Canceled: Starving the Artists

Every so often I see memes comes across my Facebook or my Instagram about how authors artists and graphic designers are all feeling the pressure from COVID. A lot of media is trying to convince the public that artists are at the bottom of the priority list when it comes to occupations. And I think this has been a narrative that has gone on long enough and needs to be finished off.

Cancel culture has become a big part of the huge cultural shift we are experiencing. I want to cancel the anti-artists culture. Because when a person can’t leave their home out of safety for their own health, their friends health, their neighbors, and strangers health, what beauty do they get to encounter at all when they’re stuck in their own walls?

I myself have experience the beauty of the outpouring of my fanbase. I transitioned from my 9-to-5 job to a full-time creative: self-employed and empowered. Without friends and family supporting me, who have been purchasing my items and believing in my abilities, I don’t think I would’ve made it through COVID. But thankfully the beauty of my talents have brought to my life the people who truly recognized my creativity. It really made for some beautiful changes in my life and the lives of others. I thank all of you profusely and cannot stress enough what you mean to me.

Clients, strangers, and friends have all contacted me after making purchases or working with me on graphic design projects, to let me know that what I do matters. Which is so empowering and affirming to me. It’s truly why I started doing this at such a high risk. They have told me the jewelry I make matters to them because it help them feel pretty when they’re vacuuming, grocery shopping, or simply being and doing whatever it is that they do best. Especially when they felt trapped by the confines of their own home. I have been celebrating every woman who wanted to embody the empowerment that I had intentionally put into each and every piece of work I made. That has meant everything to me. That is the fuel that keeps me going.

I feel bad for other artists who don’t have as supportive of a system. But I honor how hard they work to hustle. I honor their tears of frustration. I honor their terror and trauma from the times we live in. I feel for artists who are just starting their networks and are very very small. I feel for those who’s work is extremely niche. I feel for those who feel like an outlier in the artists community.

I want to tell you now, if you are an artist of any kind, that your work matters.

I want to tell you now if you support artists, that you matter so much.

As an artist, your work matters because it hangs on the wall of a person’s home, who is afraid to leave without a mask. Or a person who is afraid to leave their home at all because of the trauma of COVID or recent events that continue to organize the BLM movement. Your work matters because that mama who is stuck with her kids 24-7 who don’t understand what’s going on, can look in the mirror see that piece of jewelry, see that makeup you handmade, see that beautiful piece of art you painted hanging on the wall, or that book you wrote, or that poem collection that you turned into an e-book…whatever it is you made that keeps them going.

What you do as an artist matters to people right now. What only you make. What you blog about, what do you write in any way shape or form, what you paint, what you craft, it all matters. It matters to you, because it keeps you sane and grounded in the every day and feels like you have a sense of purpose. It matters to others because it gives those who support you a sense of emotion for what they are experiencing or what resonates with them.

It matters because it exists.

As a supporter, you matter because you believe in the dream. You believe in the usefulness of feeling, seeing, and experiencing humanity. You believe in that empowerment. You believe in that mood it sets. You believe in that artist, but most importantly, you connect it all. You connect with that artist. You support them and help them thrive. You help make a difference to them. You help them pay their bills. You help them love what they do. You help them hold back tears and work through their own thoughts.

In return, those artists bear their souls to you.

Ultimately right now the world needs more beauty. Beauty that can be held and touched and experienced and felt in the spirit. Beauty that can be worn beauty that can be seen. Beauty that can be heard in the head and the heart. All of it matters right now.

So let’s cancel the anti-artists movement. Let’s cancel people who think that we are the bottom of the priority list.

Let’s cancel a culture that is starving the artists.

Henry

Of course, all of this would happen when we were preparing to head out -of-state for my grandfather’s 90th birthday. Illness waits for no one much less the illness of a cat. Still, that’s my cat whom I’ve loved for 7 years, and I’m not willing to give up without a fight.

Henry started showing signs of a bladder crystal induced urinary blockage on Tuesday. I was having my morning coffee when I heard him start to cry. His “momma help me” cry is distinct so I knew something was up, but in most cases it’s something silly like a piece of paper was stuck to his paw or he couldn’t get his head out of the paper bag handle and was panicking. I came to the call, listening to where he was in the house, only to realize he was by the basement litter. box…and a cry for help from the litter box is never a good sign.

Sure enough, he was straining and clearly in pain. I called the vet right away and was able to get him in. They had to keep him for the day to get him unblocked and medicated, but they had been successful and said his kidney function looks good, so he had a good prognosis. A few meds and a huge bill I put on my credit card later, I was taking my boy home and feeling optimistic we could get him in a good place by the time we had to leave for my Grandfather’s Birthday celebration weekend.

Wednesday he was doing okay. Peeing in small bits. thankfully not crying out in pain so we knew his pain meds were working. He was mostly himself except that he was antisocial with his siblings and wanted to stay in my office with the door closed. Which was fine. We could monitor his litter box and keep him from eating anything outside of his strict prescription diet. He was still loving and let us hold him and snuggle him. He was in the litter box every few minutes and seems to be producing at least a little at a time. All signs pointed to recovery.

Still I worried and fretted myself sick over him come Thursday morning.

I kept checking him all day and he was progressing as he was on Wednesday. Still as the hours of us packing up to leave for our late night drive started getting closer I started to feel something was off. When my husband arrived home, Henry was showing signs of another blockage, and quickly we were able to get him to the vet again.

I sat in the office lobby crying while we waited. So stressed out about how things were going. So worried about my kitty boy. Concerned that we wouldn’t be able to afford further treatments and that we would have to let him go.

They did another flush, gave him some numbing meds for his urethra and some more medications to help him along. They also did a laser treatment to see if that could help the swelling. They got him unblocked quickly and he was much more comfortable the moment we got back in the car.

Still as we drove home I debated on if I wanted to stay home and let my husband go the party. His family would be there and because of our busy lives and general lack of funds, he hadn’t been able to see his family since November.

I cried and worried and fretted until I talked myself through it, and as I verbally processed to my husband on the way home, I realized that I couldn’t control anything. Thats why this was so hard. I was doing all I could to control the controllable, but I had reached my limit. I had done all I could, and my presence or lack-there-of wasn’t going to make a difference. I couldn’t change the outcome if I was there or not.

My friend assured me they were perfectly capable of taking care of my Henry. I had taken care of their cat when they had a similar situation before and went out-of-state to visit family for the holidays. It wasn’t my first rodeo with issues like this in a cat, and it wasn’t theirs either. I needed to stop being a control freak and just let people help me and take care of what I needed to take care of.

Still, as we drove away to start the trip and I typed a care direction text to my friends, I was a sobbing mess.

I’m being hyper vigilant about having my phone on me. Trying to be accessible at all times incase anyone has a question or anything is going wrong. I’m not exactly enjoying myself because of the anxiety of it all, but I’m trying to be present and send as many prayers and good vibes to my boy as I can.

Type 1 to Type None

Navigating the relentless demands of a capitalist society can feel like an uphill battle for anyone, but for me, a full-time creative, probably ADHD, type 1 diabetic, introvert, the challenges are amplified to an overwhelming degree. Every day I feel like I wake up to a world where the value of productivity often eclipses the importance of my health and well-being, despite the amount of times people tell you it doesn’t.

It’s amazing how much of an inconvenience my chronic illness can be to everyone else.

It’s not just about meeting deadlines, climbing the corporate ladder, or finding fulfillment in the workplace like it is for most people; it’s about a constant struggle to balance my emotional and physical health needs with the relentless bulldozer of capitalism always at my heels. The pressure to perform, to excel, to do and be more, to afford the healthcare I require, is ever-present, but so is the need to monitor blood sugar levels, administer insulin, eat well, exercise enough, and not die in the process while managing the unpredictable fluctuations that come with diabetes in a world who would rather not be responsible for me in an emergency situation.

It’s a lot to handle.

In a society that glorifies hustle culture and celebrates those who can push themselves to the limit, I often find myself falling prey to pushing my own limits. Torn between my health and my career aspirations, the gaping gorge between feels full of health obstacles, raging opinions about who I am as a person based on my health and the ignorance of others, and demands of everyday life that feel far more demanding than what I see others going through. The fear of being perceived as incompetent or unreliable looms large, driving me to push through exhaustion and ignore warning signs that my body has been desperately trying convey for years now.

The cost of insulin and medical supplies only adds to the burden. I’m trying to grapple with the financial strain of managing a chronic condition in a system that prioritizes profit over people’s well-being. It’s a constant battle against a system that seems designed to exploit vulnerability and prioritize productivity over human dignity. Especially when the symptoms of everyday diabetic complications can influence my work, my cognitive abilities, my communication skills, and daily relational interactions, in detrimental ways.

I often find myself wondering what it would look like if society prioritized the well-being of all its members, regardless of their ability to contribute to the bottom line. I mean outside the bare-minimum regulations that the ADA put in place in 90s. What would it look like if we as a society fostered a sense of empathy in everyone instead of becoming so absorbed with making money?

What if, revolutionary idea, taking care of people automatically improved capitalism? Or any economic system?

I’m so at odds with the healthcare system of America. Not that I think anywhere else has it better (maybe marginally). Still, I feel there has to be something people can do to change their circumstances outside of this construct that seems to be warping us into an uncivilized state of glorifying the almighty dollar over the basic humanity of others. It can’t be hopeless forever.

It’s unsustainable.

A dysfunctional healthcare system isn’t just a matter of inconvenience or inefficiency; it poses a fundamental threat to human life and dignity. It certainly has to mine. I have experienced first hand, when healthcare is inaccessible, unaffordable, or of poor quality, being denied the basic human right to physical and mental well-being.

Without adequate healthcare, preventable illnesses go untreated, much less the issue of chronic conditions worsening, and lives are tragically and senselessly lost. Moreover, a fucked up healthcare system exacerbates existing inequalities, overall affecting marginalized communities who are already facing barriers to accessing care. The financial burden of medical expenses has push families into poverty, including my own, perpetuating a cycle of worsening illness and financial disparity. Individuals are reduced to mere statistics, their worth measured by their ability to pay rather than their inherent value as human beings.

From my perspective, the American healthcare system is the epitome of toxic capitalism. It’s fueled a culture of greed that comes at a devastating cost to human life. Driven by profit margins rather than patient well-being, pharmaceutical companies hike up prices on life-saving medications, making them inaccessible to those who need them most. Forcing us to ration our insulin to the point of having to make hard, life altering decisions that will cause, hard life altering results. Insurance companies prioritize maximizing profits over ensuring affordable coverage, leaving myself and millions without access to vital healthcare services. In this cutthroat environment, healthcare providers are incentivized to prioritize lucrative treatments over preventative care and even completely attainable cures, leading to a cycle of illness that could be bettered or even completely fixed with revolutionary treatments they hoard like dragons over gold.

As greed continues to take precedence over compassion, vulnerable individuals are left to suffer, their lives reduced to bargaining chips in a system that values profits above all else. Until the pervasive influence of toxic capitalism is dismantled and replaced with a system that prioritizes human dignity and well-being, the toll on human life will continue to mount in the name of corporate greed, and families like mine will continue to suffer.

So what does one who is chronically ill do with this information? It’s difficult to say. Our options feel limited. Our votes feel fragile. Our voices aren’t heard loud or well enough and the more we fight the less ground we gain against lobbyists.

It’s easy to feel hopeless. It’s easy to want to give up. It’s easy to wonder if it’ll ever change.

All I do is hope and pray, and keep trying my best to be a voice that speak well and clearly for the marginalized and forgotten like myself.

Workaholic

I could sit and speculate on my work all day. My place in the universe, my place in my home, my place in my family, all of it thoughtfully examined as much as I can, though I dare say, with absolutely no objectivity despite my best efforts.

With my own biases clouding my thinking, I’m examining my time at the museum, and how I have accomplished so much, and only barely scratched the surface of what could be. I wish I could have stuck it out longer and had better boundaries. I had hoped my health would improve during my time here, but clearly I struggle so much that I fall prey to letting everything else run my life instead of me running it.

So I’m taking time to reflect on things.

I know I’m a workaholic. Which is my biggest character flaw. I always want things to look and feel productive. So the thought of not having an outside source to make me feel productive is kinda a scary thought. Sure I have Tell Tale and I have Three Crystals, but it’s not the same as leaving the house to work in a space that feels so much bigger than me just trying to clear out my inventory of used books and handmade jewelry. Plus, it’s the perspective of others not seeing me as a functioning member of society that bothers me. So much of my self-worth is rooted in what I’m able to accomplish and what I’m front facing for that the thought of “self-employed and working from home” being perceived as lazy feels like a death sentence.

Which is stupid, because it’s still work.

I think a lot of those feelings of being a workaholic is because when I was self-employed the first time, I was desperately trying to get my family to stop saying “until you get a real job.” It made me realize that I was never going to be seen as successful when I was self-employed unless I was making money hand-over-fist. Plus, as a diabetic, I feel like society is so ready to let people who have invisible or chronic illness to die. They keep voting further away from public healthcare, and then complain when we look to try to get disability to help pay for our chronic and debilitating illnesses. So looking like a hardworking type 1 diabetic is a big thing for me, and if that productivity is behind closed doors, then so be it.

I don’t think it’s wrong to want to be my own boss. I don’t think it’s wrong to try and fail a little before success. It’s a lot of work, and for me especially, it’s a lot of work because I struggle to build my own structure and consistency.

I think that might have been one of my weaknesses at this job too. I had to build some procedures for things, and while I was able to do it for some things, it certainly isn’t a strong suit of mine. I do things much better when allowed to lean into them intuitively. So when asked to turn it into something consistent, that was really hard for me and I found myself dropping balls. Though trying to figure out if some of that is health related or not is also a struggle. Especially when I’ve suspected I was ADHD for so long and not diagnosed or medicated.

So I have a lot of self loathing to process in all of this. A lot of self worth to build again and thinking to reframe. Which is hard to do when you’re in your 30s, because when you’re in your 20s you’re allowed to make mistakes, when you’re in your 30s people are less forgiving when you change and fumble through that which you identify with and value.

I feel like with my body, and my chronic illnesses, I’m in a. constant state of change physically, and it often feels like an identity crisis. Like one day your mind is sharper than ever, and then next you wonder where your intellect went. One day your body can lift and do all kinds of amazing feats of strength, and the next day you have high blood sugars all day for no apparent reason and all your joints hurt and you’ve never felt physically weaker.

If actions speak louder than words, how are you supposed to prove who you are when your ability to take certain actions and do certain things is constantly changing?

How are you supposed to change your thinking when the old adages play into the thought that who you are is equal to what you’re able to do. Sure kindness is good, but you have to be useful too. You have to contribute in a visible and tangible way.

So when you work from home, and you want to live more simply, you don’t often get viewed as a person who is a contributing member of society.

Closing A Chapter

On 3/14/24, my boss and I were able to have our first touch base meeting for a while. It was after closing with just the two of us. She provided me with some feedback that day that was reasonable, though one piece of it confused me a little bit, and I’m still confused and have not been able to revisit it to touch on it again, and once I conclude you may understand why. 

During our conversation she concluded that she was “not in a place where she could support me” with everything on her plate. Which I had empathy for. Everyone has taken on a lot as we go through changes at the museum. Still, it rubbed me the wrong way, because I had literally watched her support others all day,  and during the rest of the week I continue to see her support other people. So I was understandably discouraged, and wrestled with it a little, but was willing to ultimately let it go and tried to do so over the weekend. 

On 3/20/24 an hour before opening, I was thinking of a list of tasks that I had in my department that a few of our volunteers could do, and came to gina to ask how I could get those to her as the Volunteer Coordinator. She pulled up a list of tasks that she and the team had pulled together to assign to our volunteers to make me aware of their priorities, and at one point, she mentioned one of our volunteers was assigned rebranding the museum gift shop. When I heard this I was surprised, because I hadn’t known anything was assigned for that, and since it is my department, I felt it would have been expressed or communicated at some point. I expressed that I was surprised to find out this way and prefaced with “This is just a feeling, and no one has to do anything about it…” and expressed that I felt like there were a lot of conversations and things happening directly involving my department that I wasn’t even aware of and it would just be nice to know that those conversations were at least happening. 

It pretty quickly stopped being a conversation, and with a raised voice and condescending tone, my boss started intensely listing off passive aggressive feedback. Granted quite a few were relevant, I knew some of what she said were dropped balls on my part, she pointed out decisions I had made that she disagreed with, some feedback seemed to come from other members of the team and included that they felt I didn’t ask enough questions to get the answers or support I needed as well as that they felt I wasn’t doing or needed to improve. There was quite a bit that was relevant. There was some that wasn’t and was rooted in perception and assumptions, but I can get where it came from. 

During my boss’ venting I tried to reference our communications class despite my brain panicking. At one point I expressed feelings of not being good enough, that I was feeling like a verbal punching bag in the moment, and that I’m feeling scolded and condescended by her. She expressed that was not her intention and I brought up what we learned in the Communications Class you offered us, that intention can get lost and what is received is not always what’s intended. She dismissed that statement with “Get over yourself.” 

Eventually, after about 30 minuets of this venting session, and feeling utterly defeated, I was reduced to tears and caught between wanting to express my feelings, feeling like I was unsafe and unable to express feelings, and wanting to walk out and never come back. 

Once I was crying, my boss let up her venting and seemed to have more empathy. I don’t know if it’s because she realized how damaging she had been to me or if it’s because the crying gave pause to her momentum. We got to a point where we did eventually hug it out, and she apologized at the end of the day and I took time to thank her for the feedback anyway despite it being offered poorly. Though, I do not feel like I have any more clear understanding of expectations nor a good way to process and resolve any of the feedback other than “stay in your lane.” Which she said a lot along with “get over it” or “get over yourself” when I was expressing feelings during this situation. 

I haven’t told our Executive Director about any of this. He’s been on vacation and he’s not very good with conflict. Quite honestly, if I do go to him, I know from commentary and venting  from my boss in the past, feedback he provides to her will not be accepted. Because of all this and other ongoing issues, the environment has become pretty toxic for me. My dream job has very quickly and suddenly turned into a nightmare and in the past few days I’ve been at work I’m finding myself dreading coming to my work environment as well as dealing with stress induced complications to my chronic illnesses, which can result in life threatening situations very quickly, and has nearly taken my life in the recent past. 

I know there are things I could have done differently. I know I’m not perfect, but the thing I keep thinking is the two coworkers I trust would have never treated me with such disrespect even if they were having a really bad day.

The days that followed were riddled with high blood sugars from the stress and confusion caused by the interaction. Though, my body has been telling me I’m over doing it the last 6 months now, and I decided this was my last straw.

So I quit. My last day is this Saturday. I resigned as follows:

“It is with sadness that I announce my resignation as (position at place). My last day with be April 6th, 2024. 

My time here has been amazing, and I’ve been fortunate to work with some awesome people. This was a hard decision to make. However, in the last six months I have experienced a severe decline in my health, as documented by my healthcare team. 

I have made the decision to exit my position at Hamilton so I may transition to a healthier position for myself, and focus on my health and wellbeing. 

I do not wish to be a stranger to Hamilton. If you need any contracting for Graphic Design,  letterpress printing, and/or teaching/ assisting in workshops, please think of me. Please also keep me on the volunteer list for receptions and events, especially Wayzgoose. 

Thank you for all the wonderful experiences and memories. “

I don’t want to burn this bridge. I fully believe that if I’m meant to be here the opportunity will arise again for me to return in a position I will love. If I am not, another door will open for me and I will be able to move on from this being a bit sadder but wiser.

Life Update – The Show Must Go On

I knew I had over did it of course. Why I thought I could still work and be part of the production was beyond me, but as usual, my body made some decisions for me, and I happened to be out of commission the two days I was supposed to be working.

This paycheck is going to suck.

The production was lots of fun. We were presenting Ripcord, and it’s one of the few shows that made me laugh so hard my ribs are still hurting. The cast was amazing, not just as actors, but as people to work with, and I have to say it was one of the most fun productions I have worked on yet.

The week was a whirlwind though. Our friend came to visit, and stayed all week. I spent most of my days sleeping in, which I felt a little bad about, but her IBS happened to flair up while she was with us so I was in good company for laying low from exhaustion. The two days I was supposed to work I ended up nearly going into DKA from over doing it and eating like shit. Thankfully I was able tot take those two days off and recover so I could do my responsibilities for the production: hair, makeup, and stage crew.

I then just took to sleeping during the day and being up late into the night because of rehearsals/tech week. The production was Thursday-Saturday evening sat 7pm and call was 5pm. We managed despite a small crew, and had a blast doing it.

Needless to say, I’m glad it’s over.

As much fun as it was, I’m still pretty exhausted.

I spent most of the day yesterday unconscious. My husband was worried I needed to go to the hospital, but I told him this is just the way I get when I people to much. So I slept on and off all day, and pretty soundly into the night. Which was a relief. Because I was worried I’d get my days and nights switched around.

I’m still pretty tired today. Though I’m working and doing alright despite everything. Trying to keep it together as best as I can and stay busy. I know I have a ton to do, but I’m trying to pace myself so I don’t burnout since I’m still pretty tired.

We Are Women

We are women

We hold the portal between realms

Between our legs 

In our wombs do men become

And into the womb of Mother Earth they will go

From cavity to cavity one will begin and end

We are Women

Because we are the omen

Of accomplishments of man

To be and not to be

So Bleed my sisters

All  7 days

And never die

And let the world know 

there is more to life 

When you can be reborn 

From the same grave

And remember

Religion should 

inform and 

Challenge morality

Not completely 

dictate it

Because we fear no evil

When the shadow and the valley

Are ours for the taking

I’ll collect

The molten mountains

And I’ll pour them out

To make a new earth

And those who ever hurt us

Will burn and be forever buried

Beneath the molten rock

And we shall never

Seek out their remains

Setting One’s Self on Fire

A US soldier set himself on fire in front of the Israeli embassy over the weekend in protest agains the genocide of the Palestinian people. He passed away of course, and it’s tragic. I find myself at a sense of loss over it. What did I lose though? I feel like I just keep losing something as I see more and more of the tragic situations overcoming our world. Hope? Probably hope. Though it feels much deeper and darker than that, since I’m pretty sure I lost hope a long while ago. So I can’t quite put my finger on the sense of loss I keep feeling.

A friend of mine said to me once, as I was dealing with the loss of my friend to suicide, that when someone commits suicide too many people take it as permission to do so as well, and that certainly felt true. I had to fight my own demons during that period of time, and it no less rings true now. I’ve experienced now 3 people I knew personally and two I knew very closely, who have taken their own lives for their own reasons. Every time it was a battle internally for me. Though, this time it’ s a battle for a different reason. A much larger reason that I don’t foresee becoming any better any time soon.

I’m afraid of what a public and controversial suicide will mean for others. I’m afraid of how many people will take this as permission and harm themselves. I’m afraid of what this might mean globally. At the same time, I feel that deep pain that can drive someone to make such a choice. I can understand that agony to a small degree. To know the world is going to shit. To know I’m not helping. To know there is no helping that feels like enough.

To feel that hopelessness.

What can we do though? What help can be offered that brings back the thousands who are dead? What can we do to offer sanctuary to the children who survive their parents? The parents who survive their children? The people who survive mangled and forever changed.

People say “we can show compassion.” How when the hate screams louder? People say we can “demand the genocide end.” How when the bombs keep falling and drowning us out, and even killing us? Pray? It never feels like enough even if God does hear us, and if They don’t, then we have nothing left to hope in.

There is so much going on in the world. Between the missing children all over the world (including more recently in my own community), the death of a LGBTQ+ teen in Oklahoma, and the Palestinian Genocide, It’s hard to think that any good in the world is going to be enough. When one sets themselves on fire screaming “Free Palestine” and “I will not commit genocide” as his final resolution, what is one who bears witness to the tragedies supposed to do?

Where does it all end?

I’ve spent a lot of restless nights worrying over the state of the world. The conflict in Gaza. The conflict in Ukraine. All of it feels like senseless destruction in the name of acquiring land and resources in the guise of some kind of holy war either for nationalism or “god” or both.

I see a social conflict in the USA just like everyone else as well. I’m not ignorant of that. A similar social war on everything that feels different than Christian Nationalism. As a person who still identifies as a Christian its hard to watch without feeling a deep sense of hopelessness.

I don’t blame others who are at odds with things like myself. Especially when it comes to Christianity and the weird turn it’s made in light of politics. Not that we should be surprised. That ebb and flow of the mindset “kill it because it’s different” has been going on since the dawn of time and no one is immune no matter what they know God says in the Bible.

The idolatry of political figures is astounding but not surprising.

Last night as I was getting myself ready for bed, I found myself more discouraged than usual about the state of things, especially the state of the Church in America. I found myself profoundly saddened by the way the world perceives us. The hateful, radical, racist, bigoted, and all around unloving people we are seen to be because of the actions of louder voices than those of us who are trying to actually live Christlike.

I analyzed my sense of hopelessness trying to dig to the root of it, and I asked myself this question: How are Christians supposed to “avoid the appearance of evil” in America, when the Church is starting to appear like it’s evil?

I haven’t attended church in a long while, because much of the oppression I have seen towards minorities, both in race and ability, increasing over time. I felt it myself when I was first diagnosed with Type 1 Diabetes and I saw the financial burden I was on my family from medical expenses and insurance. When the concept of socialized medicine was broached politically, I heard everything from “they did something to get sick, let them struggle” to “I don’t want to pay someone else’s bill” time and time again.

As a young and impressionable person, this threw me off. Didn’t these people claim to love me and my family? Why weren’t they working towards things that helped people like us. I knew we weren’t the only ones in church going through health crisis after health crisis, but somehow so many people weren’t willing to help, not even with tithing. Thats when I learned what a hypocrite was. Thats when I learned there ain’t no friends out here for the chronically ill, disabled, or POC.

Thats when I dedicated myself to being the friend out here.

Though for me, that meant giving up going to churches that promoted the concept of Christian Nationalism. That meant really looking hard and long at myself and deconstructing what to believe. I focused on the two most common commandments: Love God. Love others.

It’s a start and the work is ongoing. It’s exhausting. It requires a lot of analysis and critical thinking, and so I decided for my own reasons, to put a long term pause on going to church.

I know what the Bible says. I know I should remain in Christian community as is suggested. But it’s also suggested to “live as peaceable as you are able” with others. I can’t live peaceably with so many loud Christian Nationalists spouting hate loudly from pulpits and pews. There is also that little negative voice in my head that wants ti immaturely be “if they aren’t listening to God then why should I?” Which isn’t helpful and just feeds the fire of resentment.

I feel justified in resentment though. It feels right to be so. Everything is so fucked up right now and hateful… to resent feels normal, natural, and even holy in a lot of respects. I’m sure the other side feels the same way though. That’s why it’s so confusing. How we can hear the “same” message, believe in the “same” God, read the “same” Bible, and still be so divided on what that looks like?

Dream House

As my living room fills to the brim with piles and piles of books, I often wonder what I’d do if I could have a library space, like a real one.

I’m not talking a Beauty and the Beast styled one. I don’t need it to be extravagant. I just want it to be large enough that I can get all my books off the floor and actually give them shelf space with dignity. Maybe enough room for a couch to lay on when I want to read book and snuggle in.

My mother often talks to me about making and addition on our house so we can have some room to grow, and what she means by grow I don’t know considering we’ve made it very clear that we will not be having a family outside of our cats. Though, to have enough room for a nice master suite that could fit a king size bed that won’t take up our whole current bedroom, would eventually be nice.

My mother keeps telling me I should build up and get a second floor instead of building out into my large and treeless yard, and wouldn’t it just be a dream to have a second floor just for our media? A full length room that runs across the entire length of the house. My husband could have his entire library of DVDs on one half of the room with his own couch and TV for viewing and I could have the other half for my books with a couch and maybe a little fake electric fireplace thingy to warm me when I feel particularly cold. I’d probably install a skylight to give us some natural light during the day, and have dimmable lights for moods. Maybe even some purchases for the kitties to be able to scamper and climb around the room.

Wouldn’t that be lovely?

Then again having a master bedroom on the second floor would be nice too. One with an ensuite bathroom and a huge walk-in closet. A space separate from the rest of the house as a sanctuary for my husband and I.

Oh the practical and lovely things I would do if I had the money.

Christmas Cheer

The decorations have been up since we came back from Thanksgiving. The Christmas music has been playing on every radio station of retailer since before Thanksgiving. All the gifts for my nieces and for my Christmas gift pick in the family (my newest sister-in-law), have been purchased and sent where they need to go.

Still the Christmas spirit hasn’t come to fill me with all the joy of the season.

I felt it a tiny bit on and off leading up to the holiday. Every so often when I pack a gift box at work from the online orders I feel a little tinge of that happiness as I add some of the freebees we have from past events that were donated to the museum for promotional items and fun things.

Those are often short lived because of the day-to-day existential dread.

I went shopping with my friend to find things for my husband for Christmas. I ended up getting a ton of stuff for him, but more for myself than I really intended. That’s just depression for you. The finite desire to fill that gaping hole in your heart with things that are superficial is real when I’m depressed, which is probably why buying stuff for Christmas, time is so successful for businesses, because I know I’m not the only one doing the “when we are sad we add to cart” game.

Thankfully my gifts to myself were practical. I bought myself new mascaras since I used up all my old ones and finally threw them out. I got myself a couple of new liquid eyeliners since my others dried out or were used up. I got myself a new pair of cute slippers with cats on them to keep my feet warm when I didn’t feel like wearing socks, and they had rubber soles so I could wear them getting the mail and suck without fear of getting them wet.

I got some frivolous stuff too I got some candles and lotion from Bath & Body Works so I and my home could smell pretty even on days we look like a goblin and her unkept cave. I got a foot massager because my husband is sick of rubbing my feet and a couple makeup pallets I liked at TJ Maxx (I had $80 worth of rewards coupons I wanted to use and I didn’t find anything for my husband there I was excited about, but I found plenty for myself). I got some home decor as well that was left over from halloween and some new underwear so I can go through my underwear drawer and get rid of some of the old and holed ones. Not that that last one is really a frivolous one, but it felt a little like it, considering I could still technically wear all the underwear I have. They just aren’t nice and for some reason that makes a difference to me.

Of course after I got home and wrapped all my husband’s gifts I felt super guilty. Not for getting his gifts but for getting things for myself. I know I had over spent. I know I hadn’t really needed any of that stuff no matter how practical it was to have it. I could have gone without. I just chose not to. because I was sick of choosing to as I always did. I was willing to go without. I feel like I’m always willing to give things up. Sometimes I feel like I’m the only one who gives things up to make sure the house runs smoothly.

So I got sick of it, and I treated myself and took advantage of the Christmas sales and my coupons. I used them for myself instead of using them for everyone else like I always do.

I knew I had been a good wife and gotten all kinds of other things done in the last few months that I should be celebrating. I knew I had worked hard and deserved at least a little treat. I knew I had wants and needs and a means of getting great deals. Still I felt guilty, because despite everything, how hard I’m working and how kind I try to be, I’m still fighting the feelings I’m not good enough and never will be. That I’m never doing enough, being thoughtful enough, or even good enough a person…whatever any of that even means anymore.

I know in my head I’m usually doing my best in life, but getting my mind to quit turning on me is always a struggle. The joy of the season, what it represents, the gifts, and the quality family time doesn’t feel like enough to get me out of my depression, which makes me overall just feel like a shitty person. Which I know I’m not. I know it’s just mental health, and that this is only for a time like anything else. The problem is that I feel like my good times are getting fewer and shorter as I get older.

So here’s to Christmas Cheer and hoping I eventually feel it.