The lies we tell ourselves

I've recently realized that one of the things I prize in a friend is introspection, a sort of self-honesty. It's a trait that my best friends all share. As for myself, I aspire to be honest with and about myself - that is in large part the purpose of this blog. Not to expose things that should appropriately be private, but to force myself to be candid with the few friends I've entrusted with this url.

I have to think about why this is so important to me. I mean, the easy answer is that I think there is an inherent value to honesty, but that is too glib a statement to be the whole answer.

I think a lot of it goes to 2 Corinthians 12:9. "And He has said to me, 'My grace is suffcient for you, for My power is perfected in weakness.' Most gladly, therefore, I will rather boast about my weaknesses, that the power of Christ may dwell in me."

I made a comment about my cynicism to my lunch companion of the day before yesterday and she laughed. She said that I look way too nice and sweet to be a cynical person; that someone with my angelic demeanor could stab someone in the back and the person stabbed would never believe that it had happened, would rather deny that there was a knife in his back at all. And this, I think, is why I feel like it is so important for me to be honest. Because I know that I can pass myself off as a better person than I am, at least to other people. But I am a sinner and I sin against God in so many ways, every single day of my life. I can be jealous, and covetous, and petty. I harbor grudges and withhold forgiveness. I am impatient and prideful, sometimes to the point of arrogance. I can be a bully.

And yet He loves me. He has filled my life with blessings beyond anything I could ever deserve on my own merit. What He has done for me is not good things done for a good person, but the overwhelming and incredible love of a perfect God for His deeply flawed creation. Love so deep and incomprehensible that He died - a hideous, slow death - in order to save me from my sins. Denying those sins is denying the depth and awesomeness of His love. And that, I think, is why honesty matters.

Isn't she the cutest?

Recommended

Allison Pearson's book, I Don't Know How She Does It, is absolutely fantastic. Practically every word I read makes me go, "That's it, that's it exactly." It feels like relief, this sense that someone out there understands.

Surf Report

Sign of a NorCal surfer: hands, face, and neck are several shades darker than any other part of the body. It's a weird look.

Today's surf was not good, although the water was warmer than usual and the sun was shining, which is oftentimes a rarity on Northern California shores. I kept getting tangled up in kelp. Also, kelp in the murky water would tickle my legs and feet, which freaked me out. And then I was nearly divebombed by a pelican. On the plus side, there were some sea otters in the water.

Of maybe twenty surfers in the water today, I was the only woman, except for this fifty-plus-year-old who was ultra aggressive. I find that male surfers, relative to female surfers, fall in two categories: (1) the nice ones, who either treat you the same as they treat anyone else (i.e., other male surfers) or are gentlemanly and let you have the wave if you haven't gotten one in a while; and (2) the assholes, who think that because you're a woman, they can get away with stealing waves from you. I have to say that I don't run into that many Category 2's, but I did today. It is not unknown for male surfers to get into fistfights over drop-ins, but was I really going to punch someone for stealing my wave? Yes, yes, I suppose one could always employ one's "feminine wiles" in lieu of brute force, but honestly, the Category 2's are the guys who would think that because you're pretty, you must not know what you're doing, which in turn justifies their stealing waves from you.

This is sometimes true in life as well as in surfing: I once went with a paralegal to visit a German client, whom I had never met before. When we were introduced, he looked surprised and said, "You're the lawyer? You're too..." And then he turned red and cut himself off. When he excused himself to take a phone call, the paralegal burst out laughing. She said, "He was totally going to say that you're too pretty to be a lawyer, but you could see him wondering whether he's allowed to say that in the U.S." I have also had people advise me that, if I'm not getting what I want out of a witness, I should try flirting. But I would rather do things the way a man would do them. Maybe this is my own limited perspective, that I think the "male" way of doing things is the only correct way? I guess I don't think of it as male, but as androgynous. I would like, at least where work is concerned, to be considered androgynous.

Sometimes I think that the only way to really be respected is to be so big that you at least look like you can pound anyone who gets in your way.

Reflections

I saw my reflection in a store window today. My hair is so sun-damaged that parts of it look almost blond in the sun. This is unacceptable. You can put sunblock on your skin; what can you put on your hair to keep this from happening? I always envy the Asian girls I see whose hair is so dark and black and shiny. It's a pride thing, I guess; an identity thing, although even I don't really understand what I mean by that. Twenty-first Century already, globalization, yada yada yada, and yet it's still so hard to put my finger on what it means to be both Asian and American. Honestly? I feel more American than Asian. I love this country as much as any gun-toting, red-state-dwelling, Budweiser-chugging white man (or woman). Probably even more than some, because I know what the alternatives might have been for me. I don't take it for granted. But I don't want to forget where I come from either.

Not, I suppose, that there is any real danger of that, because people will always react to how you look, not how you feel. And I look pretty Asian. (Blond hairs aside.)

It's worth stopping to think how much of your identity is premised on your appearance. We watched Alejandro Amenábar's Open Your Eyes last night, about a man whose life falls apart after a disfiguring car accident. My husband couldn't get over how sympathetic I felt toward the main character (who pre-car accident did a lot of unsympathetic things that I would normally have been outraged by). But I guess there was part of me that really knew where he was coming from.

Transforming

Listening (aptly?) to Iron & Wine's 16, Maybe Less.

I thought we'd gotten rid of our boxes but it turns out my husband had a few more, which my mother-in-law sent over the other day. It was amusing to read through what was in them: he was apparently quite the Casanova in his day, judging from the quantity of girls writing to him and the content of their writings. I suppose I shouldn't have been surprised: at our high school reunion, a girl that neither of us remembered came up to him and confessed that she'd had a crush on him all four years. And I know that several of my friends had had such crushes on him as well.

I say that it was amusing to read through these boxes, but it was also kind of sad, the longing and pain that came through those notes, juvenile as they seem now: strangely, I well remember the pathos and all-out desperation of those high school years. For me, at least, it was a time when my sensitivities and emotions were heightening, after the slumber of childhood, but my maturity had not yet grown to match. I can't remember much of high school now, but I seem to remember that I spent most of that time very miserable. I had a parents'-worst-nightmare boyfriend (drugs, gangs, the works), my beloved dog developed stomach cancer and had to be put to sleep, one of my best friends deserted me over issues so petty it's embarrassing to remember - all in all, high school was not a good time for me.

But even though I don't remember it well, it doesn't always feel like that long ago. Maybe it was because I was reading through my husband's yearbooks, and those brought back some of the memories. We are, both of us, so different now. I have a hard time recognizing myself from back then. I think law school was really a transformative experience. Or maybe it's just the changes that come with age. I guess what I'm trying to say is that it helps, when you're afraid of where you're heading, to look back and see how far you've come.

Breathe

Why does sadness blur into the desperation of the hunted, and both translate into difficulty breathing?

Love actually

I love lots of people - my husband, family, certain friends - but loving people is like having lots of nerve endings exposed to the world. When someone hurts someone I love, it hurts me so much I sometimes think I'll go crazy - I can't sleep, staying up plotting vengeance or crying with rage and frustration and pain. Wrong me and I may forgive you some day. Wrong someone I love and you've earned my undying enmity and a voodoo doll with your name on it. My husband, taking a line from Toni Morrison, often tells me my "love is too thick." It is, to the point of sinfulness. It may be my greatest sin: my inability to forgive and love my enemies. "But I say to you who hear, love your enemies, do good to those who hate you, bless those who curse you, pray for those who mistreat you. . . . And if you love those who love you, what credit is that to you? For even sinners love those who love them." Luke 6:27, 32.

There's hate and bitterness and vengeance in my heart, even though I know it hurts God more than I am hurt to see me reacting this way.

Jesus has asked one thing only of me: that I feed His sheep. And I can't do it. Not if that sheep is someone who has wronged someone I love. I love Jesus. I want to obey Him in the one thing He's asked of me. And I just can't do it.

Autumn coming

School's in session again, at least in the school district in which my mother-in-law works. I can't believe that summer is nearly over. And 2007 draws to a close. Why do I lose track of time the way that I do? Seems like just yesterday that I was shivering in my under-insulated apartment, waiting for warm days, tank-top weather, and now here it is fall again. Good thing I love fall. Pumpkins and colored leaves and jacket weather, long walks with just a nip in the air. Hot cider, cinnamon and nutmeg and cloves, all those pungent spices. Sitting in front of the fireplace, watching the flames. It's not quite the same in California as it was in the Midwest, although it's not true that we don't have seasons. The leaves change color here, too. I think the difference is that people here don't appreciate it as much. In the Midwest, fall is a reprieve, a welcome transition between summer and the harshness of winter. Here, fall and winter blur together a little more; at least, we don't dread winter as much.

I woke up literally shaking in the middle of the night last night, after a particularly vivid and horrible nightmare. Transitions have always been hard on me, I think. I live too much inside my own head. Slowly learning to put one foot in front of the other again. Things always seem more poignant after a bout of depression; everything just a little more beautiful, in the terrible sense of "nothing gold can stay."

Summer days running by

Dinner with a bunch of friends last night, many of whom I haven't seen in a year or more. It was really nice. I'm starting to feel more at peace, with the job, with life in general. I'm so used to thinking of myself as a misanthrope that I underestimate how important it is to have people around you who care about you. I came away from dinner feeling encouraged.

Plus, the weather is just so beautiful, the days still long and lazy, it's hard to be depressed. I do have bad days, bad nights, but I'm getting them under control. It's easier to get out of bed in the mornings; I no longer feel the need to sleep away my days. I've been more productive: took care of paperwork for the new job, put in a drip system for the garden, spent time shopping for friends and friends' babies. Mercenary as it sounds, the best thing about the job is anticipating the paycheck: I love giving gifts, and it's nice to be able to do it without worrying about the bills. Although maybe I'm anticipating the paycheck a little too much, seeing as how I won't actually receive one for another month yet.

My Niece

Baby baby baby

I was the first one at the hospital to visit my sister-in-law yesterday, by like two hours. The tired parents, recognizing that they have many, many days ahead in which to hold their baby, were happy enough to relinquish her for a time. So I got to hold her until everyone else showed up. She is such a darling baby. Eight pounds, five ounces, 21 and 1/2 inches. The cutest hands and feet. Light brown hair, blue eyes (although both may change as she gets older). I already love being an aunt. My parents-in-law, who have been anxiously awaiting a grandchild for practically the last decade, looked so happy yesterday, it was heartwarming. We all took turns having our picture taken with her. I would be afraid that she was going to be spoiled if it weren't clear that she is a little angel.

New Life

On repeat today: Kanye West's Can't Tell Me Nothin'. The man is gifted.

In other, happier news: my sister-in-law finally had her baby! We were at the hospital until late last night; she was in labor for fifteen hours, but both she and her baby girl are doing well! It was really something to stand at the nursery window and watch the newborns. We're so excited to welcome the newest addition to the family.

Nervous Nelly

Now that I've actually accepted an offer and turned down another one, I feel locked in and way too nervous. I've been running around trying to take care of everything before I start working again. It's like getting your affairs in order before dying, and it feels the same way. I don't expect to see much of my family or friends, or my home, in coming days.

At the same time, my body is reacting strangely, like it's shutting itself down - it's harder and harder for me to get out of bed in the mornings, and often, I go all day without eating or drinking and feel no hunger or thirst. Maybe it's not that my body is shutting down, but that my mind has become disconnected from my body.

I went to get a haircut yesterday - I figured it was less sick than other forms of cutting, and might be similarly therapeutic. Unfortunately, the stylist was nervous, as many of them usually are when confronted with a request for drastic change. My hair has grown quite long since I cut and donated it last year. I asked her to cut it short again, but she wouldn't. So now it's layered, but otherwise looks the same. Disappointing. She also admired my highlights and asked who had done the coloring. I had to tell her that it was my natural mutt-colored hair, a remnant from long-forgotten Portuguese or Dutch ancestors, enhanced by UV radiation, salt water, and chlorine.

Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da

You lose yourself quickly in trying to be all things to all people, or even many things to many people. You start to forget what matters to you, trying to keep the people around you happy, even if they're not people who you particularly like. Or maybe you actively dislike them, but still, something in you compels you to accommodate, to twist yourself into shapes unrecognizable to you yourself, so that they will like you. And eventually, the contours of your personality are gone. You can no longer ask yourself what you want, because it's like speaking into a void. You don't know what you want, or even how to want, beyond a desperate grasping at transient affection. Life goes on, but what kind of life?

My junior year of college, my roommate starred in a play and I went to see her perform. It was a fairly forgettable production, but there was one scene I often recall. She was stretched out on her stomach on the ground, head up, arm out, reaching. "Love me," she wailed. "Love me."

Love me. And yet, when people do, often it makes me resent them. I feel like they love the me they want me to be, the me they think I am, when really they know nothing about me at all. How could they, when I know so little about myself? I feel like their love has cost me too much. What I need is not love, but someone to show me myself.

Long Days Coming

I'm "going back" to work. For a whole lot of reasons, it makes sense for me to do it right now. I recently met with a fairly successful published writer, who encouraged me not to think of the world in bipolar terms: it's not about writing versus selling out, but working a "day" job to fund your writing. Most novelists, even good ones, cannot make a living writing, or so he says. All of this makes sense to me, and my practical side accepts that this is the right thing to do, but there's a part of me that can't help feeling like I am selling out again, like I am giving up on myself somehow. There's a part of me that can't help feeling like the worst kind of failure - the kind that fails because they haven't the courage to do what it takes. I look at the people I know who have been successful doing what they love, and I wonder if my lack of success is a result of lack of talent, or lack of discipline, or lack of willingness to sacrifice.

I wish I was a simpler person. Meaning that I had one love, one goal, and less introspection. I think I would be a happier person, or at least, that I would feel less torn and tormented all the time.

Well. There's nothing for it but to cry my cry, dry my tears, grit my teeth and go forward.