“happy pills”

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Whenever I hear medication referred to as “happy pills,” I cringe.  I take Prozac, Effexor, and Risperdal every single day, and let me tell you, they are not happy pills.  They don’t incite any kind of happiness or euphoria in me– in fact, the kinds of drugs that do that are generally illegal stimulants (heroin, cocaine, MDMA).  When people refer to mental health meds as “happy pills,” they are inferring that I get my happiness from a drug, which is point-blank untrue.

My medication essentially brings me to a “zero level” so that I can interact with the daily life in the same way as everyone else.  I still have good days and bad days, and I am influenced by events, experiences, and emotions.  These meds are in no way a blanket stimulant.

Now, I know that most people who use the term “happy pills” are generally not trying to cause a riot, but I believe that society needs to be more careful with its words.  Terms like this cast a negative stigma on taking meds and sometimes prevent people from pursuing psychiatric help, people who could really benefit from it.

I know there are a lot of opinions on medication.  It was a five-year tumultuous experience for me to get on the right cocktail of meds (including horrible side effects [Luvox, Clomipramine], mind vomit [Paxil], and a near-death allergic reaction [Propranolol]), but I believe it was worthwhile.  So while I appreciate the vibrant debate over the value of medication, I wish that we could all agree to not degrade meds by calling them “happy pills.”

meds are not happy pills

Reading is sexy.

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So true, in my opinion.  Learning is sexy, and one of the best ways I can judge that is by whether a person reads.

I don’t care if he reads business journals, science fiction novels, textbooks, or biographies– or even if he listens to audiobooks to stick it to his dyslexia.  If he likes to read, he enjoys learning, and both are sexy.

It is honestly one of my number one questions when getting to a guy.  1) Does he love Jesus? 2) Does he love reading?

This has definitely influenced the creation of the characters in the YA novel I’m writing.

“My turn to ask the questions,” said Silas, unwrapping a sandwich.  “Tell me what books you like to read.”  He had a nice voice, I decided.  It was low and velvety … but with this sweetness to it, an animation that came from confidence.  And something else: delight?

“Oh, everything,” I said, my feet dragging lazily in the sand beneath them as I bit into my apple—Gala, sweet.  “Peter Beagle.  John Green.  C.S. Lewis.  Dr. Seuss.”

Silas grinned.  “C.S. Lewis.  Have you read his space trilogy?”

“Only a million times,” I said.

His eyes grew wide with a childlike excitement that made me want to laugh.  “I’m making Laurel read it this summer!  That Hideous Strength!” he said, then quoted: “‘It was all mixed up with Jane and fried eggs and soap and sunlight and the rooks cawing at Cure Hardy.’”  Silas sighed in delight.  “Rooks cawing at Cure Hardy … all those k sounds.”

I smiled at him, a little skeptically.

“Don’t you like the k sounds?” he asked, eyes wide and beatific, and I burst out laughing.

“I’ve just never heard a teenager talk affectionately about plosives.”

Am I short-sighted in this?

If anyone knows where I could buy this mug, I would die of delight.

If anyone knows where I could buy this mug, I would die of delight.

 

taking risks

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Just the other day, I drove to downtown Minneapolis, parked outside of the Open Book, went up the stairs to the Loft Literary Center, and paid a LOT of money for a 15-hour online mentorship with a professional editor.

It’s a risk.  He might hate my manuscript and tell me to start over (probably not).  He might not catch my vision for it and suggest changes far beyond what I’m comfortable with (maybe).  He might read my novel with a critical and professional eye and give me valuable advice for polishing the manuscript into something beautiful (I hope).

Again, it’s a risk.

An investment.

I hope.

risk

I Celebrate the Day

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“I Celebrate The Day”

And with this Christmas wish is missed
The point I could convey
If only I could find the words to say to let
You know how much You’ve touched my life
Because here is where You’re finding me,
in the exact same place as New Year’s eve
And from a lack of my persistency
We’re less than half as close as I want to be

And the first time
That You opened Your eyes,
did You realize that You would be my Savior?
And the first breath that left Your lips
Did You know that it would change this world forever?

And so this Christmas I’ll compare the things I felt in prior years
To what this midnight made so clear
That You have come to meet me here

To look back and think that
This baby would one day save me
In the hope that what You did
That you were born so I might really live
To look back and think that
This baby would one day save me

And I, I celebrate the day
That You were born to die
So I could one day pray for You to save my life

Tall, Dark, and Handsome

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He shakes my tidy box of labeled dreams
until its bows are undone, a timid musician
in designer jeans who explains the economy
in a way that makes sense.  He offers to drive,
steers with one hand while he seeks  a certain song,
redefining my ideal until it is far more important that
a man can talk finance, sing softly in the driver’s seat,
and delicately raise one eyebrow into a perfect arch
like a cartoon villain or a famous work of art.

eyebrow_520

This is just A boy, not THE boy the poem is about. 🙂

Reblogged: All the Single Ladies

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My friend Kristin is like a sage to me.  We were friends in college; then, my senior year, she was my supervisor in the campus writing center.  She left Minnesota for grad school– first out to LA, then to Chicago– before coming back to teach English at our alma mater, where I work in the admissions office.  It was during round two of her life in Minnesota that I really got to bond with her.  She knows scripture so well, and she is unbelievably wise.  And really gracious.  She is someone whom I can talk to about all my weird, really-out-there ideas without judgment.  Instead, she pours wisdom into my life.

She has been living in Nairobi, Kenya, for the last year and a half, and she recently blogged about an issue that I am really feeling at this time of the year.  I hope you’ll hop over to her blog to read it.

Here’s the first little bit:

All the Single Ladies: Facebook Holiday Survival Guide

Sometimes, it feels as if facebook is trying to tell me something. This morning, for instance, posts and links accumulated such that I felt like a detective at the end of a mystery novel—all the pieces were falling into place. 
 
Post One: “He asked. I said yes.”
I’m not usually overly sentimental about such things, but this friend, who is about ten years older than I am, has been a particular influence on my life for the past couple years. This is often the case when you are a single adult woman and you know other single adult women who are older than you–especially happy, balanced single women who just like you don’t want to always be single but still manage to be, well, happy and balanced in their singleness. At some point, the age differentiation becomes very important–after this point, when people younger than you get married, you get angsty (why don’t they just wait their turn, for Pete’s sake?); when people older than you get married, you get hopeful (see? it’s possible!). Selfish, yes, but also true.
For the rest of her holiday survival guide, click here!
the-third-wheel_large

enabling OCD and telling the truth

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I have not written about this in the past because this is not an area that I have a good grasp on.  To me, there is a fine line between enabling an obsessive-compulsive and just being a helpful supporter of that person.  When I was going through cognitive-behavioral therapy, my therapist had me tell my roommate and friends that they were no longer able to reassure me about anything silly.  I was instructed to tell them that if they did this, it would interfere with my therapy and decrease its opportunity for success.

So, all those times when I would ask, “Do you think that is okay?  Is this sinful?  Do you think I’m going to hell?” … they were supposed to answer it with something like, “I’m not allowed to answer that question.”  Or “I don’t answer silly questions.”  Or “I’m not going to answer and enable your OCD.”

It’s a hard position for them to be in.  For the OC too!

As a Christian who believes the Bible when it says, “The truth will set you free,” I had (and still have) a hard time thinking that it is not helpful for a friend to tell someone the truth– shouldn’t that help set them free?

But then I think how I asked those questions for years and years, and all that stated truth piled up like a mountain but never moved me.  Why was it that listening to a LIE– an audio recording telling me repeatedly that I was going to hell– is what ultimately unlocked the doors of my prison?

A student at the university where I worked asked me that earlier this fall– how listening to a lie could rescue me.  I didn’t have an answer for her then.  The more I thought about it afterward though, I realized that what had happened was that listening repeatedly to a lie started to make the lie SOUND like a lie– and that was the truth!  CBT helped me recognize truth, and so in that way, it was still truth that set me free.

Does that make sense?

I’m still processing all of this and would love insight on this!

~4

creative growth

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body of work

I am still learning this, but oh, how I am learning this!  

I spent four years writing my first novel, finally putting my stamp of approval on it in January of 2012.  Next month will be one year since I put the manuscript away, and already it is so very clear to me how much I have grown as a writer.  History should have taught me that this would happen.  I remember loving my creative work in junior high, high school, and college– all of which I can now summarize as weak.  I didn’t know what I was doing!  I hadn’t read widely enough, experimented enough, or even lived life enough to create a truly brilliant body of work.

Sure, there were moments– beautiful lines here or there that spoke of depth– but I was and still am a learner.

I was so proud of my first novel.  I poured my entire self into the writing of it.  And already one year later, I’m a little ashamed of it.

But not too ashamed.

I had to write it.  It was my next step.  It was what needed to happen.  It was my playground.  School was in session.

At least now I am more aware of the process, aware of the way I grow.  I was always in school, but now I’m aware of it.  I read as much as I can, and I re-read books that I love.  I marvel at imagery.  I work at my craft.  I write draft after draft after draft, knowing that it will take a mountain of them before I am truly happy with the finished product.  (Writing that word– finished— makes me smile a little bit.  I wonder if artists ever really feel as if something is completed?  I hope so– but I am going to wait and see.)

I know that twenty-some years of writing has been to build a solid foundation for me to stand on– and maybe leap from.  I needed to invent that Pononia family in elementary school and come up with stories about their lives, needed to write about Mariah and Kayy, the best-friends-turned-track-rivals, in seventh grade.  I needed to write that horror story where the best friend turned out to be a killer– her name was Chloe, and I definitely thought it was pronounced Sh-low.  And that soap opera– the one about Sunnyside High and teen pregnancy, AIDS, romance, running away, and finding a long-lost twin– needed to be written and circulated amongst friends in high school.

And college.  I had to vomit out those awful poems in college, had to learn how to take criticism, how to re-write, how to love a writing community.  I had to attempt  to not be jealous of great writers and then learn that it is pretty much impossible and that you can love those great writers even though you seethe with envy.

I turn 31 next month, but as a writer, I’m practically an infant still– maybe a toddler.  It’s hard to assess.  I still have a lot to learn, and I’m thrilled about that.  I am committed to the writing life for the long haul, even if I still have years ahead of stilted, awkward, gangly stories ahead of myself.

Someday they will shine so bright they will blind you.