August 10, 2024
I just posted the piece “Because character speaks for itself”. This morning, I am at my laptop, gazing out at Northeast Portland through the dense green of the cherry tree that reaches higher than my fourth story windows. It’s a bit overcast right now, but it will be another hot one. Tabitha is on my right, Smoky on my left. What does my life say about my character today?
A year ago at this time, I was preparing to fly to Texas for orientation for my Master’s in Theological Studies program. During the acceptance process, I was quite troubled about all I’ve put out on the internet about my past indiscretions — a very sanitized word for the incredibly damaging mistakes I’ve made over my many years. Mistakes are one thing, but my life has been punctuated by tremendous lapses in morality. I use such harsh, self-condemning words! Why? Because if character truly does speak for itself, my character hasn’t always had much good to say about who I am.
I am six years and eight months out from the explosive ending of my affair. I stop short again and ponder the question I ponder, less often now, but still: Did I love him? Yes. Maybe. I didn’t really know him. It was a very selfish love, one that was more about having something I could pin my rationalizations upon. I knew what I was doing was one of the most destructive and dangerous behaviors known to humankind, that I was laying the groundwork for tremendous betrayal. I knew should he be found out, the betrayal of his family would shape every aspect of his life going forward. And I knew my behavior was so out of character, that what I was doing was a betrayal of the most egregious kind to my own soul. However, happily, I am six years and eight months out from all of that. I ended that. It wasn’t graceful, to say the least, but at least it’s over. I did good.
I’ve yet to get on top of my weight. For nearly all my adult life I have weighed over 300 pounds. What does that say about me? It says I have a weight problem, is what it says. Does it speak to character? Sometimes I think it does, other times I think it’s inevitable I would engage in a lifelong struggle with some issue as a result of childhood sexual abuse, likely mental health or addiction related. Boom. Square on both. It does speak to character to the degree I’m unwilling or unable — I vacillate on which — to manage my health. And I also wonder at what point the other shoe will drop, because you can’t live most of your life weighing over 300 pounds and not have it really catch up to you at some point. So far, I mostly am not thrilled with what I see in the mirror — well — that’s not entirely true. I’ve made peace with my looks, and they haven’t prevented me from having the relationships I want. But I do have a fair amount of guilt over not being able to muster the strength and courage (?) to manage my health. That is a niggling truth that permeates my consciousness. Imagine that every few minutes you want to eat and you must ask yourself the question, “Do I want to feed my stomach, or do I want to feed my mouth?” And usually, the answer is my mouth. It should, but it doesn’t often stop me from going to the refrigerator. Shit…
This month marks eight months since I left my role as my mother’s caregiver. I don’t think about that time much, except to remember that it is also two years on from my last protracted psych hospital stay. It’s hard to remember how far I had fallen, because I’m nowhere near that deep in depression now. It seems far removed. That doesn’t change the fact that I still experience debilitating bouts of mental anguish — in fact I just pushed through one yesterday. But now, when that darkness descends, I don’t ask the question, “How can I escape this life?”, I ask the question, “What I can I do to prevent this from continuing to happen?”. And I haven’t landed on the answer to that question yet.
Yesterday, I called Multnomah County Behavioral Health, desperate for assistance in finding a therapist. The man who staffed the crisis line was very generous, but he was unable to provide me any options I haven’t already pursued. I stopped counting how many inquiries I’ve put out on the Psychology Today and Portland Therapy Center websites, but I estimate over 100 since moving here. Either they are not accepting new patients or they don’t take my insurance. So, I give up for a while, weeks, sometimes months, then I send out a new slew of inquiries. My last therapist died. Did you know that? My therapist DIED. I worked with someone briefly before I moved here, but he’s not licensed in Oregon. I Persevere. And life goes on.
The good stuff?
I’m still writing, but little of it is about sex, so it doesn’t get the hits my old pieces do. But I’m making between $15 and $30 a month on medium.com, and I count that a positive.
I needn’t have been concerned about the dirty laundry I have airing online, Brite is about the most progressive seminary in the US. Many of my cohorts are working through decades of spiritual abuse, as am I. Many are deconstructing, and many have deconverted completely. I respect that. I don’t think that’s where I’ll end up, but I have learned never to say never. In the interim, I love my program. It’s been a lifesaver. And God and I are still pretty tight. We have our moments, I have my moments, but she’s consistent, tried and true.
Women newly diagnosed HSV-2+ reach out to me, and I’m able to provide information and support. That’s really something. I’m very happy I have that role.
I adopted Smoky the Pirate, Smoky the one-eye and now one-eared cat. It’s way more than I expected, and if I had the choice to make over, I can’t say I would have done it. He’s a handful. Medically, it’s been rather a nightmare. Up until his TECA surgery the end of June, I was on constant alert, trying to figure out if he was in pain and how much, and doing the “should I take him to the vet???” dance. Every moment, every day I was consumed with watching him. He’s through it now. He’s no longer in pain. He isn’t the loving cuddly fellow I was hoping for, but he is quite a character, and I find that highly entertaining. I’m doing a good thing with Smoky. I’ve rescued many many cats over the years. That is a good thing I’ve done, am doing.
I can say I make no apologies for the choices I am making, for the life I am living. It’s not perfect, there are some things I’m ashamed of, but I understand the why behind those behaviors. I’ll likely never be satisfied with what I’ve achieved and who I’ve become, but I think I have that in common with all of us who grapple with the existential questions the human psyche presents. Nonetheless, my character speaks for itself, and I am a woman of good character.
There are more good things, but it’s time to dive into The New York Times. I’m pretty heads down in politics right now, and that was a bad thing for a long time, but now it’s a good thing. New polls came out, and Kamala is beating Trump. And as my network anchor hero Nicolle Wallace said, “It feels safe to hope.”
Your genuine action will explain itself, and will explain your other genuine actions. Your conformity explains nothing. Act singly, and what you have already done singly will justify you now. Greatness appeals to the future. If I can be firm enough today to do right, and scorn eyes, I must have done so much right before as to defend me now. Be it how it will, do right now. Always scorn appearances, and you always may. The force of character is cumulative. -Ralph Waldo Emerson