfilled a prayer she had just said.

She had been asking God, “Who can I share these cinnamon rolls with?”

She’s very generous. I had been afraid to “bother” her, but my needing comfort dovetailed with her wish to comfort someone with delicious homemade dessert.

That’s how God works!

It reaffirmed my own faith in a “Dark Night of the Soul.”

I needed a hug.

I needed to be reminded of my humanity, what’s grounding me in the present now.

The good in my life.

The progress I’ve made, the woman I am today.

I’m not the girl who broke his heart myriad times.

I’m now the woman who realizes it was meant to be that way,

That it was no one’s fault.

Today I can forgive him

and forgive myself for leaving.

I can also admit that really, he wasn’t good for me. He mostly upset me- either because I was worried about him, or he was unreliable or not fully present emotionally because he was high. He would listen and could be very sweet and comforting. But he never asked the sort of questions I need to know someone is fully engaged with me. We had a very passionate romantic relationship, but not a strong friendship. He turned to Mary Jane for comfort every day, not me. I got fed up competing with a bottle for his devotion.

He was committed to his habits, but not to us.

I knew he loved me massively. But he didn’t understand me the way I needed, for that amount of time.

He was just not The One, and now I can finally admit that.

And I can forgive myself for letting go.

He would want me to.

He always wanted me to be happy. He also knew he couldn’t give me what I wanted. He said that.

I couldn’t give him what he wanted, either.

He moved on to someone else, and that seared my soul.

But now I’m okay with it. She was more like him, she was the balance I couldn’t provide.

And now hanging on and loving him is only hurting me.

Time to accept that it’s over.

I’m okay now.

Then I went to Quick Trip and bought myself a pack of Lucky Strike Reds and a Dias de Los Meurtos Bic lighter. Its only the second pack I’ve bought in my life.

The first was in 2011 when I was on deadline for a newspaper column and feeling utterly uninspired. I bought a pack of Marlboro Reds, and after smoking one I thought I would die! I felt awful and threw the rest out.

This time, I chose something not as hardcore. Something more affordable.

And I lit a Lucky in my car, allowing myself to be human.

Loving the taste of the smoke.

I Loved Him Anyway: Ames & Daniel

I have so many journals, chronicling the saga of my Daniel and I. The chaos.

But only one picture of us remains: I found it by accident last night.

He died last year, at 41.

I’ve been bereft all year, trying to process his loss. A LOT of crying. Especially this weekend.

I never got to mourn him properly, I wasn’t invited to his services. I hadn’t kept in touch with anyone from his family or our old friends. I’m sure they are not a big fan of mine anyway, considering our tumultuous on/off relationship that began in 1999 and crashed acrimoniously in 2008.

I was the bitch who couldn’t make-up her mind and broke his heart. But here was a lot behind the scenes influencing those events. We were both unstable and ambivalent, but had been deeply attached.

I had thought we weren’t compatible and was always marriage-minded. He had always insisted our glaring differences didn’t matter- that he wanted to take the risk.

But as the devout Catholic girl, I was indoctrinated to believe that an Atheist was doomed to break my heart and faith. My family even told me he was a “temptation.”

He set my heart and body on fire, but how could I surrender?

I was at war with myself.

I kept trying to end it with him, to purge my heart for the equally-yoked Catholic man I should find.

He also was skittish and could not handle being friends. He was all-or-nothing.

I’m sad that my last words to him were so angry, but I was trying to move on.

“Damn these Catholic genes,” he said.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t be a better man.”

His apologies were not hollow. He full acknowledged his faults. He listened to me and why I told him I felt disrespected, why I didn’t believe him

He truly made so many efforts to be the man I needed, the man he felt I deserved.

He also inspired me to work on my own issues. My insecurities, my tendency to shut down. I just didn’t know how else to be. I always wanted to become the girlfriend that HE deserved.

Because I knew he loved me, even the weakest and worst parts of me.

We both grew up in homes with chaos. We desperately tried to un-learn that, to be better to each other.

But we just had so much to work though. We could never catch up, it was never enough.

Despite hating God, he was cursed to love me: the devout Catholic girl.

Last night, grieving, I absentmindedly typed in his old AOL e-mail— THAT’S HOW FAR THIS GOES BACK– and a picture of us materialized.

I had ripped up or deleted all other evidence of our happiness, thinking it would help.

It didn’t erase him from my heart.

We were both creatives, emotionally stunted in different ways: we seemingly couldn’t process our own feelings. In the moment, we always said the wrong thing and triggered each other.

He respected me because I didn’t put up with his arrogance and bullshit. Each time we tried again, I set boundaries of what I expected. Each time, I told him why *I had been wrong as well– how I had misunderstood him. How I had judged him. How his sincerity astounded me.

How I could SEE the difference between his honest faults and foibles, and the men who didn’t care.

I came back again and again because those “easier” guys didn’t have an iota of his depth or passion.

Yet all those fights and reconciliations, and we never learned how to resolve.

He channeled all his emotion into playing guitar. He got high to numb his ocean of feelings. I was the shy girl, who could never find the self-awareness to VERBALIZE how I felt. I could only write it, alone.

He mainly expressed his love for me through his spearing intuition and ability to read my feelings, my body language. Both our love languages were physical touch, words of affirmation, quality time.

I poured out my entire soul, but only to my journals. Why couldn’t it I say it to him?

He was mostly quiet and often sarcastic, with long hair. His friends called him Silent Bob, or Dan.

I called him my Daniel.

We could not get it together or stop the insanity, but damn, we tried.

The picture is a candid snapped by a wedding photographer at the only wedding we attended together, in 2008. We were 28. The bride had e-mailed it to me, I sent it to him as a joke.

Late that night there we were, sitting on a bench together and making intense eye contact. Our friends were downstairs, getting drunk and dancing and celebrating. But we were in our own world, trying to work things out. Seeing this very intimate snapshot of our life, I was awash with conflicting feelings.

It’s emblematic of the deeply emotional intense undercurrent of our entire relationship. It felt so TRUE. I love the stark beauty of how ensconced we are in each other. That a photographer was THAT close to us and we were completely oblivious– not turning to face them, not putting on a smile for the camera.

I always wondered, what about this young couple arrested this photographer’s attention? I like that it’s relatable. Anyone who’s been in a serious relationship remembers a night like this.

I will tell you what I find endearing in this scene: he has his arm around my shoulder, as he often did. My body language here may look closed off, but don’t take that to mean I didn’t care. Naturally I am just more reserved with my emotions. Usually we were very PDA, always cuddled up, kissing, holding hands. I would often sit on his lap, he was always slapping my ass. We never hid our attraction from our friends.

I see how intently I’m listening to him, but frustrated. He was very open and affectionate physically, that’s what made me fall for him. From our very first date, even though it took him ALLLLLL NIGHT to work up the courage to kiss me– he finally did.

Finally, at 18— I had my first TRUE kiss. A kiss that meant something. The RIGHT boy, who *I liked.

Who was beyond gorgeous with azure eyes that unabashedly stared at me with me tenderness.

“Ames,” you called me.

That kiss changed us both forever.

We had been casually flirting and bumping into each other around town for two years by then.

I was assigned to write a feature article about his band, Molotov Cocktail, for our student newspaper. My editor, Kristin, gave me his phone number as he was the lead singer and guitarist. I called him and met up with him and his two other bandmates to write the story.

And I just never stopped calling him! We’d randomly chat sometimes.

Or he might send me an IM on AOL Instant Messenger. YES– this was 1998.

But one night I grew a pair and asked him to dinner. July 29,1999.

I know the date because I wrote about it afterward, at 1:28 a.m. GIDDY. I’m reading it now.

“I didn’t see THIS coming,” he said softly after that kiss. About to drive me home.

“Such pretty eyes.”

And from that moment, we were in a relationship. There was no discussion. It was just understood.

He took me home in his Smurf blue F-150 pick-up truck with the silver skull stick shift, with a bumper sticker that said, “Drive it like you stole it.”

“I’ll call you tomorrow,” he told me matter-of-factly. “I get off at 4:30.”

“You’d better,” I teased.

Immediately, he made it clear he wanted a relationship. He asked if I was going away that fall for college.

I told him I was, and he kind of just looked down and sighed. But then he kept his word.

He walked me to my door, holding my hands on the porch.

He kissed me goodnight, and he did call the next day.

We saw it each other as much as possible that summer. He’d call me multiple times a day if we couldn’t make plans, he always was excited to talk to me.

A week or so later, I did ask: “What do you tell your friends about us?”

“I tell them it’s on fire,” Dan said.

And it was that simple. I was his, he was mine.

After two weeks, he told me, “I’m falling for you.”

It breaks my heart now to remember, I didn’t know what to say. I don’t think I said anything.

No boy had ever liked ME before, that I liked. I was always the nerd girl with a crush.

I had no context, no flirtatious comeback.

I was floored. I was besotted. I just didn’t know yet, consciously.

I just took it in. I let it happen.

I held his face and kissed him until I had beard burn from his stubble. That was my answer.

It was good enough for him.

But I DID write him a flirty little note shortly after.

He worked a night shift in a rendering factory. I was a hostess at Red Lobster!. Weird jobs.

Orange was BOTH of our favorite color, and I had some bright orange paper. I wrote that I hoped he had a good shift at work, that I would miss him. At that time I wore Curve perfume, and spritzed it.

I put on some lipstick and made a kiss print! Maybe a little glitter for effect.

While he was sleeping, I went to his parents house and put this note under his windshield wipers.

He called me the next day agog, saying he could barely concentrate at all because he kept smelling my note! He was all giddy.

He wore a cologne called Tabac, which smelled like pure masculinity and nearly got me high.

Oh, that first summer.

Now he’s gone.

We weren’t together, hadn’t been for years.

But the loss is still gut-wrenching for me.

Daniel was my first True Kiss, my first boyfriend, my undisputed First Love.

The best analogy of us is exactly the story of Brenda Walsh and Dylan McKay on “Beverly Hills: 90210.”

And just like Jim Walsh, my father hated him. Pressured me to break it off.

And so I was always fighting with myself, always in denial of my feelings for him.

But always tortured, always missing him. Like Brenda, I couldn’t let go of him.

Like Dylan he drank and dealt with addiction.

I had my own depression and anxiety to wrestle with. It was a mess.

Our was song “November Rain,” by Guns n’ Roses.

The first song we ever made out to!

A nine-something minute rock opera of a doomed love:

“And if you wanna love me,

then darlin’, don’t refrain.”

He played with a Fender Heavy pick.

So I’m glad I have this picture of us, even if it’s not a cutesy one.

Although I ended the relationship several times, we never stopped loving each other.

We both tried valiantly to replace each other with more “compatible” partners, as we were so opposite.

But it failed.

We couldn’t make it work again after 2008, but talked sporadically. We tried to just be friends over facebook chat, but even with words alone, we fell in love again.

We both wanted another chance but were rightfully weary, after the hell of breaking each-other’s hearts.

Our break-up was brutal for both of us.

I was straight-edge, he smoked cigarettes, weed and drank heavily. I hated it.

I hated the smell. I hated his growing unreliability. It wasn’t that bad the first few years, but by 2006 he was missing work due to being hung over. He was driving drunk. He was arrogant, mean.

This chafing caused me to become defensive, moody.

Also, I could be impulsive and anxious. He was patient and tolerated it well at first, but it wore him down.

If he was using, he would disappear from my life. He didn’t want me to see him that way.

But he wouldn’t even tell me, he’d just go radio silent.

A full year passed like this in college, my (first) senior year. I let him have his space.

I graduated. I dated Andrew, who was great. But I couldn’t commit— I still loved Dan.

I worried about him. I didn’t know what I did wrong. Was he okay? How bad was it?

Dan came back in 2006, HARD. He was finally sober, he said. I was his motivation. He wanted to be a better man, for me. And he WAS.

But what I wished for, more than anything, was that he would want sobriety for HIMSELF. It was too much for me to be his reason. I read self-help books, I went to Al-Anon. I prayed for him daily.

But it was also more than I could bear.

I NEVER broke up with him because I didn’t love him. But I couldn’t endure watching his self-destruction.

And we were still the same people, with the same problems.

We still fought bitterly.

Outside of our feelings and memories, there was no common ground to build a lasting commitment. We had the same flaws and couldn’t balance each other out, emotionally.

A lot of it was pure lust and nostalgia, I’ll admit it.

We were just crazy attracted to each other.

There was no spending time together platonically for any period of stability. We’d both get jealous.

As much as we tried, neither of us could compromise on these fundamental lifestyle differences and idealistic principles. We were fine alone, but did not fit into each other’s families and friend groups.

They didn’t like it, we got tired of always having to defend our relationship. Our friends were all sick of us both venting to them after fights, then telling them we were back together.

“Again??”

No one supported us being together. It was exhausting.

We fought about it, we tried, it wasn’t possible.

It ended for the last time in 2008. We had no more kindling, the fire burned out.

We did meet up one last time, both 34-years-old. Seven years later?

We were six months apart: he was one year ahead of me in high school.

He the Aries, radiating bravado and a caveman virility I craved. But alternately so achingly vulnerable, open with his feelings.

Me, the moody Scorpio. The Ice Queen. His heat thawed me.

Time melted away and we were both 18 again.

We sat on a bench and talked calmly, catching up.

We did hug one last time. I always felt so safe with him.

But we didn’t kiss. We kept it at a hug, although he did squeeze my ass for old time’s sake!

But it was a lingering embrace.

It was a moment of peace when we were both struggling. Fully leaning into each other, resting our weight. My head firmly nuzzled into his chest. His arms about my waist. Our pelvises aligned, magnets.

A bomb shelter from the war outside. .

“It never FEELS over,” he had said to me that night.

We laughed. We were very calm.

I listened to him talk to me about his new watch, but never heard any of it.

I couldn’t believe he was really there with me.

I loved his build: 5’9″, broad shoulders. Being 4’11” and petite myself, his body formed perfectly to mine.

His large, beefy and sexy hands. Blue collar hands that had fixed cars, tuned guitar strings, climbed ladders. With calluses that I always felt on the back of my neck, which he used to hold as we walked. As he drove me home. Hands that always wanted to hold me.

His family was “comfortable,” we both lived in an upper-middle class neighborhood.

It was a beautiful modern home, with a long winding driveway.

After every date when I’d leave, he would walk me clear to the end where I parked.

Our standard goodnight kiss was about 45 minutes.

The man honestly LOVED KISSING– the intimacy of it. The sport! The slow burn.

I consider myself beyond blessed, my Daniel was the perfect first boyfriend.

Unfortunately, he would never be my husband.

When I watch TV and movies today, I feel sickened by how sexual these high school relationships are.

Daniel Oliver spent that entire summer spending as much time together as possible. He wanted to KNOW me. We talked, we played, we confided. We held hands. We cuddled.

It was romantic and passionate, absolutely.

But it was innocent.

He allowed ME to be innocent.

I was a virgin and he respected that.

That’s how I know he loved me.

Girls today rarely get to experience that. I feel heartbroken for them.

Our relationship was based on attraction, fun, and TALKING. Spending time together.

And MAKING OUT. All the hormonal joy of just climbing each other like a jungle gym.

What a gift we shared.

It was about just falling in love, not sex. It was a smaller world then, before social media.

A time before hook-up culture.

We are a true Gen X love story.

But when we talked again in our 30’s, we realized our cherished memories were just that.

An anachronism. It was something that we both had lived for, had idolized.

But it translate to our current adult lives.

We let go.

My Daniel, thank for you for the gifts.

Thank you for loving me with abandon. For pursuing me always.

For telling me every day that I was sexy, beautiful, cute. For giving me sweet nicknames.

For leaving me voicemails where you played guitar with songs like “My Girl,” and “Foxy Lady.”
For singing to me. For writing about us.

We did not marry, we did not live together. We never had a child, although I would have loved that.

I was traditional and wanted to save those things for marriage. We both did.

But despite our ardor, we were too different for that level of commitment.

As much as we attempted to become compatible, we couldn’t solve our obstacles. We couldn’t be different people to make the compromises needed.

But we shared something pure, that lasted for 10 years. It was on/off because we were both unstable and I was away at school and then trying to establish my life outside of Joliet after graduation.

We respected each other enough to forgive and reconnect, years later. We both needed that closure.

How lucky we are.

You’re the song of my heart, my darling. The only song I know.

I know you’re in Heaven right now, jamming with Chris Cornell and watching over me.

Thank you for showing me that I am loveable, with all my flaws.

Thank you for charging an electric fence, my heart, and never complaining about the burns.

I’m sorry I didn’t know how to let you in the way you deserved.

I’m sorry it was too late by the time I realized it was always You.

But I told you.

“I’ve never felt so loved,” you said when we were young. “Feels like coming home.”

“I miss holding you,” you told me years later.

“Every fantasy begins with you,” you told me.

You were the only man I ever told that I loved. The only man who declared it openly to me.

And despite the hurt in between, that’s all that remains.

Aries & Scorpio on a Saturday night: 2008

Iocaine Powder

Today on a dating app I was having a somewhat promising conversation and made what I thought was a fool-proof joke.

“I feel like Westley sitting down with Vizzini at the table over Iocaine powder. The battle of wits has begun!”

Dude: “Whatever, I don’t have to prove I’m smarter.”

Me, AGOG.

Dude was 36, I’m 41. I’m sorry, there’s just NO excuse for this.

More than the fact that he reacted defensively, I was disgusted that he MISSED THE JOKE.

HOW HAVE YOU NEVER SEEN “THE PRINCESS BRIDE???” AT 36-YEARS-OLD?!

This guy does not even have the intelligence of Prince Humperdink.

*UNMATCH

Ugh, my brain hurts. My soul hurts. I feel OLD, which I rarely do!!

There is a distinctive DEARTH of intelligent life on these apps. Most conversations are painfully rote.

GIVE ME HUMOR AND INTELLECT, OR GIVE ME DEATH.

Welp, I’ll just keep being single for now.

I need to go where the smart lads are.

I’d brave the Fire Swamp for a man who can banter like The Man in Black!

Another Confession: How Jesus Rolls

Tonight I returned to Confession and again left feeling incredible.

Usually our parish Confession times are quite limited (20 minutes on Saturday, during Mass, or by appointment)– so I had to take advantage of the evening extended hours during Holy Week.

Different confessional this time, different priest.

Still amazing.

This time I switched it up and did use a list format: three specific sins, briefly described. I used the handy booklet available to peruse whilst I waited in line. It was a long time tonight– it was great to see so many and I even recognized a few people.

This time as he listened, I heard him going “Mmm-hmm,” and I pictured him nodding his head in empathy. I told him three things that have been bothering me the most– I was very honest.

And despite him being a priest– there was no chastising.

Instead, support.

He said that he hears that these things are causing me “suffering and struggle.” He understood I wasn’t trying to disobey God or not do the right thing, but that these were problems– things I wanted fix. Feelings that are bothering me, habits I feel stuck in and am not sure how to quit.

Father advised me to talk Jesus about it– but he said the most wonderful thing.

“I can’t promise he will fix these overnight, that’s not usually how Jesus rolls.”

But that regardless, Jesus wants to know what’s on my heart. He wants to comfort me.

“Offer it up to him,” Father said.

What I heard from Father was humility.

He did offer me absolution– he directly forgave those sins. He did give me a small Penance.

But he reminded me that if I want to pursue change, if I want to find true peace– Jesus is the man.

Like a basketball player passing the ball to a player who can land the three-point shot!

That’s Jesus.

It felt like I was on the same team with them– I didn’t feel less than. Like he’s a priest and I’m just a sinner. I felt like Father understood my pain.

I felt part of a community.

This Confession was quicker. No crying, no heavy emotion.

But I left with a giant smile.

I love this feeling.

Talking to your best friends is wonderful too.

But there’s something on another level about formally confessing to a priest.

I’ve been struggling with depression and anxiety a long time.

Maybe part of the relief I’m seeking is right there— I just have to be willing.

Confession asks you to not just be accountable– but vulnerable.

I trust these priests.

For months now, I’ve been feeling as if my struggles are a burden I need to keep to myself, that I don’t want to bother my family or friends with them. That what I felt was too much for them.

And literally, these priests have chosen a vocation to do just that: to hear confessions, to absolve sins. What strength it must take for them to quietly listen to us. I’m awe of how much they love God, Jesus, the Blessed Mother, and our parish– to commit to such deep service.

The best part is, you can do this anonymously. It gives you a freedom to speak your heart.

The Holy Spirit guided me into Confession– it’s a true gift. A gift I’m comprehending on a new level.

And by confessing to them, I’m getting to know THEM, too. Beyond the Homilies, beyond a quick at Mass.

Makes me want to serve my parish.

My soul is opening up, just like my heart.

Through Mass, the Rosary, Confession, Adoration, stewardship– I’m building a new relationship with Jesus. I’m not just demanding of him, “Fix this!” I’m showing Him that I care about him, too. That it’s reciprocal. That I want to spend time with him, that I know he’s busy. That I don’t expect him to always do what I want. That maybe He really does have wisdom and it’s worth my patience to seek that wisdom.

I want this kind of experience more than once or twice a year.

It’s a wonderful new thing to cultivate.

What a blessed Holy Week it’s been, indeed.

The Crucible of My Writing: Loss and Trial as Gifts from the Almighty? A Weirdo’s Manifesto

I’ve been angry for decades. Feeling grief, cheated, afraid of what I’m going to lose next– because loss is a hallmark of my life. And I’m not being dramatic– from a young age I’ve been losing immediate family members, I’ve battled ongoing illness, and have felt misunderstood or unseen.

People may feel confused about this because most times, I present with a sunny personality. And I’m not faking that– I’m generally calm and when I feel joy I can radiate that happiness! I’m silly and easily engage with others. I often sing at work or even dance a little bit. I tell animated stories and often get a bit loud and gesticulate a lot. I’m pretty confident and can talk to and connect with pretty much anyone, which made me good at journalism and sales. But I don’t like superficial connections. I crave those deep friendships and relationships.

If you’re at all into astrology, you know that Eighth House placements (especially Scorpio Rising!) usually denote childhood trauma and a pattern of death/regeneration throughout your life. Scorpio is called the most powerful sign of all, mostly because despite enormous setbacks, they survive what would break the average person. This is what gives us depth and empathy. It means you will prevail, and is meant to be inspiring. It could mean you suffered the death or a parent/sibling/someone vital at a tender age. It could mean severe illness/injury, divorce, any major event that creates a schism in the foundation of your trust that the world is good and safe. Pluto rules the underworld and that’s known to bring strife in a chart. Mars is also the ruler of war and a need for confrontation, which co-rules Scorpio with Pluto. It’s a lot of chaos to weather in one lifetime. Scorpio’s ultimate symbol of actualization is the Phoenix rising from it’s own ashes.

Powerful, yes. But who wants to suffer all the burns necessary to be purified and emerge? Let me tell ya, it hurts the first time. It becomes exhausting when this is deemed the karmic pattern of your life.

Would that change if I stopped believing that was my fate? Quite possibly. It’s a good thing to challenge!

And that’s where it gets difficult. Having all these big feels limits how many people you are close with. Some consider you a breath of fresh air for your honesty, others find you obnoxious. Even though you’re willing to give as much as you get, they never seem to need that much. They don’t have those same high emotions and handle their feelings privately. Or they just pray once, and poof! Discomfort gone. So they may listen and support for you, but they feel drained by it after awhile. Or even your closest friends– the ones who DO see and love you in your dark moments– still only have limited time to talk and times they’re just not available. They have kids, marriages, your work schedules are different. There’s still huge gaps of time you have to console yourself.

And what I do then to cope? I write.

But the problem with being seen as “strong” is also that people are kinda dismissive when you’re hurting at times, because they know you “can” deal with it. It’s not really that I can– I just have to. We’re allowed boundaries– I need them too. I want my besties to take space for themselves when they need it! And I give that to them, because I trust and love them and they’re generous when they can be present. But when you need more than some can give, you have to find other ways than talking it out.

Therapy can be helpful but it can also be a waste of time and money. Some are just bad at it, and you have to pay. It’s like dating– it takes a lot of effort and time to find a compatible match.

Writing is free! And there’s no time limit.

I’ve spent my life blaming myself and resenting God, ultimately, for the burden of all these feelings.

But really, what if this “intensity” is are a gift?

I thought it was an obstacle– to my happiness, my goals, my relationships with others.

What if God gave me these strong feelings and this heavy life so that, to deal with feeling isolated, I would be forced to write? And further, to blog and read my poems and become a voice for others who feel disenfranchised, forgotten, stuck?

It’s funny to me that people can read the most traumatic things on a page or watch an upsetting movie and marvel about how genius it is– how brave, how artistic!

But those same people are often the first ones to want out of a conversation if you’re in real pain, in the moment with them. Be it in person or even on the phone or by text– they can’t handle it. They won’t answer, or they’ll barely say anything. They have no idea how to listen or comfort you. Even when all you want is to just be told what you’re feeling is okay, that they still love and respect you. That they care.

But if they think it’s fiction? Or if it’s someone they don’t know? Then they’re moved. Then it’s art!

My hearing-loss has a been a boon in this way. Because I can’t hear so many sounds, it’s easy to put myself in a bubble. Without my hearing-aids I can go somewhere with a journal or sit at my laptop easily for 45 mins or hours, to just channel what I’m feeling and thinking. I don’t overhear other conversations. I’m conscious of background noise like construction, but it doesn’t bother me. It’s kinda wonderful. Socially and for safety reasons it’s not good– but if I had to choose my hearing-loss again, I think I did pretty well. High frequency sounds are mainly annoying anyway- beeps, alarms, feedback. I can work around those and make adjustments. I do it every day.

Maybe another reason I’m single is so I have to the time to write. Is God keeping me single because I’m avoiding writing and he’s trying to light a fire under me? “Do your homework first! C work is not cutting it in your favorite class, COME ON AMEE. Stop procrastinating, you’re better than this. ” lol

Would I rather be happy and married with a family? Damn right I would.

I feel l could definitely manage both, and I’d happily give up writing if it meant I was understood and supported instead for a change. In a second. If I could feel seen that fully, maybe I wouldn’t feel the need to reflect on myself so much– because others would be that mirror. What is that like? I have no idea!

I’m never totally happy– although I radiate joy for amazing bursts of time! I’ve just lived too much, I don’t have that innocence. I know that even in the best moments, another curve-ball that will knock me on my ass is around the corner.

But I do get up, and I do keep swinging.

So maybe my hearing-loss and this “difficult” life are things I should just try and offer up to God.

I get it, this is my destiny.

Ironically I’ve avoided publishing my work for the past 20 years (since college) because I didn’t WANT my feelings out there. I wanted to keep my secrets. But the very pain I’m keeping hidden could help someone else who’s suffering– someone who can’t quite access their own feelings yet, who maybe isn’t a writer– but a reader. I can’t do math. That’s why I love calculators.

Maybe my writing can function as the calculator for someone who can’t deal with emotion well. Or even better, help them understand and support someone else.

There’s reason you read and hear over and over again that artists only become artists because we “have” to– it’s because the life of a creative person sucks! lol We know that. Some embrace it early in life, others hold out as long as possible trying to fit and “be normal.”

Until we realize that the effort required to hide ourselves that way isn’t worth it.

“And the day came when the risk to remain tight in a bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom.”

~Anais Nin, an incredible erotica writer whose work I admire.

And truly, I am a first-class weirdo. I was not born to fit in.

Can I summon the will to just…. be Amee?

And invite the consequences– because there will also will be rewards!

To stop hiding? Because that’s a natural reaction when you’re afraid of more strife.

I want to accept that maybe one day, there were will be more light than darkness.

And that each time, I’m growing in power to navigate the crucibles of my life.

I’m not weak. If I was, I would be a people-pleaser.

I would not insist on being myself, even if people challenge that. I would just want to fit in.

What I’ve always wanted is not to fit in– but just to feel comfortable in *my choices.

People can choose to support me in that, or I choose to continue on without them.

That takes character, resilience and faith.

Just Lord, give me the strength!

Arm me well. Surround me with those who will fight by my side.

Give me water and rest. Heal my battle wounds.

Bilbo Baggins never wanted to leave his Hobbit Hole, but he became The Burgler and defeated Smaug! He befriend Gandalf, the wandering wizard. Dante Hicks whined about working shifts he wasn’t scheduled for, and Randal Graves got him into a lot of trouble. But he had some amazing adventures at work those days. Buffy Summers never wanted to be the Slayer, and resisted it for years until she accepted it. She died twice and saved the world 10 times. A ROUGH life, but pretty good average.

Sometimes destiny comes to you when you’re just trying to live quiet, unremarkable life.

A Beautiful Heart

I’ve met now with a new Spiritual Director three times, and she is wonderful.

As Catholics, we are encouraged to participate in Spiritual Direction. It can be a nun or priest or a lay person, but they act as a spiritual mentor. You can meet with them just once at a retreat, or on a continuing basis, one-on-one. They listen to where you’re at on your faith journey, and try to be a support for the things you’re struggling with and your goals to connect deeper. Sessions are about an hour.

It’s a legitimate business with fees, but I found someone who is looking for practice — so it’s free.

It’s not therapy, but it does mirror it in some ways. The focus in on your spiritual life, not mental health.

She is kind, and listens well. We’re getting to know each other and now have an easy rapport. She is single too, so we both relate to that.

My director is a good fit for me because she is accepting, supportive and positive! My family do their best, but they’re not emotional people. They don’t like to listen for very long and often think I’m over-thinking, feeling too much, impractical. They’re extremely conservative and I’m a liberal. Also on the anxious side and I have to reassure them. They’re business-oriented, I’m creative.

She is helping me so much! She asks me specific questions and makes observations that show that she’s truly learning who I am.

I told her that I often wear my wooden Catholic bracelet, with pictures of Mary and Jesus. Also my rose gold medal of The Blessed Mother, or a simple cross that’s gold or silver.

I asked her once if she thought I was over-doing it, if it seemed obnoxious?

“I think it’s an expression of you,” she said.

That made me feel seen.

During our first session, she said, “You have a beautiful heart!”

That was a balm to my soul, after always being told my heart is a weakness. Too big, too curious. I’m expecting too much, I’m should stop dreaming and just focus. That I’m just being silly.

Luckily I have some amazing friends who counter-balance this, who cherish my depth and thoughtfulness. And I’ve dated and loved some wonderful men who loved me and did admire and respect my heart!

She talked about my self-awareness and wisdom! That I’m at a point of discerning, and that’s wonderful.

When I expressed that I feel stuck in some lessons I can’t seem to learn, she asked me, do you ever just say to God, “What’s up with my life?!”

She said she’s hearing that I want Him to connect with me personally, in a concrete way.

That I should challenge him to show Himself to me.

I love that. Why not?

While some Bible verses talk about his grace, others make it sound as if we’re condemned if we don’t obey, if we ever doubt him or worry. I’m dealing with big spiritual dissonance here. I’ve been a stalwart Catholic all my life and the obedient daughter– both to God and to my parents.

I’ve sacrificed a lot for my religion. If I’m trying so hard, why am I still not getting it right?

I realized I have some anger with God and have been avoiding talking to him. I haven’t wanted to pray the Rosary.

Direct communication with God makes sense. Reciprocity.

I’m that way with my friendships and dating relationships. If it’s one-sided, I will back away.

But I don’t want to let go. I want this to work. I’ve invested 41 years in God and Catholicism.

The Bible makes God sound like a pretty angry father, but I’m still in the Old Testament.

I want to feel trust toward him.

And I’m beginning to trust myself.

In the Mess

I’m always trying to make myself better, get to that next goal in my life

When I was younger, I didn’t want to commit because I had more I wanted to accomplish first.

I was in a relationship at 23 and 24 with someone– Andrew– who told me I didn’t even have to cook, he loved me the way I was. He wanted to share his life with me. We met when I was 20 and he 19, and dated in four different cities, with a three-hour drive between most of them. We met in Joliet and lived there at the same time, but it was in the summer– just before I was going back to college. My junior year. But we kept in touch by e-mail, IM’s, phone calls. We both dated other people, and were genuinely supportive of the other’s relationships. We had the same group of friends, and had met through my best friend at that time. We tried to “not ruin it,” by staying platonic– because we both respected each other so much and hated fighting and not talking. We’d start to talk again, spend time together– but it would always turn romantic. Each time I would ask him, “Are you sure you want to try this again? I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Been there before,” he said, with a smirk.

We were six months apart. I was still in college and had only started dating at 18– I just wasn’t emotionally ready for a serious commitment right away at 20. I needed time to just date casually first before calling it a relationship. He had already dated a lot and was ready to settle down.

I remember meeting him at Marshall Field’s, where they worked. He was in the women’s shoes section– he was a great salesman and a flirt, so he did very well! He had fair skin and black spiky hair, big dark brown eyes. I thought he looked just like Freddie Prinze, Jr.

“Who’s that?” I asked my best friend. “He’s cute.”

That same day, he approached her about me.

“Bring her around,” he said. “She’s cute.”

He understood and knew me in a way that Daniel never did. Daniel adored me, he was very ardent– but not consistent. He himself was so unstable, in and out of my life. He never wanted to be friends if we broke up, he said his feelings were too strong. He would get angry and hold a grudge.

At this point in my life, I don’t want another Catherine/Heathcliff romance, like I had with Daniel.

I want a best friend I can marry. Someone I connect with emotionally AND intellectually- that’s vital.

Andrew and I were incompatible, I thought, for other reasons– but now they seem petty.

Mostly I was just very young and took love for granted. Now he’s a Captain in the Marines, a pilot. When we last talked, last year, he was in North Korea.

But it truly Andrew who set the standard for what I value most in a relationship: a deep, abiding friendship.

Once I was just having a hard day– nothing awful, just mildly stressed.

Two hours later, I had flowers. Andrew lived almost three hours away, but he made it happen. Orange Tiger Lilies, my favorite. We didn’t have a fight, he was just generous and empathic. He just knew me. He just wanted to do something to make my day better.

Love brings surprises, small adventures.

When I called to thank him, he simply said “It sounded like you could use some flowers.”

Andrew would tell me that he most admired that I was “militantly intelligent.”

He told me so many times that I was special, beautiful, sweet. That I made him happy.

Words of Affirmation are my first Love Language, and he spoke it abundantly.

When I was grateful he told me once, “Stop thanking me, I’m just telling you the freaking truth.”

I’ve been in rampant denial of this for years, but truly, I do better with a partner.

I miss having someone to love as well– to do little things for. A plus one.

I just don’t want to wear the brave face anymore. I want to name what I want.

I deal with everything on my own. Every good day, every bad day.

Anything that needs doing, I get done.

I deserve someone to laugh with, someone to lean on. Romance in my life.

Someone who sees and celebrates me.

I deserve that kind of loving relationship.

But I have no idea when that may happen.

So I’m going to try and get into service more. Not just prayer, but interacting with people. Although I’m an introvert to a point, I sincerely enjoy helping others and giving them a smile. Helping others infuses you with a new energy, it makes you feel useful. And they give so much to you, as well.

Maybe I can try and think about how I can make others’ lives better, and get the focus off myself.

Ash Wednesday 2022

I went to receive my ashes at Mass tonight, and it was so beautiful. I was so plugged in.

In 2020, Mass was canceled. In 2021, we received them sprinkled in our hair.

This year, back to tradition. I loved it.

And if I’m right, this is my third year attending Ash Wednesday at Blessed Sacrament.

Maybe because now I’m officially a parishioner (since June) it feels more special.

But also, now I’m making not just my faith a priority– but my Catholicism.

Today, I wore my prayer veil during Mass. It’s a rosy pink with embroidered flowers. It helped me focus, and it made Mass more special to be wearing it. I’ve always admired when I see women wearing them.

I’m attending a women’s Bible study and have formed a legit bond with those women in my group. I’ve stepped into a role on Altar Society Board, and leading the Rosary before meetings. I’m planning a retreat sometime this year, with my co-chair.

But I haven’t always been good about attending Mass and especially not participating in it. I would attend, but I wasn’t really there. Ashamed to admit this, but I brought my phone with my a lot. I would be there because I felt I *should go, but checked out– thinking about errands I need to run, what to eat.

I think because of my hearing-loss and tendency to arrive either just on time or a little late, meaning I get stuck in the back– where it’s impossible to hear. But tonight I was 15 minutes early. I left my phone in my car. I actually looked up the readings and songs and followed along.

It meant so much more, being able to read the words of the hymns– seeing how they reinforce the readings and the theme of this Holy Day. My parents always did, especially my step-mother, Diane. I’m not sure if I just gave up on it at an early age because it was too hard to follow it with my hearing, or I was just too lazy to pay close enough attention. It always seems like when I’ve tried, I can’t find the readings or songs fast enough.

But now I get it. Catholic Mass is usually about 45 minutes to an hour, depending on the priest and his Homily style. That’s a long time to stand, sit and kneel– and that alone keeps you busy! The readings and songs and responsorials and prayers are so key because they hold your attention and occupy your brain.

But even more, they connect with your heart.

Now that I’m studying Holy Scripture, listening to readings and the Gospel hits different.

It feels more familiar now.

I connected with a verse from Matthew 6: 16-18

¹⁶ “Moreover, when you fast, do not be like the ^[a]hypocrites, with a sad countenance. For they disfigure their faces that they may appear to men to be fasting. Assuredly, I say to you, they have their reward. ¹⁷ But you, when you fast, anoint your head and wash your face, ¹⁸ so that you do not appear to men to be fasting, but to your Father who is in the secret place; and your Father who sees in secret will reward you ^[b]openly.

Honestly, I don’t fast either.

Hey, I’m a flawed Catholic. None of us are perfect.

But I’ve never fasted in terms of eating smaller meals during Lent– only avoided eating meat on Ash Wednesday or Fridays. But I’ve been pretty lenient with myself on this matter.

But legit, I’m now Diabetic, and eating small meals at regular intervals is how I keep it well-controlled. I looked it up, and The Church exempts Diabetics from this practice of smaller meals and long intervals.

I love the part about taking care to look your best when fasting– take care of yourself. Don’t complain and neglect your appearance so that you look miserable and thus more pious– which is false. Instead, represent your faith and Our Father well by attracting positive attention in a humble way. He will notice your quiet discipline and your joy in this act of worship. That devotion will be rewarded with grace.

How beautiful is that?!

It takes true power to bear your struggles with strength and humility. It’s good to reach out for support when you need it, I want to emphasize that. Mental health is vital.

But what’s the point of doing something for prayer or a good deed if you’re just going to nag about it? No one enjoys that.

No one likes a Dante Hicks type, bemoaning, “I’m not even supposed to be here today!”

It’s not a sacrifice if you hate doing it and make sure everyone knows. It’s not genuine.

I actually started this very blog in 2011, because of a Lent promise. To hold myself accountable.

And here I am, still blogging. Sporadically, but still here.

I’ll end with my own Lenten promises, to hold myself accountable:

I will give up bubble tea, something I indulge in several times a week and truly enjoy.

I will stop swearing. Today I already blew that one– but tomorrow’s a new day!

And I will commit to praying the Rosary every day, for a specific person. Each time it will be someone different. If I want to pray a second Rosary or a decade for another person that day, I can. But each day, one person will be given my intentions to help me focus and also give weight and urgency.

If I commit to praying for 40 people, I won’t back out on that.

What are you feelings about Lent? What are your promises this year? Talk to me in the comments!

And bless all of you on your Lenten journey.

In the Immaculate Heart of Mary,

Amee

Endgame: Learning to Relax in Relationships

I’m super-Catholic, and we’re taught from elementary school to date to marry. But now in early middle age, I feel this attitude is what has kept me unmarried. I’m learning to adjust.

“Endgame,” is a slang term that usually means a couple that will end up together, no matter what. A few times, I had relationships that I thought could be endgame.

But I was so goal-oriented, I refused to deviate from my “List,” and #1 was (of course!) that he be a good Catholic man. Because we’re taught that to be “unequally yoked” is basically a curse on any marriage or even relationship. And if you don’t see him as your potential husband, why bother?

But here’s the thing. It made me afraid to just FALL in love. Even when I loved someone, if I thought they would be incompatible with me ultimately, I felt it was unethical to even date them– because it would be unfair to us both. I would have to end it eventually, why go through that pain?

To fall, you have to TRUST. Let go. Allow someone to catch you.

I’m still working on learning that, but I’ve come a long way.

When I go out with someone I’m there to have a good time, and see if we have things in common. Does he make me laugh? Does he talk, or is he too reserved? Do we share values and like the same books, music, movies? There’s so many ways to connect. And of course, attraction matters. It does.

But for me, attraction is about an energy that needs to be there from the start. I look for a warm, giving, positive and outgoing personality. A good listener. Someone who asks me insightful questions and is quick-witted. Smart enough to tell me about his nerd interests and enrich my life intellectually.

Yes, I’d like him to be Catholic and a man who treasures his faith. But it’s no longer a deal-breaker. As long as he can be supportive of MY faith and talk about it with me in a respectful way without degrading it as something simple or void of intellect, I’m open to knowing someone. Why? Maybe what I need is someone to balance me out who’s a little different, who can bring some creativity into my life. Some fun.

I love my faith, but I’m not trying to be a nun here. I want to be loved here on Earth, by a human man. While I’m still young. I want the deep friendship, emotional support, romantic dynamic and yes, the commitment. I still want marriage.

That, I’m not giving up.

Because often times it seems the people who are happiest together just stumbled into each other. It wasn’t what they expected, but they embraced it with valor. Timing be damned, they went for it.

I do regret the good men I let go of because I thought they couldn’t possibly be “The One.”

Because I forgot the number one thing that SHOULD be on “The List.”

The most important thing is, simply, that he love, respect and understand me.

And I’ve met good Catholic men. I’m surrounded by them all the time.

But none of them are asking me out.

So if someone is assertive enough to approach me and ask me out, but he’s not Catholic? That’s okay.

I’m looking for The One that wants to be with me on my hard days too. Not just the fun, sweet Amee. The days I feel sick, the days I might be in a bad mood. Someone who sees ME as more than just a Good Catholic Woman. Because although that’s part of my identity, it’s a fairly limiting label.

But I do date in a fairly traditional way. I want to be pursued. I have no problem flashing a green light to a man I’m interested in. I’ve tried compensating for the “shy” men by making the first move and it never works in my favor. So now, if I really like someone and they don’t come forward after I’ve been friendly and flirted a bit, I just accept that as a loss.

Online dating is one thing– I’ll send the first message. But in real life, I don’t ask out male friends I like anymore. They need to be confident enough to take that risk. If I’m willing to take that risk, so should he. We’ve all been rejected by someone.

If a man is truly attracted to me, he’ll *need to make a move at some point. He won’t want to see me with someone else. He’ll want to make it clear a relationship is what he wants, and take me out.

When you’re single, people are always saying, “Treasure your freedom! You’re so lucky to have no obligations. But if you’re in a healthy, reciprocal relationship, you don’t feel obligated. You feel lucky.

It’s so easy to say “I don’t have time to date,” or “It’s too much work.”

But I’m ready.

You don’t need to surrender your freedom to be loved.

Love ITSELF can become freedom. Another person can sometimes unlock a part of yourself you never knew existed, that you always wanted to access. Being loved by someone else and taken care of — that steady affection and accountability– that is the world’s best stress relief. And it’s free.

I miss that. I want that again.

What I’m doing now, finally, is trusting MYSELF.

That if I like someone, I can take my time getting to know him. I don’t have to push it forward if it idles for a moment. That happens in any relationship. What bonds you together is reassuring each other you’re both still there, not looking to leave. I don’t have to end it if I feel hurt because I’m too afraid to just … TALK about it and be vulnerable. Rather than deal with possible rejection, I would just bail.

Communication is something that can take a lifetime to learn.

I don’t hate my flaws, I recognize they make me human. That anyone I might love also will have flaws.

That Love is stronger than I’ve ever given it credit for, that it is a wild force. If you get out of the way.

So, I’m learning to just let things play out. If he doesn’t follow up, I don’t contact him. If he doesn’t ask me out for a second date right away, I won’t initiate that.

We all have obligations at this age. Some men I see might have kids. And I have my own stuff going on.

In Bible study this week, my friend Kristin said “It sounds like what’s happening is trust,” meaning I’m learning to trust GOD more.

And in turn, I’m learning to relax. And that’s a beautiful thing.

Praying (the Rosary) for a Miracle: Managing Anxiety

I’ve always respected the power of The Rosary, as a cradle Catholic. But unlike many, I did not grow up praying it with my family. I never got into the habit of praying it alone, which I regret. Throughout my life, I’ve been given them. I think I may have bought one for myself. Others were free. I would hang it in my car, carry one in my purse– like a good luck charm. For protection.

Some carry a gun to feel safe– I carry a Rosary.

Same reason I often wear a cross necklace– not for fashion, although it’s beautiful and classic. I wear a cross to feel protected in a dangerous world, and also to identify myself as a believer. As Catholic.

The Rosary is the prayer that might as well be a silver bullet toward Satan and all dark energy. It’s a legitimate spiritual weapon if you’re feeling bullied, gossiped about, or threatened in any way. You cannot control others and what they may try to do to you– but if you pray, you can give yourself strength against them.

Right now and for years, my go-to prayer has been a simple Hail Mary ad infinitum until it helps.

When I’m struggling to wake up and get out bed. When I left for work five minutes late. When I notice the gas in my car is dangerously low and I’m not sure I’ll make it to fill up before running empty.

I’m already calling out Mary so often, why not take it to the next level? It only makes sense that organizing something I’m doing anyway and increasing the number of prayers will magnify that calming effect it already has on me. Other times, it energizes me for a task that seems too big.

I realize now, I’ve been afraid of the true power of the Rosary. It means I have to study and practice.

I learn by repetition.

I remember in grade school learning my prayers by writing them over and over. Saying the out loud, over and over. Saying them together in class. Saying them to family, who helped me pray.

I don’t know The Apostle’s Creed by heart anymore. But I want to.

I’ve never heard The Fatima Prayer, which most would recognize by the first line, “Oh my Jesus…” — until I moved to Wichita. People here seem to say include that in the Rosary and I don’t remember that before.

And I’d like to be one of those “serious” Catholics who can pray the Rosary anywhere, any time– like a bad ass. I don’t want to have to read the lines of the play, I want to be “off-book.”

So I’m challenging myself to try. And I know it’ll take a long time.

But I’m willing to write those prayers out by hand. And each Rosary I pray, I’ll be hearing myself say it out loud and learning by hearing it.

I have several aunts who pray it all the time, casually– throughout their day. And I think that’s beautiful and a giant accomplishment. It gives them a stoic resolve that they will overcome anything and they do.

Truly, learning the rhythm of the Rosary–knowing it in your bones, without the Rosary in your hand to count the prayers–any notes or reminders– that takes discipline.

Several different prayers, in a specific order. There are different versions of which prayers to use, people vary in how they do it. Even Rosaries themselves contain enormous variety. Some are jeweled, beautiful, like crystal glass you don’t want to break. For display only, something you want to treasure but keep safe and not handle out of respect. Others are just simple plastic, utilitarian. Others can be knotted rope– reminiscent of how this beautiful prayer evolved. Those you can hold in our hand and count the beads anywhere— without fear of breaking it. They can be jostled, dropped, and lost in your purse. And stay intact.

Just like the love of Our Holy Mother.

Afraid to get it “wrong,” I was afraid to try it. I think I may have done it once when my Aunt Mary Jane, a Catholic nun for 65+ years, died. I prayed it for her and it helped me feel peace. But without the Mysteries, just the basic order of prayers.

I’ve always considered the Faithful who make the Rosary part of their routine to be the true devout. They have such peace and joy, they’re unruffled by the challenges thrown toward them. They sleep every night and wake up rested.

I’ve always struggled to sleep at all, or get more that three-four hours. My mind races.

I’ve tried many things to manage my anxiety– staying busy, writing, drinking, therapy, running. Hot baths. I tried anxiety meds for panic attacks, but they made me so tired I couldn’t drive– so that didn’t work. I’ve tried talking to my friends, which helps the most. But people are limited in how much energy and availability they have in adult life– and who are you going to talk to at 3 am on Monday night? Or if you get trapped driving during a bad thunderstorm in pitch night, out of town?

No matter how good your support system you have to learn to comfort yourself at times.

Now, I’m hoping The Rosary can be the “work out” I need– spiritually– to go to war with my anxiety.

Maybe I need to give a shout out to St. Michael, who can lead me in battle.

Anxiety sabotages me in the moments I most need to persevere under stress, sickness, lack of energy.

I haven’t been serious about prayer in a long time. I used to write to help myself pray. But I haven’t been able to commit to that.

But if I pray the Rosary, I’m not just doing this for me– it’s an act of worship. It’s a way to connect with the Blessed Mother, to reflect on the life of Jesus, and a way to become a better person for those in my life whom I love and want to give my best.

I believe that if I invest in learning this, eventually praying the Rosary can help me go to sleep quickly, stop a panic attack, and calm me when angry before I react and say something hurtful or unwise.

It will be interesting to see how my humble journey progresses.

But already, I’m feeling empowered.