Stop hitting yourself.

Ah, self inflicted pain that is brought on by some other smug monkey. This sadly happens to be a place where I find myself quite often. No, I'm not literally being smacked by a gorilla in the forest or even remotely anyone in real life. I trust myself to go through my day, read a little bit on Reddit or Facebook, and move on.

This is not how I operate though. Some may say I suffer from low self-esteem, but my husband might say it ranges anywhere from slightly below average on a good day to buried six feet under on most. A lot of times I go on Facebook to get inspired and see what all my super creative and talented friends are up to. They're making movies, writing things, changing the world. You know, kid stuff. What am I doing at that very same moment?

Beating myself up for not doing the things they are doing. Probably not so much the exact task they have found themselves in but more that they are doing what they want and they love it. It satisfies them in the way that I would like to be satisfied, the way my heart desires to be filled. Where their tiny voice encourages them by saying "you can do it!" mine often says "you crazy girl, what are you thinking?" More often than not, that's what it says to me consistently.

Though I've spent most of my life fighting it and guarding myself from it, it seems as though its damn near impossible to flee comparisons in this day and age. I'm sure there are people who manage to avoid that at all costs, but maybe I'm not one of them. To me, all I want is to be happy and creative and appreciated for both of those things. But if I spend all my time comparing and doubting myself, am I really accomplishing anything at all?

Whoever reads this, let's complete a challenge together.

I'm going to try my hardest to swap a negative thought for a positive one.

Instead of thinking someone has already done what I want to do, I'm going to make a list of steps to complete my goals.

I will not listen to those voices who tell me why bother or bring up past failures to tease me.

My husband hates when I talk negatively to myself, and I hate that sometimes I let him see it. Really, my life should be lived that I do not do this kind of thing to myself, that I appreciate and am grateful for all God has blessed me with. A late bloomer by nature, I'm sure my time will come when I will have a chance to prove to myself (more than others at this point) that I can do what I set my mind to.

After all, if God is for me, who can be against me? (Romans 8:31)

My boss has told me that I need to give more credit to myself. It bothers her when I don't speak up in meetings or when I act like working on my degree is not important. How I act in those situations sometimes reflects my mood at the time, often when we have meetings my daily migraines have laid claim to my noggin. Other times its a result of believing all the stupid and mean things people have told me and I have believed.

I hope you'll complete this challenge with me. This is not something that I will say I will do for one week, or one month, or even one year. It is something I must put into practice daily for the rest of my life. Just have to keep pressing on to what I want and it will be mine. The first step, though, is to stop hitting myself.

Working on My Ish

I thought going back to college would be simple, even though it had been a few years since I had taken academic courses. I'd worked three jobs before, taken a full course load, and managed to exercise religiously every morning for a few years.

This time, it's different.

Yeah, there's this thing called time that passes and causes us to gain age, weight, and knowledge (to an extent), but I feel like my brain has died on the road to where I am today. It's out there somewhere on a road, lying dead next to an Armadillo.

The only job I have full time is, you know, working, wife-ing, and schooling. Oh, and daughter-ing, church-ing, cleaning, and artist-ing.

I am overthrown with exasperation to the nth degree. Like, I can't even.

Husband and I will both be pulling all-nighters in regards to our work. I have a paper, a test, an two essays. He has a freelance job he's doing because he wants to help me pay for my classes. That man is truly a saint to me.

I don't know what the answer is to this overwhelming situation. I know I only have a year at most left. But I feel like I cannot give my classes 100% or anything for that matter because there simply is too much going on in my life. This is where I find myself asking "What do I need to give up to make this work?"

If anyone has any ideas, I'll be hunched over this cup of coffee with headphones on and a textbook in my lap.

THAT's what my voice sounds like?

I always thought my voice sounded kind of cool, at least in my head. That's probably my first problem: being somewhat arrogant about something that doesn't really matter. Since I was little, I've loved the thought of radio broadcasting and acting, as I've written about the latter several times on this blog.

But there's one thing that might hinder me from ever getting VO work: my voice is annoying.

It's stupid, I know, but my voice is exceptionally annoying to me. I can't control what my tongue does, and when I do, it sounds more contrived than it did before. It makes me wonder if I would ever be able to get any kind of VO work ever. I'm sure I could get something, but I bet it won't be reading an audio book.

Justin has told me to try to take one day at a time and make each day great. I worked on my short film pre-production yesterday, and have tried to better myself by reading up on web series development this morning. I still feel like I'm lagging behind and maybe, just maybe, I'm forcing myself into a career that I would never be good in.

Yeah, I'm a defeatist by nature. Lately, though, life has been more sad than happy and I have felt more lame than anything else. Maybe I am forcing myself into being an actress and filmmaker for validation reasons. I love the art of it, but is that my sole motivation? I always like to think storytelling is why I'm in it, but sometimes I'm not quite sure.

I'll play this life out as my hobby, then go from there. Maybe I should pick up painting again or something. Maybe I should stop being so hard on my self for once.

Back to School, oh, and work

I cannot believe it is August 5th. AUGUST. FIFTH. WHAT. The time has certainly dragged and flown by simultaneously, as all holiday breaks do. It's been productive and stressful and a little bit lazy, which I definitely needed. I gained more weight than I lost, but I'm taking care of myself in more ways than I had previously.

June was full of school for me; my nephew graduated high school, I went back to college, taught a summer camp, and drove the bus for a bunch of camps for the first time. It was really fun, but I didn't have much time to sit or even think.

July was the opposite. I thought too much, which is usually my downward spiral into a funk. It's silly to have a funk in the summer time, but it happens to me every year, whether in school or not. Summer for me always meant exciting adventures with Mom, and staying up until midnight because Dad was building a LOT of crates for a job the next day. It was fun, but exhausting. Nowadays its mostly the latter.

My sister and her daughter came down this past week to help me clean up some of Dad's house. It was not easy, and we didn't seem to make a huge dent, but I'm glad that she was able to experience some of what I do, seeing Mom in the form she is, and both of us helping Dad to show that we love and support him.

Now on to the hardest time in our lives: COLLEGE.

I'm starting back on August 21, in the midst of orientation for work. I'm hopeful that I will be able to give 110% to both work and school and my family, but we will see. I just want to make sure that I get good grades. If I keep a 3.4 or higher, I could graduate with honors, which means graduate school may be more of a possibility than it was before.

Pushing through with the max loads should put me at graduating in December 2015. Only a year away :)

I'm praying that I will not lose my sanity or vision, and that I will finally have my life come together when I'm 28. Then,I can focus on storytelling, my career, and being able to support my family in a better way than I have been able to in the past.

punching doubt in the face part 1

Most of the time, I am a cautious person. I was not always this way, not in the least. There were times I attempted really stupid stunts on a trapeze in gymnastics class, ran around outside without shoes on (this is Texas; if you do this, you're taking your life into your own hands), and performed shows and sang songs for my family and whoever would happen to come by. I wrote stories, Dr. Quinn, Medicine Woman themed no less, and burst into "there must be more than this provincial life!" countless times. Mostly at Target.

As I grew older, I realized that maybe some of the things I did were weird or stupid to some people. So, I started to hide the things I loved to do in order to not be made fun of my brother and to also seem "cool", whatever the hell that means. This all happened in middle school, mostly, where Sundays were filled with Gundam Wing fanfiction writing marathons, followed by repeatedly beating Ganon in Ocarina of Time because I finally knew how without the game guide. When high school hit, I knew I was weird. I became okay with it to an extent, as I had found a few other weirdos to hang out with me.

Was I popular? Nope, not at all. Was I witty, charming, and gorgeous? Not around those people. The kids in my senior class were forced together by parents who thought they were doing a great thing. See, I was homeschooled. I went to this thing called a co-op, which is basically classes once a week taught by parents or teachers making extra dough. We had prom, yearbook, Youth & Government (which was my jam), and AP art classes (my main jam).

I knew a lot of people because my mom did, but that did not mean I was friends with them. People that I knew in the homeschooling community will tell me stories of so-and-so having a kid or going into the military or whatever, and I feel bad because I only know their name. How many people could say that they knew mine?

EXT. AFTERNOON, LAKESIDE DOCK AT A BIBLE CAMP

CHRISTINE, being awkward and having social anxiety, sitting on top of a dock, staring into the sunset. Group photos of the 2006 senior class were just taken, and all her friends dissipated into smaller groups or fled to their cabins to finish Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix. CHRISTINE is feeling lonely, even though surrounded by people. 

She thinks she is alone and starts to cry, pitying herself. 

So pathetic! 

Crying because she doesn't want to swim around "normal" sized people, because she would rather be playing video games, because she knows nobody will ask her to homecoming or prom, and one of her closest friends is dating the guy she likes.

JORDAN appears. CHRISTINE does not notice him, but should because every girl had a crush on him even though he was a jock. Eh, it was high school.

JORDAN

Hey, are you ok?

CHRISTINE

(turns from looking at literally nothing interesting) Uh, yeah. (sniffles) I'll be all right. 

JORDAN

Cool. (leaves dock, and doesn't speak to her again until graduation rehearsal, 9 months later)

CHRISTINE turns back to face the sunset, contemplating how she's going to survive life if she can't freakin' talk to anyone in her class.

END SCENE

Eight years later, I seem him at Chipotle. I look pretty much the same, though a bit plumper, and WAY more fashion conscious. I am also not carrying manga with me at all times, so that's cool. He turned around to look at me, searching with the whole I-think-I-know-her look, as I dodge glances, pretending to not even notice. I bet you $100 he does not remember my name. Why?

I was so shy and so cautious, perhaps due to depression. I have no idea. It could just be that fact that I was an awkward teenager who didn't want to go to swing dancing, dammit, but thought Nickel Mania might be fun instead. I spent 10 months trying to get to know these people, and only two of them I speak to on a regular basis and can call dear friends.

What happened to the charismatic child I once was? She got lost somewhere in the pubescent discord of adolescence.

She's back now.

Still a bit timid, I'm not afraid to tell people I am an actress or writer anymore. My husband keeps affirming that I am indeed a writer, that it is what I have always been. A storyteller, if you will. I love that title.

The person I denied being in fear of having friends or appearing a certain way is still there. What good did denying her do me? I was not enjoying life, creating friends, or making memories. I was hiding in my own head, which is not a bad thing. It just consumes me sometimes. 

The thing that killed that person I was is doubt.

The doubt that I had in high school, the doubt that anyone would like me, ask me to see a movie, that my art or writing was any good, that I had a chance at going to art school--this did nothing but hold me back. I feel as if I had pursued what I loved my life would be different, maybe not. Who knows, and what right do I have to plague myself with that question?

Doubt is a prison and an enemy. It captures the heart of someone, someone who was once brave, and steals it away to be locked in a dark tower. It changes your personality, your goals, your feelings about yourself and those around you. 

My husband sent me something on Facebook this morning that shed light on my struggle with doubt:

WOAH. No truer words have been spoken to me. Looking at my life, I realize that I have believed more in my doubts than my dreams. I never would let myself have a chance to fail because who wants to know what that's like? I've heard failure is pretty icky.

This is now saved to my desktop, and I am going to make a text painting with it. Yeah, I said I would be painting again. It feels good, man.

So here is to those doubts that took me on this path; from here on out, this is my show. This isn't what my brain says I can't do. It's now about what I want with my life because I have the ability to change it. Maybe I won't be singing in Target (highly probable, actually) or on Broadway, but I'm going to do what I want without labels or fuss or DOUBT. That ugly word is not going to haunt me anymore.

Three months, six years later

Apparently, it's been exactly three months since I've updated this blog. I have things that are in my drafts, that I hope to be able coherently finish one day soon. As for everything else, here is the run down of my life these past three months:
--workschool let out
--worked at Alamo Drafthouse for a month, but it was a lot to do with my summer course
--taught a summer camp to middle schoolers (oy!)
--took my first online summer course (and aced it, thankyouverymuch)
--drove the bus for some other summer camps
--husband and I put together an amazing dresser with this plan from Refinery29
--am still in the process of helping my parents do whatever the hell it is they're trying to do
--found/rescued/fostering (God help me) six kittens
--am finally going to be an extra in two different films this week!

The rest of the summer? I'm hoping it will bring me a lot of healing. It's not that I'm broken or damaged, it's just that I'm a little bit scratched up at the moment with some familial issues. Surely others have experienced what I am going through right now, but it feels like I am on an island, waiting on edge for that next big wave, hurricane, or volcano to come and pull me away from my sanity. Well, whatever is left of that really.

Summer is a complicated issue for my father to comprehend apparently. As soon as I was out of my workschool, I could set my watch by the time he calls each day. It ranges between 11:45 and 1:30, depending on my having called him earlier in the day or not. Sometimes I make the mistake of calling him at 11, just simply telling him something that is going on or that I would think he thought was interesting or that I love him. Just reminders.


It's usually then he will start his daily check-in, "Are you feeding Mommy today?" I very rarely let him ask me "What are you up to today?" It's very strenuous.

Reader, you may think I am selfish, not wanting to lunch with my mother daily. It's not that I don't enjoy it, not one bit. I like being able to be with her, love her, and make her laugh. Making her laugh is usually the best part of my day.

It's the fact that I live thirty minutes away, am trying to get things done this summer that I can't normally do (i.e. write my screenplays, audition for things, generally not be depressed), and make sure I take care of my self. The biggest factor is my brother.

My brother, friend, was temporarily living with us back in 2008, after a bad breakup with some crazy girl that he mooched off of, like he has done with all the girls. My brother, at one time full of passion and zeal for making art, has turned into a child-like man, hiding in his room, acting defensive, claiming he is oppressed and is being bullied by my father, who is his step-dad. They both bully each other, quite frankly, and I have had enough.

Mom is ill. I don't know if I've posted the story of how she came to be like she is, but the brief is she had a series of seizures/strokes, and a gigantic seizure three years ago that has left her with her faculties damaged. I am doing all I can in my power to make her proud; finishing college, working full time, being a good wife, being a good artist. Everyone else treats her as though she is barely human, adorable in her inability to function, and a pity party.

Brother claims he is watching her everyday, that is why he can't get a job. It's not due to his arrest a few years ago, surely, or his alcoholism or narcissism. Oh, no, it's not that at all. He's a martyr, saint, divine.

This is what gets me, my dearest friend, the fact that he is living in their home, rent free, alcohol drunk and precious mementos sold to strangers who come to our house, giving my brother cigarettes. The one who judges me for my being fat my whole life, yet has lost the battle to slovenliness. Who am I kidding? He has never fought a day in his life.

He has never appreciated her struggle and determination. I'm beginning to think nobody has in a long time.

I am not trying to make myself appear as a saint or martyr because I am not. I don't go visit her everyday, or bathe her, or take her out walking. I do it when I am mentally able to do it, because as soon as I leave, I must mourn my mother's loss yet again. The conversations I have with my father often lead to me chatting with her on the phone, and sometimes this is enough. Sometimes it makes her angry.

So, I'm sorry, but I won't be cleaning out the rest of my stuff for another week, and I won't be helping you clean out Brother's room, or the attic. Not yet. I'm tired of you relying on solely me to do all this, even when you yourself are sick. But that is an entry for another time, another state of mind. My heart is not yet prepared for more conversations on that.

the weight of worth part 1

I hate knowing the difference of how a fat person is treated rather than a skinny one. Granted, even when I was skinny, I wasn't the standard definition of the word. 180 pounds of muscle, and way less fat than normal, was heaven to me. Never had I felt freer, more positive, and more attractive.

Maybe I was then. I don't know.

My husband would be mad if he saw this, and he probably will read this so...yeah.

Sorry, babe.

When I was 21 or 22 (my memory is failing in my ripe old age), I decided to change things a little bit. I'd always been a bit heavier, probably the biggest girl in my graduating class (of 32). I never wanted to be "that" girl--the one who stood out as someone who was--gasp--different, who everyone said had a perfect, God-fearing heart, which was her main and only characteristic. Granted, that sounds like I would be offended to be a sweet and/or good person, but I was tired of people only seeing that part of myself.

So what did I do?

I went to a bootcamp.

You know, the kind of bootcamp where everyone gets up at an obscene hour to work out with a bunch of other strangers.

It was heaven.

I actually won the first month free. If I hadn't done that, I probably never would have started going to begin with. There was a display at the Galleria that had the bootcamp's logo, and a jar of whistles. If you guessed the correct amount of whistles in the jar--FREE MONTH OF SWEATY FUN.

Awesome.

Apparently my geusstimation skills are not as great as just being the only person to sign up. I won, but by default, and I didn't realize this until much later in the boot camp process.

I hated it at first. I convinced one of my best friends, Emily, to do it with me. We both had weird hours at our jobs, so getting up super early wouldn't mess up our schedules. For a long time, it was just me and her in the camp, running laps around the ice skating rink, or in the parking garage outside of Old Navy.

Emily dropped the bootcamp because of time restraints, I think, and eventually I would too. But not before I found the power that I had been granted from doing 300 squats. Oh, no.

I had power.

I had power of myself, what I thought about myself, and, most importantly, food. I ate only what I needed, and when I did want to indulge, I did so only a little bit. No more fast food, Dr. Pepper, or gobs of potatoes. I was healthy and sought out adventure.

This was when I started dating. Yes, I was 22 when I started this. There are probably many factors, like being fat, or not brushing my hair, or liking anime, or being a good Christian girl, that kept me from dating or being "dateable". I was not ashamed of any of these things, until I realized that maybe it meant I was dorky or something. Couldn't I change? Why was I waiting for permission to date? Not that anyone was seriously asking, anyway. And why was I waiting? True Love Waits basically taught me to sit around, and God would place a dude in my lap.

Not hardly.

I ventured into the scary world of online dating, since I was terrible at talking to guys in real life. The computer is such a great buffer. I went on a couple of dates with WEIRDOS, then finally met someone who I thought was "the one". He was everything I wanted (i.e. into video games, a musician, had a job, cute, etc.). He also came with some other things that I didn't really dig that much (communist leanings, bipolar disorder, former weed addict, kind of easy). Yikes.

We only dated for about two and a half months, and I ended things. A good friend of mine, Leslie, weighed in on my relationship with this dude and said that he didn't sound like that great of a guy, and that God had someone better for me.

Oh. My. God.

That haunted me for awhile. I decided to end things with him, because it was getting complicated. He lived far away, and kept getting in trouble at work for really stupid things. He had a lot of issues, and while this isn't meant to air his dirty laundry, they greatly affected me and maybe still do to this day. I was sad that I broke up with him, but probably because I had finally felt wanted.

I spent the next two years feeling "wanted" and "appreciated" because I thought I had found strength in my new physique. Even when I gained weight, it was still not so bad. I knew I was somewhat attractive, and that was all that guys wanted, right? That made me a woman. Not my creative abilities, loving heart, or desire to change the world. Just the fact that I was no longer in a size 16 jeans and straightened my hair on a regular basis.

This cycle of initial appreciation->desperation->negative thoughts->self-hate->binge eating had taken its toll on me. Right before I met my husband, I had had a rough spring. I had dated a guy that was obese, like pushing morbidly, who got drunk and would make fun of me. It only happened twice, but that was enough to get me to leave. I actually met my husband a week or so after cutting off communications with A-Hole.

Life has been so beautiful since.

Maybe I was meant to wait for my husband after all.

Justin has helped me realize that, even though he appreciates my physical qualities, despite my gaining about 30 pounds since we first met, he loves me because of WHO I AM. This does not mean my jean size, my bra size, or my bank account. It means my heart, my personality, my ability to make him laugh. It has nothing to do with my physical appearance, though he thinks that it doesn't hurt anything. Maybe it doesn't, but I'm so tired of trying to fight myself on this issue.

The reason I wrote this is so that you, dear reader, will find solace in the fact you are not alone. I'm sure you know this, and have heard it before, but it is so true. There are millions of girls who abandon their core beliefs for someone or something they always thought they desired, only to have it bite them in the butt.

You are beautiful.
You are a fighter.
You are strong.

Your appearance only matters if you let it. Granted, don't wear sweats to work or never brush your teeth or eat Chicken Express everyday for the rest of your life. We are temples and need to treat ourselves that way. I've decided to again embark on a journey of taking care of myself. In light of everything that's going on with my family, I have to in order to survive. It's not a matter of choice anymore.

I need to finally love myself in order for others to love and appreciate me.

That means...
the bank teller,
the nail technician,
the sales woman at JC Penney.

If they can see that I'm comfortable in my own skin,
that I love myself,
that I take care of all my needs,
they will be attracted to me in the most positive sense.

Here's to new beginnings, and redefining worth.

Let's all try to be a bit kinder to ourselves.
-c