Being treated like crap

So today, I'm sitting here in the McDonald's in Union Station, waiting for my parents to pick me up.

Why am I sitting in Chicago, you ask?

Well, let me tell you. I had an interview in Muskegon this past week for a Director of Christian Education position, so I left on Monday, had the interview on Tuesday, and hung out with my bestie, B--, at the seminary until I left to meet my parents in Chi-town for Moody Founders' Week today and part of tomorrow.

I feel like the interview went really well. I was myself and vulnerable, without revealing too much. I was funny without being stupid. I was approachable while still remaining professional. I really really really want this job. But all I can do for right now is wait and pray. I've done a lot of waiting lately, and I try to pray. Really, God, I do.

So all of this was fantastic, but I was so sad to leave Michigan and Holland, and my friends. Because you can spout flak about Holland being a conservative bastion all you want (and it is), but at the end of the day, this place still, for some reason, feels like home.

And I'm not sure if some of that sadness followed me onto the train this morning or what. Oh, that and I haven't taken my meds yet...anyway, when I got to Union Station I had a very nice red cap transport me in his little golf-carty thing to the front of the station, but then I knew I was going to have to find a place to park myself until my parents made the drive from Wisconsin to here. So there I was at "passenger services", and I thought, "Why don't I just go in there and ask them if they can watch my big bag and my walker while I go empty my bladder and grab some coffee?" Sounds like a good idea, thought I.

Wrong! Wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong! Whoever named "passenger services" at the Union Station did not realize they were assigning a misnomer. It should be called self-service, because the only people they help are themselves. Before I could even get my question out, much less explain why I was asking what I was asking ("You see, I have CP, and I have trouble holding myself up and walking, much less doing so while pulling a large red suitcase, carrying a computer across my body, holding a very large purse, and carrying my walker. So could I please just set this stuff down a minute?!")

But I didn't get a chance to explain any of that. As soon as I asked them if I could leave my stuff there--abrupt cut-off--I was told, "No! You need to leave your stuff in a locker. That's what their there for!" Well, excu-u-use me for thinking you'd actually be helpful. EVERY SINGLE TIME I go to "passenger services", they are rude and abrupt. Every single time. Now, I get that you're dealing with the aftereffects of a major snowstorm. I get that everybody and their dog wants something from you. I get that, really, I do. But is it too much to ask that I be treated politely and with respect? I was only asking for you to watch my bags for 15 minutes.

So upon being rudely dismissed, I laboriously turned myself around and walked out the door. Now, if you've ever been to Union Station, you know that it's fairly easy to get lost in there. And when you put my sense of direction into the mix, well, let's just say I got lost. I put myself slowly but surely onto the elevator labeled "Central Elevator", thinking that it would take me up to the mezzanine level where I could find some coffee and a rest room. The "Central Elevator" does have an "M"-labeled floor, but this takes you to the Metra offices, not the mezzanine. As I slowly turned myself around, preparing to face the door and either get out or go back down and find another elevator, I met a Metra employee at the elevator doors.

"Is this the way to the mezzanine?" I ask stupidly, and now a little stressed out and upset because it's taken me about ten minutes to get this far.

"No, this elevator won't take you there." Metra man says apologetically.

Tears immediately well up in my eyes, a few spill down my cheeks, and I hate myself for them. But nothing gets my goat faster than feeling like I can't take care of myself or I've been disrespected. Both situations bring up extremely bad memories of past abuse, and I had just gone through both of them.

"Here. Let me take your bag. I'll take you there." says gentlemanly Metra man. 

On the way, I tell Metra man how I was treated in passenger services. 

"I tell ya, I wouldn't hire a single one of them. They're always that way." he says.

"So I've seen." I thought.

By now another ten minutes have passed, during which time a few more tears have fallen and Metra man has taken me to the now correct elevator and we are now walking down the mezzanine level. He also delicately ignores my upset state. I have never been so glad to see the restrooms and The Corner Bakery in my life. I knew were they were, I just didn't know how to get there. And that makes me feel stupid too. I hate feeling stupid.

"I'll watch your bags while you go to the bathroom." says Metra.

"You don't have to. I'm okay now." I say. 


"Nope, it's okay. Go ahead. I'll just wait here." Such kind understanding makes my eyes well with even more tears, but by the time I come out of the bathroom, I think I have myself in hand again. Metra and I walk to McDonald's where he leaves me, a grateful, sheepish, and slightly ashamed girl.

I have no idea why "passenger services" was as rude as they are, especially since they are always this way, it couldn't have been just me. But the fact is, whenever I feel ignored and dismissed like that, I tend to chalk it up to my disability. I'm not saying that was the culprit here, but it would have been nice if PS had at least bothered to notice that I didn't move like everybody else, and perhaps they could cut me a break just this once.

The fact is, nothing gets my goat faster than feeling like I'm weak and can't do things I want to do. Satan knows it's a chink in my armor, and he utilizes it to his best advantage every single time. And so far, he has beaten me every single time. "One of these days, buggo, you won't be able to get me there anymore. I promise you that. You can try and defeat me as much as you want, but I'm not yours. I belong to someone else, and you will never have my allegiance. I gave it to you once, and you made my life a living hell.

God, I'm sorry. I'm sorry he gets me there every single time. Thanks for picking me up after I'm treated like crap and after I act like crap.

Stay tuned for how that job turns out in Michigan. Depending on what happens, you may get a post entitled, "Feeling Like Crap". Here's to hoping God's plans and my plans actually, finally line up.

Is there a way to say, “I’m done”?

Today sucks. There’s no other way to say it, unfortunately. I preached this morning at an area church, and although the sermon was alright, it was much too long. This unwieldy length of my sermons has been a thorn in my side since I started my preaching career three years ago. I’ve always been prolific, both in writing and in speech, and sermons are no exception. I try to make them shorter, but they always end up longer than I think they’re going to. My sermon this morning was 35ish minutes long. That’s too long people! I looked up at the clock and said to myself, “Good God, can’t you just shut up already?” I can’t help but think that the rest of the congregation feels that way too.

In fact, that’s been my most common (constructive) criticism. When I did my internship last year at TRC, this was the issue that came up the most. Despite all the stuff good I did there last summer though, I was never able to preach the kind of sermon the congregation was looking for. I don’t think I can preach the kind of sermon anyone is looking for. Don’t worry, people. It’s not your fault. It’s mine.

And then today I was woken up from my Sunday afternoon nap by a phone call. On the other end of the line was a gentleman from a PCUSA church who wanted to know how, exactly, my disability impacted my life, and what the church would need to do “in order to comply with the ADA” (Americans with Disabilities Act) (his quote) were they to hire me.

Now, I’ve said before, I do not wake up well. It doesn’t matter if it’s from the middle of the night or from a nap, I cannot just pop out of bed and have a conversation. So it took me about five groggy minutes into the phone call to even figure out who I was talking to, and then I had to defend myself and my disability, all the while trying to convey that my disability doesn’t impact me or them as much as their brain is blowing it up to be. I hate having to do this! There is no way that I can describe, with words, how my CP affects me. It shapes who I am, and it shapes my life, but it doesn’t make me an invalid. For the most part, I don’t think I’m high maintenance, but it’s difficult for me to describe the ways that I am “maintained”. All of this leads churches to think that they will be leading me around like a dog on a leash, when nothing could be further from the truth.

But I have a hard time describing CP as a context and then trying to fit myself into the context, because I don’t think I fit into the context! Blargh!

All this is to say. I’m done.

I’m done filling out profiles.

I’m done trying to preach shorter sermons. (Nobody wants to listen to me talk anyway, even if I were to succeed in making them short).

I’m done trying to defend why I think I should be a pastor in spite of my disability.

I’m done trying to convey to people why women are called to lead in ministry.

I’m done being a pastor.

I’m done. I’m tired. Really—the last two nights were short and so was my nap—thanks to that phone call. I’m done. I’m done. I’m done. Ya’ll won. I don’t fit the typical mold of a pastor in any way, so I’m done trying to be one.

Here’s to a job in administration.

In memory of Ryan Ende, in support of the gay community

Dear Friends,

It has been so long since I last joined you all and shared my long musings in the blogosphere. I do apologize. It's just that it seemed like I had nothing to share except weariness and disappointment, and who wants to listen to that? I get annoyed enough by listening to my own voice in my own head, so why in the world should I express it out loud? Additionally, there are times when I don't feel like writing a long blog post...shocker, I know! And if I don't write a long post, doesn't this go against the essence of my blog?

Oh well. No matter. It'll be a short one today. And maybe in the days to come. I just wanted to share with you all that I found out a few days ago that one of my favorite Christian artists, Ray Boltz, came out as a gay man. Actually, I think I heard about his reconciliation with himself on the one-year anniversary of the year a gay friend of mine committed suicide. Having all of this come together makes me think yet again about how the church and Christians in general have so vilely treated people who identify themselves as LGBT.

How dare we?! I won't go into all my indignation now (for then this would be a long blog post), but I will say this: as someone who has spent much of her life "on the outside" because of her disability, I REFUSE to discriminate against/mistreat/fail to love fully my LGBT friends. I have been abused because of something I have no control over, and I believe that my gay friends (most of whom are Christians), have no control over their sexual orientation as well. Again, if I went into all my rationale behind this statement, it would be a long post. Someday, my friends, you'll hear my musings on this. Until then, read this: http://www.thegavoice.com/index.php/aae/38-feature/1507-swilleys-story-a-gay-pastor-his-wife-and-a-deeper-ministry. It's very close to what I think.

LET'S STOP BEATING EACH OTHER UP FOR THE WAY GOD MADE US!

No, I don't have it all figured out. No, I don't know how exactly to give people who are gay equal rights. But I know it needs to be done. The ADA tried offering me equal rights, but as much as a law can say certain things need to be done, it cannot change people's hearts. And that's really where the rubber hits the road. Hearts need to be changed in order to truly view gay people as created by God in a certain way, and loved by the Master of the Universe exactly how they are.

God loves me despite all my flaws. The least I can do is love people unreservedly in the same way. To all my friends, LGBT and otherwise, I love you. Thanks for loving me in all of my messy, cerebral palsied self. I hope I love you the same way. And if I don't...hit me.

And if you're interested, here's the link to Carol's (Ray's ex-wife) blog: http://myheartgoesout-carol.blogspot.com. Enjoy!

Incidentally, this full acceptance and love of all those who are LGBT fits nicely into the Church of my Imagination. Maybe I'll get to that blog post(s) in the next year or so yet.

A Job and a Cat

I sit here with my coffee cup this morning, waiting for the lovely, sparkly river of caffeine to work its way through my entire bloodstream. Yes, it's 10:30 on Thursday morning, and yes, I've only been up for about an hour, but hey, I'm not a morning person! I mean, I am when I have to be, but if I don't have to be, I am not up. I've already brought up the issue with God over the fact that he didn't make me in the way that seems most acceptable to the rest of the world, but our conversations usually go something like this. Actually, I have a one-sided conversation with God that goes something like this:

The alarm goes off: 
Me: "Good morning, God." (Blink, blink, blink. It's an effort to even think these words.)
"I hate my alarm clock."
"I wish you had made me a morning person."
"You seem to want everyone to be a morning person."
"Why didn't you make me a morning person?"
"But, you didn't make me that way."
"Good morning anyway."

Anyway, the purpose of my post this late morning is not to once again regal you with stories of my morning adventures or expound upon my seeming laziness. The purpose of this blog post is to first of all apologize for not having written in over a week! Where has the time gone? Well, several things have transpired.

First of all, I got a job working at Piggly Wiggly as a cashier. This is a job that I held ten years ago at the Randolph Piggly Wiggly, and when a member of my church heard that I was looking for a little cash flow while I wait for a full-time pastoral job, she told me that the Piggly Wiggly here in town was hiring. I applied, and I have never been so grateful for a job in my life. First, Randy hired me even though he repeatedly told me that I was "over-qualified." That may be true Randy, but my qualifications don't negate the fact that I could really use the money. Second, it's a job that gets me out in the community for several hours every week, and I get to talk to people ALL DAY LONG. Huzzah! It has been far too long since I've been able to feed my inner extrovert. It's hard being in a community with no real friends. I currently work about 20 hours a week. So come on down to the Pig and say hello!

Second, I got a cat. I finally prevailed upon my parents to at least let me move forward with this one area of my life, and they agreed. I was going to wait until I got a church before I brought a pet into the picture, but it doesn't look like that's gonna happen anytime soon. So, even though my mom is allergic to cats, and she doesn't really like them either, my parents both agreed that I could get one. I already knew that Trisha Kok had some kittens, so we went to her house, and I picked out the cutest little black and white 9-week-old boy kitten you've ever seen. I picked him because Trisha said he would be the more mild-mannered of the three brothers, but once we got him home, we discovered that this is not the case! He plays constantly. I have all my toys from the last time I had a cat in a basket in the TV room, and Shimei loves to go to the toy box and pull out the toys. I think he likes taking them out of the box more than he likes playing with them! This blog has taken me an eternity to write because Shimei keeps on jumping up on my lap, meowing, wanting to be held. My legs look like a pincushion. I can't wait until his Softpaws come in. But Shimei's personality is why I named him as I did. You can read the story of Shimei from the Bible here. I realize it's not a very flattering portrayal of Shimei, but this story does show God's faithfulness to David, and for that reason, I like it. Sometimes our faith in God doesn't look so pretty and wrapped-up-in-a-box anyway.

That's all I've got for today, my friends. I have to do some more sending out of church profiles (I haven't done any all week yet), this afternoon I work at the nursing home store, and Dad just came in asking what we're having for supper.

In Pursuit of Gainful Employment II

As you may recall, we left off a couple days ago with me saying that I worked in the Taylor University Archives for three and a half years, organizing the Hillis Collection until I graduated from college. I was able to organize about a quarter of the collection in detail (50 boxes), and the other three quarters were at least organized according to category. Now, before you go knocking my seemingly slow pace, remember that I only dedicated six hours of my week to this, and for the part of the collection that was organized in detail, I could tell you exactly which box to go to in order to find what you were looking for. Not bad, considering we had no clue what was in the collection before this!

When it came time for me to graduate from college, I think I was just as scared as every other graduate out there. "I don't know a darn thing! What idiot is going to hire me? What the heck am I going to do with my life? Aren't I supposed to this all figured out by now?"

Such was the cacophony that was running through my mind at the time, but I also had a few other questions. 

A. "Will anyone hire me?
B. I know that I'm nearly a straight A student, but how much will I have to prove my intelligence to my employer?
C. Will they believe me when I say I can do the job in spite of my cerebral palsy?
D. Are they okay with little accommodations?
E. How many applications will I have to send out?
F. I'm so tired of having to prove myself."

In case you haven't figured it out already, my head is a very noisy place, and the answer to these questions are as follows:

A. Despite the fact that I had worked in the capitol at Madison and gone on over 12 interviews with for jobs working for respresenatives and senators, not one of them hired me. I ended up getting a job at a fertilizer and chemical lobby. Knowing what I know now about the earth as the Lord's--not to mention what happened later, I shudder over having ever held that job.

B. A lot, unfortunately. Apparently, having cerebral palsy and being of low intelligence go hand-in-hand (at least in their minds). Believe me, you only have to explain it once. I GET IT.

C. No. My first job had such a micromanager for a boss that I ended up getting fired from it. I'll admit it, it was 70% my fault, but he was also a jerk who wouldn't leave me alone to let me do my job.

D. There were no real accommodations with my jobs I had before seminary, but apparently, churches wonder how in the world you can make calls on people when you can't drive a car. There are ways, people. It's called enlisting the Body of Christ, and requiring the elders and deacons to engage in something other than church politics. Shocking, I know.

E. For my jobs after college, I sent out at least 150 applications before I got a single job offer. Now that I have my Master's--yes, a Master's--it's looking like that number will be the same, if not higher. I naively thought it was going to be easier this time around.

And when I looked for a job the second time around after I was fired from the first one, (though I kept this bit of information to myself), I still filled out another 150 applications before I was given a single job offer. I wondered then, and I wonder now, "Is it me? Am I really that undesirable as an employee?" Considering what has just happened in my life, I have to answer "yes".

F. Yep. Still tired of it. Hasn't changed. Probably never will.

I say all of this in the wake of what was my last rescinded job offer. I spent the summer of 2009 working as the pastor at a lovely little Reformed Church. The church had no pastor, and so I did everything the pastor does. I preached, I taught Sunday School, I taught VBS, I had people over for dinner, I learned names, I formed relationships, I loved, and yes, I made housecalls. It was fantastic. I have never felt so fulfilled in all my life.

Now, I'm not gonna lie. There were people who were skeptical about whether or not I'd be able to do the job. Nobody wants to say it, but the word disability looms LARGE. So they said, "Well, we'll just have you preach May 17 and May 24, and we'll see how those go.

So I thought, "Alright, I have two weeks to prove myself." BLARGH, that again. So I preached on May 17. And I blew their socks off. And I preached on May 24. And I blew their socks off again. And then when I started doing everything else AND the preaching, well, I don't know what happened, but the Holy Spirit was definitely moving. I tell ya, I'm so glad He's on my side!

It was with a sad heart that I left those beloved people after 14 wonderful weeks. Yet I was also hopeful, because I knew I could send them my profile and put myself in the running for their pastoral position. "Surely," I thought, "After spending a summer with me and getting to know me (because I ain't fake), they'll consider me."

I sent that church my profile around Christmas 2009. And I waited for eight long months to hear anything. See, the thing with applying to churches is, they don't tell you that you're not it, they just don't tell you anything. And so, after what was basically eight months of silence, I finally determined that I needed to go looking somewhere else. Don't worry, I had already been sending out profiles to other places. As a matter of fact, to date, I have sent out over 75 profiles to churches in the RCA, the CRC, and the PCUSA. I'm guessing most fellow seminary graduates only sent out about 20 or so. Um, I've already reached that number (55 are in the RCA alone). The point is, it wasn't as if I was resting all my hopes and dreams on this one church. I just really wanted this one church. 


But I was searching elsewhere, when all the sudden, I got a call from the chair of the search committee. 


"Jill", she said, "We'd like you to come in on Monday for an interview with us." (It's already  Thursday).


I had no idea why I was doing this. After all, these people already knew me, didn't they? But, I also understood that they probably had some specific questions to ask, and I really wanted the chance to address the big pink elephant in the room.


I went to that interview with joy and excitement, and actually had a great time. It was such a joy to again be with people I knew so well. 


I got another phone call on Tuesday evening, saying that the consistory had approved the search committee's selection (me), and now they would like to invite me to come and give a candidating sermon one month from the date of that phone call. Booyah on the sermon, but man, it was a long month! Furthermore, they would be holding the congregational meeting for the purpose of taking a vote right after the service. So I wouldn't be caught in suspense for very long. Booyah again!

As I said, it was a long month of waiting, hoping, praying, and sermonizing at 12:30 in the morning until the day I was scheduled to preach. I preached what I believe the Holy Spirit gave me, and the congregation seemed to receive it well. Regardless, I knew I had done my job to to the best of my ability, I felt called to this church, and I hoped the vote would go the way I (and hopefully many others) wanted it to.


I went home to await what I thought was going to be a congratulatory phone call. Instead, I got a knock on my door later that afternoon, telling me that the vote had fallen "just short" of the 2/3 vote that was required. The bottom (along with my stomach) dropped. I felt my face instantly heat up, the adrenaline kicked in, and my mouth tasted like metal. I calmly told those at the door that I was okay, that life would go on, for both me and the church, and that God was in control. I firmly believed all of this. I still do. 

But it has still been a grieving process. Both of us, the church and I, suffered a loss. The visitors also told me the reasons why I was not voted in as the pastor, but because I love and respect them so much, I'm not going to go into those reasons here. Those who are my friends on Facebook already know the reasons anyway. I will say this: the reasons for not hiring me would be grounds for discrimination in any other place except for the church. Here, it's completely legal. What does this say about us as the Body of Christ?

The point of my post is this: I am still grieving. I am still a little angry, but mostly sad. And I'm not even angry at the people of the church. In fact, if they were to reconsider my call, I would probably take it. But there is still anger lurking there somewhere, and I'm not exactly sure why. Mostly, I am just sad. This was and still is a Body of believers that I love. They will always hold a special place in my heart because they formed who I am as a pastor. I would not have been able to graduate from seminary without them. I believe we found something special together throughout our summer, and I believe that I was the person God called to that church, but something got in the way. I guess I grieve the fact that I believe God's will was not done. 

Because friends, hear this. Although God is in full control of this world, and although he is sovereign and all-knowing, God must also balance his power with our free will. He balances these two things perfectly (I don't know how) because he wants to be in free and loving relationship with us human beings. And he loves us too much to force himself where he is not wanted. For whatever reason, God knew that he was not wanted that day, in that church, and so he allowed something to stand in the way of his will, which I believe was my call.

How I wish things had turned out differently! How I wish that I didn't have to wonder whether or not I am called! After all, if I can't break through here--with a church that knows me so well--can I break through anywhere? Should I even be pursuing ordination? I don't know. I work through all these questions in the midst of my grief. I grieve for my loss. I grieve for the church I love. I grieve for the church universal, who is still not yet embracing the diversity that God calls us to embrace. Brothers and sisters, we are the Beloved of God! Do you realize that? And as the Beloved of God, we are called to certain standards of love, and yes, acceptance. 

I'm not advocating relativity here. And I'll address this thought tomorrow (or when I get to it). Until then, please leave with this. I still love this church. I still love THE church. But while I love, I do grieve, and I am still in pursuit of gainful employment.

 

In Pursuit of Gainful Employment

It was Thomas Jefferson who wrote in our Declaration of Independence, "We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness." Sometimes, I think he should have written in another inalienable right, "and among these are Life, Liberty, the pursuit of Happiness, and gainful employment." It seems like I've spent my entire life looking for gainful employment, and it is the frustration surrounding this that made me say yesterday that I have no reason to get up in the morning.

I do, actually have a reason to get up in the morning, even if it is only to pursue this employment that seems so elusive, but while I am searching for said employment my life seems rather aimless, and this makes me not want to get up in the morning. I hate feeling like I have no purpose.

I feel like I've always been searching for a job. When I was in high school, I wanted one so badly, but couldn't really have one because I always in the school musicals, which took up at least four nights of my week and last least three hours of my night each time. And it didn't make much sense to not be able to hold down a job with any degree of appreciable consistency until at least mid-November, so I didn't have a job for the first two years of high school. Besides, as my parents so often told me, "School is your job." And for me, it was. I never was the brightest pencil, or the sharpest crayon, or whatever metaphor you want to attach to me in speaking of my abilities as a student. I may have been in the box, and I may have been a pencil, but I wasn't the smartest one there.

School has always been difficult for me. I'm not exactly sure why, but some of it is surely due to the brain damage that I suffered shortly after birth--the same brain damage that gave me cerebral palsy. God created our brains to be amazing organisms, and when one part of it dies (as part of mine essentially did when it hemorrhaged 28  years ago), God enabled a young infant/child's brain to be able to "rewire" itself. These new neural pathways are longer, more more meandering,  and certainly rustier than pathways God gave us originally, but they still work.

What this means for me is that I have always taken longer to process information than everybody else. It takes me longer to take it in, interpret it, assimilate it, and decide what I'm going to do with it. And then there are other parts of my brain that are just plain damaged. I cannot do maps, math, puzzles, or directions for the life of me, because those areas involve capacities of spatial awareness, which I lack almost entirely. Suffice it to say, I had homework and/or tutoring until I was in fourth grade, and I had an hour of homework every night by the time I was in third grade. Show me another third grader who carries that kind of homework load. I bet there aren't very many.

So school was definitely my job, but that didn't stop me from wanting another one. I wanted to be normal like everybody else, and it's no secret that I'm a bit of a glutton for punishment. So, when my beloved musical director decided not to do a musical during my junior year of high school, this opened up the opportunity for me to get a part-time job.

And I found one at the local Piggly Wiggly. Now, you can knock being a cashier as much as you want, but I loved my job. I loved talking with everybody, greeting them with a smile, and yes, seeing what in the world they ate. It satisfied my voyeuristic tendencies. Be honest, you want to know too. Because we lived in such a small town, I joked that I knew 50% of the people who came through the door by name, and the other 50% I'd at least seen before! It's a bit of an exaggeration, but not by much.

I held that cashier's job all the way through the middle of my college career, but even in college it was hard to find something. I started out working at the Academic Enrichment Center, and that was the easiest five hours a week I've ever done in my life. However, at the beginning of second semester, I was informed that my hours would drop to five hours every other week. Well, that just wasn't going to work for me. So I found a job in the college's daily bulletin, News of the Day, as an Archives Processor. It meant that I'd be organizing and working with everything in the college archives. What the heck were the archives? Did anybody even know where they were? "Oh, you mean that place behind the display cases in the library walk-through? You mean there are rooms back there?" Coulda fooled me.

SoI went work in the cold, temperature-controlled, preservative-smelling archives, with only papers, folders, boxes, and books to keep me company. I thought I would hate it. But I loved it. I loved discovering the history of Taylor University--I got to know and learn about things the large majority of the student body had no clue about. And I eventually stumbled on the "Hillis Collection", which was 208 paper ream boxes full of the congressional effects of Rep. Elwood "Bud" Hillis. He'd served in the House from 1970-1986, and when he retired, he entered into a deed of gift with Taylor University to have all of his congressional effects organized and stored for research purposes by the University. 

But no one had done that, which technically, was a breach of contract. Bad news if Bud ever found out. So, stupid, obsessive-compulsive, political science major me volunteered to organize that collection. I spent the next three years of my life happily immersed in our nation's history through the life of one person. I saw pictures of Ronald Reagan, George H.W. Bush, Richard Nixon, Gerald Ford, Lee Ioccoa, and more. Not to mention, I had their autographs. Never have I been so tempted to revert to my second-grade, eight-year-old self, and steal.


This job lasted me to the end of college, which is where we'll pick up tomorrow.

Sleep is Complicated

I never thought it would be, but it is. As I laid down for my Sunday afternoon nap today, I found myself longing for the days when I was an eight-year-old who was sent to bed at 8:00 (while the sun was still up), only to be woken up in the morning by my mom, blissfully unaware of how many hours I had slept, not worrying about whether the number was too many or two few.


Now, not a night (nor a day) goes by without me falling asleep doing mental arithmetic, or waking up doing the same. Why am I so obsessed with the number of hours I sleep? I think the reason dates somewhere back to the time when I finally realized that I do not have normal sleeping habits--like everyone else I know. I was the girl who could go to bed at 8:00 and sleep until 12:00 with no problem. This is why my mother had to wake me up, or why, as I grew up, I was forced to learn how to use an alarm clock. Why do I have this extremely well-developed ability to sleep (perhaps overly so)? Some of it, I am sure, is related to the fact that people with cerebral palsy use three to five times the amount of energy that able-bodied people use when we walk and move around.


Lovely, thanks. So, my muscles don't work the way they're supposed to--ever--and when they do move, I expend massive amounts of energy. Argh! But I definitely can't tell anybody, particularly my parents, because they'll think I'm just using my CP as an excuse. After all, they have no empirical proof of this statistic, and the only way they'll get it is to hook me up to one of those muscle monitor thingys. And that's not gonna happen. 


So I sleep on, hoping they don't notice, but knowing that they do, because I feel their judgment. "Why are you still in bed? What time did you go to sleep last night? It's already 10:30! Wow that was a long nap!" And on, and on, and I can't explain. Nobody really understands unless you live in my body.


The rest of my complicated sleep issue lies in the fact that I have dysthymia.  Merriam-Webster.com defines dysthymia as "a mood disorder characterized by chronic mildly depressed or irritable mood often accompanied by other symptoms (as eating and sleeping disturbances, fatigue, and poor self-esteem)." For me, the sleep disturbances would manifest themselves in not being able to shut my brain off until about 3:00 or 4:00 in the morning. Believe me, I wanted to. I really tried. But after laying there for 45 minutes, you sort of realize that it ain't gonna happen. So I'd haul myself out of bed, go into the bathroom, and convince myself that it was okay to take another sleeping pill, yet again. I swear, for that three years of my life (which not coincidentally coincided with seminary), I should have bought stock in Unisom. And I hated taking pills. I hate taking pills. But I felt like I had no other choice. I had to find a way to stop the swirling mash of theological readings, paper writing, quiz-taking, church-working, friendship-maintaining STUFF that made up my life. So I took pills. Lots of them. And lots of naps. I could usually manage about 3-4 hours before my alarm went off in the morning, and if I was lucky, I found time for a two-hour nap somewhere later in the day. If I didn't, well then my day just passed in a fog of fatigue. That fuzzy, not-quite-there, pea soup, out-of-body feeling became part of my daily existence. I grew really sick and tired of living 20 hour days, and I'm sure that my attitude showed it. Sorry, people, if I bit your head off. That was the fatigue talking.


Finally, I went for my annual doctor's appointment at the end of the summer in 2009, and she never fails to ask me how I feel (I love her). And unlike a lot of patients, I don't just say, "Fine." She wants to know, she's my doctor, I'll tell her. "Oh, fine,", I say. "You know, tired, stressed, distracted. But that's normal. "It's been going on for about five years now." 


"You know," she said. "You always say that. But you never look like it. You always look so calm and put together."


I ruefully think, "Damn! I do a good job of hiding this!"


And I say as much to her, only without the swear word. It's been five frickin' years lady! I want to sleep!


"Here, try this." She says, writing out a prescription for 10mg of an antidepressant. 


"Oh, no. Those don't work for me. I Already tried that remember? The Effexor made me dead inside. Took away my personality. And I have a great personality. And besides, Jaco told me that dysthymia doesn't respond to medication very well." 


"Well, try it anyway. This is different. You never know."


So I did. I took the medication home, and I tried it. Well, first, I threw the first two weeks of medication down the toilet because my mother and I had a discussion about whether or not I should go back on an antidepressant. So I had to go back to the doctor's office and get another supply. But I took the pills.


And you know what? They work. I sleep now. I have a little bit more energy. I don't feel like I'm going to fall off the edge of the precipice of life nearly as often. I'l exchange Unisom for my prescription meds any day. 


But I still worry, every night, about whether or not I'm going to be able to fall asleep. And I still take to my bed at a later hour compared to the rest of the world. It's somewhere between 12:30 and 1:30, but hey, that's an improvement from 3:00 or 4:00! And I curse myself for being such a night owl when the world likes to get going before I even think God should be awake. On second thought, maybe God is sleeping, but my parents are up, therefore, I should be too, the reasoning goes. 


So I curse my sleeping habits. I curse the little girl who could sleep for 14 hours, the teenager who needed 10, the young adult who couldn't manage more than four, and now this person, who still needs ten, and who takes ten, because right now, she doesn't have a reason to get up in the morning. I'll post more about this phrase in the morning, but trust me, I'm not suicidal. So an antidepressant can't fix everything.


And sleep is complicated.