Nerdy Guys. Yum.

 

I love nerds/IT guys/computer guys/shy men. Seriously, when someone starts talking code to me, I get all hot and bothered. I just WANT TO KNOW ALL THE THINGS they’re talking about.

Smart is sexy.

I’m not gonna lie, that photo makes me  laugh. But it’s so awful because the whole GTL thing is stupid. I don’t care if you went to the gym today. Stop trying to look disgusting with a tan and your undies down to your pelvis. Seriously. Stop with the “bro” thing.

I love me some nerds. Nerdy guys are where it’s at. 

Maybe they’re not always the most experienced, but I’ve never been disappointed with a nerd. In fact, most women think nerds and funny guys are very sexy.

Why? Nerds are funny, charming, and sweet. They don’t try to say stupid shit like, “You think guys are jerks? Well, that’s because you haven’t met someone like me.” Ew, no. They just do what they do and inevitably your opinions change about men–men like them. They’re consistent. They’re not trying to jerk you over. They don’t try to change you. Even though the world picks on nerds for being insecure, there’s something very secure about letting people be who they are and accepting who you are. That’s an admirable nerd quality.

AMERIKA…FUCK YEAH! Sponsored by Bristol Palin

Everything that’s wrong the way fundamentalists think can be understood by a quick glance at Bristol Palin’s blog. She insults our President and essentially all of the world by saying: “Is anyone really surprised by the fact that President Obama came out of the closet for gay marriage? What was most surprising is when he explained how his position (supposedly) “evolved,” by talking to his wife and daughters.” I’m sorry Jesus, er, I mean Bristol, Christian women aren’t to speak, they’re to be spoken to, right? So, if Sasha and Malia’s dad spoke to them they aren’t allowed to talk back? Or even intelligently dialogue with their father? (For the record, the Obama’s are Christians. Just not the Palin-version.) While it’s true that the Bible does teach men that women shouldn’t speak or instruct men, some Christians move past the oppressive texts and don’t treat women as property. It’s probably time everyone sees women, even young women, as intelligent human beings.

As if that wasn’t gross enough, she’s also writing about the 1950′s by saying “shacking up” hurts men, women and children.  Bristol, 1950 called. They want their ideals back. STAT.

Shh. Memoir Writing in Progress

I’m writing a memoir and I’ve already spent a few years on it. I imagine my first book as a little baby. Everyone is cooing and asking about how it’s doing. At night, I pick up the piles and piles of notes and place them neatly in bed, next to a window and stare at it admiringly. I imagine when the whole process is complete, it’ll have taken me a decade and may have been the hardest thing I’ve done to date.

Last night I went to pick up my notes and writing from a friend. She’s an experienced journalist and editor and she’s always someone I learn from. I’d taken a month or two off writing while she read through what I had. Initially, when I handed my writing over, I couldn’t stop thinking about it and I couldn’t stop worrying about what I normally worry about (structure, chapter length, style, etc). And then I relaxed and started really resting. And then I started getting involved in other projects and truly enjoyed my time off.

But now the baby book is back. In my arms. Awww. I missed you, love. I have so much work to do to make it into the final product, but I have a lot of direction for it now and a break from it helped my mind truly take a vacation.

So, with a renewed energy, I’m approaching this next step with excitement. I almost worked on it last night, but I had to get some sleep. As is expected, my social media interaction may suffer, which I might truly miss, but it’s either that or my book will be written on Facebook, one line at a time.

The Opportunity of a Lifetime: Sex with Three People

Here’s the thing you need to know about me: I fall in love easily and I’m online a lot. So, last night one comment got me laughing, a friend request was sent and bam…I’m crushing on this guy we’ll call “D.” Anyway, D is cute…red haired though, so meh. Not much of a beard. Three kids. Lives in Arizona. Okay, I’m getting desperate.

 

I wake up this morning to the sweetest Facebook message:

You had some night. I hope your morning is going well and that you don’t read this anytime soon, because you are sleeping in, peacefully, for hours yet.

 

Jesus Christ, I’m in love, I think. I love to sleep. Anyone who knows me intimately enough knows sleeping is not just my number one priority, but it’s my life. I could nap right now and then sleep through the entire day tomorrow, wake up to pee and get back into my blankets. Schizophrenics sleep a lot. That runs in my family.

 

So I write him back. See above (“online a lot”).

 

The day carries on and he’s my dream man, almost. Not really, but it’s an incredibly boring day at work. I just got rejected from my best friend the night before and a person I liked from the past is struggling physically to remove a really awful drug addiction. My parents are going through a divorce. I’m late on an article. My job is going so well I want to give up writing…almost. I almost landed a book deal. And my fucking awesome friend “T” said she’d write a blurb for my book. And there’s a TV show that kind of is interested.

 

Now you see my need for wine and weed.

 

Back to “D-bag”. He asks me about my writing, my journalism, etc. I already tell him way too much. I’ve probably half spoiled my TV show opportunity. And then you know, I’m an activist and blogger. And he reads my mind:

 

I would love to be a full time activist, I am not a writer, but I have a neglected blog and I’m planing on starting a youtube channel.

 

You’re speaking my language, son! He gives himself away later by saying “What hosting account do you recommend? I’m on blogger.com.” Blogger is not a hosting account. Wow. Sorry, that was a red flag.

 

I then go into my whole “my blog got hacked. My blog is my life” thing. And then I say the virus, it’s destructive and damn…a friend cussed me out. I feel awful. But he saves the day by soothing me:

 

A “friend” cussed you out for something you shouldn’t have been expected to be able to prevent? Not cool.

 

But let me cut to the chase because it gets good. He eventually gets past ALL my barriers emotionally and jumps, nay climbs, over all my walls. I’m shocked. I’m startled. I’m breathing differently. My eyes sparkle. I’ve mentally moved him and his three children over to my area of the country.

 

And then he explains to me that he’s in a relationship with this girl who’s into polyamory and he wants to try it:

 

I have started seeing someone who is trying to introduce me to polyamory. I was reticent at first because of my experiences with Mormonism and the the hideous apologetics around polygamy. I was repulsed by anything that hinted at the misogyny of that mindset. She is patiently bringing me around to some of the more enlightened aspects of it, and her feminist motivations for it. Plus, it’s a lot easier to feel comfortable with it when she’s the one doing all the ‘poly’. I don’t know that I’m ready to explore that, yet but if I do I think it’s going to be something I do very carefully.

 

I’m going to the AHA conference in June and she insists that I have a “conference fling” or that we try bringing someone into our experience. …sigh… I used to be so uninhibited! I’m hoping the right person can help me with that. She is starting to feel uncomfortable with how one-sided this is. I am really enjoying my experience with this person but I feel a little caught up in a whirlwind and i’m just trying to hang on. in the meantime, it’s really, really nice to be with someone that isn’t self-conscious about letting me please her, lots, and lots. It’s like all my pent up ‘giving’ is final able to be indulged and I’m making up for lost time.

 

“…We try bringing someone into our experience…” Share?! Partners?! Sex? Open relationship?

 

My mind starts going to shark infested waters with a bloody carcass getting mangled to shreds. Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh! In my head I’m screaming bloody murder. That sounds absofuckinglutely terrible. Have I digressed to the ’50′s? Has someone turned me into Ann Romney? What’s wrong with my head?

 

I say, I’ve done the threesome thing. It was fun, but not something I’m into doing again.

 

And of course, I have to be honest:

 

 

I’ve had partners who tried to convince me to do something and you know, sometimes I gave in, but ultimately, they weren’t things I wanted to do, so I wasn’t happy doing them. I was giving but not into it. For example, someone tried to ask me to be his dominatrix last week. Not really my thing…and when I said no, he got super pissed and we’re not friends anymore. I think sex should be really far away from coercion.

I won’t lie…I’m a little bummed that you’re seeing someone because you’re pretty much my type.

So, we like each other. A lot. This goes on for awhile. And it gets heated. I sigh. I bite the bullet and say, Ugh, okay, I’m not going to take this further until you’re single. Sorry, it’s not my thing to try to break people up.

 

But he persists. And draws me in. And then I say it again, No, not ’til you’re single.

 

Then I’m more frank: I’m torn between, “you dirty scum” for messaging me while you’re in a relationship to “oh maybe it would work.”

 

Then the real me spoke up:

 

 

Are you trying to recruit me into a threesome? Is that what this is about?

 

And he said,

as glorious as that sounds, and it is entirely possible that you have just given me fantasy images for a long time to come, no. At this time with as I know about you and me and our dynamic, I want our experience, at least our first few experiences to be just you and me. I want to focus are you exclusively. I want to give you my full and undivided attention.

 

Damn, that’s sexy. Except for the “our first few experiences to be just you and me.” Uhhhh….Wait. What? But he then clarified because he’s psychic and knew I was spitting out my water all over the screen with shock:

 

let me add to that slightly. if it was something YOU wanted, if it was your fantasy (yes I read when you said you didn’t want that again, I’mjust explaining the situation that I would consider). If you picked the third and I still got to focus on you exclusively with somebody else helping to give you the ultimate sexual experience – that is something I would do. But no. I’m not angling for that.

 

 

But I play dumb just so I’m clear: So where does your partner fit into this?

 

Well, he says,

 

depends on what you and her want. Either as an enthusiastic and welcome lparticipant or as an informed, consenting absentee, or a friendly, uninformed former partner.

Or any other idea that appeals to all of us

 

 

 

 

I am not just insulted.

 

I’m pissed off.

 

What a manipulative lying cunt fucker.

 

So you little cunt fuck, here’s what I think:

 

Don’t fucking think that you’re “enlightened” you manipulative son of a bitch. This isn’t enlightenment. It’s disgusting, disrespectful coercive lies. I wouldn’t have had sex with you if you were last dude on the planet. You live in Fucking Arizona.

 

Also, next time you’re picking up on someone for poly-Mormonism, just be honest and up front. Don’t lie. Don’t say what someone wants to say. Get help if you’re a sociopath.

 

And then, if you’re interested (sociopaths aren’t), get to know the person. Be yourself.

 

You know what sucks? The dude has my number. Ugh. Lame. I really need my agent (that I don’t have yet) to take my phone away from me. And my Facebook.

Labels are for Soup Cans

I’m a lesbian who likes men.

My friend Ashley (props to her for the blog title and other phrases) suggested a book to me called Same Sex in the City. My lovely Kindle Fire picked up the sample, I read it, and then I freaked the fuck out.

I identified with everything the authors said. By all estimates, I was a lesbian. Terrified, I closed that book and decided to work on myself one thing at a time. And that one thing would not include my sexuality…for a long time.

I mean, I’ve got other things to “work on” and discover. Don’t we all?

The sad thing is, I’m all enlightened and shit. It’s 2012. I’ve been blogging since 2010 and all of a sudden I’m scared of my sexuality? Yep. I still am. I’ve made major progress–coming out as non-Christian, then as atheist, then as a feminist. I suppose that’s all good.

After my last bf (boyfriend) and I broke up, and after I incessantly talked about dating women during our relationship, I was immediately happy. My first thought, “Now I can finally date a woman!” Then I spent an entire weekend with my family to “recover” and realized that they’d never accept me. They still insult me for voting for the n-word Obama.

Tied into the “Am I a lesbian?” panic is my difficulty getting along with men. My childhood was riddled with a physically abusive stepfather who beat the sh*t out of my mom when I was fifteen and then manipulated her into staying around for 27 years. I haven’t been normal since. Around thirteen, pre-beating, I became a feminist. It was fueled out of rebellion against my dad’s sexist, machismo ways I’m sure, but also by my desire to help others. (See also: Major Childhood Issues). But at fifteen, my dad was in Alcholics Anonymous and Spousal Abuse classes where he’d gotten “saved” and “given his life to the Lord.” So, he obviously had to sit me down one night and ask me if I’d been saved.

Long story short, I was saved, became a reverend, joined a cult, etc. The story in it’s entirety is in my website, which is currently down from being hacked. More on that later.

Being saved and having an abusive father definitely played into my fear of sexuality. For example, as a Christian, being gay is something that can rub off on you. It’s a choice. It’s a sin. It’s also something that qualifies you to be called a pervert. Being a pedofile priest does not qualify you, though, because they’re doing the Lord’s work.

My father is a tea-partier, Rush Limbaugh loving fundamentalist. To say we’ve clashed in the past few years is an understatement. I do try to keep the peace, though, and I’ve found that in doing so, I’ve been forced to lead a double life. Or chosen. Either way, I’ve started running away from family conflict and in an effort to keep the peace and not make the wife-beater’s temper flare, I just keep my mouth shut.

There are few benefits to keeping your mouth shut.

In the past few weeks, things in my family have drastically changed. My parents have split up and divorce papers have been filed. While each one of us have struggled with the difficulty of this, I think we’ve realized it’s best. It’s also radically shifted something for me: I’ve become a bit more liberated. No more walking around on egg shells, wondering when I’m going to get yelled at or picked on. No more Are-you-a-dyke? talks. No more cycles of violence.

At least that’s how it feels. It feels like a big burden has been lifted through this divorce, and although I’ve come to love my father as a complex human with a good side and a bad side, I’m happy my mom won’t be treated as sub-human anymore and I won’t be treated as a threat for standing up for her.

 

 

The other benefits to watching a terrible marriage end is a huge reality check. Marriage isn’t for everyone and preventative measures should be taken to protect your assets, your individuality, and your well-being before entering a marriage (if you choose to do so). I’ve spent the several years following my exit from a cult wishing I was married with kids, not because I wanted that, but because I’d been brainwashed by the Church that a woman’s place was in her husbands home.

I’m becoming excited for my new-found liberty. My life is fulfilling and so is my job. I think I’d like kids, my own or maybe to be a stepmom, but I’m sure as hell not in a rush. I think I’m actually pretty damn content for the first time in my life. Not perfect–far from it. Fuck, I have so many issues I need a personal assistant to keep up with them. But I’m finally getting over that goddamn pressure to get married in order to “be complete.” And I can thank my parents divorce for that.

As for my sexuality…this discussion is to be continued. If you’ve had your own coming out confusion and experience, leave me a comment or Facebook me.

 

New Racism: The LADream Center’s “Outreach” to Minorities

I noticed a new follower on Twitter the other day. The LA Dream Center which is pastored by Matthew Barnett.

Yay?
Yay?

Interesting…not.

In my line of work, I’m apparently building a reputation where churches and ministries stalk my every move online. Or…they’re asking me to write about them? Maybe that’s it.

But that doesn’t matter. What does matter is that honestly, the Barnetts aren’t at the top of my list of heroes. In fact, I’ve learned a great deal from them of what not to do in life.

One. Don’t treat the idea of Heaven and Hell as a marketing scheme. It’s easy to do, being a mega-church pastor. Hell is a big, fiery dungeon that you get all excited about when you preach and spit all over the microphone. But hell is just a made up marketing scheme for the Barnetts. Hell is how you build up your numbers.  So are crack heads. If you can scare the shit out of people by threatening them that they’ll go to hell, several hundred random people will raise their hands in church to “get saved.” Then, you can boast on TV that you saved the entire ghetto of your city. Single-handedly.

Two. Drug addicts are people, too. To Tommy Barnett and Matthew Barnett, drug addicts aren’t people. They’re numbers. They’re a tally, a mark on the belt, so to speak. “I saved a drug addict, Mamma!” I can just hear Matthew telling his mother now. And God gave him a private jet and a pretty wife because he’s proud of Matthew for saving them all. That’s how God works, you know?

Three. Minorities aren’t put on the planet by God for you to exploit. I’m just going to go ahead and put this on the table–the Barnett’s have always struck me as a bit exploitative of minorities. There’s something heirarchical about visiting a church service–Whites on top, then Hispanics, then Blacks. If you’re a minority in leadership, you probably run a “street” ministry, because you know, minorities are “street people” and “ghetto.” In other words, racist much?

“]
Candice lives on the Family Floor with her son. She is thankful to have a place to go where she feels safe! [At least that's what Matthew is thinking.
What a humanitarian Matthew is. He lets people live at his church.  Or so the photo above says to most people.
I attended Tommy Barnett’s church for a few years. His sermons were focused on soul-winning, outreach, and prosperity. Matthew has duplicated that same process, but he’s modernized it a bit. What’s disturbing, though, is that many of Tommy’s sermons that related to outreach and soul-winning were centered around ideas that minorities were a token that God put on the earth for him to save. Anytime minorities were “saved” from poverty, they were paraded across the large church stage. Families were brought up with their street pastor to “give their testimony” about how the church had saved them. It’s clear that Matthew does the same thing from the photo above of their girl Candice.
Is it just me, or is that a big exploitive? I think some of the soul-winning practices at the Barnett’s churches are just plain bad religion and perhaps even a bit racist.

 

Lions, and Tigers and Viruses…Oh my!

It appears I’ve had a wicked virus for the past few weeks, possibly longer. Special thanks to Brian who first let me know. I apologize to anyone who read and was attacked. Please comment if something helped remove the virus/malware.

I’d also like to thank Matt, at RagingRev.com for fixing my goddamned website. He spent many hours consulting me and running scans.  Matt has offered to help anyone that was affected by this virus by removing it from their computer – if you’d like his assistance please email him at revoxley501@gmail.com. Go like his Facebook page and like it even–if you enjoy a good debate.

Also thanks to my friend David who’s a tech genius.  Literally. He’s got a fancy website he’s still working on that I will promote when it’s finished, but for now I will tell  you that David will be a famous poet one day. Probably the next poet laureate. I’m not worthy. He’s very good.

It’s incredibly stressful having had my website hacked. I’m fucking attached to this thing! I didn’t realize that it’s become my life. I’m not sure if it was a targeted attack, but it seems that atheist websites and those who go against ministries get hacked often. In fact, I started writing about Mercy Ministries and have had endless problems online being harassed by those young women who support Mercy. In 2008, Mercy Ministries themselves or supporters hacked two counter websites where survivors spoke up.

Was it Mercy Ministries who hacked my website? Doubtful. I installed what seems to be a bad plug-in in late January, so that was probably the issue. Who sent me that plug-in? I don’t know. Most people I write about aren’t that smart, so I doubt it was them.

Regardless, I’m back…with a vengeance. Watch out, world. Lisa’s back.

The Addict I Love

“As I’m sitting in the sand, watching the waves, this guy who recently confessed his feelings for me texts me. We rarely see each other, but when we do we inevitably end up having sex. I’ve been harboring an intense attraction to him for years. I might have even loved him at one time. He asks if he can come visit me and I tell him I now have a boyfriend. He doesn’t see why we can’t just hang out, but I explain to him that we inevitably end up in bed. My no seems to bother him and he stops texting me.” A quote from something I wrote in New York magazine about him.

He has always shown back up when I’m writing for publication. I always think about him regardless. Small moments together made me want more. I spend many days wondering where he is and why I haven’t heard from him. For four years I asked myself these questions, although I rarely got to ask him. Two weeks ago, he called me-something he’s been avoiding for years. He explained everything from the beginning and he told me “I’m sorry.” And then a week later, he said that he liked me more than any other girl in the world. He called me “beautiful, intelligent and loyal…the trifecta.” Any other man could flatter me like that and I’d roll my eyes, but for some reason these words bring me back to our first meeting and his smile. That afternoon I sat in the pub with my brother and his friend but when he walked in, those two vanished and it was just him and me. Soon after, we started meeting at my apartment to talk about writing. His six foot three inches looked enormous on my loveseat. Sometimes we snuggled. We always laughed.

We eventually started having sex. It’s been so long since I’ve seen his body; I can barely remember what he looked like or felt like. The last time I saw him at that old Laurelglen apartment, he and I stood outside saying goodnight. He reached down and picked me up by my waist and lifted me up to his hips and kissed me long and sweetly. I was stunned. No one had ever done that before.

I’m afraid of him because we’re so much alike. We’ve both suffered in the hands of physical abusers, him more than me. We’re both strong and loyal, like pit bulls. We both run from those closest to us, attempt to hide our flaws and somehow turn sentimental to one another.

“I miss you. You didn’t call me.” It could be a text from either of us. You can’t tell the difference. Tonight it was him, but the past three times it’s been me. I’m surprised by his honesty. He says it’s new for him, and he doesn’t have to tell me that. I know it’s new.

***

The first few days after Leo* told me he was an addict were some of the harder days I’ve dealt with lately. I’d spent my entire life avoiding the drugs that my small town had tempted us all with, but Leo was from the same small town. Worse, he was from a home where abuse riddled his childhood and his father followed him into adulthood to torment him. He’d never been able to escape his father, so he escaped into drugs.

Drug addiction is a terrible disease, but I’ve learned in the past few days it’s also a disease that carries a strong stigma. Since learning of Leo’s addiction, I’ve questioned whether I should even be his friend and friends of mine have not been so kind. My mother was very supportive, but I wonder if it’s just because she wants to see her thirty-one year old daughter finally “find” someone to marry or if it’s that she lived in a dysfunctional relationship for twenty-six years. Most of Leo’s friends don’t speak to him after learning that he’s a recovering addict.

I spent this past weekend in Santa Barbara with two friends who I shared Leo’s story with. I didn’t know this at the time, but both of them had been addicts. They’ve recovered and upon meeting them I had no idea they ever struggled with substances. One friend had attended Pacifica Graduate Institute, home of an esteemed graduate program in various fields of psychology. We drove up to the campus and checked out the bookstore on our way to lunch. Of course, I went straight to the books on addiction. I was texting Leo at the time and he said, “If you need to know anything about addicts, just ask me. I’m an expert.”

It’s true. He’s insightful and knowledgeable. He’s read just about every book that’s out there on addiction. What’s unfortunate is that opiates become physically addicting, so no matter how strong you are mentally or emotionally, your body craves those substances.

A few days after Leo told me he was an addict, he was arrested. I immediately questioned his sobriety and assumed that he had been lying to me about his recovery. What he eventually explained to me was that his recovery process includes moments of relapse, but he considers himself recovering because he has made progress. Progress, not perfection. For Leo, progress is being sober for long periods of time and then using twice a week. When he told me he used to use several times a day, I quickly agreed that he’d made progress. Significant progress, in fact.

I’ve started learning that addiction is a complex disease. Every individual is different and certainly progress would be easier if society accepted that their path is a slow, daily battle they have to live for the rest of their lives. I’m learning to appreciate the battles Leo has to fight, alone. I also appreciate that he respects me enough to keep a healthy distance while he’s in recovery. My heart hasn’t been able to keep a distance, though. In the past few weeks I’ve spent a significant amount of time grieving for him, for our relationship and maybe for the future I hoped we’d have. All that has changed for now and my energy goes to offering him friendship and support from day to day. I’m in love with him still, but I know that what we both need is to rebuild our friendship and our trust. That takes time. And he needs me to be his friend; to be loyal; and to understand.

His chances of recovery seem good. I’ve met several friends who have recovered from addictions to meth and alcohol. Just a few years later, you’d never be able to tell that they were addicts. I read recently that heroin addiction stops physically assaulting the addict after about two years. Leo has been working on his recovery from opiates for nearly a year and I can tell by even the smallest things that he’s doing well.

I’ll always love him, no matter what. I do love him. I think about him constantly. I worry about him when he doesn’t respond but most importantly, I have faith in him that he’s strong enough to overcome this with the help of all the wonderful resources he has in his life.

 

I’m so proud of you, “Leo.” You are strong. You are brave. You’re going to make it.

 

*Name has been changed

The Art of Being Invisible

I found my therapist from doing a quick Google search. I landed on Psychology Today and used my key words: “anxiety, depression, post traumatic stress disorder.” That’s how I’m to find an expert because that’s what I’ve been labeled as.

I meet Tiffany in person and immediately like her. I develop a love for her green couch and throw pillows. It’s cozy in her office where we meet once a week on Tuesdays after work.

The reason I need therapy is because I’ve been angry for a year, I tell her. I go off on everyone, especially, and I’m embarrassed to say this—on Facebook and to nearly everyone who emails me about my blog.

I explain to her why I blog. I’m not like the cute mommy bloggers who have diaper coupons on their sidebars, or give away a diaper bag a few times a year. I don’t give anything away because I haven’t found sponsors for the niche group of abused, mostly non-Christians. And I’m certainly not popular like the mommy blog stars of the day. They’re everywhere—on the New York Times bestseller list or meeting Oprah. I even like a few of them. Okay, one of them. Sometimes two depending on my mood.

Our first and second meetings don’t go how I intended them to go. We don’t talk about my anger so much as we delve into my childhood. Although I know most of my anger and issues stem from my childhood, I’ve blocked it out for a reason. I packed and moved away from my home town as quick as I could legally do so. I’m not a fan of anything childhood related because that’s when the abuse happened, when the alcoholism led to violence which led to near divorce. As she mentions about a month later, those who grow up with alcoholics often grow up with manipulators who try to hide their secret. Kids in that setting are forced to comply with secrecy. And people of all kinds who’ve suffered from abuse can want to hide or be invisible.

Although I wanted to talk to her about my anger, and did, I brought up my weight gain because I suspected there was a small emotional component to it. I figured my weight gain was mostly from depression or some unknown health condition related to the stress I’d been under the past five years. I wasn’t expecting to hear what she said, “Your weight gain may have been a way for you to try to make yourself invisible from the world—to ward people off.” I was in shock and this statement took weeks to settle in. I’m still sort of unraveling what this means. Many people I’ve talked to since then said it’s something that seemed clear to them, but not to me.

I had no idea that I was trying to hide, but it makes sense to me. I have been in hiding. I’ve avoided people and I’ve been terrified of many social situations.

At the same time, I’ve been very public about certain parts of my life. I think the written word provides an element of safety, as opposed to say, being on camera. This became more evident when I was recently approached by a production company and asked to do a video interview. I was terrified the days, hours and minutes leading up to it. What did this mean? Would I have to keep going on camera? Would this lead to more interviews? My anxiety increased until I was nearly paralyzed with fear.

My main concern was that going public, on camera, would present a problem for me: I couldn’t hide how I looked behind a photo on Facebook. I’d gained about ninety pounds and that’s not something you can hide with Spanx. Nor would it be hidden from those I was most afraid of: the Christian fundamentalists who trained me to be a model wife and mother. The model wife and mother I was to be after they found me a husband was skinny, sexy without being revealing, and graceful.

I’m far from the model wife and mother. In fact, I’ve learned that I’m not completely straight so I might not even want a husband. I’m also tactful, but outspoken. I’m a feminist and an opponent to Biblical oppression to women and gays.

I’m fine with all of that…except my weight. Because when you use weight as a hiding mechanism, you intend to stay hidden; to avoid people. I guess I didn’t think about that when I proceeded to build my writing career.

My therapist says that with time and recognition of these components, the weight will melt off which is encouraging although unlikely. Losing this much weight won’t be easy, but I imagine it will be easier when I am more clear-headed and confident. I’ve made small steps—I can convince myself to go into a grocery store most of the time. I still avoid people by driving through to get food instead of sitting in a restaurant to eat alone. I don’t make friends in my neighborhood and I never join groups that make me obligated to people. I leave work without saying anything to anyone and I enter the same way.

I don’t want myself or anyone else to be mistaken-I’m perfectly happy this way. I feel safe. I feel protected. I’ve created barriers around me so that few can enter, and only those who’ve gone through rigorous steps and traps I’ve set up are trusted. Occasionally a few people get through without having passed all the tests and I often regret this later. But for the most part, I’m happy with the people who I’ve let in and I hope to meet more people like them.

I suppose we all have our hang-ups, and sometimes we don’t even know what they are. I’d like to hope the world is a place where someone like me can be vulnerable and open about something they feel shame about and be embraced. Sometimes the world responds in kindness and other times the world rages with hatred, as if obesity is contagious. I guess the beauty of working through this issue and learning to trust others is that I’m attempting to move forward and make progress and it’s something I must do alone. I’m not even sure where this particular journey will take me, but I’m always interested in self-discovery.

 

The Wedding of a Lifetime: I “Married” Jesus

Anderson Cooper’s show has a call out to people who’ve married themselves, which apparently happens these days. I’ve got a better one, Cooper. I married Jesus. Here’s how:
First, we wrote a letter to Jesus detailing our love, our pain and why we wanted Him. Then, we dimmed the lights, lit some candles and walked down the aisle of a church to sit in a pew. We prayed. We wept. We took our hand written letters and placed them in glass bottles and put a cork on top. Then, one by one, we walked down the church aisle again, holding our glass bottles. Our minister prayed over us, then put candle wax over the top of the bottle to “seal” our “covenant” with Jesus. We then went over to a pillow, got on our knees and the minister prayed with us again, asking us if we “committed” to the following “vows” to God. When we said yes, we were given a silver band to wear on our left ring finger. After that, we were “married” to Jesus for an entire year. We couldn’t date. We couldn’t have “emotional commitments”. We couldn’t ride alone in cars with boys.
We were “pure” and abstained from sex. We married Jesus.

This Just In: Sex Sells & Why I’m Afraid of Love

I’ve been incredibly popular with men in the past decade, in part because I was following the prescription for fame and attention: be half naked and flirt a lot.

Halloween. Note the pearls I'm wearing. Gotta keep it classy.

And as any woman knows, it’s always good to show off your boobs.

My boobs

But let’s be honest, I was fresh out of a cult and wanted to give a big FUCK YOU to the purity movement I’d lived in for seven plus years.  So it was only right that I did what I did and trust me, I’m okay with all the attention I got. It doesn’t make me any less human.

People have said over and over they don’t know why Kim Kardashian is famous. Yes, you do. I believe her fame emerged after her sex tape. And Paris Hilton. And then let’s take Coco from Ice Loves Coco.

Screenshot of ass from Cocos World

The reason these women are famous is because sex, nudity, and ditsy behavior sells. It makes you famous.

I went through a dumb blonde phase (see photos above) where I insisted on pretending I was stupid, pretended to get bad grades, and really pretended to care about asshole dudes. But the problem was that I was just pretending. I am not stupid and I didn’t get bad grades. I may or may not have cared about some of those assholes.

I learned very quickly that the male attention I got during those days was for one reason and one alone: I was sexy. I was also thin. As the years went on and my depression compounded my issues, I gained weight. Sure, some people still think I’m sexy and some still hit on me, but there has been a huge decrease in male attention over the past few years. I believe my own mother said that if I lost some weight I’d find a good man.

The odd thing about my weight gain is that it’s directly related to wanting to be invisible. After being miserably hurt by those I loved, I didn’t want to go through it again. I didn’t realize I may have purposefully gained weight so I didn’t have to be around people, or trust them, or even get male attention. But this is one thing my therapist proposed to me a week or two ago. We just started talking about it and I’m not sure what all is truly behind that desire for invisibility but it’s very clearly present in my life. It also manifests in other ways, too, but the weight gain is most noticeable.

Back to fame. I know a girl who recently made herself semi-famous. She has no talent that I know of, but she’s taken very sexy, half naked pictures of herself. As a result, she’s everywhere and can get any media attention she wants. For awhile, that was my plan. Lose some weight, get famous. As a writer, fame would be very helpful. It’s a plan that certainly works, but as I started getting to know myself a bit more, I realized it’s not for me. I do love being half naked or whole naked, but I don’t like being inauthentic. I don’t want to live my life as an act and for me, acting stupid would be an act. Being naked would not be an act. I’m naked right now and I often write naked. But not to turn you on.

I’m not saying that girls who sell out for fame by being naked are wrong or stupid. Sometimes, I think they’re quite smart because they are marketing GURUS. I often wonder if it is an act, though. How much of them really wants to be famous for who they are? Or because of a talent they may be hiding because it’s not “what hot girls do”? I’ve noticed a lot of celebrities have very good hearts and sometimes even brilliant minds.

So when Katy Perry said today that she’s tired of fame, I get it (not the fame, of course). I’m sure she may even regret it sometimes. But because fame is this monster that can often turn against you, you have to play the game or the game will kill your career.

So, while I’m still pretty, I’m pretty fluffy. And I am not a huge fan of sharing my fat pictures with anyone but here’s one:

It’s easy to hide after becoming fat and as anyone who has ever gained weight knows it’s even more difficult to take it off after putting it on. I’m healthy and I’m secretly happy with my fluffiness, yet I know I’ve stacked to odds against me when it comes to finding love. But you know what? Sometimes I wonder if that’s why I did this to myself–to prevent myself from finding love again. If you don’t find love, then you don’t have to deal with someone not loving you, rejecting you, or abandoning you.

On the other hand, somehow through all of this, I’ve found myself. I wear my glasses with pride instead of thinking they make me look ugly. I read feminist books and don’t care if that makes me unappealing to the straight male. I am smart and I’m not afraid of being who I am, regardless of how others judge me. I don’t often wear makeup, I refuse to wear stilettos anymore and I may be more interested in reading or debating than what others tell me I should dress like or look like. Because of all that, I’m very happy.

Marvelous Grace Girls Academy

Have you seen this place? Just read the description. You can already tell where this post is going…

Do girls get beat here? I’m curious how they break the girls’ spirits and what types of abuse goes on.

Parents can’t come visit anytime they want? The child can’t leave the state of Florida with their parents? They must attend ALL church services regardless of a vacation or visit with their parents? Marvelous Grace sounds pretty fucked up.

 

http://www.freejinger.org/viewtopic.php?f=8&t=2253

And if you haven’t visited freejinger.org, you should.

 

If you or someone you know has survived attending Marvelous Grace Academy, I’m working on research about the program. Please send me an email with “Marvelous Grace” in the subject to mycultlife AT gmail DOT com.