my 17-year-old self

Processing through a lot in therapy, about who I’ve become in light of who I was, and who I want to be, who I am growing into being; wrestling with how I can be honest about my life and decisions with people who will disagree with things I’ve done. This is our line of conversation and we come to this point where my therapist says…

“What would you say to your 17-year-old self if she came walking into the room right now?”

…and I responded with,

“I would tell her that she doesn’t owe the church anything.”

I had never said these words out loud, but they must have been living inside of me for a while for them to come off my tongue so quickly. I had never even consciously thought these words, but the truth of that statement echos in me a week later.

…and then I wept. I wept at the kindness I showed my 17-year-old self because these words were not said with anger or vehemence, but with compassion, understanding, and kindness. I wept because it was the first time in my life that I had this realization that through my decisions in high school, college, and beyond I was trying to pay the church back for the structure they gave me when I needing something. Only I was attempting to pay the church back with my life at the cost of my soul.

me, summer of 2001, 17 years old.       *Thanks to Kim Maxwell for the photo!*

So, I ask you: what would you say to your 17-year-old self?

live your life {alternate title: the time I had a life changing moment in Sephora}

It was Saturday and I had wandered into Sephora to purchase the mascara that I like. Women buzzed around the store, some receiving help from the staff, some trying on makeup, some just aimlessly wandering like I was trying to do.

I went straight to the stand where ‘my’ mascara is located and, as I was standing in line to purchase said mascara, a thought popped into my head…

I’ve really been wanting to try red lipstick but I’m afraid. I tweeted as such, just so that I wouldn’t feel alone in this giant crowd of people…

…let me be not alone in the land of Sephora…

I walked around to the different stations they had with the different brands on display and simply looked.I almost bought a ‘tinted lip moisturizer,’ which I do believe is a fancy way of saying ‘chapstick with a bit-o-color.’ I began to feel overwhelmed and thought about all the reasons I’ve been told before that I shouldn’t wear red lipstick, which really boil down to the understanding that my lips are little and my teeth aren’t perfectly white, both of which would be magnified by such a bold lip color.

But then I realized that these were things that were told to me from magazines that tell me everything about me is wrong.

My hips are too wide.

My belly is too much (shit, I have a belly at all that protrudes from my body).

My breasts... wait, nope, those are evidently awesome.

My hair is too fine and not shiny enough.

My nails are too ragged.

My face is too splotchy.

My feet are too calloused.

My thighs touch.

My knuckles are too fat.

My hands are too man-like.

…and I got pissed. I got pissed that these ideas have even been put into my head because at the end of the day (and the beginning and the middle), I believe that I am beautiful.

I also believe that I am an intelligent, independent, sexy, capable, emotional, grounded, bad ass woman.

So I found someone to help me pick out some fantastic red lipstick, and I’ve worn it every day since.

I wore it to the Spring Banquet on Saturday night.

I wore it to work on Sunday.

I wore it to school today.

I wore it while I cleaned my room tonight while wearing my pajamas and a Texas Rangers hat. 

This is my life. I just maybe had that realization *again* while in Sephora.

I need to stop letting something outside of myself dictate my happiness, my choices, my idea of who I truly am.

——

I’ve been reading a lot of blogs lately about body images and one of those belongs to a woman named Kate who lives in New York. Here’s one that I thought of while I was having my epiphany. She does a unroast at the end of every post, and I’m taking that on for myself. More positivity can’t hurt…

Unroast of the day… Today, I LOVE HOW I LOOK IN RED LIPSTICK! That was easy (this time).

Happy living to you all!

Selah.

tom: the update

Here’s what you’ve all be waiting for……

I still haven’t heard from Tom.

but this is not unusual since I haven’t really looked myself. I’ve sent you all out to do it for me, to ask weird questions to your friends, to post my blog on your own page, to tweet it out to the interwebs.

Asking others to find a man named Tom in England is, quite literally, like searching for a needle in a haystack. And, right now, I have no time to search, but I have a lot of time to wonder about how that night could have ended differently.

Alas, that is a blog that will not be written.

I feel as though I have righted my regret simply by putting it out into the world, “I want another chance!” Admitting my regret and seeking to redeem that moment made the regret more bearable, almost extinguished it altogether.

Almost.

What else can I do? Any advice? Any tips on how to find a burly, British, brainy needle in a haystack the size of the world?

I await your direction, blogosphere of hope and joy.

 

-Courtney-

dear tom {in which I beg the Internets for help to find the love of my life}

Dear Tom,

The moment I saw you, I was smitten.

Like, whoa, smitten.

We had a brief conversation at the Temple Bar Pub in Dublin on the night of April 24th, between the time of 11 PM and 1:30 AM. I had already drank too much (which is inevitable when your best friend tells the whole damn bar that it’s your birthday), and the music was amazing (thanks to All Fol’ked Up – catchy name, fantastic music!), so I wasn’t fully engaging in our conversation. You soon left, saying you had “business to take care of,” while you walked toward the exit door, and I didn’t follow you.

I didn’t follow you.

That is the ONLY regret I have about my trip because, dear Tom, I think you may be my soul mate.*

I know you saw me chatting animatedly with the Baby Faced Australian boy but it’s because he was telling me about his upcoming trip to Texas and I felt he needed some direction and guidance as to his itinerary. Tom, please know that I would never hurt you and our (possible) love by flirting with Baby Faced Australian Boy (he was 20, for crying out loud! too young, too young), I was merely excited about sharing my love for Austin and all the adventures he should have.

Tom, please, if you see this, let’s chat.

Dear Internets, this is a cry for help. Please help me find Tom. Here is all I know…

• He is British
• He was in Dublin for work.
• He is an electrical engineer
• He was at the Temple Bar Pub some time between 11 PM and 1 AM
• He is around 5’10″ – 6’3″ tall
• His beard was perfect; cropped closed to the face but long enough to be soft (yes, I touched his beard. I’m that girl).

Literally, that’s all I got. 

If you know of a man who fits the above description and location details, please send an email to findtomthebrit@gmail.com so that I may have the opportunity to speak with Tom again.**

Thank you for your help in this endeavor.

May we all find our own versions of bearded, burly, brainy British men.

Grace and peace.

*Tom is either my soul mate or a douche bag. I feel as though there is no middle ground in this area.

**yes, I did really set up this email. I’m that serious.

touch at your own risk

One thing I have learned from my short time in Ireland is that men seem to believe that because I am an American that I will simply fall into bed with them.

Our first night out in Dublin found me and my two girlfriends at a bar and we made friends with a couple of local men; one in particular seemed to possess that personality of… Well, I’ll call it douchebaggary. He flirted with all three of us, including my one friend who is married and who stated several times over the course of the evening that she’s married and loves her husband very much. Along with flirting with us, he was flirting heavily with three women from Holland. At one point, he called us bitches, which he totally claimed as a term of endearment. I came a bit unhinged. The following is a paraphrase of what I told him…

“‘Bitches’ is not a term of endearment. You will not flirt with me all night, including STICKING YOUR TOUNGE IN MY EAR, doing the same to another friend, and not listening to the polite decline from my married friend, and THEN call us bitches. ‘Bitches’ is a derogatory term and it does not fly with me.”

Yes, I am a feminist.

I spent two nights in Kilkenny with my married friend and, twice in one night, I experienced two different men who believed they had the right to grab my ass. One was drunk, one was not, but I still felt my personhood was violated.

The first man, Paul, was drunk and partaking of his brother’s stag night (bachelor party). While laying his hand on my ass, he paid me the complement, “you’ve got the best ass I’ve ever seen.” maybe to make me feel better at the fact that he saw it as his privilege to touch what was not his to touch. This is what I said to him…

Excuse me, but is that your hand on my ass? Did you really think it was okay to touch my ass without asking permission first? Paul, get your hand off my ass.

The next man was on the same night and at a different stag party. We ran across Shane and his mates celebrating Shane’s impending nuptials and were promptly invited into the festivities. All was well and it was a lot of fun being the estrogen presence in a sea of testosterone. While some of Shane’s mates were really cool, other’s were not. Again, one man was tipsy enough to think it was okay to touch what was not his to enjoy. The following is an honest reenactment of my interaction with him…

“are you really touching my ass without my permission? That sucks because I like your mate, Shane, and I like you guys; if you would have asked to touch my ass I would have probably said yes, but now that you’ve gone and done it like it was your fucking right, I’m pissed.”

Come to find out, he also has a girlfriend…

“and how would you feel if your lady was out and some stranger grabbed her like you just did me?”

Later, he propositioned me again…

“do you still have a girlfriend? Then step away because I am not that kind of lady.”

I love that I don’t take shit from men. I AM NOT PROPERTY FOR YOU TO TOUCH AT YOUR WHIMSY AND WILL. I am my own person and, if treated with dignity and respect, I may actually let you do what you want as long as I want it, too.

My next come back will be to ask them about their relationship with their maternal parental figure. That will be ice water on the situation.

On my way to Belfast for the last leg of our trip. Can’t wait to see what’s in store for us there.

selah

dreams (part 3): hope, grief, and my therapeutic calling

Two days.

2.

Such a small number.

I have been dreaming about going to Ireland for over ten years. Ten years worth of dreams will begin to be realized in a mere four days.

These two things seem so… disconnected.

But that’s the funny thing about dreaming, right? We dream to keep us going. Dreams give us something for which to hope; for some people, dreams even give the hope to keep getting out of bed in the morning. Our world seems to run on hopes and dreams, but I don’t know many people who can say that they have lived into their dream or have gotten to experience their dream. Or maybe that’s just me?

I get to do it. I get to experience my dream! there is so much excitement in that!

and yet…

and yet, there is also sorrow because this thing that I’ve been hoping for, this thing I’ve been dreaming about, will soon be over. I’m not afraid that my expectations will be dashed or that the reality won’t live up the what I want it to. I’m talking about the return to my daily routine; the part where I come back to Seattle and dive back into school, work, and my future internship. Those days when I need something to hope for, when I need a dream to keep me moving… what will I turn towards now?

My classmate and friend Morgan said it best: you are a kid who finally got their pony. What will you do now? Now I will dream again.

Beginning to dream again has not been a common place I find myself and yet that that is my calling in life, to help others dream again. That’s what therapy is for me, and that’s the kind of therapist I want to be. I have no doubt that my client’s will spark my curiosity for humanity; that grieving with them will allow more space in my heart for love; that celebrating with them will remind me that life truly is beautiful; and that the thin spaces in between, where life is mostly lived, we will have our dreams, our hopes.

dreams (part 2): less swearing, more pondering

“Dear Applicant,

Thank you for your interest in interning with {Organization Name}.  As an approved internship site for {other schools with stellar counseling programs} and The Seattle School of Theology and Psychology, we are humbled by the number—and caliber–of [applicants] who pursue internships with us at {Insert Organization Name Here}.  Our only regret is that we are not able to extend an internship opportunity to every deserving candidate.  We are sorry that we’re unable to offer you a spot at [Previously Stated Organization] this year; we do have every confidence that you will contribute beautifully and competently in your internship, and we know that an internship site is going to be very fortunate to have you.

Good luck as you move into this next, exciting stage of your counseling education.

Sincerely,

Director of Previously Mentioned Internship Site”

——-

I only applied to four internship sites because there were only three that I really wanted to work at, and the other was one that would give me an interview before the fair and I just wanted the interview experience (that shit blew up in my face, but that’s a blog post for another day).

Two out of four of my chosen sites sent me some variation of the above email; one actually called me to reject me and, in the process of rejecting me, mentioned that they had so many highly qualified applicants, most from my school, that it was just such a hard decision…

thanks for making me feel that much less qualified than my peers.

‘preciate that one.

I do have an internship, and I’m actually very excited about the supervisor I’ll be working with and the population of people who I will be serving. I just can’t seem to fully live into that excitement because soon after I was offered that spot, I was sent a rejection email by the site that was my number one choice without even having interviewed with them.

I hate that I cannot seem to be fully stoked at what a great and amazing opportunity I have because of one that is not mine to have to begin with. 

See the distinction?

I can’t seem to soak in the good, life-giving words of affirmation that the accepting site and supervisor have given me because I am so wrapped up in the form-letter words of rejection from the other three sites, one of which I didn’t even want to work at anyways. The supervisor I will be working with spoke words over me that alluded to the artist and the woman that are being birth within me through my own work in therapy; he spoke words of delight at the possibility of working with me, at what a joy it was to sit and interview me for a solid hour.

I believe my joy will come in time; I just seem to need to mourn the ending of one dream to make space for the beginning of another.

such is life.

may we filter through the rejection without it chipping away at our souls. let’s work with people who call forward the goodness that we can only dare to hope exists within ourselves, and if we are lucky we will shed a few tears in the process.

selah, friends.