Early Morning Panic

I woke up panicked. Remembering only bits and pieces of what I have been about, I could not recall who I was, where I was, what I was doing, who the people were sound asleep to the side of me, or why I was there. No, with sun beginning to illuminate the dusky hotel room, I was conscience only of a sneaking suspicion that whatever I was doing...I was running late. All with intense understanding that regardless of my location it was imperative I find a bathroom.

I found the bathroom and spent what seemed like several minutes trying to come up with a name – any name that sounded familiar. Something to assign to my roommates and specifically the one with whom I was sharing a bed. There was something oddly uncomfortable about returning to the safe haven of sleep under the covers along side someone I couldn’t remember. And I had to do it soon...after all, I was running late. As I stood staring with my head cocked at the two double beds, it dawned on me. Youth Ministry Convention...Nashville...hotel. Morning. Late? Not a chance. I could go back to sleep for another 45 minutes at least. Sleep!...Roommates? Michelle and Steph lay breathing softly in the bed to the end. And Kenzie, the girl whose name I’ve known for three years, was following a similar pattern in my own. And my, my name was Anika. There was no reason to panic, I would be just fine.


And yet the panic is all too familiar. How many times have I stopped in the last semester, let alone the last few weeks and went “Wait! Who am I? Where am I? What am I doing? Why am I here? Who is in my bed?? (not literally of course...but with whom am I sharing my ‘intimate’ space?)” I’m conscience, really, of only two things: this underlying feeling that I am running out of time and the intense overwhelming desire for release. But unlike the dusty light beginning to peak into my hotel room, there is little illuminating my oppressive questions. I find few answers to the riddles of my sanity...and perhaps they only grant to bring more questions.

Who am I? What do I mean? What do I stand for, exist for, fight for, live for? What makes me tick, what makes me function, what makes me unique, what makes me special, what defines me? Who is Anika – who is she becoming?

Where am I? Why here? Where is life taking me? Heck, where have I been? How come I can no more pin point a spot on the map of my existence than I can give you the name of the town and status of my being? How come I feel so lost?

What am I doing? What should I be doing? How is it I am about so much...and so little? How is it I have no purpose for my doings and doings for my purposes? To what end does any of this matter? If ever I can articulate the things that I do...

Why am I here? Do I have a purpose at all? Am I here for the doings which I can’t understand? And where is here? What am I supposed to be about? What does my life mean? What does it mean for me and what does it mean for those around me? Why do I exist?

And how come I am so terrified of the people who seem to be sleeping in my bed? Or more like this morning, I can’t identify the person at all...which terrifies me the most. Why can’t I find the people with whom to share my intimate space? How is it I can so intensely desire someone to be there...close enough to touch because heaven knows I need it...and yet still keep them at arms length because I have no tolerance for abandonment – no ability to process the fear of sharing me with the unknown?


Mixed in between is the thought that perhaps it’s already too late to have my questions answered and yet they’re building up inside. Building up and spilling over and if I don’t release soon I’m going to explode. And I wonder if I woke up in this familiar panic so that I don’t. As near as I can tell, my early morning adventure occurred because I was still sound asleep when my body was screaming to pee...either I get up or wet the bed – something that would have affected my bed-buddy as well. I had to go to the bathroom, but it wasn’t time to be awake, it wasn’t time to understand. But it was that or explode. I’m not ready to be awake. I’m not ready to face the causes of my day the things I can’t understand...but it was either come to grips with reality or leak and gush out...something that will surely spread to anyone I can convince to come near. No wonder I’m so lost when it comes to the intimate areas of my life...

Oh God, help me with the things I don’t understand...

Anklets and Tan Lines

My anklet broke off today.
I’ve been wearing it since...well since at least the beginning of the summer, if not before. So a solid six months for sure.
And today, today is just sort of fell of.
Broke at the tiny little knot and fell. It’s been used and abused. Snagged and jarred. Pulled at and jostled. But it never budged. We made it through my week in the mountains of Montana, two weeks of camp, New Student Orientation week, and countless other tussling adventures.
Never did it show any sign of weakness.
But today it fell. There were no battle screams of glory. No pulling and ripping off. No scattered beads. No damaged strand.
Just removal. Off came my sock and with it, my anklet.
It left behind a crooked tan line and the odd empty feeling. The one that shows up whenever something goes missing.
When you stop wearing that ring.
When you forgot to put on your watch.
When you switch from glasses to contacts.
When the passions you sold your soul to, fall away.
When the friendship that was going to last forever, dies.
When the gentle whisper you’ve come to know as God’s seems silent.
All the things that become so staple to your life...leave a gap when they’re suddenly gone.
All the things that weathered so many storms...seem indestructible...seem to whither away, fall off without warning.
And it leaves an awkward mark – the proof that something was once there.
Like a crooked tan line and that odd empty feeling...

Dear Daddy...

Dear Daddy,

I can’t do this. I just can’t do this anymore. It’s getting too hard, too complicated. I just want to quit. I know, I know. I’m supposed to do hard things. Builds character, perseverance, dependence...on you. I know, you never said life was going to be easy. I know, in fact, that you promised quite the opposite with the sure fire promises “I’ll be with you always...” and “Take heart, I’ve overcome the world!” Yup, I know that. I know a lot of things. Wanna help me figure out why all that knowing doesn’t seem to be making any difference? I can’t handle it all any more. It’s too much. It’s just too much.

Dad, I’m so stressed out. I don’t even know where to begin. I have homework and papers and quizzes and projects up to my ear lobes and I want nothing more than to curl up in your lap and fall asleep. I just want to sleep. Dad, I’m so tired! Where has my day gone? How is it that I’ve been awake for hours and have nothing done; nothing to show for it? What is my life except for a mere attempt to look like I’m alive, like I’m trying? Dad, wake me up or just let me sleep! I can’t handle the middle ground.

Dad, I’m sick. I’m sick of putting on a good face. And my good face no longer hides turmoil as much as it does the emptiness – the lack of anything else. “It’s fine. I’m fine. Nothing new. Good. God’s got it. One day at a time. We’ll get through.” All phrases. All excuses for an answer which screams “I don’t know. I don’t what what’s going on. I don’t know how I’m doing. I am numb, I don’t feel anything!” And just when the numbness starts to go away, there is radiating pain. An achy-ness like I can’t describe. It hurts so much to feel.

But I don’t even know what I’m feeling. Dad, I don’t even know what I’m angry at! I don’t even know if I can articulate why life just hurts so badly! One disappointment, followed by another. But it’s just disappointment. It’s just life! Make me get over it. There’s nothing there. My life is no worse off than anybody else’s and most days are really quite survivable in the scheme of things. In the long run, they really aren’t so bad. Why can’t I see that? Why am I wearing a mask that says I’m okay – when I’m not really okay – all while I have NO reason to NOT be okay?

Daddy, I am so lost and so confused. And I am so frustrated with you! I can’t make sense of where I’ve been – let alone make out a shadow of where I’m going. And, quite frankly, I feel totally in the dark about wherever it is you have me now. Can’t I have a hint, just a hint, about where any of this makes sense? I just want a window – even if it’s a dirty window, broken and boarded up. A window. I’m sick of this brick wall. This brick wall which confines me and traps – allows in no light and makes me feel as if there is no way out at all...

When I Cared Enough to Feel...

I was twelve. Working on being thirteen.
When my hamster died.
I had him for a whole summer.
“Houdini” was my first real pet. He escaped three times before actually securing a home next to the fish tank. Hence his namesake. He was kind of a boring pet. There’s only so much fun you can have with a hamster. Only so much fun a hamster will have with you. He did not appreciate my Lego mazes, cared little for me initiating walks in his hamster ball and after living wild for nearly a solid month when everything was said and done...he wasn’t much of a cuddler either. Sometime in the fall the stupid hamster got sick. Pneumonia is near as we could tell. I did my best to nurse that stupid little hamster back to health but when mom came to pick me up from school one day, she came with the news – Houdini didn’t make it.
I bawled.
I sobbed.
I made a scene.
Over a dead hamster.
I wrote the most ridiculous note you’ve ever read about how I loved the hamster. How he was my friend. How he died too soon. And I was completely serious. My sincerity was evident by the tears again streaming down my face. I put that stupid, dead hamster into a box with my letter and buried him under the bush in the flower bed. It was the saddest day of my entire fall semester of my seventh grade year.

I’m twenty now. Working on being twenty-one. It’s been nearly 8 years since Houdini went to be on that giant hamster wheel in the sky. And I laugh. I laugh because I cried bitter tears over a hamster that hated my guts. Not only that, I cried hard! I laugh because I wrote a letter to anyone who might happen upon my shoebox grave to let them know that the little rodent corpse they saw meant something to me.

I’m twenty now. Working on being twenty-one. And I think about the years that have passed me by. Years since I cared enough to feel. My seventh grade year was filled with plenty of tears...long after the great hamster tragedy. My eighth grade year was far from a picnic. I cried often, probably daily. I felt everything. Everything hurt. Evident by the bitter tears streaming down my face. And sometime come my high school years, I quit. I couldn’t handle it anymore. It was too hard to feel. And quite frankly, I didn’t care anymore. I didn’t care enough to put the feeling in.

I’m twenty now. Working on being twenty-one. And I wonder what it would be like to again be able to cry over the simple things. Heck, I wonder what it would be like to cry over the hard things. So often I will tears to come. “God, I’m breaking inside! Let me cry! Let me somehow release everything built up inside of me!” And sometimes, if I’m lucky, a single dry sob will come from my throat. I want it to be okay to cry. I want to feel. I want to care. What happened to the girl who sobbed when her hamster died? Does this have more to do with life than merely “growing up”?

I’m twenty now. Working on being twenty-one. I cried the other day and wish I could do it again. I wish I could find my way back to being twelve...when I cared enough to feel...

Irony?

As I sit at my computer screen, with plenty better to fill the void of time I’ve simply decided I wish to kill, I can’t get over it. The juxtaposition that is. The dichotomy. The irony. On my computer, more specifically on facebook...hoping for a message, a wall post, a poke. Anything. Something. Someone. Someone to remind me that I still exist. Like an artificial high – I live in these current moments for connection to the world. Any part of it. So excited I was to open my inbox to three notes on my wall. Only to crash and burn when I realized my replied wall post was not going to replace an actual conversation.

When was the last time I had a real conversation? Not an exchange of “how are yous” in the hallway. Not me telling you when my next doctor’s appointment it is. But a real conversation – talking about things that actually mean something...a chance for me to spill my heart about things that matter and listen as you respond. About anything! I can think of very few of these conversations since school started...A handful tops in the six weeks I’ve been here...if you count the general discourse you would expect out of any moderate friendship (my roommate’s bothering me...calculus sucks...)

And furthermore, for as much as I would love to talk, I long to be touched. I crave touch. Isn’t that weird? Especially from me. Anybody who knows me AT ALL knows I spent almost 6 years of my life totally encased in a bubble. Hugs were a definite no-no. I didn’t like them. From anyone. I didn’t have friends and it transcended to even my family. Getting something as simple as a hug meant I’d have to reciprocate and I wasn’t willing to give emotion to anybody – because anybody who held my emotions could destroy them. If I rejected you first, you would never have the opportunity to reject me. And it worked. But I opened myself up for the kill... And in the process I found for as awful as it hurts – for certainly some of those I have allowed to hold me have also dropped me – I can’t ignore the feeling of being held. To know...if only for a second...that I mean something to someone. That another human being values me and is willing...if only for a second...to keep me safe. I’ve been hugged twice this week...I think. Well one was a loose side hug... And I’m sure there are some out there dying for a hug and a half a week. But how do you wean yourself off of people who care? How do you spend a year and half - almost two - basking in a life of community to be ripped out all too suddenly and placed into a familiar but foreign land?

I love that blogs are like over grown diaries – journals for the world to read. And yet, I post this completely convinced that no one actually reads my blog. I don’t normally. Anything I post is something I am completely “o.k.” with the world seeing. Am I “o.k.” with the world knowing these things? Things I don’t know if I’ve ever told people before – not my closest confidant – at least not in so many words? I don’t know. And for, perhaps the first time ever, I don’t care. I have no idea why I post this now. Perhaps because I can’t get over it. The juxtaposition that is. The dichotomy. The irony. Of knowing I’m posting something almost private for the world to read...all the while knowing no one will read it.

Christian Hologram

It looks almost real
It moves just so
It says the right things
So you’ll never know...

That it’s just a hologram.
A 3-D projection up on a wall.
A single hologram...
Looks so real,
But there’s no substance at all.

Just an image lacking all matter.
Just a picture without all the “stuff”.
Just an icon of all I’m after.
But just a hologram will never be enough

Any image without substance is a lie.
Any Christian without the heart, the core, is a fake.
In the name of keeping up appearances,
It doesn’t matter if they’re asleep
As long as the outside looks awake.

Sick of watching a bunch of Christian holograms.
3-D projections up on a wall.
Sick of living with a bunch of Christian holograms.
They look so real,
But there’s no substance at all.

Viewing my own Cancer Experience in Light of the Communicative Properties of the Social Penetration Theory

COM 200 was the most discouraging class of my entire year to date and just today. This is not to say I did not learn anything – for certainly I did. And this is also not to say that it wasn’t beneficial – for it was. But in so many ways it condemned me to utter hopelessness. Dooming me to be without ability to form new, meaningful relationships for as long as cancer also dominated my life.

Social Penetration Theory. In the words of Dr. Paul Patton “for some of you, the realization of this information will cause you to jump inside and your jaw will drop and you will go ‘that’s why!’” Yes Dr. Patton, something like that. I had read through the chapter – I was fully aware, if only cognitively exposed, to the way such an explicitly obvious theory would apply to everyday life. My life in fact. I could plainly identify how pieces of the puzzle played into my puzzle, my life as a whole. I had many light bulbs; many “aha!” moments – but nothing seemed exceptionally profound. The Social Penetration Theory was clearly explaining things I had clearly seen – giving explanation and reason behind many of the relationships I have had.

But as I sat in class, my insides collapsed. As Dr. Patton went on dramatically and excitedly – creating a personal monologue based discussion as the class watched on – I suddenly began to see things from a new perspective. Or really, rather, from the same perspective with a new filter. My hand went to my neck and I touched my scar. That scar, cancer, everything...that was it. That was why I suck at life. As class went on, it all seemed to make a peculiar amount of depressing sense. Please let me explain.

Social Penetration Theory works on the basis of the model of an onion – the idea that we reveal things to people at varying layers of intimacy – a process of reciprocated self-disclosure as a relationship forms. I share something about me, you share something about you. And vice-versa. If there is no initial rejection and similarities are assumed, deeper levels are traversed. Sets of people are essentially in the process of unveiling the same level at the same time. Fundamentally, it is the theory explaining how relationships start, continue, and die. And why it sucks to have cancer.

First of all, appearances work as a baseline pseudo form of self disclosure. Maybe it shouldn’t be, but appearances are often one of the first things drawing us to engage with one another. I have been told by a few daring soles that my scar is, by some, found intimidating, gross and repulsive. According to this theory – many will never approach me to ever begin a relationship – based on the sight of my scar alone. Let’s not even contemplate other such reasons.

Second - you’re expected, naturally, to disclose at the same level you inquired at – subsequent self-disclosure is given based on your response, etc. Those who are un-repulsed by my scar often interact with me for a time at the baseline level. Any who dare proceed further ask about such an awkward and obvious blemish. The scar itself is in the next level of self-disclosure and, for me, the answer is as well. But that is because it has become so natural. On the contrary, however, an answer like “cancer” sends most people into much deeper levels of self-disclosure. It’s a fake bottom. While my answer has just barely rubbed the surface of who I am, others believe I have trusted them with a great truth. Even though I, in fact, have revealed very little to the inquirer and in fact have much more to disclose under such a broad topic – the answer feels deep.

This plays out in one of two ways and I find the result to be a discouraging rock and hard place to be stuck between. 1) Unsure of how to respond by my unexpected answer, most retreat. This was too much “Anika” to be given and, based on the rules, reciprocity would demand an answer at a similar level. Afraid to divulge that much of themselves (seeing, again, the false bottom) many do not attempt more. 2) Some, though not near as many as before, see this false bottom and feel honored to be holding such a “close piece” of who I am. They assume a deeper relationship than actually exists because I have disclosed so much. While not necessarily opening themselves up to me – they assume they know more of me than what I have actually given, creating a phony sense of belonging on both of our parts. I am left with two options – equally seemingly inadequate. I could just not answer their questions and our relationship can remain almost worthless or I can answer truthfully – either way ending up without the solid relationship I crave.

And this all leads into those who make it beyond this point – third – my current relationships. This one piece of self disclosure (some believing they’ve made it fairly close to the core of who I am) becomes the fore-front of who I am as a person. As a result I have several very shallow friendships – all formed on the basis of cancer. They, only reaching a very little piece of who I am, assume haphazardly this to be not only the depth but also the breadth of interest. This is all they discuss – because it is all our relationship and level of self-disclosure is based upon. I have either no conversations (possibly because of my lack of ability to form meaningful friendships) or dozens (with many of my sideline spectators, cheerleaders, supporters and casual relationships) in a day. When I have any number of personal conversations – they all take place within the realm of these pseudo relationships built upon my ability to trust them with the knowledge that I in fact have cancer – meaning every conversation I have is about cancer. It is not that I do not value these relationships on a basic level, we just aren’t (and probably never will be) close.

In many ways, in fact most ways, cancer, for me, has turned into a fake form of self disclosure. I can disclose cancer without disclosing anything. It can in fact be a solid wall to hide behind enabling me to close off other pieces of who I am. Few understand why I hurt for meaningful relationship though I have few willing to see past and break down the walls. Hardly any one will breach issues of political comprehension, theological justification, my fears, my fantasies, my secret longings – the real me. I have ceased to know, and constantly question, whether or not another piece of me even exists – for rarely do I have a meaningful conversation about anything other than cancer. And meaningful is very much relative to the eyes of the beholder. Most of my cancer discussions never breach a level where I can complain about the injustices, talk about what God is teaching me inside it or reveal my secret fears. That fake bottom throws people into believing they’ve got a pretty good picture of who I am inside of cancer without doing anything but air brushing the surface.

And this analysis is only the beginning. I was able, in my initial eye-opening discovery to pinpoint many direct examples of relationships, etc, that have taken place inside each of the realms I have stated. And, quite frankly, there is plenty more to the theory available for me to delve into – currently untouched and untapped by my ability to connect it to cancer. Depenetration, for example, and watching relationships that existed before the onset of a cancer announcement, slowing ebb away and dissolve (occasionally for some of the same reasons listed above – some in conjunction with other theories, etc). How I can’t wait for the saga that makes up my life to end. Cancer is a huge defining factor of who I am – but it is not the truest thing about me. Unfortunately, it tends to take precedence – in other’s minds and, admittedly, in my mine as well. Until it ends, however, it will continue to be under constant forces of mystical communication practices that guide relationships...things like the Social Penetration Theory.