SmallTown//BigCity

#keepcalmWRITEon
Day 11

**

I'm both country and city.
I can do red-carpet-fresh, and I can do gym-casual-hipster.

I was trying to explain my self, my lifestyle to a new friend last weekend.
I was trying to provide clarity as to the vast array of my awkwardness.

It's not an easy task.

My background is agriculture, my roots in the Desert Southwest of Arizona.

Growing up, "cold" meant the temps dropped to the 60's.
"Dangerous" meant being out after dark.
"Friends" were hard to come by and "trust" was everything, and nothing at the same time.

Agriculture took us to the fertile Salinas Valley, eight miles from the Pacific Ocean.
There I learned what hard work meant--- including how to be ready to uproot your entire life at the drop of a hat and turn around and retrace your steps in hope of finding your way back home.

The quiet of the desert provided the most stability, and also gave me the wings to fly away.

Enter Kansas.

Specifically, Lindsborg.

In college, you're shielded from the outside world.  At least, I was, living in Little Sweden, USA.  But the College theme that year was "From the Plains to the World", so I guess in a way, you could say this quietly influenced the spirited, venturous, young adult I would become.

From here, I've gone everywhere: South America, the West Indies, all around the Midwest, West Coast, and back again.

And what I've learned, is that, I'm all of it.  

I summed it up by saying something like this:

"It's like....I like my quiet moments, the places I can feel truly relaxed in.  If I don't have down time, I freak out.  I'm big on comfort, until I get too comfortable.  I appreciate small-town businesses, and love connecting with the people I see walking down the street.  But I can't feel contained-- or squashed --- for too long.  I gotta go -- have to keep it moving.  I like having a Home Base, somewhere solid to come back to-- but I have to go breathe different air every once in a while.  

I am so Lindsborg.  That place has my heart.  It's where it all started for me (my adult life).  I have such a connection to that town and the College--I know it was exactly the place I needed to be, it was the decision I was supposed to make, it was where I needed to go to begin growing.  Or continue growing, depending on how you look at it.  I'm still extremely connected to Lindsborg and active in its community, in fact, I HAVE TO get away and go back to Lindsborg every so often, or it's like: 'I can't breathe'.

But then, Kansas City?...Yeah, I love that place.  I love the people there.  I love the energy and diversity and how everything is different every day.  It still feels safe, but there's enough mystery to keep me challenged.  Kansas City lets me d r e a m.  I have to go there every once in a while, or I CAN'T BREATHE.

I need all of it.  I'm not simple.  I'm complicated.  But complicated in a really good way, I think."

**

This Place Called Kansas

August 20, 2014

I’m a couple of weeks late, but earlier this month marked 8 years that I have lived in Kansas.

I’ve had those moments:
“Oh, man! I wish Facebook was a thing when I moved into my dorm!”
“I wish we had taken pictures!" (too bad my family didn’t have a digital camera yet.)
“I wonder what my freshman class’ hashtag would have been.”

Sigh.  Anyway. Then I get over it (my thoughts on technology and social media belong in a WHOLE 'nother category).

A paragraph's worth of backstory: I moved to Kansas after being recruited for the track and field and cross-country teams for Bethany College, a private college in Lindsborg, Kansas.  I left the desert Southwest of Arizona, my childhood, and everything I’d ever known behind, hopped into my mom’s minivan, opened the Road Atlas so I could follow along, and got comfortable in my seat.
(My teammate from high school was recruited after I enrolled and signed my Letter of Intent; I gave the coaches a heads-up about her, she decided she was going with me, so we stuffed our clothes and bedding into the back of the minivan.  Neither one of us owned winter clothing or coats yet; we figured we’d worry about that when we got there.)

I’ve got a LOT of feelings (surprise, surprise) about the actual move itself: facing the fear of moving to an unknown place with no friends or family waiting there to welcome me; to a place with a totally different climate and culture and food and people, and how much I’ve grown as a result.  I’ve got tons of memories of my first semester, my second year, each year for that matter, which I want to put down on paper sometime soon.  Sure, I’ve got advice for out-of-state students, words of wisdom on how to stick it out until graduation, but I’m not sure that was the purpose of my writing for today.

My point today is that, 8 years later, I’m still here.  This place called Kansas has morphed from “the place I went away to college”, from “I’m just here to go to school”, from “Yeah, I could never be here forever” to “home”.

This place called Kansas introduced me to the concept of hospitality; from the team of Resident Assistants who helped us unload the minivan (Darcy, Michelle, and others), to the family who had me under their wing that first semester (Ben Mordecai and family—if you see this, know that I am eternally grateful).  I was hospitalized for a few days with mono and pneumonia, and this family took turns sitting vigil in my hospital room.  I don’t think I was alone for more than hour at a time.  (I seriously could write a small book just on the hospitality from this family alone)

This place called Kansas gave me permission to start over.  I could be whoever I wanted to be here.  Aside from my academics, athletics and music, high school wasn’t the greatest experience for me, and it was amazing to come here and just be accepted (Okay, so basically, I’ve just
always had social difficulties, okay? Let’s reword the previous sentence to read, “People were HARD in high school.”)

This place called Kansas has taught me how to make friends.  Real friends. I’ve figured everything out about myself here, while trudging through these thunderstorm-y summers and frozen tundra winters.  These days, I sit with trusted friends and have real conversations about figuring out our futures and planning our next steps.  If I had up and left after graduation, I would have missed out on these dear friendships.

I’m still here because this is where my journey has led me.  There are things I miss about my native Arizona, yes. But do I consider going back? Hardly.  Honestly, I’m so into my life and community here that I just go day-by-day.

I’ve fallen in love with wheat fields, summer rodeos, rolling hills, and greenery!  Don’t even get me started on sunflowers or back dirt roads.  I have mastered the art of carefully watching for deer while I drive, especially in the autumn and winter evenings. I am captivated by the change of the seasons, and anticipate the differences each one has to offer.

Sometimes I wonder if I’ll ever leave, if I’m just letting myself get comfortable and settled for fear of picking up and moving yet again to another, new place.  I wonder if I’m scared.  Yeah.  I think I am scared.

But this place called Kansas has taught me that without an initial sense of fear, there’s no adventure.

At this point, leaving Kansas would feel like leaving home all over again.  I don't know what the future holds, but for now I guess I drank the Kansas Kool-Aid.  I used to hate the thought of "being here forever"; I was convinced that the week after my college graduation, I would be moving either back to Arizona or one of the other two completely different states I applied to medical schools in.

I kind of like how my story has turned out, though.  (Thanks to the Big Man upstairs, by the way!)

So thus begins Year Nine!

8 Months Free

May 1, 2014

So it’s been 8 months since I stopped taking any anti-depressant or anti-anxiety medication, after 5-and-a-half years of being on them. (Over the course of those 5+ plus years, I took 3 different medications. Number 3 was the one that worked best for me)

 I think it’s time to update everyone (and myself) a bit on what I’ve gained and lost from this process.

I made this decision on my own, and asked for my doctor’s support.  We designed a “taper off” plan for me to follow, which I proceeded to do, and before I knew it, I didn’t have to remember to take a pill anymore.  I didn’t have to call in refills, or budget for the cost of the medication.  When going on an overnight trip, I didn’t need to pack my pill.  I didn’t need to worry about keeping it in my carry-on while flying.  I could stop worrying about all the horrendous chemical reactions going on inside my body.  Shedding all these things made me feel like I freed up tons of brain space.  I gained confidence, for a while, and optimism about my ability to cope with my emotions and stressors using my own skills and strength.

So, how do I feel?  What is it like?  Am I “cured”?

I wish it was all good news, or that I could say I’m all better now.

I feel like I’ve lost my energy, my sparkle, the pep in my step.  I can’t help but notice how much more taxing it is for me to get up early, and stay up late.  I enjoy being active.  For the last two years, in addition to working my full-time job, I had a class, a Bible study group, or something I was volunteering for, at least 4 evenings a week.  Plus, sometimes I work overtime on Saturdays, and was volunteering at my church on Saturdays, and then I added some volunteering time on Sundays twice a month.  Sometimes, I would attend all 3 of my church’s services in a weekend, because I had the energy and desire to.  I enjoyed hanging with friends, and sharing about my life, smiling, talking, and laughing.  

When I stopped taking my medication, one of the first things to go was my motivation for evening commitments.  Out the door went youth group, for which I volunteered as a leader, and Bible study.  I started skipping out on my Tuesday night dinners that I had at a friend’s house.  I lost interest in being around people and making small talk.  All I wanted to do was go home, and be home, with my cat.  (She has been the best companion for the nearly 4 years she’s been part of my family)

“It is like” not really knowing how to get my old self back.  Is this reserved, independent person who I’ve been all along?

“It is like” I have to work really hard and plan ahead all the time, to make sure that I’m going to be in the right mood at the right time, for whatever it is my responsibilities are at the moment, be it work, volunteer, or social.

“It is like” I’m excited about not depending on a drug anymore, but I don’t feel as proud of myself as I used to feel.  

“It is like” every day is just a routine, something to get through, something to accomplish.  

“It is like” I have to work really darn hard to create the life I want, all the time; the feelings I want, the choices I want, the opportunities I want.  

“It is like” all these questions come up.  

“Was that person not really me?”

“Have I been fake for the last 5 years?”

“Do all my friends only know - and like- the medicated Gilda?”

“Does no one want to hang out with me because I’m depressing to be around?”

“Can I even handle my own life?”

The only choice I see is to keep trudging forward.  Because even at a crawl, I’m not waving that white flag.  The only thing I can choose to believe is that it does get better with time.  That I’m (STILL!) not done growing yet.  

Some days, I’m pretty miserable.  I get fed up with people and commitments; I find myself overly critical, feeling envious of those who possess things or live lifestyles different than mine.  There are moments where I let myself start spiraling down the black hole again, being angry at God for my circumstances, placing my worth in other people instead of in what He has said about me.  

Eventually, I distract myself.  I pick a coping skill (usually rigorous cardiovascular exercise) and go with it.  I hope to write more about the methods of self-defense I use against the enemy of the ever-looming cloud of doom.

Am I cured?  Choosing to separate yourself from something is the first step to ridding your life of it.  I work in the mental health field, so I’ve seen and know what Severe and Persistent Mental Illness looks like.  My level of anxiety and stress doesn’t fit that diagnosis, so I don’t know that “cure” is even a correct term (or that "cure" is a correct term for those who DO suffer from Severe and Persistent Mental Illness).  I believe that anxiety and stress should be managed, and if they are not, then they can lead to a chronic condition.

I know that my stress and anxiety have come from years of building certain thought patterns.  I continued to build these thought patterns as I grew up because I didn’t know any better.  So now, as a young adult, I start the hard work of undoing all those patterns of toxic thinking.  It isn’t easy.  There’s scientific research on this, folks.

So the truth is, if you decide that you can beat toxic thinking, and believe with all your heart that you will, it will still be difficult to do so, and take time.

I choose to be public about this because I refuse to be labeled or judged.  If I put everything out there, then there’s no stories people can make up about me, or judgements that people can make about “how it all started”.  And I can be an example of determination and strength.  

So.  Eight months down.  

There may or may not be a huge celebration involved for my 1-year anniversary.  :)

Mom-ish Friends

05-04-14

“Mom-ish friends”

I know I use this term a lot.  

I think I may have coined the term, actually.

You see, not all little girls grow up with a mommy to look to for answers to life’s questions, or to pick them up when they fall down.  Some little girls grow up meek and quiet, watching their life go by in a whirlwind around them, across two states, two schools, and two homes, with two parents who were together, yet not, and always seemed to have something to argue about.  

Some little girls grow up with all their basic needs provided - food, clothing, transportation, schooling, pets, even - and so, they never even realize that they are missing something.  They don’t even know what entitlement is, so how can they feel it?

These little girls grow up into pre-teens whose friends want to be all huggy all the time, and they realize this is the first time they remember giving and receiving hugs.  So then these little girls start building their identity around their friendships.

Then boys want to start giving and receiving hugs, and these little girls realize they don’t ever remember hugging their fathers.

But then these little girls get stuck living with their father, while the person who holds the title “mother” is in and out, back and forth, across two states, working, making whirlwind decisions at very loud volumes.

So, trust begins to build in father-daughter relationships, but then mothers get jealous and make up lies and stories and do everything in their power to rip away the relationships that they never cared enough to build themselves.

So then little girls end up confused and caught in the middle of custody battles, not understanding why they have to choose one parent over the other, upset and experiencing separation anxiety when it’s a “mom weekend”, but not sure from which person they feel anxious about separating, the mother or the father.

These little girls eat too much and don’t get enough exercise, but rely on Nickolodeon and Disney Channel for company.  (They fight too much with their sisters to ever get along peacefully for any actual amounts of time)

Dads win the custody battles and little girls continue with schooling.  When boys want to start holding hands at lunchtime, there’s no mommies to ask for advice.  There’s just daddies to hide information from.  

Little girls find their peace in books and schoolwork, spelling and arithmetic, and get a “Good job, mija” when they bring home a good grade, which by the way, is always an “A”.  

Junior high goes by with no more from Mommies than demanding questions and high expectations when they come to visit.  

By high school, little girls have found some more of their identities and escapes in sports.  Building bonds with teammates is easier than building bonds with family members.

The schoolwork gets more intense, and little girls grow more confused and feel more pressure.  By this point, they’ve mastered the “Thank you for cooking dinner, Daddy” and help with housework and take on more responsibility than they maybe should.

By age 15, little girls have seen how some of their friends interact with their mommies.  They’ve seen the hugs, and the eye-rolling, and the kisses on the cheek, and they hear the “Love you’s” and they wonder, “Why is my family so different?” But by this point, they don’t really care.

Because by this point, they’re getting hugs and kisses from boys and doing well with sports, and algebra and biology and theology at their Catholic high schools, and they’re headed toward a college scholarship.

Then Daddy dies and leaves Mommy in charge.

And there’s so much anger and hurt feelings all over the place that little girls don’t even know how to handle themselves.  But they don’t have to, because they get college scholarships to faraway places like Kansas, so they get to run away.

But every time they come for a visit, it’s fireworks, and not the good kind.  And all along, they don’t know who they are, or who they’ve been, or known guidance, or a mother’s love.  For Mommy was too busy figuring herself out to pay any attention to her Little Girls.  

It wasn’t completely her fault.  She just didn’t know how  

Thank goodness for Mom-ish friends, who step in when Little Girls are 20, 25 years old and help answer all the questions; who stand by and offer words of repair and wisdom, gestures of healing and kindness.  For it’s not the Little Girl’s fault that she wasn’t given what all Little Girls should have.

Thank goodness for Mom-ish friends.

Why I Don't Want to Get Married

I wasn’t the little girl who grew up dreaming of her one-day wedding.  And now, I’m not the mid-20’s gal dreaming of a wedding, or beating myself up because I haven’t had one.

I grew up in Southwestern Arizona.  As far as I can recall, my high school classmates and teammates did not spend their time talking about engagements, weddings, or babies.  Maybe I just didn’t pay enough attention.

I moved to Central Kansas for college.  CULTURE SHOCK, big time.  Life suddenly revolved to a different degree around who was dating whom, who was together or not together.  Then it became, “Who was getting engaged”.

Don’t get me wrong, at some point during my sophomore year of college, I made the decision that I would get married at 22 years of age.  It seemed like what was expected and accepted, and almost demanded.  Like something was wrong with you if this wasn’t how your life unfolded.

Then the guy I pictured this wedding with went and broke my heart.  He was only the second “real” dating relationship I had been in (I “dated” three boys in high school), but I was dead-set on us getting married.  And then it didn’t happen.

Now, hold on, because I think I’m too strong to let one person make my mind up for me about love and relationships, so I don’t just blame this situation.

It was at this point that I began a new phase in my personal growth.  First came the shattering of my heart, spirit, and any and all love for life that I had.  Seriously, borderline manic-suicidal.  

Then the real growth took place.  

I’ve spent the last 5 and a half years rebuilding my broken faith and crushed dreams; mending my broken heart and nurturing my broken spirit.  I’ve forced myself to face the fact that I had the definition of “relationship” completely wrong.  I’ve done hard work of realizing that I had spent 21 years looking for validation from other people, seeking to plant roots inside someone else’s mind and heart, because I didn’t have my own solid roots to derive life from.

I didn’t have a picture of love in the family I grew up in.  My parents were not married.  Actually, they signed a piece of paper on my father’s deathbed in front of a priest.  I was seventeen, and I was asked to interpret the pathetic “ceremony”.  I was overcome by waves of nausea and thrust the little booklet back at the priest.

Over the last seven years in Kansas, I’ve spent time with different families, observing the marriage relationships of the mother and father, learning about how children (my college classmates and teammates) who grew up in a two-parent home create their ideals about life and marriage.

I wouldn’t say I blame the pain or loss of my upbringing for any anger or resentment I have towards marriage.  Rather, I think I’m too scared to mess it up.  I also think I’ve become too independent and secure in myself and happy with my own company to want to even think about sharing my every day with someone.  I’ve reached the point where I can have dreams for myself and goals for myself, and plans for my own future, without including a husband.  

I can see how having someone to share everyday moments with might be nice, but I no longer need it to complete me.  

Yes, I’m a Christian, and I can honestly say that I do not feel “God calling me to marriage” or “God telling me to be a mother” or “God having plans for me to have a common ministry with someone”.  

I just don’t feel that.

I don’t want to get married.  I don’t know when that will change.  I’m okay with it, if it never changes.  

I want to encourage others out there feeling pressure from society--to get married, to date, to have sex, to have a partner, someone by your side at all times---don’t fall for it.  Independent life is pretty awesome.

(For those wondering, I have been in a committed, heterosexual relationship for 4 and a half years--no we don't live together. We live in different towns, actually.)

My First Thanksgiving

11-27-2013

Today is Thanksgiving, a major American holiday.

I was thinking earlier that I don't seem to make as big a deal out of holidays as everyone around me.  Don't get me wrong, I don't think holidays are bad. 

But, in processing my thoughts and feelings about holidays, I realize that I really had no family structure growing up to show me the "American Way" or "how holidays are supposed to be done".  That's just a fact.  I am a first-generation Hispanic-American.

 A.K.A. --- my family is from Mexico, and my parents had no idea how to do things "the American Way."

I realize that this has made my experience a bit different from that of my friends and other loved ones in my life.

The first Thanksgiving we celebrated as a family was when I was in 5th grade.  It consisted of my sister, my father, and myself.

Basically, what happened was that my sister and I had spent enough years in elementary school, surrounded by children whose family structure was more traditional than ours.  We saw them and heard them every year talking about all the holidays, so of course, after a while we started asking questions---and telling our dad how it was "supposed to be".

So, in 5th grade, I told my dad, "We need to buy a turkey.  We need to cook a Thanksgiving dinner.  We are supposed to make something called stuffing.  And mashed potatoes."

My dad wanted to do anything that would make his girls happy, so went to the store and bought a turkey, a box of stuffing (don't know how I figured out what it looked like), and a box of instant mashed potatoes.

My dad helped me soak the turkey overnight in Sunny Delight orange juice.  Yes, really.
I cooked the rest of the meal.  Yup, as a 5th grader.  Not because my dad couldn't cook, and he did help a little, but because I watched lots of Food Network cooking shows at this point and also could read the English directions on the boxes.  :)

We have Polaroid pictures of the meal. 

I knew we were supposed to dress up, so I put on my favorite dress.  I knew we were supposed to pray, and I knew how to say the Our Father because I was taking Catholic CCD classes (a story all on its own--another instance of me saying, "Daddy, we are supposed to be doing this by now..."), so I made us all hold hands and I said the prayer.

I don't remember any other specific Thanksgivings in our household growing up.  I'm sure there were one or two more until I graduated from high school.  Maybe it's because Mexican families are bigger on Christmas, and this was when my grandmother would visit and we would do all of our big cooking (read: TAMALES!).

Seven of the eight Thanksgivings in my early adulthood have been celebrated with a meal and with a group of people.  I have spent time with different friends, seeing how different people celebrate the same holiday.  It's been a learning experience.  The family unit always amazes me.  It's astounding to show up as a guest to a dinner and have my friend tell me, "I'm related to every single person in this room."  I have never known anything like that.

I didn't grow up with a big family--just my mom, dad, sister, and I.  My maternal grandmother, aunt, uncle, and younger cousin lived in Mexicali, Baja California, Mexico--an hour away from my hometown in Arizona.  We visited them often, but that's as big as my family got.  I have never met any of my dad's side of the family.  They are deep down in Mexico, and I've never been.  (Yes, this is a project on my Near Future List)

I guess in telling my story, I hope to encourage people to remember that there are individuals out there who truly don't know what a family or a family gathering is "supposed to look like", and for different reasons.  I want people to remember that we're all different.  I want people to remember that not everyone has experienced everything we think they have experienced, or everything we think they "should have experienced by now".  I want us to stop putting each other in boxes.  I want us to start embracing other people's stories and backgrounds, not just pretend to understand.  I want us to not feel sorry for people like me: "Oh, poor her! She never had pumpkin pie as a child!"  It's not the end of the world.  Not everyone grows up the same way. 

We all end up on the same journey.

Earth Wanderer

11-15-2013

I grew up on the road, kind of.  My parents worked for a big-name agriculture company out West, and we followed the harvest.  During the summers and fall, we were in Salinas, California; winters and springs were in Yuma, Arizona.  The drive time between the two cities is somewhere between 8 and 11 hours.

I learned to be a very calm road-trippin’ child.  Packing up the car every season became a familiar ritual.

I remember staring out the window a lot.  I used to play a game with the rain drops on the windows, watching them to see which one would “win the race” to the bottom of the window.  I read every road sign: those about mileage, tourist traps, construction zones, speed limits – all of them. 

I memorized the places we stopped along the way, our familiar “rest areas”; the Mcdonald’s just outside L.A., that giant tree somewhere near Paso Robles, nestled amidst the rolling hills of what must be equivalent to prairies out West.

I drank in scenery from all of our family drives: the rows of lettuce fields on the way out to my dad’s “office”, the city parks, the trees along the freeway.  My favorites were the drives up to Monterey, Watsonville, Castroville, and Santa Cruz.  I now know these drives were essentially out to and up the California coast. 

In California, I learned to love the ocean.  I learned to recognize the feeling of the almost-too-cool breeze up on the rocks.  I memorized what the sun felt like beating down on my bare skin on warm days down in the sand. 

In Arizona, I learned to watch sunsets.  I became familiar with people of all different skin tones and cultures.  I was accustomed to hearing at least two languages everywhere I went, sometimes sprinkled with some Korean or some Middle-Eastern dialect. 

The music and food I grew up with were reflective of the cultural whirlpool I grew up in. 

I always used to hear my mother say she was “ready to go somewhere exciting” or “wanting to see something different”. 

I was used to being on the move, and to being around different kinds of people and culture.

I think this was how my peculiar sense of wanderlust started.  It started very small, very innocently, and then it grew.

It turned into wanting to be in Times Square, waving up at the TRL studios, instead of watching MTV from the living room television.

It turned into wishing with all my being to be out on the dude ranch with Mary-Kate and Ashley, and then go with them to see Paris.  And then London, and then Rome, and then Australia.

I even opted for books that were set in different places.  I loved the “Drina the Ballerina” series, and being a part of tea time or the metro rides in London.  I traveled to Stoneybrook, Connecticut (a fictional city) and sometimes New York with my friends in The Babysitter’s Club.

In the spring of 7^th grade, when we went back to California as a family for the first time in 4 and a half years, I held on with every heartstring to the reliving of my childhood travels.

In high school, I got to travel all over Arizona and Southern California for my athletic competitions.  The hours on the bus?  Bliss.

And then, I moved halfway across the country for college, and have traveled around the Midwest for my track and field career out here. 

I have traveled to Bolivia and Grenada for volunteer trips, neither one of them long enough, each time falling in love with the native people and connecting with my soul in a way I did not know to be possible.

I don’t think this really boils down to never being happy with where I’m at.  I think some sort of a gypsy soul or spirit was instilled in me a long time ago. 

Today, my love of travel and culture largely encompasses my being.  I have travel plans, wishes, hopes, and dreams.  They are not really tourist destinations, so much as places I want to go to connect with people who carry within them a part of humanity’s history.  I long to breathe the air my ancestors have breathed, and experience the emotions of trial and triumphs from before my time.  I am a lifelong learner, and a lover of all that is human.  I want to understand the connection that Earth has had with its inhabitants over the centuries. 

Some people are content never stepping beyond their front porch.  Not me.

“And miles to go before I sleep; and miles to go before I sleep.” –Robert Frost