Becoming a Whovian

Posted on May 21, 2013 by Clara

Whovians leave their mark everywhere, including Point Loma University in San Diego, CA.

They’re everywhere! Just over a year ago I had no clue who this “Doctor Who” character was and now I’m a die-hard fan, one of those affectionately known as a “Whovian.” How did this happen?

The origin of my story probably dates back to a lifetime fascination with science fiction/fantasy movies and TV shows. For example, gathering in front of the TV with my dad and sister once a week to watch Star Trek: The Next Generation was a regular ritual for us three. Anything on TV that involved magic and mystery would captivate me back then, from the cheesier shows like Out of this World and Bewitched to the more dramatic shows like Lois and Clark and Early Edition. If I were going to escape into an imaginary universe, that universe would look nothing like the reality I lived in (other than the human-like creatures dwelling there).

The BBC , however, was a bit out-of-my-reach since my parents didn’t have cable while I was growing up and about the only TV shows from the UK that were accessible to me were the ones airing on PBS. I wasn’t introduced to Monty Python or Mr. Bean until some friends told me about them when I was in high school. My dad had a thing for Keeping Up Appearances and it seems there was a show about a gourmet chef as well (was it called Chef, maybe?). That was it.

When I left home for university, television lost it’s draw for me. I studied political science at the time and my more serious classmates were adamantly against the very idea of television. I didn’t want to watch TV either because I hated being subjected to all those pesky commercials. So from the time Star Trek: TNG ended until sometime after university graduation, I shunned the very idea of television. Television, I believed, made people stupid and hindered any possibility of genuine interaction with other human beings. In my inner-circle of friends, television was terribly un-cool. If a TV was in any of our possessions, it was solely for watching DVDs. But, for the most part, computers rendered the necessity for TVs nonexistent.

No need for TVs to watch Doctor Who these days.

But with the advent of Web 2.0 facilitating the successful launch of sites like YouTube, Netflix, and Hulu, the nature of television forever changed. Suddenly I could watch innumerous TV shows commercial-free whenever I wanted. So I began by catching up on old sitcoms from the 1990s and early 2000s. But then I stumbled upon a podcast hosted by Chris Hardwick known as The Nerdist. Chris was passionate about this British show called Doctor Who. I’d been catching up on a few BBC shows like Black Books, The Catherine Tate Show, and The IT Crowd. But Doctor Who was still quite foreign to me.

Nonetheless, I attended my first Phoenix Comicon in 2011 where some of my favorite actors from Star Trek were signing autographs and the great Stan Lee did a Q & A to a completely filled auditorium. I took lots of pictures of young people in cosplay and so enjoyed myself that I came back the following year.

I had the good fortune of meeting an old classmate last year entirely by chance who, like me, was attending comicon alone. So we did a little wandering together and I asked him where to begin if I wanted to start watching Doctor Who. He recommended I begin with the new stuff because it’s easier for someone who’s accustomed to the awesome storytelling and visual affects of today to get into. I took his advice.

With this sign on my door and a lock, no one interrupts my Doctor Who time.

The first episode failed to hook me in, but I knew better than to give up right away. So then I watched another episode and another and I began to finally transform into the Whovian I am today.

There was a time I would pride myself in how little I knew about pop-culture. To focus my mind on what I felt were more important things was a badge of honor, so to speak. Our clothes were being made by small children working under horrific conditions in countries far from here yet we turn a blind eye and escape into a world of fantasy that doesn’t seem to add value to our lives at all…(or does it?)

We want to be the change we want to see in the world but if other people are unable to relate to us because we choose to look down upon the masses instead of trying to understand them, nobody will jump on board with our cause. To change the world, we cannot sit on high hoping the rest of the world will climb to our way of thinking. To change the world we first have to learn to love the people who inhabit it as they are.

Doctor Who sticky notes are a great way to meet other Whovians, I’ve discovered.

A barista told me about these awesome fan-pages he helped create.

Doctor Who is a kind of British-homespun superhero who captures the heart of the entire English-speaking world. Is he perfect? Not at all. In fact, for an alien, he’s very human and I think that’s why we fans adore him so much.

Here are some things the Doctor has taught me:

It is more harmful to feel nothing than to feel any kind of pain or sadness.
It is possible to feel lonely even when you’re not alone but it’s better, just the same, not to be alone.
Humanity, despite all our rage and fury, is uniquely beautiful and worth protecting.
Along with the ups and downs of life, there’s ample time for whimsy and childishness.
No weapon is any match for a sonic screwdriver.
Don’t judge by appearances. Remember, the T.A.R.D.I.S. is bigger on the inside.
Friendship is comprised of unconditional love and emotional vulnerability. Though we will mourn the loss of our companions, we won’t regret knowing them nor will they fade from our memories.
If your aim is noble, there is nothing to fear.

Why do you love Doctor Who?

Intimacy

Posted on May 10, 2013 by Clara

When people get to know me on a deeper level and learn that I’ve not had sexual intercourse with anyone, they tend to give me a very strange look – the same look was given me 10 years ago and more as I age. It’s that look of disbelief and pity all rolled into one. When I’d reached my twenties, all my non-religious friends had figured out their sexual-orientation and were sexually active. My religious friends waited for marriage (for the most part), but then they seemed to rush into marriage much faster than my secular friends. Suffice to say, once you hit your thirties, as I have, and you’re choosing not to have sex, then there must be something terribly wrong with you.

This, my friends, is a myth. Freud may have labeled people like me as sexually repressed but Freud himself, I believe, viewed society through the lens of his own sex addictions. You see, the thing about repression is that it tends to come out one way or another and, if the repressed person does not allow it to surface in a healthy way, it will likely manifest itself in a distorted, perverted manner and someone will be hurt in the process. Since I’ve not seen that repressed bit surface in any fashion in me, I don’t think that’s my problem.

I chose to learn the language of the country who pretty much invented erotic literature (see: The Art of Love by Ovid). With a far greater force than even Hollywood, French cinema would lead us to believe happiness cannot be experienced unless we can achieve orgasms.

French students come to the United States with the impression that almost all of us are sexually repressed due to our Protestant/Puritanical roots. It’s almost a joke to them because they think: how can anyone be so prudish and not be lying to themselves?

There is a different kind of stigma, of course, for a man who is not sexually active than there is for a woman. It seems a man, whether gay or straight, is always expected to be sexually active. In my experience, though, straight and bisexual women, upon learning that I’m not sexually active and don’t desire to be, will ask me if I like women. When I say no, the follow-up question is this: well have you tried? This is very different from the experience of my gay guy-friends. You talk to them and they’ll say they’ve known from very early-on in their life. So why are women expected to “experiment” with lesbianism in order to find out? If someone could explain this to me, I’d be very grateful.

Sexual fantasies? During my crises of faith in my late 20s, I entertained the idea that I was sexually repressed. I mean, 1990s American Christianity included the “True Love Waits” movement, DC Talk singing “I don’t want your sex for now / I don’t want it ‘till we take the vow.”

Of course, none of this prevented teenage pregnancy even in my own church youth group. Still, it seemed rather easy for me to abstain. I was too scared to kiss my first boyfriend and my first kiss didn’t happen until I was 18 with my second boyfriend. But when I wanted to test that theory of “sexual repression” later on, I still didn’t like all that physical stuff. I was more comfortable with cuddling, holding hands, and deep conversations. The guys I tried to be intimate with back then reinforced the myth that there was something wrong with me and I should somehow be liberated.

If ever I fantasized about being in a relationship, it was nothing more than the closeness of having a man there, preferably someone taller than me, with whom I could dance, sing, hold hands, and fall asleep. I dreamed of someone who wouldn’t ask me to change and who I wouldn’t want to change either. If we wanted to have children, we’d find a way to work it out. But the most important thing would be having someone to spend my life with; to share all the joy and pain of growing old together.

My therapist and I recently chatted about intimacy and, for the first time, someone with the credentials to do so told me it was okay not to be physically intimate. She said intimacy isn’t the same for everyone. If talking about the moon and the stars is more intimate for you than indulging in someone else’s sexual fantasy, then that’s cool too.

So when I saw this scene from the Big Bang Theory with Sheldon and Amy talking about intimacy, I felt very encouraged. Sex seems to be important to every character on that show except Sheldon. Nevertheless, Sheldon isn’t phased by being different. In fact, it’s to the point where he believes he has all the answers and everyone else is nuts; a kind of narcissism, but he is capable of caring for others in his own way. For that reason we, the audience, still love him.

How do you define intimacy?

The Gift of Encouragemant

Posted on April 24, 2013 by Clara

When I was a 21-year-old university student, I spent most of my free time learning from and assisting international students. One of the French students I got to know was a talented athlete, skilled and competitive at the high-jump. So for fun and the experience, he joined our school’s track team and invited me along with some of his other new friends. I still remember him asking in his suave, French accent “Clara, are you going to come and encourage me?”

It was rather sweet to hear him word his question that way. An American might ask the same thing, but probably replace the phrase “encourage me” with “cheer for me.” But even though cheering is a kind of encouragement, it doesn’t really carry the same clout.

Short Etymology Lesson:

The words “encourage” and “cheer” both have French roots. However encourage contains the French word for “heart” (cœur) and “cheer” stems from the original Latin word for face: cara (by way of Old French “chere”). So when we encourage our friends, we’re strengthening them from the inside, filling them with something more permanent; something they can carry with them even when the competition is through, regardless of who wins or loses.

I love to encourage others, but I’ve not always been very good at it. For a long time I could only see the gifts in others but remained completely oblivious to my own. It was disparaging at times. My spirit was weak and vulnerable back then, even to the smallest attacks against my character. I couldn’t be an encouragement to others if I couldn’t accept the encouragement I was given.

My gracious friends who’ve heaped encouragement on me over the years have had to wait patiently to see any of it take hold. But now they can see the courage and healing rise up in me and be reassured that none of their encouragement was given in vain.

Written words of encouragement are priceless to me, especially when the words are carefully written by hand. I’ve conscientiously preserved notes and letters written to me by the hands of both friends and strangers over the years. Being able to thumb through a lifetime of encouragement and love profoundly strengthens my heart when the journey feels endless and I just want to give up.

Encouragement

My friend, the French high-jumper, invited his friends to be his encouragement. None of us came for the event itself. We came because he needed us there and, moreover, he wanted us there. Just before he sprinted to the high-jump bar, he turned to us and directed us to cheer for him. I don’t remember how well or poorly he did that day. In the end I think just knowing we were there smiling and clapping for him gave him the strength to keep going; to jump higher. And no matter how high he jumped that day, he was confident enough to keep trying.

That same academic year, I ran my first and only marathon and I, too, invited my friends to encourage me. We gathered together the night before with friends I’d not seen in long time, ate spaghetti, shared stories, and laughed. The next morning my best friend woke up around 4 AM with me, made breakfast, and then saw me off at the starting line. About 26 miles later and just yards away from the finish line, I saw her face again, along with the faces of other friends who’d come to cheer for me. Through tears and exhaustion, I somehow found the strength to run faster, but I wasn’t quite there yet so my best friend leapt onto the running path, paced herself by my side, and spoke words of encouragement to me until I could sprint on my own to the finish line. It was incredible how, when I thought all my strength was gone, my friends helped me find a strength inside I never even knew I had.

Therein lies the power of encouragement. When we encourage one another, we help each other find that hidden strength we never knew we had. It’s something we can do for others be they near or far. For example, none of the friends I’ve written about in this story live near me anymore, but I can still send encouraging letters and emails – whatever it takes to bring out their inner-strength and help them through this treacherous journey called life.

Encouragement doesn’t cost a lot to give, but it is a priceless gift to receive so give it away freely.

Temporarily Disabled

Posted on April 9, 2013 by Clara

I’m not disabled.

Perhaps this is why I appear perfectly normal when I chat with strangers who’ve only known me for 5 minutes. After all, I’m not limping or dragging an oxygen tank behind me. I’m not confined to a wheelchair or aided by a service animal. I’m not visibly disfigured nor do I have slurred speech. Nope. From the outside I’m just one-of-the-crowd.

Neither was becoming “disabled” my intention. I just wanted to forget the bipolar-depression label I’d been branded with and waltz confidently into the professional world most of my friends had already settled into.

I witnessed friends successfully earning their keep with far less world experience than me and no family to catch them if they fell. They perfectly personified that “bootstrap” mentality we Americans are supposed to be known for. Moreover, my friends assured me there was nothing they were capable of doing I couldn’t do as well. With all my heart I wanted to believe them, but it sure didn’t feel that way.

Twenty-something Clara spent many nights praying for the courage to end her life. She wanted to prove she could be a grown-up, pay her own bills, and maintain her dignity and pride. Unfortunately, those pesky emotions, particularly the depressive ones, left her feeling useless, worthless, and alone. Sometimes she couldn’t concentrate at work. Simple tasks would weigh her down and she’d burst into tears without warning regardless of where she was or who saw her. When she was unable to meet everyone’s expectations, she decided her life was too much of a burden on everyone else.

For three years following university graduation I labored for my independence. Meanwhile the self-inflicted scars and visits to the ER and adult psyche unit steadily increased. Two psychiatrists (one in Scottsdale and one in Flagstaff) convinced me to apply for disability so as to take the pressure of work off my shoulders for a while. The social security disability people accepted me almost immediately.

Since I’ve been on disability, the urge to self-harm has completely gone away. Also, I’ve been able to help me family, especially as my mom’s back has deteriorated and she’s been bedridden at times, in and out of surgery, and can no longer drive a car.

Disability is not my gateway to the “American Dream” nor is it something I like to boast about. I don’t like the idea of receiving handouts when it’s obvious I’m not void of talent or intellect. But I’m a bit cornered. On the one hand, I have a sense of security. On the other hand, deep down I know it’s a false sense of security.

Truth be told, those of us with mental disabilities are not trusted to be given our monthly checks personally. We need a guardian to take charge of our money and I’ve chosen my dad. Yes, he’s the most honest, respectable, reliable guardian I could have ever hoped for, but he won’t live forever. So my dream is to earn enough money before he leaves this world to give him the reassurance that I’ll be taken care of when he’s gone.

I listened to a podcast recently from This American Life about the increase in people applying for disability nowadays. The reporter, Chana Joffe-Walt, said there were basically only two ways to get off disability: to die or to turn 65 (in which case you’d switch to a different government assistance program).

I won’t lie, but to think those were my only two options made me cringe. Could it be that hopeless?

Sorry but I can’t believe I’ve been shoved into a hole with no other way out. I may not be able to do a regular “9 to 5” routine as my friends do but I’m not going to allow myself to lay waste as though I have nothing valuable to give this world.

There are a few obstacles, as in any good story, but I think I’m ready for the challenge. The biggest obstacle is – and always has been – me. That’s where psychiatrists, psychologists, dialectical behavioral therapy, prayer (lots of prayer), and this blog come in.

This blog is a tool for me; an outlet. Here I can express myself and layout my best thoughts and ideas in a place where others can find them.

Long ago I thought my story wasn’t worth seeing through to the end. I was wrong.

Do you have any ideas for myself and others like me?

St. Francis and Me

Posted on March 19, 2013 by Clara

St. Francis and Me

My St. Francis journal from 2005.

I’m not Catholic and, until fairly recently, I was quite adamantly against Catholicism. That’s not to say I didn’t like Catholics. Regardless of my disagreements with many of the church’s theological positions, I always felt Christ moved within Catholicism just as much as he moved in any other Christian tradition. For example, I’d known about Mother Teresa my entire life. She was the humble little nun in Calcutta who’d managed to inspire the entire world with her Christ-like love and compassion for the poor, the weak and the dying. No one could deny the spark of the divine living within her. She was brilliant yet humble, sacrificing everything to love and care for a people no one else dared to approach. If I could just have a touch of Mother Teresa’s faith, I knew my life would have meaning and purpose beyond anything I’d ever known. Once I saw a documentary wherein a reporter asked Mother Teresa who would replace her when she’s gone. Casually and without hesitation, Mother Teresa responded by saying anybody can. She knew her strength was from God, not her and God can use anyone.

Later, when I was just a sophomore in college, I felt compelled to read the old stuff by saints who lived after the apostles but before the Protestant Reformation. I began with St. Augustine’s Confessions. Through his words, I encountered God’s grace. This man had been a pagan and had lived with a woman who was not his wife. He had hurt many people through his selfish actions, but ultimately, he repented of his ways and gave himself up to Jesus.

More than a thousand years later, God was using Augustine to speak to me. His words convicted me to let go of my materialistic ways and live in simplicity. It was never an easy task for me. I still wrestle with it to this day, but at least I began to question my way of life and the way of life the world seemed to be trying to sell to me.

In my youth, particularly my twenties, I struggled to find myself. I tried to stay open to new experiences and ideas, but I never stopped believing in this loving God I’d forged a relationship with in my adolescence. Within the secret chambers of my heart and mind, I walked and talked with God. There were no audible voices or physical manifestations for me to hold onto. If God spoke to me, it was through the gentle impressions he lay on my heart and mind or the encouraging words of a friend or stranger.

The year I took a one-way ticket to France, I willingly opened my heart to as many new experiences as possible. In return, pieces of my heart I didn’t want torn open were painfully ripped apart and exposed to the elements. I could no longer ignore them.

I may not have been aware of it at the time, but I’d gone to France not only to learn a new language and “better” myself as a whole, but to lose myself as well; to be transformed; to die to who I was and become someone else. I was clearly running away from something. But since the one I wanted to run from the most was me, it didn’t matter how far I went. All my buried secrets, hurts, and fears would catch up with me in the end.

The more I tried to suppress all I hated about me, the more those hidden emotions fought to be free. All I needed were a couple of inciting incidences to weaken my resolve and drain my power to suppress the pain inside. Of course, nothing crushes the spirit like feeling you are alone in your suffering. My first three months in Europe, I’d been with friends. Then I came alone to Montpellier, rented a studio apartment, and discovered a crippling, new definition of loneliness. Though it was partially self-inflicted, it was still harsh, isolating, cold, and empty.

To ease the pain, I began reading the Bible again. Talking with God, whether it was just in my imagination or real (I’ll let you decide), became my primary way of expressing my thoughts and feelings. And even amidst the multitudes of tears, I’d lay in bed, covers pulled tightly over my shivering body, imagining the strong arms of a loving Father-God holding me, stroking my hair, and wiping away my tears.

My parents sent me a little prayer book and one of the prayers was the prayer of St. Francis. I looked at it for the first time and thought, this is was Jesus meant when he told us the last shall be first and the first shall be last – this is what he meant when he told us the peacemakers and the weak and poor were blessed and would inherit the earth.

With no one to keep my sanity in check, I began to lose my grip on reality and, soon after my final exams ended in January, I broke. I threw my passport into the river, renouncing citizenship to any man-made political system and aligning myself with God’s kingdom – a family comprised of believers from every tongue and every nation.

Then I gave away all I had save a small backpack containing only the bare essentials, – including a Bible – but no money and no identification. Then I walked with unspeakable joy, not knowing where I’d go but trusting God would show me the way. As I walked I sang and when night fell, I continued to walk and sing until at last I was intercepted by the police.

Fear prevented me from telling anyone who I was or where I was from. Not knowing what else to do, the police took me to the hospital and ultimately transferred me to the nearest psychiatric hospital to where they found me. In this case it was Thuir, France (near Perpignan)

What was the point of such an insane journey? To show others the love I tried so hard to find for myself, but couldn’t seem to find in other human beings. I wanted to love Mother Teresa style. But I was a little too eager back then. I wasn’t ready for that sort of thing because in order to give love, you have to experience love and know you are valuable. Love your neighbor as yourself – this phrase is meaningless if you cannot see yourself as God sees you.

My dad flew to France to liberate me from the hospital and bring me home. I still felt “called by God” to do something, but what I couldn’t say. I had a vague notion the challenges in my life had only just begun but I had no way of knowing the full weight of it all. However, the first blow following my first stay in a psychiatric hospital was the “stigma” attached to mental illness.

Soon after I returned to the States, I began volunteering as a receptionist at a mission organization that helped send missionaries to the Muslim countries around the world. I found a book there entitled Waging Peace on Islam and one of the first chapters hooked me in instantly. The chapter was called The Mad Monk. It was about one of the first people to go to the Muslim world as a peacemaker. This man was St. Francis of Assisi and he most definitely earned the title “mad.”

To begin, St. Francis was said to have rejected his father’s wealth all the way down to the clothes on his back. He did this in a radical public display wherein he stripped naked in front of everyone and returned his clothes to his father.

Francis had visions as well. The first one he misinterpreted as sign that he should take up arms and fight in the Crusades. But then he deserted and came home. This is beautifully portrayed in Franco Zeffirelli’s film Brother Sun, Sister Moon.

There were other stories as well, stories of Francis preaching sermons to the birds, hiding out in a cave when his visions became too overwhelming, and ultimately suffering the “miracle” of stigmata. He inspired St. Clare to form a band of sisters very similar to the brotherhood Francis had begun. It is said she and him were very close and, in their later years, she would tend to his wounds, the wounds caused by his stigmata.

Knowing that Francis became a saint despite his alleged “madness” brought comfort to me. The world was so different in Medieval Europe than the world we live in today. Imagine if Francis had been born in our generation. Would he be considered crazy and sent to a psychiatric hospital as I was? Would he have been court-ordered to take psychiatric medicine and would all his marvelous visions of championing the poor and living as he felt called be discredited? Many missions and humanitarian organizations will not risk sending someone who’s done time in a psychiatric hospital to a poverty-stricken country to help the weak because we could be considered a liability. We don’t want to risk potential suicides (although essentially that’s what’s killing most of our soldiers these days). Would someone like me even be able to pass the ordination process in churches where women are ordained as preachers?

These questions used to plague me. I hated them because they seemed to greatly limit my possibilities. The problem was, by allowing these things to bother me, I was putting limits on God. St. Francis has made a greater impact on the world since his death than he could ever dream of in his life. And, in the Catholic tradition, you can’t become a saint while you’re still alive. St. Francis probably never knew God would use him in such a profound way to encourage and inspire others, such as me. When all is said and done, St. Francis was just trying to be obedient. He believed God for the impossible. Can you believe God for the impossible?

One Conference, Many Stories

Posted on March 8, 2013 by Clara

The stage is set. All we needed were the players.

The stage was set. All we needed were the players.

It’s been two weeks since I attended Donald Miller’s Storyline conference in San Diego, California. It was, of course, the second Storyline I’d attended. It will probably also be my last, but not because it wasn’t awesome! Mostly because I think I have the material down by now. I also feel Miller is following his calling by hosting these conferences and bringing together some amazing people to share their own stories. I would’ve expressed my appreciation sooner but, unfortunately, I got sick and am only just now recovering. Therefore, my in-depth analysis shall have to wait for another day. (sigh)

Today, I thought I’d post a note I’ve written for Donald Miller and some pictures. I don’t actually expect him to see this, but that’s okay. I might have cared last year or earlier, but I’m getting older and (hopefully) wiser and at last am learning not seek validation from celebrities. At least I got to shake Donald’s hand. That’s pretty cool, right? And the view – oh the glorious view! I’ll return to California for that if nothing else. The Pacific Ocean is absolutely breathtaking!

Now if Donald Miller, (or anyone else for that matter) is actually able to read this letter, please do not be too critical. You see, children, long ago this was how people corresponded with one another. There was no such thing as spell-check or word-processors or any other modern conveniences we take for granted. I wanted to maintain that imperfection in honor of my relatives whose precious, handwritten letters are here for me to read today because someone felt them valuable enough to save throughout the decades and centuries.

This is my first and only draft too. My true friends don’t care about how good the actual writing is. It’s the very idea that the letter was written and addressed to them that matters most – especially now that hand-written letters are so rare. For me, everything I receive written to me by hand is a priceless treasure.

Don-Miller-A

Don-Miller-B

Now for some photos:

My special blue Clairefontaine journal. Only the best for Storyline.

I tried to stick to note-taking in French to stay sharp while Donald Miller spoke.

Each person has an original and beautiful subplot in God’s grand story.

God can even use Doctor Who to bring his people together.

Sunsets are beautiful from any point of view.

A blurry picture from Saturday evening. An amazing gift from God.

It’s always a feeling of awe and wonder to naturally awaken early enough to witness a sunrise in the harbor.

Many detours on Shelter Island on Sunday morning to let these women run the race they’d trained for. I was very happy for them.

We walk eagerly toward the chapel, silently asking God for inspiration and direction on this the last day.

We walked eagerly toward the chapel, silently asking God for inspiration and direction on the last day of the conference.

I felt emotional on Sunday. I thought it was just my irregular emotions so I sought peace and tranquility. That's when I found the prayer chapel.

I felt emotional on Sunday. I thought it was just my irregular emotions so I sought peace and tranquility in the student prayer chapel.

The prayer chapel was a quiet refuge where broken people could find peace and healing. They'd leave pieces of themselves as well - with the words and prayers they'd leave behind.

The prayer chapel was a quiet refuge where broken people like me could find peace and healing. They’d leave pieces of themselves as well in the form of the words and prayers they’d leave behind.

The rose drawn on cardboard humbled me.

The withered flowers reminded me of my own fragility and the fatigue which had set in.

The withered flowers reminded me of my own fragility and the fatigue which had taken hold.

The rest of Sunday I stayed in the back because the tears kept flowing and my head was starting to throb. It wasn't depression, I learned. I was physically ill.

The rest of Sunday I stayed in the back so as to hide my unstoppable tears so they wouldn’t be a distraction to others. My head began to throb too. Later I learned it wasn’t my depression. I was physically ill.

Sunday night, I lay alone in the ER silently crying to God for a friend. But I wasn't alone. He was with me all the while.

Sunday night, I lay alone in the ER silently begging God for a friend. I felt alone, but I wasn’t alone. He was with me all the while.

The last picture I took was this. They said I was the only Clara at the conference when I registered. My life has been like that so I've felt special in that way and when every I see someone special with my name, I feel extra happy.

The last picture I took was this. They said I was the only Clara at the conference when I registered. That’s the way it’s been all my life so I feel extra special whenever I learn about someone who is respected and admired with my name.

In Search of the Real Me

Posted on January 28, 2013 by Clara

In 2008, I wrote this in my diary. I wrote:

Would someone please present the real me? I seem to have lost myself and no longer know who I am. I feel so foreign; so distant like a paper boat floating down a tumbling creek. Perhaps my destiny was written on the sails but the turbulent rocks have tossed me about and smeared the ink that spelled out my dreams beyond recognition.

I beg you to find me and bring me back to this world! Help me to understand that loneliness does not mean that I have been forgotten.

If you cannot find me, then I must leave this world for I don’t belong here. I can sense it. This world does not want me. I’m a thorn in her side; a hideous abomination; a sad vapor vanishing into an oblivion.

A person with Borderline Personality Disorder is all too familiar with this uphill battle to find meaning and purpose in life. Most people have that figured out by the time they make it out of college and out on their own. I wasn’t there when I finished college. In fact, I’m still looking.

Please-Present-Me

Right after I finished my 5+ years at the university and fled home dragging my useless BA in French along with me, my struggle to find an identity took even greater force. Two things I knew for sure about me:

I hated being alone.
I hated being me.

But the biggest question still remained: Who was I?

The need to write my thoughts and feelings kicked up a few notches around that time. Essentially it was the same questions gnawing at me over and over again. Some of the things I wrote in my diary between ages 26 and 28 included the following:

We’re all on a journey and maybe we’ll be together and maybe not. Right now I have not a clue and it’s agonizing. It’s like there’s a hill blocking my view and my feet are chained to the ground so I can’t get beyond it.

It doesn’t make sense. With all I’ve been reading I know my life has a purpose I’m just afraid I’ve already missed it.

I both crave and fear solitude.

I cannot find who I am or who I’m supposed to be.

I’m trying to find where to go in life.

I’m hanging in the balance with little idea of where to go next.

I don’t know what I’m becoming these days, who I am, what I’m meant to be…Sometimes I feel very wise, other times I feel like a child. I am lonely, that cannot be denied.

I feel excluded, left on the sidelines, too much of a misfit to find any sort of home; fighting a battle I can’t see; and I desperately want friends but I am of the least importance to them.

My heart is wounded and there is no one to talk to about it.

I want my life back, but not as it was.

Tomorrow I know I will enter the world on my own, without friends, and it frightens me to know I have driven them away.

I really don’t know myself. Since I’ve come out of the hospital I’ve engaged in self-harm three times…

It’s strange to think that I’m my worst enemy. It’s impossible to run from myself and that the real me dares to hide in a place nearly impossible to find.

I feel so different – perhaps set apart, perhaps not. But constantly searching.

The scars on my wrists: my punishment to myself before I even know if I’ll fail or succeed…I’m dying to live and no one hears me.

I don’t know where my life is headed. I can’t feel turned-on by anyone. It’s as though love is dead to me – at least romantic love. It scares me, too.

I have no money, I don’t know how long my job will last, and I have no clue where I’m headed. I’m just very tired. I’m tired of the sadness and the therapists and the hospitals and the loss of friends. I’m tired of the loneliness and the fear that I will always be alone. I’m just tired.

Nobody’s every truly given me credit or left me alone for thinking the way I do (or perhaps I shouldn’t write in absolutes). It’s just that my opinion, when it conflicts with someone else’s, is rarely taken seriously. I’m either thought to be an idiot or it’s believed that my opinion is not my own.

My mind is caught between two worlds.

I have no true home. I don’t belong anywhere and “to go home” would be to accept a certain death.

I’m frightened. It seems with so many people in this world I can’t hardly find anyone who understands or wants me. I don’t want to be needed. I want to be wanted.

My aim for future blogs, then, is to conduct interviews of ordinary people (i.e. not celebrities) who have discovered their own identities and are willing to share a bit of their stories. This is a fantastic opportunity for anyone who would like to guest blog! I don’t know how much exposure my blog will offer you, but I know I’m not the only one out there who could benefit from your stories. Contact me if you’re interested.

The Harsh Reality

Posted on January 18, 2013 by Clara

Coming of Age: Life when I was twenty-something.

Posted on January 14, 2013 by Clara

Today I’m going to generalize a bit about my twenties. My aim is to reframe that phase in life to emphasize the importance of the negatives as well as the positives. One of the biggest criticisms I receive about my writing is the overall seriousness – the doom and gloom of it all. Well, since I like to play with Photoshop so much, here’s an illustrated guide through that rough yet fun time of life. It is incomplete, however. It only covers ages 20-22. The rest is in the works.

To Have a Relationship with a Book

Posted on January 9, 2013 by Clara

Initially I was going to write something absolutely brilliant to go with this, and maybe I’ll still do that later. But several years ago, a friend of mine and former colleague told me we’re supposed to have relationships with books. Although I’m not sure if this is what he meant, I interpreted his words to mean interacting with books on the pages and margins. So when I picked up G.K. Chesterton’s classic collection of essays entitled Orthodoxy, I decided to make my reading experience like a kind of conversation. I had read Orthodoxy before, but it didn’t quite sink in the first time. However when I interacted with the book by underlining key parts and reacting to his writing in the margins, I was able to get beyond the chore of reading it I’d experienced the first time and it really enjoy it. Of course, this method of reading does take longer. I’ve actually started doing this with Victor Hugo’s Les Misérables (in untranslated French, mind you). I’ll let you know how that turns out in about a year and a half. Anyway, here are some examples of the “conversations” Chesterton and I experienced. Enjoy!