The summer preceding sixth grade was rough. I felt displaced. I wasn’t sure that I had any friends, and when I finally felt like I had made one, felt threatened and that another friend and neighbor was taking her away. It had been a common thread through the previous eleven years of my life — I never felt like I was particularly skilled in making friends. And once I had made a couple of close ones, I was very protective of them. This protective feeling only intensified after my dad left. My friendship with this new individual ended that summer with an emotional outburst on my part, complete with probably one of my first analytical pieces of writing in the form of a letter to her, explaining what I was going through and why friendship was so hard for me. I don’t have it anymore, and I had completely forgotten about it until she reminded me several months back.

Sixth grade was a rough year. I don’t remember a lot of it. It was a trying year that I’ve probably repressed for fairly good reason. Dad was not living with us and there was all sorts of family tension, what with my youngest sister being just barely a year old while all this was transpiring. Halfway through the year though, I do recall my mom signing me up for a youth group event with the church we were attending.

To be honest, my life lacked a lot of stability and normality at this point in my life. When that is combined with my personal difficulty with making friends that had been occurring long before my father’s departure, I know with quite a high degree of certainty that I was just looking for a place to belong. Little did I know what a fight that would become. Regardless, I quickly adopted the youth group and was attending church religiously every Sunday and youth group every Sunday night, always going to every youth event possible. I listened to everything I was told. When there was an special lecture from an ex-Mormon on why Mormons were bad, I dropped all my Mormon friends without second thought (something I am deeply ashamed of now). I gobbled everything up.

That year my great uncle died. I went with my mom to the funeral, and there I saw my late grandfather’s brother who was basically his doppelgänger. I lost it. I cried that entire weekend, finally mourning my own grandfather’s death four years after the fact. I returned and requested coffee with my youth pastor, who I had been talking with on a fairly regular basis since I had started attending. I don’t remember if I had approached him, or he had approached me, but in any case, I rapidly came to regard him as a father-figure in my life, and he openly titled me, “like a daughter”, which of course added to the level of pure indoctrination I allowed myself to be open to. (It should be noted that I in no way think that this youth pastor had any ill intentions and do not think any less of him now. He was acting on his values, and I can respect that. What’s more, I don’t know how I would have survived middle school without his emotional support, advice and wisdom.) In fact, thinking about it now, my youth pastor and I might have begun talking after my great uncle’s funeral. I had brought a written piece with me to help get my feelings out. I knew I needed to talk about them, but I could not depend on my own devices to bring it all up without notes. The youth pastor lauded and was generally shocked by my writing skill, I say this not to boast, but to emphasize how important he was in encouraging me to develop my writing, and therefore my analytical skills.

Sixth grade passed, and my father moved home that summer. He slept in the guest room. The transition was awful. I did not respect his authority and did not feel like I needed to follow the orders and rules of a man who had left us. I, of course, said nothing. Instead, my ill feelings toward my father only grew, and so my meetings with my youth pastor only increased where I was encouraged to forgive him. It did not come easily. I plunged myself into the youth group more, struggling to gain acceptance among my peers. I failed miserably. I went unnoticed. But that didn’t stop my trying. I went to everything, I started a bible study group with another friend (not of that church) in our school. I did everything I could and still did not get any response from anyone in the youth group. The harder, I tried, it seemed, the more spectacularly I failed. Depression began to grow and develop. The worst was gym class, where I felt even more marginalized and ignored, what with me not being particularly athletic. To make matters worse, the most “important” members of the youth group were all in my gym class, and none of them really spoke to me. I began to sink further and further into depression. Meanwhile, though, the bible study that I founded organized and executed a youth rally at the middle school that was fairly successful. I took up other moderate leadership positions in the group. I fought to make a mark, and still felt unnoticed.

Also in seventh grade, my paternal grandfather died. I felt incredibly guilty. The last time I had spoken to him was my birthday a year prior, and I hadn’t paid much attention and had been on the computer. He had been suffering from leukemia and went into a coma in August. In November, when we had made plans to go on vacation to Florida, my grandfather died. I seem to remember having walked into the room my grandmother had him in when he started to convulse before dying a few hours later. I could be wrong though. I do know that he was terribly skinny, bald and did not look at all like my grandfather. Unlike my maternal grandpa, I mourned this one almost immediately. I felt guilty for not having paid him enough attention and for not knowing him as well as I would have liked. I held my dad’s hand at his father’s funeral. Which was big considering the family drama still occurring at the time. Although, after my grandfather’s death, things markedly improved between my mother and father and he moved back into the master bedroom.

So, on top of my issues with belonging, there was yet another death to add to everything going on in my life (not to mention the standard issue ridiculous hormones). Things got worse, especially during the summer when a good portion of people at the youth group were gone for the summer and my general interaction with people went down dramatically as I was stuck in my house. I resolved to read my bible every day, which I did. Reading my bible had been a standard for the entire seventh grade year. I studied it intensely. I learned it. I memorized it. I wanted to know as much about it as possible. This summer is the first one that I still have easy access to my journal entries.

It sucks, the one friend that I’m really getting close to is moving next year. Why does this kind of crap always happen?

S, second grade: best friends, someone who I really got close to…I moved.
J: I knew him from just about birth to second grade, we were good friends, I moved.
M: Best friend in third grade, the one friend that put up with all my crap. I moved.
L: 7th grade, finally, a friend that I can relate to sort of, she’s moving.

I hate this. I don’t want her to move. No one does. It’s not fair. She seems to be fine with it though, I don’t understand.

It’s interesting that I did not acknowledge Katie and Aly, my two longest friends and still likely my closest friends even then. It’s interesting because it shows just how much acceptance into this youth group (hitherto referred to as DC) meant to me. Things were also tumultuous that summer because the high school and middle school were splitting into two groups. This was hard because I felt as though the high schoolers were the only ones that had acknowledged me in any way. But, during this transition, I took an active leadership role. I joined the leadership team, I joined and helped shape the middle school worship team. I took my role seriously.

But everything reached its head on a fishing trip with my paternal grandmother that summer. It had been tradition to go on a fishing trip in Canada with my grandfather and that whole side of the family every couple of years. This summer it was just my immediate family and grandma, and it was the first time she had gone without grandpa. Here’s what I wrote in my journal during that trip:

August 9, 2002: 9:50pm
Well last night made up for not having any deep thoughts.
G convinced Mom to let her sleep in the room with me instead of with Grandma. I had told her earlier that I needed her to sleep with Grandma so I could have my alone time and be less of a grump the next day. When she came in, something inside me just snapped and I burst into tears. It was only for like 3 minutes that it was about G coming in. After those three miniutes, it was just a touch of two years or more of pain and depression being released. Five minutes later, Grandma, who has her own apartment and who’s been complaining the whole trip, comes in and says, “I can’t sleep.” (in a whiny tone).
She finds out what’s going on, or at least what she, and everyone else, thinks is going on and comes in and tells me, “Going on trips is about being inconvienanced. You’re being completely unreasonable.” I promptly tell her to shove off. I wanted to shove what she said about being inconvienanced in her face, but I didn’t. After all, she had made the lodge order her iced tea specially, she was getting a masage, and afterall, since trips was about being inconvienanced, wasn’t this just another inconvienance? She stomped over to Mom and Dad’s room, and proceeded to rant on and on about, “how selfish she is,” and “she can’t go to China if she’s going to act like this,” and, “she is so priveleged, so many children don’t have what she has.”
1. I hadn’t asked for anything but time alone the entire trip. How much had Grandma bitched about? Plus, it wasn’t even about that anymore.
2. I don’t want to go to China if I have to go with her now. I have better things to do. In fact, I’d rather raise money to go there on a mission’s trip. And again, it wasn’t even about G coming in at that point.
3. I KNOW that. Which is why I ask for very little and try my very BEST not to complain. Grandma needs to realize that more than I do. She who has everything, and yet complains about not having enough.
So I yell at her, ‘DON’T YOU DARE CALL ME SELFISH.” She storms in and tells me that I’m being very selfish and sarcastically adds, ‘I’m sorry you had a bad day.’ Try a bad three years. Some other words were exchanged and in closing she says, ‘Everything would be much better if you didn’t have a sister, G, right?’ I choughed out a ‘no,’ over my sobs, but she was gone. I went into the bathroom and curled up in the tub, and deeply considered drowning myself.
I’m just so tired of living up to everyone’s expectations. I’m so tired of pretending to be fine. I’m so tired of living. And I don’t even know why I’m depressed anymore, I have to reason to be, really. It’s just a lifestyle, if you want to call it that. If it’s even living anymore.
I just want to go home and talk to [youth pastor].
I want to just end this thing, this endless, vicious, cycle called life. And yet at the same time, I want to keep going. There is so much I have to live for, and I know that. But last night I was just so fed up with everything that I wasn’t even thinking about that. What stopped me was the thought of [youth pastor] and what other people might think of me if I had killed myself after that incident, not knowing the whole story. That, and the fact that there was still a voice inside of me that said, “I know you still want to live.” So I didn’t do it. But at the same time, the faucet seemed to beckon me.
After I was in the tub (no water) for five minutes, Dad came in and offered me “a chance to start over.” I took it eventually. We walked around. He told me I could talk and he would listen. I still don’t feel comfortable talking about this around him or mom. The only person is [youth pastor]. I think he knows that I’m depressed though. All I said was that I was sick of living up to everyone’s expectations and that I was sick of being responsible. After a while we came in. I went to bed and softly cried myself to sleep, disgusted with myself.
I’m my own worst enemy. I’m afraid to be alone. It’s only a matter of time until I attempt suicide. I wasn’t myself last night at all. I’m am so afraid of myself and what I’m capable of. I’m sick and tired of all this shit.
Today, Grammy didn’t say one word to me about any of the events last night. Though probably, Scott heard about i, Dad and Mom heard about it. S and R are going to hear about, P and K, all her friends. She’s probably waiting for my apology, but she is not getting it any time soon.
I want to tell mom and dad I’m depressed and that I considered suiced, but I’m afraid to. I don’t want to have to talk about it all the time. But they’re going to find out sooner or later. I’m going to talk to [youth pastor] when I get back and ask him to help me tell him.

I never considered suicide again. Things got markedly better after that. Things with my dad started to improve. I finally had fought my way into the “in crowd” at DC.

Eighth grade was a much smoother year. I was finally in the in-circle at DC. I had personally taken several individuals under my wing and assimilated them into the group. I continued to run the bible study at my school with my friend. I read my bible every day. I was an active member of my church. Eighth grade went off without many hitches at all.

But, I think it’s also important to note my political awakenings during those years as well, because those best reflect my perception of the outside/real world.

In sixth grade, there had been a mock vote for the presidential election. I remember having a difficult time deciding, but eventually voted for Gore because he opposed the death penalty, which I opposed as well. Another random lesson that stands out from sixth grade is one on economic systems. The teacher drew a line on the board. On the far left was communism, on the far right, capitalism, and in the middle, socialism. He talked about extreme communism versus extreme capitalism and somehow linked them together in a circle. I don’t remember how, but I do remember the discussion about extremes always being closer to each other and ignorant of the similarities. Such a logical argument has always stuck with me.

And I of course remember when the towers fell in seventh grade. I stood behind Bush. I lauded the “courage” it took for him to quote the bible in his address to the nation. I supported the war in Afghanistan. I supported Bush without fail, without question, unequivocally. All the same, I remember discussions in my social studies class about what to do. I remember several rowdy boys proclaiming that we should “bomb all those turbaned Islamic bastards to hell!!” I disagreed with that strongly. I believed firmly that all of our actions should be measured and careful — that doing such a thing would only encourage more Anti-American sentiments.

I supported Bush unequivocally, that is, until the lead up to the Iraq war. Here’s what I wrote in my journal that I can find:

Anyway. This war with Iraq kinda frightens me. I know that really, it’s probably not going to affect ME personally, but I HATE wars. I think wars are stupid and pointless. However, I do firmly believe that Saddam & Sons need to LEAVE, but they won’t. I would say just assassinate, but he has so many friggen doubles, and they have to take out his sons at the same time, and that’s too complicated, I suppose. And what irks me most is that we aren’t even completely finished in Afganistan. Now, I love Bush, you have to understand (I know, I’m like the only person in the US that does), he wants war WAY too much.

Incase you’re curious why I love Bush, it’s because I appreciate, and am still very amazed at him, for standing up in front of the country the night of 9/11, and reading us a Psalm, reciting rather. He kept a very cool head during the attacks, and I was very pleased and happy to find that he was considering God through it all. That’s what I love him for. I just wish he’d keep doing that.

I’m going to go read my bible now.

A lot of this I no longer agree with. But that’s not the point right now. I do remember, though, in my social studies class that year, being increasingly worried about Bush’s behavior to the UN. I didn’t think it was right. I was nervous. I wanted proof before we went in. I was uneasy with his decision. But I had to make sure my belief in Bush was untouched — because how could I be a Christian and oppose Bush?

I was born a poor black child. (Whenever I start a sentence, “I was born…” I can’t help but finish it off with that quote from The Jerk. Apologies. haha) I was born in Orlando, Florida. My earliest memories of church and Christianity are instantly associated with my maternal grandparents. Who knows how old I am in these memories. I had to be younger than 6, though, because they include my grandfather. I remember spending at least one day a week at my grandparents while my mom and dad were at work. On these days, we would often spend time playing card games or other board games, but there was also a substantial amount of time spent reading and telling Bible stories. It was with my grandparents that I also attended “Awana” nights, which was basically another Sunday school during the week for elementary aged kids. Needless to say, I accepted Christ into my heart at an early age. No questions were asked because it was obvious — I loved and trusted my grandparents, and so if this was something that was important to them, it was important to me as well.

My dad never went to church, except on a couple of Easters and when my sister was dedicated. I always found this odd, and I might have even asked my dad about it. But I don’t recall his answer. I think I just thought that he liked sleeping in on the weekends after a long week at work. But, I do remember observing how uncomfortable he looked and acted sitting in the pew on the Sundays that he did come.

My grandfather died when I was 6, I believe. I remember that day well. I prided myself on not crying. I remember the lead up, I remember being told that he was sick and I remember being taught about death. But to say I understood it would be entirely false. Two things strike me more than anything else about that day. The first was my dad. It was the first time I saw him cry. His face was beet red and he could hardly speak. This was about when I probably decided I wasn’t going to cry. Probably because it looked like what dad was dealing with was painful. But that despair and sadness was contrasted by my grandmother, sitting in her rocking chair in that crowded house of my family and grandpa’s friends, with a soft smile on her face. I asked her why she wasn’t crying like everybody else and her response was simple, “Because he’s in a better place and isn’t in pain anymore.” I nodded and held her hand.

We moved to Seattle later that year or the year after. During the first year we were in Seattle, my mom and I did not attend church. Over the past several years, however, my mother had been handing me a series of books on sex — they built up from basic “when a mommy and daddy love each other very much…” to the real explanation of what happens to girls and boys when they hit puberty and what sex really is. That year was also the first time I heard people my age use the dreaded “f-word” at school. I remember becoming friends with a fifth grader and we made sexual jokes all the time that I would later feel extremely guilty for, and to some extent still do, even though it’s really nothing to be ashamed of … it’s just part of growing up.

But, towards the end of third grade, we moved to a house in the suburbs and in fourth grade I started school there and mom and I started going to church again. The order of events between the end of third grade and fifth grade become shaky. I do know that I went to several Vacation Bible Schools and fervently gave my life to Christ at each of them. I also know that at some point in my third grade class we were talking about evolution and watched documentaries on all the fossil records that prove this theory. I remember a Creationist came to church one day and I stood up (as an 8 year old, mind you) and challenged the man about the fossil records and the changes they show. He dismissed them by some train of logic I couldn’t follow. I remember going with my mom to look at a few Christian private schools. I was worried about not being taught real science, I remember because I asked my mom, “why does 7 days have to mean 7 literal days? why can’t they be just like…you know…a metaphor? why can’t evolution have occurred in those periods? why would god leave us all this evidence if it weren’t true?” I remember deciding that I wanted to be baptized.

In fifth grade, however, I witnessed the birth of my youngest sister firsthand, and by the end of that year my dad had left to live somewhere else. I remember before it happened, dad told me that mom was making him choose that night between being friends with this lady from work. The implication was that mom didn’t like dad being friends with her and was cruelly making him choose. I was angry and sided with my dad momentarily and waited outside the door of their room for several hours that night, trying to hear their conversation. He left that week and was gone for about a year.

What I Believe And Why
Examining stages of my life and what I’ve believed in each of them. Analyzing and understanding why those beliefs were there and how my beliefs have been shaped because of my life experiences.
Part I: Early Childhood
Part II: Middle School
Part III: High School
Part IV: Post-High School
Part V: What I Believe

I’m going to be working on Part I over the next couple of days and hope to have it up this week or next. If spirituality/religion is interesting to you, particularly as pertains to a “de-converted Christian”, please use the comments or the contact page to ask me specific questions about what I believe, why, etc. I ask for you to ask me questions in the honest hope that you will ask questions I haven’t yet considered. Also, I want this to be complete. I want this to be something I can point to when I’m asked about it again in the future, as I know I will be. Of course things will change, but this series will at least be a good starting point. If you haven’t read anything about my beliefs, check out this articles (in chronological order from oldest to newest):

• Coming Out of the Closet
• It’s My Turn
• All the stars were crashing round, as I laid eyes on what I’d found
• Don’t you ever try to live a lie
• I feel like you wouldn’t like me

Sometimes I wish I were able to have the confidence in my decisions that Randy does. I really admire his strength of will. As much as I love the fact that I do think and analyze so heavily, I can’t help but respect Randy for his ability to just accept things how they are. I think that both approaches to life are equally necessary and that both need to be developed as equally as possible. It’s one of the things that Randy has helped me most with — learning to love where I’m at and accept the conditions I’m working under. It helps to focus my analyzing where it will be most effective. That funneling was an ability I totally lacked until two years ago.

Sometimes I wonder about just how different we are. But, whenever that starts to crop up in my thoughts, I can’t help but think about how our differences have created the best memories in our relationship and fostered the most growth in ourselves individually. Each passion that we find that we share is infinitely more exciting because of our vast differences, and therefore more important and more of a bonding point. When Randy and I first started dating, he couldn’t have cared less about Russia. And now he’s excited to learn the language, he wants our kids to be bilingual and to be able to communicate with them in Russian. He even wants to find a Russian tattoo, and I wouldn’t be surprised if his newfound enthusiasm got him to start reading more, even if only to find a Russian phrase of merit and value to get a tattoo of.

Most of the time, though, I am nothing short of completely excited for August 8, when I will have the distinct privilege of calling him my husband and being his wife. Even in the midst of my uncertainties and fear, I know in ways I can’t explain that I love him and want him for the rest of my life. Even when I’m frightened by the fact that I haven’t loved anyone else but him, I am all the same encouraged by it — because how unique is this opportunity? How wonderful is it to have the chance to build a life with my first love? And, I chose him. I waited for him. I pined for him. He wasn’t just a random relationship. And that indescribable attraction I felt towards him that went far beyond physical is another reason why I know we’ll last.

Even when I get scared.

Photo by Jen Martin

1) I have been passionate about Russia and all things Russian since the 6th grade when I watched that Anastasia cartoon. Since then, I’ve been to Russia once, got my appendix removed in the Arctic Circle in a Sovietesque hospital, planned on going to Russia for a year of language immersion, backed out, and have now (finally!) begun my studies in Russian Language, Literature and Culture at UW.

2) I am engaged to a great, loving, wonderful man who never fails to make me laugh and help me to keep things in focus and perspective. The big day is August 7, and I can’t wait for it to be August 8 and for the wedding planning to be over and to just be married to my best friend.

3) I don’t have a great many people I truly consider friends. But the ones that I do consider as such, I would do anything for without second thought, and nothing could cause me to lose my respect, love or affection for them.

4) I am an introvert. I do not deal well with large amounts of people for long periods of time. This is when I tend to have emotional and irrational breakdowns — the exact opposite of what I am.

5) I have a hard time coming to terms with my feelings and emotions. Quite often I feel more like a man than a woman. According to Myers-Briggs, I’m an INTJ, which I believe to be creepily accurate. I often corner people into taking this test both because I find it interesting and I enjoy watching people have minor freak outs over how right it is. :) In a nutshell, I am extremely individualistic, and spend the majority of my time theorizing and analyzing situations and ideas to death. I’m a natural brainstormer and love to find different solutions to both unique and battered problems and particularly enjoy using the power of the interwebs to enhance efficiency.

6) I really enjoy politics and a good debate. I am naturally liberal, but try my utmost to be moderate and empathetic to both views.

7) [relates somewhat to 6]. I call things like I see them. This has caused problems particularly in Randy’s family when I fail to automatically side with the “right” person. If someone is in the wrong or being ridiculous, I am not afraid to call them out on it.

8) I can’t stand it when people (including myself) can’t admit that they’re wrong or have made mistakes.

9) I’m not quite sure what I want my career to be. I definitely have my interests and passions as well as a few ideas, but I’m just not ready to commit to any one path yet, especially considering things change so frequently.

10) Randy’s last name is Felts. Mine is Kufeldt. When we get married, my name will be Sara Elyse Ku Felts, because seriously, how often do you get an opportunity like that?

11) Our three children’s names will be Owen James, Evelyn Sophia and Mikhail Ku (Misha). Assuming, of course, we get two boys and a girl. Who knows, though. And they’re still five years off. I have to finish school and get settled in a career.

12) I don’t plan on giving up my career, whatever it is, upon becoming a mother. I don’t believe this is anything to be ashamed of. I truly believe it is extremely possible to strike a balance between husband, children and career. It will be hard, but I intend to work for it, and set a good example for my daughter(s).

13) I’ve been designing/coding websites since age 10.

14) I’m an amateur photographer, and try to learn more about it every day.

15) I was a Christian for 18 years. My senior year of high school I left the faith tired of feeling bound to one religion and its ideals. I hate being labeled and being told what to believe. I still believe in a god. But I believe above all in human goodness, decency and justice toward one another. I am more at peace and have more faith now than I ever did as a Christian. However, I still go to church and college group to support Randy, spend time with friends and to keep myself thinking and challenged.

16) I love to write. I always have and I always will. It’s my secret dream to write a “Great American Novel” one day, but I’m not too optimistic about it happening. I’m not structured enough and can’t figure out what I want to say, let alone how or with what story. Hopefully it will happen one day though.

17) Reading is great. Especially Russian novels. :)

18) I don’t like alcohol or pot. I prefer to be in control of my body, thank you.

19) I hardly ever wear makeup, and I have about 6 shirts and 2 pairs of jeans that I rotate until they need to be washed. Physical appearance is not all that important to me. Until I see myself in pictures, of course.

20) I don’t listen to the radio and generally despise most of the mainstream music out there. I prefer more underground bands that aren’t played constantly. The Decemberists. Loch Lomond. The Shins. Gogol Bordello. Beirut. But I also enjoy lots of older music. Zeppelin. Eagles. Henley. Fleetwood Mac. Elton John.

21) I collect movies. I love them. I love the method of telling stories. But I do not enjoy film class. I enjoy dissecting novels, not movies. Movies I just like to enjoy and consider the narrative, and appreciate the art.

22) I love good TV shows. Ones with great stories (are you noticing a pattern yet?). Rome. Heroes. Veronica Mars. Dexter. Etc. Any show with great characters and great writing is guaranteed to rope me in even more than movies.

23) I would really love to live in Russia, even if only for a few months. I would love it even more if Randy were able to share it with me.

24) I love to laugh. Luckily both my family and my soon to be in laws thoroughly enjoy it too! I enjoy a good dose of bitter sarcasm, witty dialogue and dirty humor and you’ve got me. Comedic Idols: Demetri Martin, Stephen Colbert, Jon Stewart.

25) I am totally content with my life right now.

And I was serious about it. I wanted traffic. I did Blog Explosion every day for at least an hour that summer, and in the process, stumbled upon 9rules, and I wanted to be in, but didn’t dare try. Instead, I was offered a spot in a fledgling (now deceased) teen blog network known as Random Shapes. The community was great and helped me in many ways. Over the two years that Reaching Maturity ran, however, my zeal for immense popularity on the net had waned and I focused more on writings that I was interested in, shifting my attention to making blogging enjoyable again — mixing the new audience-driven style that I had developed with my old, intensely personal style, which is where, for the most part, I’ve arrived today. I don’t write about things unless I really, really care.

Today, I found out that I was accepted into 9rules. It was honestly a total shock. I had tried for round 7 and been rejected and tried again for 8 in November and in the intermediate two months had really given up hope on getting in, and was really at peace with that. I am really okay whether my journal becomes popular or not. That’s not what I do it for. I do this because I love to write. I always have and I most certainly always will. But nevertheless, being accepted into the so-called “elite” is still extremely encouraging. It means that my writing isn’t useless, isn’t irrelevant. And I can only hope that I continue to grow and expand my skills.

I just wanted to take a second to list the “9 Rules”:

1. Love what you do.
2. Never stop learning.
3. Form works with function.
4. Simple is beautiful.
5. Work hard, play hard.
6. You get what you pay for.
7. When you talk, we listen.
8. Must constantly improve.
9. Respect your inspiration.

I really can honestly say I believe in all nine of those credos. And I am exceedingly happy and above all honored to be a part of this group. I can’t wait to meet all of you and get to know you better. Thank you so much Tyme, Scrivs and Mike for this opportunity!

As an aside, I’ve been working on a new design for a few weeks now, I’m going to try to get it wrapped and up relatively soon, though with my new fairly heavy course load and the photography gigs I have coming up, that might take longer than I’d like.

I never really understood the term “inconsolable” before last Wednesday.

It always seemed as though Cassie and I had a world of time together — even up to the last few hours of her too-short life. She was my puppy, my baby, my girl, and to imagine life without her at my side was impossible.

And yet it happened anyway. I lifted and carried her down the steps of the garage and placed her in the van, she too tired. and when she fell from the bucket seat, I caught her and held her, massaging her behind her ear so that her head fell into my hand and to the side… for the last time. I buried my face in her fur and sang “you are my sunshine” while trying not to cry.

And then dad carried her in and I began to sob. Our time was waning too, too fast. We were ushered back to a room, dad placing her gingerly on the counter before seeing the blanket that had been laid out for her on the floor.

Time was too short, too unkind.

We all huddled around her, reaching for her, sobbing. It all moved so fast, too fast, before the vet walked in, tying that damned tourniquet around her front left leg. I gasped, my sobs grew suddenly more frantic and desperate, and Cassie sat up as the vet drove the syringe in. She fell. And I lost all control as I looked into her now glassy and lifeless eyes, wishing her back to life and my side. I laid over her, grasping at the folds of her fur, sobbing, inconsolable, lost in grief for an unknown length of time before I was the last one crying and the last one on the ground.

I vaguely heard mom saying it was time to leave, but I only gripped her more forcefully. I couldn’t get up. I couldn’t leave her when she had never left me. Not once. It stunk of betrayal and injustice. I couldn’t, I refused to accept that this was the last time I would hold her and pet her. I couldn’t move.

Eventually someone lifted me to my feet. My knees were weak and wobbling and I stepped back into the wall, my eyes steadfast on her, now not wanting her out of my sight if I was unable to touch her. And then I was turned and removed from the room — I kept stopping, turning back, wanting to go back to her.

Betrayal, betrayal, betrayal.

Somehow, I was outside. I looked frantically around me, turning, turning, trying to go back in.

Betrayal, betrayal, betrayal.

And then I was in the van, sobbing, lost, wretched, spent, inconsolable. My heart, for the first time, was utterly and completely broken.

And then we were home, my sisters walked inside, but I couldn’t move.

Betrayal, betrayal, betrayal.

I continued to sob. Mom said something about crying where it was warm, but I couldn’t move. But somehow, inexplicably, I had opened the door and stumbled out, blind with tears, into my dad’s arms, our sobs echoing through the neighborhood that had never seemed so empty and lifeless.

Once inside I moved to the office, climbing under the old writer’s desk to lay in a ball — the last place she had been.

And I sobbed.

Emptiness, loneliness, brokenness, pure grief, anguish … inconsolable.

Mom and sisters moved on, laughing again. Dad and I sobbed wildly.

Chelo came. I pushed him away time and time again. I only wanted her.

We all slept in mom and dad’s room, I the only one sobbing, aside from Maddie, who wanted to sleep on the bed.

Inconsolable.

Betrayal.

Loss.

Grief.

Pain.

Emptiness.

Utterly broken and missing heart.

I awoke crying. Showered sobbing. Stumbled down the stairs in anguish.

All I wanted was her.

And I was inconsolable.

And now it is 2009. Marriage is just around the corner and I cannot wait. I’m starting UW and I am excited to be pursuing my academic dreams. And while being laid off was an unexpected setback, it has opened doors for me to actively chase my freelance aspirations, particularly in photography, but also in web design.

But I am determined to make some resolutions, some general (and a few specific) goals to achieve by the year’s end, if only so I can look back on it later. So here we go, in no particular order other than train of thought:

1. Lose weight by the wedding — ideal weight 120lbs. Achieve this by eating right (and having it stick this time!) and exercising (just walking on campus should do it for at least the first few months, supplement with afternoon/evening walks around the neighborhood and walking on the weekends).
2. Get at least B’s in all my classes this year. Do this by improving my study skills from last quarter — set aside time for studying every day. During the morning and afternoon commute is a good time, as is extended breaks between classes.
3. Earn at least $400/month from freelance photography & web design. Work diligently at advertising and marketing — don’t be afraid to put myself out there. Try new things. Spend at least a half hour every day building my business and contacts.
4. This is one of the most important ones — keep nurturing my relationship with Randy. Never forget that the wedding is just one day to start the rest of our lives and that keeping us strong is more important than details. Never be afraid to tell him exactly how I feel or what I’m thinking. Be honest with myself and with him. Love him without condition. Show him that every day.
5. Don’t forget to plan the wedding! Stay on top of things!
6. Get better at keeping in touch with Katie and Aly. They are the two most important friends I have and I haven’t been doing a particularly good job with staying in touch. Resolve to see Aly at least once a week, see Katie at least once a month, and call Katie at least once a week.
7. Try to take my camera out somewhere with me at least once a week and challenge myself to take pictures out of my normal range.
8. Find a nice, affordable place for Randy and I to live. Create a nice atmosphere and begin healthy habits for both of us. Enjoy life spent together, even when it undoubtedly gets aggravating — always remember it’s better to be together than apart.
9. Once Randy and I are living together in Seattle, try to get a set of friends that is our own, not originally Randy’s and not originally mine… ours.
10. Learn to be a good, patient, loving, devoted, faithful wife in all things, in every way and every day.

My secret is not a ritualized manner of killing those who have done wrong, and in fact, is no longer that big of a secret at all. I’ve discussed it here a few times already, and this isn’t likely to be the last, either. So why do I bring up my de-conversion in this manner? As if it were a secret I am unwilling to tell, a part of me I disguise and hide away? Because in some ways, it still is.

I continue to attend church and college group. Church I attend for two reasons, the most important of which is supporting Randy in his pursuit of knowing his god, and second, to have my own beliefs challenged, to see what it is I really believe, a reminder to think of such things. College group is a different reason — I have friends there, and it’s an open discussion of beliefs. I don’t feel cornered, and I don’t feel as though I am expected to be anything that I am not. In other words, at church, I hide for Randy’s sake.

Our church (it feels funny saying that) just got a new pastor this week. And as he sat down with our college group at the potluck after the service and began to talk to us and ask if it would be alright for him to come to youth group, I began to get nervous. I have no idea why. I am not remotely ashamed of who I am or what I believe. Instead, it’s the explaining it to someone I don’t know. And the single biggest problem with Christians (in my experience as one and among many and as a self-made outcast) is that most of them (certainly not all, however) completely lack the ability to understand someone who is not among their ranks. Instead of listening to what the “unsaved” person before them is saying, what that person believes and why, they focus on how they can turn the conversation to God’s glory, thereby completely missing the point. It’s an exhausting conversation to have with a Christian — that of not being one, especially when you were one before. Most see it as just a temporary fall from grace, typical doubting that most go through, natural, healthy even. And maybe it is, but I am more than inclined to believe that it is not.

And if this new pastor comes to Wednesday nights, he’ll know. And maybe he’ll ask questions, and maybe he won’t, but if my initial reads are anywhere near correct, he’s the kind that likes to move in on his congregation quickly. And I don’t respond well to people asking deeply personal questions if they haven’t earned my trust. But, he deserves a chance, and a chance he will have. But in the meantime, I’ll just play it safe, a little Dexter-like. Pretend a little while I try to figure this guy out. Pretending is self-defense.

I am rational by nature. I do not feel my way out of situations, I analyze them to death and make the best decision I can. If I sense that I might be feeling, I analyze the feeling, always doubting its relevance and correctness.

As a child, I never once imagined my adult life as a stay-at-home mom — never to the discredit of those female friends of mine who pursued such goals, but simply because I could not imagine sitting at home all day with children, when I could be out doing something. Of course, now I see that the two are inherently the same thing, and with my growing maternal instincts and desires I find myself struggling between longing to provide for my family and contribute to society (because that is essentially what I see working to be) and longing to nurture my family and thereby as well contribute to society (by introducing new, hard-working, upstanding individuals).

After getting laid off from my position as a junior interaction designer at a local voice recognition software company in October, my desire to have children and start a family has inexplicably (and scarily!) grown. There’s no need to worry — my rationality prevails and Randy and I will not be pursuing this for at least another four or five years. But, this fact is an important backdrop to my post-layoff deliberations on what I want to do with my life in a career sense. As time wore on, I realized that if I am going to work and spend weekdays away from my future children, I want it to be for a job that matters and a job that I am passionate about.

My dad was laid off from his company of ten years back in my sophomore year of high school. I remember the lead up to it well — dad hated his boss and hated his job. In the months that he was searching for a new job, mom tried to coax him into changing careers … maybe try being a math teacher, and he joked about opening a bike shop or coffee stand. But, six or nine months later, he had a job in the same industry, and he hates it just as much as before. I swore to myself that I would not let that happen to me. We try so hard and we care so much about being successful and taking care of our families financially that we forget what it means to be happy and whole. And I don’t want that for my family. Stability is nice and has its place, but passion and a deep-seated desire to do what you do every day I think is so much more valuable, not to mention inspiring.

And so I have decided to pursue Russian Area Studies once more. Where will it take me? Perhaps a job in the government in some capacity. Maybe translating Russian media, movies or books. I don’t know. But I do know that I’ve avoided risks enough to owe this to myself. Russia has been my one prevailing academic love. It would be foolish to leave it behind and ignore it. It is a sacrifice I am not willing to make.

The funny thing, though, is that I made this decision not on the basis of me. It was entirely based on my children who aren’t anywhere near on the scene. It’s a strange thing when your life is no longer predicated on just you. But, it’s even more strange to find what a liberating feeling it is after all. Knowing that I have Randy to back me and help me through the best and the worst of times no matter what — it seems I can do anything — even be a working, nurturing mom, and finally find the balance between my masculine and feminine instincts.