Blah, Blah, Blah

I have spent a lot of time talking to my cousin Rachael lately. She makes me laugh like no one else can, and just understands how I operate. I understand her ins-and-outs too for the most part, some aspects of her character still enigmas to me, but I genuinely enjoy talking to her on the phone more than texting her, which is rare considering that I don't have a lot of time to spend talking on the phone with anyone. The following poem is a mix of the two of us: our thoughts, our hobbies, our preferences, and our personalities. I have structured the poem so that each line in the three quatrains, and the two lines in the couplet create a fluid message, but contain our distinct qualities or thoughts in the individual lines. (example: third quatrain; lines 1 and 3 correspond to me, and lines 2 and 4 correspond to Rachael, but the four lines make a complete thought.) The arrangement of lines in this poem is a nod to our similarities in spite of our differences.

For now I'll sit in this brown chair, and think,
"Be bold enough to speak. This time will pass."
But no, I like the quiet now. Black ink
Preserves my unsaid words in class.

The clock will tick in sluggish, quiet clicks.
But I make tiny paper stars with not
A hope of shine or twinkle in their slips.
The sun streams through the glass. My skin feels hot.

I sit and eat my sweet and salty snacks,
The flavors swish around my mouth like wine.
I'm loving how it tastes, and in this class,
I learn no thing of value, but I'm fine.

I'll sit with ease and make my paper stars,
To think of travel, sex, and fine cigars.

No More Rubber Ducky for Me

I used to fit in the bathtub,
Bubbles, bath toys, and ducky.
Mom used Johnson's baby soap to scrub
My tiny body. As a child, I was so lucky.

I grew too tall and big for that,
So now I simply shower.
Not nearly as inviting, in fact,
I daresay it has nary any soothing power.

At one time I could be a mermaid!
To a child, a bathtub is like a pool!
As a teenager, I'll sit in the warm water, memories re-made.
Some parts of me warm, some parts of me cold and cool.

But just for kicks and giggles sometimes, even if it's a short while,
I'll fit myself into that bathtub, turn the water on, and smile.

Antigone's Folly, Creon's Command: My Heartbreak

(Enter Ismene, following the exchange with Antigone -- aside)

I fear for my dear sister, Antigone, and her fervor to fight against Creon's will for our dead brother, Polynices. Our family, cursed by our ancestors Laius and Jacosta, carrying the burden of our father Oedipus unto his death. Even now the gods seek recompense in our bloodline for traitorous acts and disobedience to their will. Polynices, our brother and enemy of Thebes: his body left to the carrion birds outside the city gates, and Eteocles, buried in honor to his devotion to the Thebian people by decree of Creon. His command, the command of the King becomes the law of the State, the law that all are bound to. Antigone and I are not free from obedience despite our familial bond to King Creon. His decree to leave Polynices in ignominy, unwept and unburied where he lays, goes against the holiest law of heaven imposed on us by the gods. Although "I do not defy them; I cannot act / Against the State. I am not strong enough" (128). Does Antigone, my beloved "sister, [does she] forget how our father / Perished in shame and misery, his awful sin / Self-proved, blinded by his own self-mutilation?" (128). I do not wish, for any sacrifice of the greatest magnitude, the shame of an execution in defiance of Creon's will for my sister in her pursuit to honor our dead brother. In carrying out the will of the gods, she would surely bring death upon herself, and suffer at the cost of Creon's wrath and provincial stubbornness. After all, "we are women; it is not for us / To fight against men; our rulers are stronger than we, / And we must obey in this, or in worse than this" (128). Our charge in this city is to keep the command of Creon, and the rulers over Thebes. I would take any consequence from the gods to keep my sister alive, her name unscathed and memory free from shame in our loyalty to Polynices.

My heart's greatest desire is for Antigone to "remember those who love [her]... love [her] still" (129), and think on the cost at hand for her conviction to lie beside the brother who died, separated from the city of Thebes, from his family, and from his honor. She has tried to entreat me with reasoning that goes beyond what I can comprehend, her motivations and desperation are alarming. However, "I'll not betray [her] secret" even if "[she] is bound to fail" (129). (exit Ismene)

(Antigone brought to Creon and convicted for burying Polynices, enter Ismene, --aside)

I remember our cursed history, and it seems evident that the suffering did not end with the death of our brothers, but begins again with the law of Creon contravening with the law of the gods. Even upon Antigone's trial in the face of the King at the hands of the sentry, she remains resolute in her convictions. She faces death in payment for her defiance of Creon's law, but seeks reward from the gods for her loyalty to Polynices. But her reward in the grave with our brother is my sorrow, as one more life must be forfeit because of the sins of the King in authority over us. She wants to stand alone, "but I am not ashamed to stand beside [her] / Now in the hour of trial... / The strongest mind / Cannot but break under misfortune's blows" (141). An evil committed, a debt must be paid. If the debt must be Antigone's execution, then I will follow her in love unto death, even if must spend an eternity after crossing over to the gates of Hades. (exit Ismene)

The Sibling's Vantage Point

Every morning when I get in the back seat of the car, she nervously bites her thumbnails. She puts all that eye makeup on in the morning, but I know what she looks like when its all gone, and she might be able to hide from other people, but she can't hide from me. She is thinking about her classes and getting through the day, anxious for family session again with Kristen. If she starts to look too serious I keep poking her in the back of her neck until she breaks into a smile, laughs, and yells back at me to stop being annoying. If she looks calm I put my hand on her shoulder so she will reach up to hold my fingers through my cast, I like sharing her happy moments with her.

I walked into school behind my sister once again, the combination of cold air and her darn mix of body sprays assaulting me. Why are girls always so fragrant? Her outfit, makeup, and hairstyle are always pushing the envelope for what Mom is comfortable with, and I spend the morning eating my breakfast in silence while the two of them run around the house and argue. She intentionally carries her heavy totebag slung over one shoulder, despite Mom and Dad's precautionary commands against it. They still have a fear of her old shoulder and back injuries coming back. In her hand she carries her lunch, made with reluctant irritation according to her meal plan the night before. Mom put a Starbucks cookie in there last night, but she totally won't eat it. I follow her into the senior hallway and Alex is there waiting for her. She's always talking to Alex! Except for during the night time, that's when I go to her room to get Spanish questions answered or hear her high school advice about how to understand stupid girls and get rid of mean friends.

In the hallways between classes I see her sometimes and yell out her name or give her a side hug, trying not to squish her with my forearm wrapped in fiberglass. It feels like it did in elementary school when she would give me a hug after recess, before going back to class. Except she's older now, the hugs seem more sad, and I don't want her to go far away to school. She's been gone for too many reasons, to many places, for too long. When she is home, some days are easy, but it feels like a lot of the time she, Mom, and Dad just fight and cry, fight and cry. My sister gets really puffy cheeks and red eyes after a long time of crying. I tried to make her laugh one time by saying that she looked high. I always want to hear her real laugh, the loud one that fades into wheezy-sounding giggles because of her asthma. If she laughs after being sad, her voice starts out really quiet, like a whisper, "thanks bro.." She has a wide range of voices. The medium one for talking to me and to friends, the soft voice for telling me secrets or an inappropriate joke, the broken voice for when she is sad, her attitude voice when she wants to be sarcastic, her accent voices when she wants to imitate someone, her loud voice when she wants to get someone's attention, and her really loud voice for when she fights.

She wants really badly to go and be independent in college, but I think her anxiousness to leave is just to hide her fears of the future, she's actually really scared, but the change of scenery would be good for her.

Before bed, I sometimes go into her room, and she is still in the middle of doing homework, but she makes a space for me next to her and wraps a blanket around my legs. She sometimes puts her arm around my shoulders just to reassure me, then asks what is on my mind. That's kind of like her invitation, she is a good listener, but she also likes having space to think, so when she acts welcoming it is easier to talk about hard stuff. I've asked her questions about how to deal with teachers I don't like, what to do if I have a crush on a girl or I think another girl likes me, what to do when I feel bullied or beaten down by some of my friends, and how to talk calmly with someone when I disagree with their opinions. A lot of times I just sit there with her, one of the few times of day when she is actually quiet, but we don't really need to say anything. I know what she is thinking and she understands what I am thinking. She just kind of blankly stares at the wall and I hold her hand or tap on her knee. I'll miss this, I know she needs me, and I don't want her to go away.

Personal Declaration of Interdependence and Independence

I was surrounded by grey; out from under the grey, rainy sky into the big house with grey walls and grey upholstered couches, but from my place in the doorway, I could see of pair of wild eyes scrutinizing me from under a mess of black hair. The environment was cold and unfamiliar, polished to a high sheen like a hotel lobby, and with the aroma of hours old lunch leftovers, my already immediate fear and loneliness was exacerbated. My parents had driven an hour and fifteen minutes away from home to the Center for Discovery, a 24 hour residential eating disorder care facility in Edmonds, Washington, and it was to be my home for the next nine weeks. The program coordinator, a woman who was slightly stiff and very official ushered us all into the entrance of the hollow, unwelcoming foyer. While my parents spent the next few hours filling out paperwork, I looked listlessly over the rulebook for the Center in the red folder that I was given. The first friendly glance that met my eyes was an inordinately cheerful clip-art smiley face on the inside cover of the folder. In the weeks to come that smiley-face in the red folder became the object towards which I directed screams from the whole spectrum of human emotion while battling the fiercest demon I have ever faced with body, mind, and soul.

            In the car ride on the way to the Center, the questions that replayed in my head like bad song lyrics was a depressing loop of “how did this happen?”, “so has it really come to this?” During the past year, the amount of changes and traumas that our family faced seemed to come in rapid succession and with unrelenting abruptness. My dad had been diagnosed with prostate cancer in the summer of 2012, the following month I was diagnosed with anorexia nervosa and depression, and my younger brother and mom were left to pick up the pieces as our monthly calendars started to fill up with visits to the oncologist, nutritionist, therapist, psychiatrist, and a myriad of other “ist’s.” However, I never got answers to my questions, just dreams.     

The most inspirational, jarring, but mentally scarring was set in a sea. I was submerged underwater looking up at a sun-lit surface, my breath running out, and grasping at a glass-like covering separating water from air. I was fighting to break the glass, pounding on it with my fists, watching the cracks slowly increase, feeling my lungs tighten. It took all my strength of will and physicality to push one last time, and as I thrust my fist up violently, I broke the surface, and gasped for relief.

As I breathed in and out, on a rainy grey Sunday just a mere week ago, I recalled that dream, but instead of feeling my strength failing as I drowned, I felt at peace and listened to the rain on the roof like a thousand tiny tap dancers.

I’ve been home for five months now from the center, a place where I discovered my ability to be unyielding to pervasive struggles and powerful addictions. It was a practice in being emotionally, mentally, and physically resilient, not only for my sake, but for the sake of my family. In all the changes and unpredictability, never before had I needed to assimilate and learn so quickly, and adapting to environments became part of my new, transformed nature. I also learned to use my passions to promote healing, both for myself, and for those I love.

A friend once said that I am a daughter of grace, not a product of my problems, and the transforming processes of the last two years have taught me to thrive in my rejuvenated self, and I’m anxious for the promise of adventure in a future that’s free. 

The Weasley Twins have a sister!

ESFP

• 33% Extroversion over Introversion
• 38% Sensing over Intuition
• 62% Feeling over Thinking
• 22% Perceiving over Judging

This is Me:

"SPs sometimes think and talk in more of a spider-web approach. Several of my ESFP friends jump from thought to thought in mid-sentence, touching here or there in a manner that's almost incoherent to the listener, but will eventually cover the waterfront by skipping on impulse from one piece of information to another. It's really quite fascinating."

"ESFPs love to talk to people about people. Some of the most colorful storytellers are ESFPs. Their down-to-earth, often homespun wit reflects a mischievous benevolence."

"The dominant function of ESFPs is concerned with the reality that is perceived through the senses. This type's prime directive is to examine the tangible through taste, touch, sight, feeling and hearing. ESFPs' need for new experiences surely results from this function....As perceivers, ESFPs do not linger on moral concerns unless it is in service of a Greater Good and/or a unifying cause"

"feeling for ESFPs has a surreal, cryptic, quintessential nature. It is more often implied than verbally expressed, more apparent in countenance and deed rather than word or creed"

"This tertiary function is at the ready to give definitive answers when the world requires them. It provides a measure of balance to Introverted Feeling, allowing the ESFP some level of boundary and protection from those who would take advantage. When overused or overestimated, however, Thinking becomes a liability"

"As is the nature of the inferior (fourth) function, ESFP intuition lacks a sense of balance. This type seems most successful in deducing patterns and seeing connections only after a thorough examination of the facts (which process appears quite unorganized and haphazard to non-SPs). "

This is What I Think:

This "Hummanetrics" test is spot-on, it's actually kind of creepy. I guess being an "ESFP" means that I am a Weasley Brother, which is AWESOME! I have always loved the Weasley brothers, their mischeivous attitude makes them an audience favorite. But, the funny thing is, I don't want to necessarily be an "audience favorite", what I prefer is to do exactly what the personality description said I might: tell stories about people for people in small group settings for all to enjoy. Those who know me best can attest to the fact that I quite often say, "I love people", and I do! Every human being; friend, family, or new acquaintance, is fascinating to me! Each person has their own story to tell and their own personality. My joy comes from finding out what each distinct individual is all about. At CFD, our psychiatrist called me a "center". According to her, a "center" was not someone who liked to be in the middle of everything all the time, but liked to create community like a spider taking time to create an intricate web. Finding similarities and common ground to bring people together, and building a connection of love and harmony is what I like to do best. 

The other aspect of the Hummanetrics test that stayed true to form is that feelings, for me, have a "surreal, cryptic, quintessential nature". From personal experience, I can say that whatever someone might display on the surface is not necessarily the essence of their true being. I function a lot on feeling out the solution, and believe in the philosophy of "following one's heart". That phrase of course, sounds silly and stupid, but is actually a lot harder than I originally thought.

Finally, the part of myself that I am most proud to display of my "ESFP" nature is the inner drive for adventure! At heart, I am a nomad, never comfortable in the same place for a long period of time, and always on the lookout for opportunities to seize. Spontaneity is something that I thrive off of, and planning has certainly never been my strong suit. This is one of the reasons that mission work has always appealed to me so much, the traveling and the experiencing of a new culture and a new way of life. When my thirst for discovery is combined with my love of human connection, it becomes the ultimate healing experience.

So that's all folks, and that's me! 

"Did you ever think, when you were a child, what fun it would be if your toys could come to life? Well suppose you could really have brought them to life. Imagine turning a tin soldier into a real little man...And suppose the tin soldier did not like it...all he sees is that the tin is being spoilt."
-from: "The Obstinate Toy Soldiers" page 179

CS Lewis's imagery of the obstinate toy soldiers is very reminiscent of the tale of Pinocchio and Geppetto. Pinocchio wants to become a real boy, but must first put in to practice the virtue of honesty. With human beings, saved or unsaved, we begin as empty as Pinocchio, as breakable and and small as little tin soldiers. CS Lewis also accurately pointed out that no transformation is welcomed or anticipated with excitement by human beings undergoing the process of metamorphosis. Furthermore, the difficulty of the metamorphosis so often attributed with receiving the Holy Spirit and becoming children of God is a battle that often starts with failure and disappointment. Much like Pinocchio grew a long nose when he lied, and a tin soldier might look with disgust on the Maker that tries to repair him, so do we human beings recoil initially when the hand of God intervenes on our behalf.

Many aspects of Christianity, detailed in the ten commandments and in other places in Scripture, are, as Mrs. Meyers so aptly put, "rather inconvenient." We are content to remain set in our own routines, comfortable with the peccadillos that we convince ourselves are surely not hurting anyone or ourselves. But the reality is, sin is sin, brokenness is brokenness. Of course a tin soldier would not want to undergo the change from tin to flesh, just as a hollow man is reluctant to receive the love of God.

In my own personal experience, I always find myself going back to the issue of the battle between my rational brain and my eating disorder, very irrational brain. I embody the human getting comfortable in the new skin and in the light of God, while at the same time my spirit embodies the irritation of the tin soldier who feels the tin being "spoilt" by an outside force that it can't control. In my younger days, I always imagined of course how amazing it would be to watch my stuffed animals come to life, and in fact I would sometimes put blankets over my bear collection when I went to kindergarten in case they felt like sleeping while I was away. If only I could go back and make those same precautionary measures for myself and for my soul, I would give this present, 17-year-old Melanie the "blanket" of assurance that the process of coming alive in Christ is something beautiful, although it might be excrutiatingly painful. This quote is something that cut me to my core, because it is the exact quote that could describe the struggle this has been, and will continue to be: finding God and letting the metamorphosis occur.

GPS

I have only ever been on one road trip in my entire seventeen years of living, but the bits and pieces that I sporadically float around in my brain bank form a memory that can be described as unpleasant, uncomfortable, long, tiring, and ends at an In-N-Out Burger in LA. Three summers ago before my sophomore year, my mom, brother, and I were driving down to California to visit my mom's cousin and her three kids that lived in a city close to Los Angeles. It was a going to be a short trip, so we didn't have many essentials packed, but we stocked the car with boxes of Cheezits, Chex Mix, peanut butter sandwiches, and drinks that officially lasted us into day one of the trip. Day two was about eight hours of driving, an inordinate and outrageous amount of time considering that our trusty GPS projected our arrival time to take only half that amount of time. But the other four hours were spent trying to navigate the streets of LA, and we got thoroughly acquainted with the city trying to figure out which exit would take us where and what streets led to which place. Of course, at the time, GPS technology did not offer machines in which one could change the voice of the navigator. So, for four hours of wrong turns and obscure streets, we got to hear the hollow and metallic voice of the "GPS" lady say, "Recalculating", with the slight intonation of irritation and condescension that only machines with voices can deliver.

Long story short, my life up to this present moment could be described by the irritation of the road trip; taking wrong turns, "recalculating", and trying again. I was born, there was my starting point, and the destination or end point changes as my goals and desires change. But in the trial-and-error process of growing up, and especially the two-year red light that I was stuck at in my eating disorder that I am still fighting, the GPS catastrophe proves to be the most fitting description. If life were a city like Los Angeles, and the streets were the decisions that I have made and learned from, I have heard my fair share of "recalculating" from the GPS. That hollow, metallic voice is similar to the people I feel that I have disappointed at different points in life; my mother, my youth pastor, my ballet teacher, my friends, and most of all, myself. But for now, I'll keep turning down the streets and trying to find my way. When I hear "Recalculating!", I'll just curse under my breath, take a U-turn, and keep on driving.

Divorce of a Different Kind: Melanie Toschi

You are the heavy fetters of iron,

the prisoner's nightmare.

You are the fork on the plate

and the matinee puppeteer. 

You are the rust on the nail,

and the nor'easter on the seas.

However, you are not the chair by the Thanksgiving table,

or the patterned sunshine on the side of the house,

or the snow under the sled.

And you are certainly not the operatic aria.

There is just no way that you are the operatic aria.

It is possible that you are the last strength of the dying soldier,

maybe even the musings of the schizophrenic, 

but you are not even close

to being the first cries of the newborn baby. 

And a quick look in the mirror will show

that you are neither the wheels on the school bus

nor the bronze chalice on the communion table.

It might interest you to know, 

speaking of the plentiful opportunities in life,

that I am the rubber in the running shoes.

I also happen to be the monarch butterfly,

the first leaves on the branches in spring

and the unopened bud on the rosebush.

I am also the prayer of the drunkard

and the Artist's paintbrush.

And now, I don't want the heavy fetters of iron.

You will always be the heavy fetters of iron.

You are heavy fetters of iron,

not to mention the prisoner and -somehow- the nightmare.