I don't know what is happening with my life. If anyone still reads this, they already know this. I have not said much of anything else for...at least two years. I keep saying it because I keep discovering it. Like a clock you forget does not tell time anymore.

I stopped taking naps after I go fired. I did not really notice at first. I did not know why. As I began to notice, the reasons came falteringly forward starting with "they just aren't restful" and becoming "I cannot get my brain to turn off". What I mean to say is, either as I fall asleep or as I wake up I find myself entranced, back in time, back at HAI. Somehow my psyche has staked off this time as THE TIME to take the stand that I already missed. And I am defending myself again and again and again. I am saying all of the things that I thought of too late, that I was not brave enough to say, that I thought were too emotional.

Sometimes I think God has left me here to wrestle down my will. Sometimes I think he is waiting until I summon my will. But I have done both. Often in the same day, the same hour with so much zeal and fervor that I venture on fanaticism. I am tired and cynical now. I do not tell God what he is doing anymore. I do not guess. I do not discern. And I do not wait for the prophets anymore. They do not know anymore than I do, it turns out. God is not talking to others about me behind my back. That is somehow both a relief and a defeat. Defeated is a good word for today. Also for this week and these last two years.

And the defeated do not nap. Napping is too much a gateway to unreality and in this unreality I keep trying not to lose. Sometimes I get close. I think that maybe I have found the one path that would have converted or convinced my enemies. When the gateway closes and only reality remains, I find that I have lost all over again. I defeat myself. And I am tired of defeating myself, as if there are not enemies willing enough to do that for me. I am so tired, in fact, that I cannot rest.

 

I am a thousand good intentions and hundreds of posts and photos behind on this blog. All my introspection has been unplugged. Except tonight. Tonight, I need to analyze an old thing that I do not yet know the name of inside of me. Like finding out that the name you call your friend is only their nickname and suddenly you find yourself needing to know the true name of an old friend.

It is Sunday night. I have been home from my wedding and honeymoon for 4 days, I think. I am sitting in bed with the computer. But I am not really sitting here. In my mind, I am standing next to a giant book the size and weight of the life I have yet to live. I am trying to turn the page. But I don't really want to. I do not trust the book to tell the story right. I do not want to be on the next page officially. I want time to crawl between the pages, to prepare the future plot, to brief myself on a few of the important cues that I am more than likely to miss.

You see, before I got fired, I was on better terms with the unknown. Before I got fired, it was a lot easier to just let the story be. Before I got fired, I had some amount of optimism left.

Now? Now, I am filled with this strange sort of PTSD. Every time I go in for a job interview, I get really psyched up. I think about all the good things about the company. The things they value, their neat quirks, the fact that they allow dogs at work, the benefits. About how much healthier this or that job will be compared to the sweatshop and HAI. And every time I find myself in the parking lot outside wondering if it is even worth it to go in. I haven't even had the interview but I have convinced myself that whatever job is inside is probably the worst decision I could make and definitely comparable to indentured servitude. Despite all of my work to convince myself of the opposite, I find that at bottom I am tormented by the idea that every job will always be just as terrible. And I do not want to be that person again. I do not want to be trapped like that again--unable to explain to anyone who doesn't work there what is happening, unable to explain to anyone who does work there that it doesn't have to be that way.

Tomorrow I am supposed to make the phone calls and try to get myself hired at a number of places which are genuinely likely to hire me. Ok. Two phone calls. A place I interviewed with in June. And  a business I worked at through a temporary staffing agency. Both have offered half-promises of employment. Both are reasonable places to work. At least, I thought so until this morning when I woke up with my third eye burning with a warning from the future that as soon as I commit to either company, they are going to bleed me dry, guilt me into never leaving, work me dozens of hours overtime, and sap any energy I have so that I am unable to go to flight school, cook dinner or make any semblance of beautiful art--I will mostly be grateful if I get to my laundry.

(Oh flight school! What an absurd thought that seems like most days now.)

That message is still burning in the empty space in my skull. That space barely has a high enough success rate for me to continue listening to these panicked premonitions. It's not so articulate as I make it. It just screams worry and paranoia until it is a white noise in the background of my...everything. I feel paralyzed. I feel vaguely nauseous when I think about calling tomorrow. Moreover, I know that as soon as I commit to either job (assuming either even want me!), my dream job will elusively prance in the background but I will hardly notice as I will have already bent my nose to the grindstone.

I'm afraid of being left in exile.

And I'm afraid that leaving exile is not all that it is cracked up to be.

I feel like the pathway out of exile has historically been made of war and chaos, of a certain amount of death and renovation. I am afraid of being carried away by the currents of time and change to a place of suffering. Pain without purpose or control. Every time I try to make this not about control I sight myself using a metaphor built 60% out of the sensory experience of having lost control. Most of the time, I put the metaphor back in the tool box and look the other way. I did not want control so badly until it hurt and it did not make sense.

But HAI broke me into fragments that I do not recognize as pieces of myself. It is so hard to trust because I am so afraid of dematerializing again.

I am badly off. I need rehabilitating in a sorry way. I need physical therapy for trusting that jobs won't always ruin your life by competing for all of your time, health, and energy. I am uncertain about most things these days, but I have a fairly stable hunch that no one ever has or ever will make rehab for job trauma. In fact, if it wasn't for the mirror that is my husband, I wouldn't even believe the trauma to be real. But every time it comes time to interview, I sit there in the parking lot trying to remember that not every job will change you into someone you don't like being. I try to climb back into my old skin to build a life I used to believe was possible. I still want that life. But the skin doesn't fit anymore. I have lost some limbs and gained others. I am not the creature I used to be, but not at all in the beautiful butterfly sense.

I think that I will miss this time in my life. This staying up until 1 or 2 am reading a book and listening to the train pull in. This house with its magical ability to grow plants if I only ask it. This melting pot neighborhood turned calico side-walk. It has been such a safe place to untangle myself. I cannot imagine coming to terms with Hillsboro any other way.

I left that place with my arms full of insecurities that I had never taken seriously before then. I was suddenly worried about what people thought about me because they can make your life so hard when they do not value you. These insecurities have been my constant companions as I look for jobs, plan a wedding, and try to get to know Tyler’s family as my own. I have not made the best of it. Rather, I have wandered from hurt to wound and back again. I have been guarded, desperate, despairing, angry, and altogether ill at ease with myself.

I have never not known who I wanted to be…until this last year. And I have tried my best not to make all of this a problem between God and I. Still, some part of me has often asks in the in between moments if this really is the best way, if God didn’t hurt me a bit unnecessarily, and so on. I have marveled at the fact that something so damaging to myself could possibly have been his plan. I have thought seriously about whether or not I want to entrust next year to his care. And I have told him this, challenged him, and asked him to prove himself good. In the past, he has responded swiftly to such challenges. Not this year.

And yet, I am reminded of my time learning about the Old Testament prophets and the kings of the time. God would raise up, tear down, and make new as he pleased. One king set out for plunder, another for political gain, and another for vengeance; but all of them were moved by the Spirit of God to achieve his purposes. It did not matter if they thought God their enemy or their friend. God still directed their steps even in their rebellion. It was all so that they would know him and so that Israel would be both chastened and protected in turns.

This is what I am reminded of when I think of my time at Hillsboro. I left there so damaged, feeling betrayed and hopeless and…mute. I did not understand what had happened or why. I did not know how to praise God for his justice or his love. And so I said nothing. I have observed and observed this past year and more. I have struggled to be content with this desert he has given me. I have made small forages into understanding and I do not know if I will gain much more than I have now.

For now, it is enough to remember that God answered me when I told him I did not know what to do at Hillsboro. I asked for help, for guidance, and for clarity. Within 24 hours, I was fired. It is hard not to feel like I failed. It is hard not to feel like I required God to jerry-rig the first plan B he has ever made. But today, I remember. I called to him and he answered. I called to him and he moved the hearts of the people around me to be what they were. I called to him and he acted. I expected him to make my work environment better, for him to soften things, or for my enemies to repent and be nicer. Instead, he hardened the heart of pharaoh. 

This apartment is so full of my longing to be in the future already. I want to see this resolved. I want to know that I successfully hold a job for multiple years. I want the reassurance that I did not somehow thwart God’s plan by getting fired or by hating my job. And I want to be free of the insecurities that I packed into my poor fibers as I left there. This apartment has held all of that discontentment and more. For 15 months, I have wrestled with myself and made myself a nuisance to God within these walls. It has been home to my binge cooking, my not eating quite well enough because I hate eating alone, my late night books, my early mornings spent watering my flowers, my quest to find myself …somewhere in the future in one piece again with a direction and a usefulness that I have not been permitted in a long, long time. 

I will miss this place when I am gone. I will miss how safe it has been to know absolutely nothing at all about tomorrow and especially Monday. I hate Mondays. I hate the overwhelming sense of having a whole blank week to fill with my not knowing. A whole new week to hold vigil hoping the phone will ring with news of a job. And I will miss it. ...At the same time, I have never looked forward to missing something so much as I do now.  I am perhaps too eager to meet that grief and to mourn the loss of my freedom and my time. Still, this is my constant prayer.

I woke up this morning...to a call from a Romanian woman who meant business. She is the wife of the officiant for our wedding, a lovely and fierce woman. There was no way I was going to let her know that her unexpected call woke me up on Saturday sometime after 8am but before 9am. When we were finished talking, I was hit with one of those tidal waves of "this is really happening" that has happened in both positives and negatives as excitement fades into nausea and back again. I found myself on the crest of a collosal wave of nausea feeling totally unprepared to do this.

Not the commitment part. I have long since made my mind up about that. I feel totally unprepared to execute a wedding. I easily forget why I should spend that much money or care. People tell me it's a day all about me and my head spins. If it was a day all about me, we could spend the money on flight school or a car or a place to live. I look at where all the money goes and it is all for these people who have been spread out across the time and space of my life. It is food and decorations and atmosphere. It is plane tickets and thank you gifts. My wedding dress was $150. I won't bore you with the cost of everything else, but pretty much everything including the silverware costs more. ...I digress.

Somedays I get angsty because I feel like it is all pretense and competition...as if my wedding is a performance that I must choreograph and costume and then maybe my marriage will get a standing ovation. Other days, it feels like a test. If I can put together a beautiful enough wedding without being mean or stressing anyone out while being considerate of everyone's input, wants, needs, and insecurities inside a certain budget, then I am adult enough. The problem is that I am neither a performer nor a test taker. And I do not want to be.

People keep telling me that the wedding is all about what I want. I hardly believe this as I wanted to elope. But the truth is, I am glad that I did not elope. Or, at least, I am beginning to suspect that I will be glad not to elope. Why? Because I want to celebrate with anyone who is willing to celebrate. I found a friend who is not going to leave me...even if I deserve it which feels like a miracle in and of itself. That miracle is only doubled upon realizing that I am also going to be his friend who does not leave. The only family that we get to choose. And I want people to be there. I want them to remind me of how excited I was on my wedding day. I want them to feel invited to remind me when I need that reminder. There is more than a small amount of hope being planted in these plans. Besides, we have so few reasons to celebrate while we pass through this world under a curse.

How is it even possible that I have purchased another cookbook? I do not know. But it is here at home with me.

Ok. Actually, I do know. It was $5 at a Goodwill and was in perfect condition. And I cannot say 'no' to a cookbook that I can afford and which will definitely be used. In the last year, I have taken to reading cookbooks cover-to-cover, literally reading every page with a scrupulousness I definitely did not apply to college. I must have scoured over 3,000 pages in the last year.

And so, they are all bookmarked with sticky-notes for recipes that I found inspiring and helpful. They all sit waiting eagerly on the shelf. The more informative ones I refer to by their author. I will be talking to Tyler and say something like, "Deborah has a salad dressing that I think you would like" or "Nigel cooks chard in a way that makes it actually look tasty."

In my long unemployment, there is a huge chunk of time that I must fill in the early mornings when prospective employers do not want to talk to the unemployed for a few more hours (if at all), friends are at work, and Tyler is in class. This is a dangerous time because it can easily lead to laziness or food depression or all manner of other evil. This is the time I spend with the likes of Deborah and Nigel. They are good teachers who love food for its own sake, for the textures, colors, flavors, aromas, and a thousand other subtleties whose discernment is born from obsession and lots of practice. I have learned a lot from them and I have benefitted from their passion.

So I have come home with another book by another author. It is the William-Sanoma book on "Entertaining". Tyler wanted it because he loves the details of hosting. I am all messy kitchen, hoping my guests don't mind that I licked the spoon, and just barely on time. Tyler is all folded napkins and garnish. (I am sure that someday we will achieve hospitality in a truly unique way.) This book is as much for him as it is for me.

And so, I feel at the same time compelled to open it and read it through...and to go back to my old friends and pick a new thing that I have meant to try but haven't gotten around to. Either way, food and cookbooks are the only constant in my day to day life these days.

I think there is a part of me that reads cookbooks by authors who do a lot of explanation and teaching with their recipes because it is this giant reminder that life is still happening. I feel so much like I have been put into this holding position until God gets around to giving me clearance to land. I sit up in the sky making circles in my airplane and trying not to watch the fuel gauge because, you know, faith and stuff.

Mondays are paralyzing. Other people wake up on Monday and think, "I have a whole week of my life that has been planned for me to get through until I can do what I want." I wake up on Monday with the weight of feeling that last week did not have any word from God or his prophets and now I have a whole blank week ahead of me in which I hope to be able to muster something that looks like confidence (which I have none of) so I can organize my time, convince somebody that I have skills worth paying money for, and try to spend as little money as possible. And all of this I feel pressure to do well enough to ward off the nagging feeling that I am doing everything wrong. Try as I might, I have swallowed just enough of that American value that says that you are master of your destiny and, if you don't like your circumstances, you have only yourself to blame.

But I remember how I got here. With much prayer and tears and hope and trust. With much trying my absolute best and hardest. All of that climaxed first in getting fired. The prayers I offered Tuesday night at small group for direction and help with my job were still on their way to heaven the Wednesday I got fired. Thursday, I woke up with so much relief. And then the sweatshop. And seeking more direction and stepping out in more faith to leave that and walk into the longest free fall. Being raised a good moderately good pentecostal, I grew up with the idea that you can't live on yesterday's word from God or yesterday's promises. But this is what I have been doing because God has offered no further word.

I am just a woman, infinitely small. Who am I to counsel God? Who am I to tell him to speak?

I know a host of people who would tell me to pray more, to read more Bible, to be better at going to church every week. It is not that I do not do any of those. Rather, those take on different appearances as I get older and find myself in stranger seasons of life. (Except for going to church more often. That has just been the terrible failing of trying to travel, spend time with family, remember when daylight daving is etc.) Food is my spiritual dischipline. Reading cookbooks is my prayer that I can someday be a skilled individual with a meaningful life. Eating and cooking is my demonstration of faith that it is worthwhile to keep myself healthy, that I will wait this out with the expecation that something will change eventually. It is a conversation with God. It is thanksgiving and petition. It is all the faith I can manage.

Today, it does not quite feel like enough.

After getting rejected from a job that I seriously thought was the one, I find that I have two choices. 1. I can get into the kitchen and binge on cooking and baking. 2. I can stop eating until morale improves. Both seem equally tempting today. I wish I had roommates to cook for. I am not taking this very well and I know that. But this was the first company to call me back. I had two interviews and I had even allowed myself to hope enough to buy work clothes arrange my schedule "just in case" I was suddenly employed. Losing this opportunity feels like HAI took this from me also. The grief is renewed today.

My mom thinks I have PTSD from HAI. I just laughed when she told me. Both because it's ridiculous and because it took her way too long to figure it out. It was an abusive job.

I'm scared of being employed again. Who would want to go back to the abuse? I'm scared of not being employed again. I want something meaningful to do with my life.

I find myself always looking for a prophet. I cling overly much to people with that spiritual gift. I keep hoping God will send down some fragment of his plan, some word of encouragement.  But their messages are never for me.