How to build a palace

A talk was given in church a week or so ago that was all about perspective, which of course made me introspective. I realized that while I like to pretend I am an optimist, I am much more often dancing around on the darker side of pessimism. Our speaker painted a couple pictures to help illustrate the lesson but one in particular stood out to me, that was the painting of the palace and the prison. He explained that oftentimes we have choices, but sometimes there are four walls of circumstance that cage us in beyond our choice and beyond our control.

For the pessimist we see a prison. The walls are foreboding. The room is dark and dank, and a lonely cage in which to dwell. Visitors beware as they are not welcomed by the rain cloud that is circling as it rains or strikes anyone who dares to bring any attitude opposing that of misery.

For an optimists we see a palace. The same four walls of circumstance in which this person cannot leave, they make the best of. Walls are painted, pictures are hung, and visitors are welcomed in to this warm and inviting room. In fact, guests are often visiting because of the sunny disposition of this particular individual.
I find myself habitually trapped in rooms of circumstance, sometimes by the hands of others but most often as a result of my own imprudence. It is when I land myself within the confines of these walls with the knowledge that I myself, am the very villain that trapped me there… it is then that I struggle the most to find that silver silhouette encasing the cloud that is pouring down on me. But it was during that talk that I was finally able to really comprehend just how much gratitude plays into optimism.

Sure, I can paint a picture of this bleak existence on the walls that surround me, as so often I do. I’ve had my heart broken multiple times and tend to dwell on it. I venture out on these fruitless quests to discover where I went wrong fueled by a hope that if I find an answer, maybe it will change everything… but it never does and so the misery continues. Yet I know there is much to be grateful for.

It is an absolute blessing to have had my heart broken as many times as I have. I have been fortunate to encounter some really extraordinary men, each worthy of falling in love with. While none of these relationships stood the test of time, I learned much from each of them for the short periods of time I spent with them. Each relationship taught me things about myself and what I want out of a future partner, things I might have otherwise had to just guess on. I have a long history of fond memories and experiences I wouldn’t trade for the world. I know that not everyone dates or loves as often or frequently as I do, so that truly is something to be grateful for. Someday all these experiences are going to help me be a successful partner to my future spouse. Sometimes I am impatient and I want things to happen right now, but it will happen for me when its suppose to.

It took me a long time, but I realize now that the more grateful I can be for the things that hurt me most, the better I will be at building a palace and the happier I will be.

It

Run it in the ground
Trip and stumble down
Dust it off and shrug it
Tighten grip and love it

Hate it, fade it
Let it go and wade it
Through the muck and make it
Banish and forsake it

Wave goodbye and free it
Don’t look behind, just leave it
Move forward and forgive it
For once, let it live and live it

No news is good news

I had someone ask me recently, “you’re such a happy person, why don’t you write happy things?” I don’t know that I completely agree that I am all that happy of a person, me thinks he just doesn’t know me well enough. To answer the question however, is a simple answer. I write as a form of therapy. It’s a way for me to express that which I might not otherwise be able to, either due to cowardice or social impropriety.

When I am genuinely happy, I don’t see a need for therapy or a reason to escape. Oftentimes when I find myself amidst the elusive emotion known as joy, I am too encapsulated by the bliss to ever bother to sit down and write about it. If anything I am far too busy trying to enjoy the fleeting feeling for as long as I can before it wanes and once more I find a need to write. As short as these moments might be, I cherish them and revel in them as they happen. Often I hold on to them long after they’ve passed and try to recreate them, always lacking the original luster… but I remember enough that in order to appease some who might believe my writing to be all depressive in nature, I will now recall of a time when I was happy beyond any ounce of measure. This was after I was baptized.

There is an array of mushy details leading up to my actual baptism itself. To know my background and what I grew up with, my getting baptized was pretty much the first sign that hell was freezing over. It was a long road to baptism for me with my biggest obstacle being my own pride. I had so many fears about what getting baptized would mean. I would be living to a new standard and I wasn’t certain if I could live up to it… did I want to feel guilty all the time? I wasn’t certain if was ready to turn my back on the person I was. After all, all the experiences I had prior to that point had made me into who I was… how could I just ignore all of that?

There was a moment when I remember just letting go of everything. I was sitting in the passenger seat of my friend’s car. We were driving on our way home from attending the Spring General Conference in 2009. I’d had this thought in my head for a while but finally just sitting there, enjoying the quiet hum of the freeway beneath the tires, I was brave enough to say it out loud. “I think I’m supposed to get baptized.”
From that moment on I had found a sense of courage and strength that I never knew I’d had. I felt like I could take on the world and that no matter what trial came my way, there was this peace in knowing I didn’t have to face anything alone anymore.

I had so much gratitude for the people in my life and the experiences I’d had. I was even grateful to have had my heart ripped out and stomped on because I knew that without that story, without that suffering, I would have never been humbled enough to fully embrace the love the gospel had to offer me.

I haven’t been so happy as that day I was sat down on a chair on May 9, of 2009 and was confirmed a member to the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints. This isn’t to say my testimony has been diminished, this isn’t to say that I haven’t experienced spiritual moments that filled my heart, but I am saying that I can’t remember being as happy as I was then prior to that moment or since that moment.

I know that these heart breaks and pitfalls I’ve encountered since then will merely be speed bumps in the grand scheme of things. While they seem inescapable now and utterly devastating, these minor afflictions and heart aches will be nothing compared to the happiness I’m sure to feel when I find that special someone. A mere trifle to my wedding day or the birth of each of my future children. My life isn’t all doom and gloom, but until I have met with these joys, it helps me to write about the trivial little cracks in my heart.

Crazy is as crazy does

I have officially diagnosed myself as crazy. I am not a diagnostician nor do I have any credibility, merit, or degree to my diagnosis, but I still believe it to be true. I sit there in my classes like abnormal psychology, theories of personality, families in stress, and I can’t help but wonder how on earth I am still alive for one thing, or why I’ve yet to be committed. I suppose as far as crazy goes, I could be much worse, after all I’m not having conversations with auditory hallucinations and I’m not hauled up in my bed living in my filth… yet.

“So Noelle, how are you crazy?” You might be wondering. I am crazy in many things and I realize it more as of late than I have before. Its crazy that for so long I thought of myself as normal and mellow, which I am anything but. I am analytical to a fault. Thinking things through might seem a fruitful and acceptable attribute, however I find more often then not that I spend so much time thinking about what might happen, that I forget to let myself enjoy what is currently happening. This over analyzing has caused much more misery than it has saved me from, which is somewhat ironic. I am neurotic and paranoid, often believing that any suffering is warranted by some universal crime or another that I have inadvertently committed. Also I have tendencies to feel things in a heightened sense and then turn around and express those feelings with even more intensity than desired. More or less I am a walking basket case.

The more important question is not how I am crazy, but why I am crazy. I remember as a kid my older brother used to be really mean to me, which is pretty typical. Older brothers tease their little sisters, at least that’s how I knew it. There are two problems with this equation in regards to my situation, however.
The first problem is I was (and still am) a tender hearted person. As much as I wish my heart was this impenetrable force to which nothing could gain access, it is quite the opposite. It is like a sponge that just soaks up everything that is thrown at it, be it love and kindness or disapproval and rejection. Being teased by my older brother was not something my young little heart was capable of enduring. Most of the time I had it in my head that he was a mean, nasty boy, but the fact remained that he was still my older brother… I think I sought his approval, much like any younger sibling would and the way he teased me had me believing that I was just this appalling human being.

The second problem of this equation is that my older brother was some what relentless when it came to his tormenting of me, which was something my mom was not capable of controlling, to which her solution was always the same. My older brother was mean to me about something, I cried, and then I was sent to my room… at 24 I understand why this had to happen. My mom wanted to send him to his room, but it never panned out. I’m sure Nanny Joe would have a solution to that but Nanny Joe wasn’t around when I was a kid. My mom was just trying to protect me. I understand that now, but at 5? At 8? At 13? I didn’t really understand what was happening. I just wanted to get a snack in the kitchen, and here I was being punished… then the thinking began… why was he being mean to me? Did I do something wrong? Did I look at him the wrong way? Did I say something wrong? Was it because I didn’t say anything? I MUST have done something wrong because now I’m in my room…

So intrigued by my self diagnosis, you might also be curious to know more. Let’s see… along with this innate core fear of rejection that pervasively dictates my life, I’ve also stumbled upon some rather ineffective life long appraisals and coping mechanisms. In some senses they are circular causal in that my poor cognitions and attributions land me in situations where I need a coping mechanism, but then my ineffective coping mechanism fuels even more negative self loathing thoughts.

Oh what’s this? You’d like an example of said poor coping mechanism? Possibly mentioned in previous blogs it is learned that I am one to beat a situation to death until I feel as though I’ve exhausted every possible option. This is to say a situation where things haven’t necessarily gone the way I would have liked. Just for the sake of explaining things, we’ll say I liked a boy that didn’t like me. Instead of accepting the situation as “it is what it is,” (because let’s face it, that would be far too mellow of a reaction for someone as neurotic and overly analytical as myself) I need to know why. I MUST know why. I need to know why he doesn’t he like me. Is there another girl he likes more? If so, why does he like her more? Does it have anything to do with my physical appearance? Was I too clingy? Was I not clingy enough? Maybe he thought I wasn’t interested? Maybe I wasn’t clear on my intentions? What could I have done differently that could have made him like me? And the list goes on of about 100 more completely whacked out questions as to why this fictional boy could possibly not like me. But methodically asking myself the questions isn’t enough, at some point I’ll usually start to pester the poor guy until I can squeeze some sort of justification out of him as well. This is poor coping because while I might get some sort of answer, it doesn’t leave me feeling satisfied. The answer as to why isn’t a cure all to future potential run-ins with similar problems. The pain or the stressor is not alleviated, and beyond that in my quest for answers I have also damaged what could have been a good friendship.

Clearly I’m not stupid. With hindsight I am able to retrace my actions and see where they have lead me. I can look all the way back to when I was a kid and see why that might have a profound effect on me today. I’ve studied my coping strategies (or lack there of) and evaluated their efficiency. I am not stupid because I am aware of what is happening… but I am crazy because I do nothing to stop it.

The skies are crying with me

Its 2:07 in the morning and its raining… its been cold all day, snowed last week. But right now in this very moment, it is raining… I am a crier. But I am a crier in the most shameful of senses. I will never cry where anyone can see me nor will I ever cry loud enough for anyone to hear. I never want to draw attention to myself when I can’t keep it together. For me it is bad enough to be suffering a heightened enough emotion to make me want to cry, but to have to meet and surrender to this in front of others? Never. It is my burden to bare.

Its not that crying is a sense of weakness. In fact, I’ll gladly admit to anyone that I get choked up when I watch Disney movies. But it’s the tears that spill because of my own careless stupidity… those are the ones I don’t want others to feel they have to clean up. My mom has heard enough of my sobbing over throwing my heart at some boy who didn’t want it, why make her hear that one more time?
Instead I’ll lay in my bed, face my wall, and swim in my thoughts until I fall asleep on my tear soaked pillow or until I simply grow too tired of crying…. That’s really embarrassing. The only people that should be tired of crying are those grieving over a lost love one at a funeral. To think I’ve let more then one tear leave the corner of my eye over a boy is pitiful.

As pitiful as me putting myself in this predicament? Sure, sounds about even. What’s worse is I lay here craving a connection with anyone. It’s a dreadful and unfulfilling wish for there to be someone that can sense when I am in need. The irony is that I am so damn prideful that if perchance such an individual were actually to exist, I would likely turn their services away, claiming I deserve to suffer.

Maybe that’s what it all comes down to… I deserve this. I either did something or not enough of something, or maybe this is just one of those punishing good deeds or misinterpreted intentions. Either way, I am here, I am crying, and I feel like I deserve to be sad, miserable, and alone… but I’m not alone. The skies are crying with me tonight.