"whatever we expect with confidence becomes our own self-fulfilling prophecy." brian tracy

i really wish this weren't true. because what this says is: whatever i actually believe about myself ... well ... becomes who i am. and that puts the responsibility back on me to change the way others see me and more importantly, how i see myself, in order to witness significant change occur in my life.

i can blame a lot of people, because let's face it .. people suck sometimes. but i'm the only one who can make me angry, so it's time to start being more real.

so why do i feel undeserving of being 'chosen' by someone?

a few different reasons i suppose. most of which involve stories centered around memories of how someone else treated me or what they may have said.

for instance, in middle school and high school, i always had a ton of in-school friends. the popular kids let me sit at their table (which gave me some hallway cred), the choir kids would hang out with me during competitions and the debate/forensics nerds would geek out with me on our weekend trips. life was good. so long as i was in school. but when i got home ... none of those people called me. i wasn't invited to parties. and i certainly wasn't asked to go to prom. come to think of it ... i asked (begged) both of my prom dates to come with me. oh, there was one out-of-state prom that i attended and someone from another school that asked me to come to his, but is that what a girl needs to do to get a date?! i had this one birthday party that a lot of people came to, but they all left at the same time to go to a much more high-profile gig while my handful of close friends stayed behind to help clean the mess the others had made.

i remember being invited to an annual birthday party of another girl i was 'friends' with a few years in a row. she had the biggest slumber parties ever. and i always found myself camping out in a closet or random bathroom with another girl with our oreos and cheetos, talking about how uncomfortable we felt because we clearly were the 'filler' girls.

the point is. i didn't entirely feel as if the people around me really wanted me there. if it were their choice ... they would have chosen an alternative. this was the case with my natural father, boyfriends that would come later and church groups that i would find myself leading, yet have no community to turn to when things got really bad. but those situations don't have to be my crutch forever.

in fact, it can't be. because that crutch is unreliable. and in the end, i will have alienated everyone in my life who have chosen me ... just because i'm me ... all because i expect them to be like the people who never cared to choose me to begin with.

i've decided that's not fair. i've also decided that, if i simply choose to believe in myself as much as those who have chosen me do ... i'll begin to expect, with confidence, greater things. perhaps, brian tracy was onto something ...

in one day.

i've spent the past week mulling over my thoughts and feelings regarding this topic of self-disclosure and proactively searching for a way to put some ink to this blank page of the new script i am hoping to write for myself. as with most projects, however, it's not coming along as quickly or easily as i had hoped.

it may be the fact that i can't just 'start over' so-to-speak. i have a history. and that history is a part of who i am. and while i'm learning that it doesn't define me, it's still important to sift through all the information and pick the parts that were meant to enhance my story, not keep it from being written. (which, as i've mentioned, has been a bit difficult to discern)

i was going to start the week off with an introduction of these four in-depth discussions: why kissing never leads to sex, why Bible verses still make me cringe: and other thoughts on faith, why i can't believe you and great expectations (i know, i know ... it's already a book title, but i had no other choice). sounds super intriguing right?

i thought so too. until i began explaining the sex topic to my good friend jen (mentioned in my last post) and she came back with, "do you feel chosen?"

uh. that sent me down so many roads, i can't even begin to map out where i was or how i got there. she was asking specifically if i felt chosen by vince in our relationship, and although i could answer honestly that i do, i couldn't figure out why a voice inside of my kept saying, "but i don't know why he would ..."

it was then that i realized these issues of sex, church, trust and lofty (or unnecessary) expectations are primarily centered around the idea that i have yet to learn to love myself. that, through all of the memories that have made these topics so sensitive in my life, the underlying theme is that i believe i am not worth being chosen. and, to be honest, i have actually created a person to project as myself that i thought would be much more desirable. super exhausting to think about ... i know ... so we'll save that for another day.

the second bird, killed by miss korey oskins (great friend, counselor and communicator extraordinaire) was: "do you think i would be disappointed in you if you didn't do the things you have always told me about?"

for some reason, i honestly thought she would be. and now that i think of it, that's not reasonable at all. she was so sincere when she asked the question and even more so when she responded to my silence with, "i wouldn't. i'd be inspired by anything you do that would make you happy."

with that, i've decided that my four issues will still be discussed in great detail. but i'm hoping to reclaim the pieces of each issue that brings me joy (or was meant to bring joy) ... and place them onto my blank page, leaving behind what was only intended for destruction and sadness. i think this is the way i want to lay the foundation of my new story ... with truth, redemption and joy ...

i think it needs to be reiterated that these posts are a way for me to process how i have lived my life, based on how i once interpreted events from long ago.

the reason i have chosen to blog about them on the world wide web is to begin a process of healing that will hopefully come from dialog with others who have experienced similar fates or simply wish to feel the freedom of admitting that the stories we intentionally or unintentionally have written for ourselves is not the one that was intended for our lives. it is also my way of 'getting this all on paper' so-to-speak. it makes my life somehow ... more real. and the pain that still lingers as i allow myself to expose the feelings associated with these memories causes me to believe that this whole 'series' may be just the medicine i need to feel human again.

because, truth be told, i learned how to shut down much earlier than necessary. what occurred in the living rooms of both my parent's and grandparent's home convinced me i had reason and complete permission to become hardened in order to protect myself from ever feeling that way again. once i had written that protection clause into my script ... there was no chance for anyone who entered my life from that point on. and can i tell you a secret? i’ve found that i feel much lighter having documented these memories in the past two entries. It’s almost as if writing them down gave me the freedom i needed to be able to let go of them … to walk away from them without feeling like i’d forget them if i didn’t have such a tight grip on them. maybe i’ve always known that they were my excuse for acting the way i have for so long. only time will tell i suppose.

my friend jen wallace called me the night i posted the last entry and (in her matter-of-fact and straight-to-the-point voice) said, "so, i have a thought for you about your blog today."

when jen starts a conversation like that ... you have no choice but to listen. well, at least if you're me. because that's the way we roll. ;)

i digress ... she continues: "see. this is what happens when you continue telling yourself a story. you begin 'already listening.' anything people do or say, regardless of their intention, becomes proof of what you already believe about yourself. or about them. it's not [always] their fault. you MADE them fall into your script. not on purpose, of course, but it's your story. it's sad. back then, you didn't know you were writing a story."

it's going to take me longer than this week to accept what she said. there is more truth to what she said than I really know what to do with and i'm not sure i'm quite ready to deal with the responsibility of owning the truth that this is MY story. that it is no longer ok (if i am to be a healthy, mature adult) to blame others for the pain in my life. and i would have posted this yesterday, but it’s really hard to write a blog entry about ‘processing life’ when you are still trying to figure out how to do it yourself! so, i thought adding an excerpt from a book i read recently would at least set a foundation for how i’ve chosen (at this point in my journey) to sift through the messiness in order to better understand myself and move towards truly forgiving those who are a part of this script of mine.

crucial conversations :: kerry patterson, joseph granny, ron mcmillan and al switzler

… just after we observe what others do and just before we feel some emotion about it, we tell ourselves a story. that is, we add meaning to the action we observed. to the simple behavior we add motive … although this complicates things a bit, it also gives us hope. since we and only we are telling the story, we can take back control of our own emotions by telling a different story.

stories explain what’s going on. they are interpretations of the facts. they help explain what we see and hear. they’re theories we use to explain why, how and what. … once they’re told, they stories control us. they control how we feel and how we act. but it doesn’t have to be this way. we can tell different stories and break the loop. in fact, until we tell different stories, we cannot break the loop.

so this is it. this is where i make a conscious effort to rewrite my story. but first … i have to uncover the story that has already been written … which is where you find me today …

scattered memories exist in my subconscious of the years after that first recollection of my life and the ones i am about to share. most of them full of creative play dates with my brother (sorry tanner for dressing you up like a girl) and meeting new friends at school (which, if you can believe, was difficult for me as i actually used to be quiet. long gone are those days!).

it was in these years of early development, however, that evil lies began to build a home that my innocent mind simply could not combat and that, truthfully, my adult mind has yet to let go of. sometimes it's difficult to part with things you know? they can be a source of comfort and stability even if they're not healthy. while these memories were the perfect breeding ground for terribly destructive thoughts, i can't seem to bring myself to throw them away because they have become a part of who i am. without these lies ... who might i be? who might i become? and most terrifying ... when the lies have been stripped away, will i find their stains to be so deep that they really have become my identity?

my last post contained a memory that only began the script. really, from that point things could have gone in a million different directions. but there were a few other incidents ... small and potentially insignificant ... that determined the direction and form these lies would take in my life. so they continue ...

i'm in my grandparent's living room ... a place of comfort and belonging ... i remember my aunt (whom i adored and worshiped as a child often does of their high school and college aged relatives) sitting in front of the active fireplace with her 80s perm, lace cuffed leggings and double-layered-multi-colored scrunchy socks. she was my hero in all of her neon glory. i don't remember doing anything specific in that moment, although plenty of home videos would allude to me prancing around, bossing my little brother around or doing both simultaneously with such grace ;) tanner, undoubtedly in his adorable four-year-old body was definitely either coloring (completely inside the lines), doing one of those wood puzzles in record time ... again ... or playing 'go fish.' what was unusual about this particular moment, however, was one phrase that has stayed with me my entire life ... "these kids are going to make millions. krysta will be a model and tanner will be a genius ..."

again, i don't have the context because i was quite young and was probably too self-indulged or distracted to sit long enough for the adult conversation that was taking place, but what i did hear began my quest to prove myself and my worth. it also began a very unhealthy pattern of despising compliments of my appearance and feeling as if i were being objectified (as will be touched upon in a later post). all i knew is that i was capable of being more. i knew that life would be grand if i could be a concert pianist, a writer with her big chief tablet in tow(or at least help my bff in elementary school become one), the first woman president or a really cool interior designer. from that point on, i would know how to gain the affection of those who were in the room that night ... i just had to stay pretty. but would spend the next twenty years proving that i'm more.

but the next morning, again, as with most of my memories, i found joy ... removing the confusion of my little mind that would later develop into great pain. but not yet! grandpa, tanner and i rose early, ventured to the local donut shop where many of the elderly gathered for their morning coffee and newspaper exchanges (hey, who else gets up that early on a saturday?) and shared laughter, donut holes, long johns and that yummy hot chocolate. we'd always take some back for grandma and marcia (my fabulous 80s aunt) ... who, probably to this day, loathes the memory of her punk niece and nephew waking her up so early every other saturday morning with overwhelming excitement for the maple long john that awaited her upstairs.

fast forward: tanner and i had been accepted into a magnet school in our neighborhood. it was the latest and the greatest in education in our district and we were pumped to be in the first batch of students. tanner had already managed to skip a grade (that conversation was a doosy with the rents) and by year two i'm pretty sure he was in like two (probably 5) grades higher in math than me. and to make matters worse the boy i was convinced i was in love with in fifth grade knew that i was the one whose younger brother was smarter than her. how embarrassing! but life went on and my chance to shine was quickly approaching. time came to write an autobiography. my divine moment. the moment i would prove my intelligence and gain a new title that would hopefully bump supermodel a few notches below my name. (of course being typecast the same year as vana white in our school play didn't help, but that was ancient history ... i had a mission!)

after slaving away at my life's work, printing each page on those stupid printers that only held paper with perforated edges (ugh), it was finally complete. i held my breath as the grades were submitted and, sure enough, i had done it ... 99%. what a relief! i remember being so excited to take it to grandma and grandpa's so everyone could see the comments and the bright red ink proclaiming my brilliance (kidding about that last part). in the same room that had fostered the words i loathed years prior, family member by family member reviewed my short novel. (and by reviewed, i mean politely flip the pages).

in a memorably proud voice, i hear, "so tanner, did you get a 100%?"

in a moment of utter devastation and raw pain, i made a vow to break all stereotypes. to prove what i was capable of. to dominate. be self-sufficient. and more tragically ... to emotionally disconnect forever in order to protect myself.

this was also the moment i knew my brother would be my biggest advocate and the most emotionally stable person in my life. because in the seconds following that brutal response to my hard work, the attention shifted to him and questions arose as to whether or not he, in fact, scored a perfect grade. and without skipping a beat, he looked at me with the most sincere eyes, looked down at the floor and said, "i'm not in that class."

as he walked over to me, he said, "i think you did a good job" and began reading the book that everyone else merely skimmed through. his love and tenderness almost saved me from hearing the response that haunted me the rest of that school year: "well, if you were, i bet you would have gotten a 100%."

oh if i would have stopped the lie then ... if i would have just believed in myself and listened to my brother, i wouldn't have kept coming back to the ever-so-present lie that i wasn't good enough. not for them. not for myself. and certainly not for the number of people who would affirm that lie in the years to come ...

i'm not sure if you've noticed, but my mood has grown increasingly dark lately. and by lately, i mean ... the past six months. (although some would argue the past five years ... or even worse ... the past 26!)

things have begun to surface lately that i wish didn't exist in the first place. so, while i would prefer to suppress them and pretend to be happy (hey, i'd rather me be peppy too ... trust me), i think i'll opt for dealing with a few memories that have become staples in the script i have written for my life.

as with everything, i still believe some good can come from the bad (although, to be honest, i tend to lean more towards a visa versa on this one). my life's 'script' is no exception. the problem with the version i have written for myself over the years is that i've successfully maintained a smooth, familiar track across a territory known as defense, anger and distrust. (obviously not a positive formula)

so, as i sift through the wreckage of my soul and the debris that has begun to surface, i have no choice but to start from the very beginning ... where the first page of my script was blotted with ink that was never again questioned and furthermore, distinguished as a guideline, rather than simply an unfortunate circumstance meant to be overcome. consequently, this would become a pattern in my story and thus ... why i find myself here ... grieving the loss of something i am still very uncertain of and hoping that i will find it in the exposure of some of the darkest places in my heart.

memory: an argument with escalating voices had erupted in the living room of my separated parent's home. the next image is of my angry father pacing ... waving his arms and screaming at my grandparents, aunt and a few other people i can't seem to place. i was three. i don't remember being scared or confused. the images and words cut in and out of memory as if i were watching a scratched DVD. after the faces, my mind cuts to my grandmother's face of disbelief and perhaps fear after my father tosses me to my aunt ... still yelling. i then remember playing on the couch with my grandmother's leather mouse key chain ... father now throwing things out of the front door and onto the lawn ... they appear to be magazines. my memory then cuts to my brother's room ... giant cloth initials ... pastel ... hanging on the wall. perhaps i was looking for my brother? this is the only memory of my childhood where tanner is not in the same room as me. and the only memory that i do not remember having strong feelings ... whether joyful or not.

whenever i remember this moment (which i do often), the scene that inevitably follows one of my brother and i sitting on each side of my mother she read us a kid's picture Bible. there are only two images from that Bible that i remember. on is of is one of joseph and his colorful robe and the other ... and probably more significant that night on the porch (whether or not it was close to my first memory in terms of real-time) was of a long haired-bearded man in a white robe with little kids all around him. they were sitting indian style. one was on his lap. and they looked happy to be with Him. mom said he man in the photo was jesus. that didn't mean much to me that night on the porch. i just thought he seemed like a nice guy. and i'm sure in my three-year-old mind i thought his clothes were a little weird, but i don't have recollection of that. much like the first memory, this one skips and the words are a bit muffled. all i remember next was that dad came outside and yelled, "your 30 minutes are up!" i can remember our rusted blue volkswagen beetle sitting at the end of the walkway and mom's tears as she closed the children's picture Bible and told tanner and i good night.

those were my first memories. the first things i remember about the beginning of my life.

my script, the one i have so diligently stuck to since my third year of life, always point back to this moment and the ones i hope to document. my hope is that in actually writing them down for the first time, that i will feel the freedom to create a new story ... one that feels little obligation to maintain a torrid relationship with familiarity for the sake of feeling in control of a redemption that i feel the three-year-old inside of me deserves.

i look down at my hand and see the fading remnants of a world i had hoped would not quickly be forgotten.

each stroke of brown dye that dances out from under my sleeve brings another memory that seems so tragically distant from the life that goes on here ... on this side of the world ... like clockwork.

each train passing. systematically.

familiar faces making the same routine patterns in their early morning commute that, undoubtedly, continued while i was joining the other side of the world in theirs.

i glance down again ... saddened that this all seems like a figment of my imagination. saddened that, in the end, this excursion led me right back to the mundane ... the predictable. perhaps even worse, that these strokes reveal that the true sadness ... the eminent dark hole that i feel pulling the breath out of me ... comes from a deeply routed discontent that simply can not be explained or resolved.

and that powerful sadness is quite possibly the only thing that is familiar about the beauty fading from the strokes on my hand today. because now, as i sit in this all-to-familiar place, i feel the pain of wanting so desperately to know why i was created ... just as i felt it when i sat in front of a woman in the middle of a picture-esque desert in a land so far from all of my worries, who painted this art on my hand like she was trying to give me the answer ... but i.just.couldn't. get it.

so these strokes will haunt me today. they reveal much of what my heart longs for, yet falls just short of revealing the answers i have been asking since my first visit to that place nearly three years ago. these strokes ... are the most elegant and graceful depiction of my great sadness. and when they have finally faded, perhaps this time ... so will the tears.