Monday, January 5, 2015

It's my deceased mother's 50th birthday today. I think it's time I shared her story.

Apparently it’s a miracle that I’m alive, or so I’ve been told.

The person who carried me seemed to have barely been held together by extra-strength duct tape and staples; her flesh and bones like a shattered glass vase glued back together in a half-hearted attempt to fix her. Every time something broke, malfunctioned, or stopped working she was patched up as best as possible and sent on her way. But in the end, after 35 years she couldn’t be put back together again and broke for the last time.

Though I was created from a broken body, miraculously I was born premature but relatively unscathed. As a baby and a toddler, I was the epitome of perfect health. I wish I could say the same for my mother. Brought into the doctor by her mother’s intuition, Linda Diane Fralick was diagnosed with medullary cystic kidney disease. It was the most correct diagnosis they could give her, as the advancement of medicine had not yet caught up with her actual disease, Senior-Loken Syndrome, and knowledge about genetics and mutations was barely out of its infancy. When my mom was a young teenager, my grandma had a feeling that she needed to get my mom checked at a doctor. My mom refused for a while but my insistent grandmother ended up winning. Lo and behold, her kidney function had all but ceased. Her doctor received test results, and then ordered a complete re-testing because clearly there had been a lab error. My grandmother asked what had happened and the doctor stated that the results said her potassium level was 8, and that he had patients die with a potassium of 6, so how could she still be alive? They ran it again. It was correct.

Dialysis soon became a dreary but necessary part of life until a year later my mother’s older sister gave her a kidney. She spent 2 months in the hospital fighting rejection. The doctors let her go home for Christmas, but the day after had to go in and remove the kidney because it had started to liquefy. The doctors said if it had been removed any later it would have been like poison running through her veins, killing her.

Dialysis went on for four more years during high school. Finally a donor kidney was found, which lasted a year before she rejected it. She had to go to dialysis for another year and then received another kidney. She did very well with it and started on getting her LPN from Utah Valley State College.

Determination flowed freely through her unstoppably, whether in sickness or health. Even so, it came as a shock to her parents, doctors, and church leaders when she announced she was set on going on a mission. She said God had blessed her so much by giving her that kidney, so it was time for her to give something back to Him. She went on her way with unquenchable fire, eager to do her part. Sadly that wasn’t enough to keep her from rejecting the kidney and she had to get it removed and had her mission cut short. She would be on dialysis 3 times a week for seven years. Though she went through dialysis for a total of around 1,000 times she finished school and got her LPN. Life on a dialysis machine is not easy.


One morning around 5 am my mom’s younger sister ran upstairs to tell my grandma to call 911. They rushed down to her room and found her on the floor, not able to stand up or talk coherently at all. AT the hospital the doctor generously let my grandma sit by her side, holding her hand and comforting her while he was checking her out when he turned around to do something. Lying in the hospital bed, her heart was pounding in her chest and then suddenly stopped. My grandma calmly stood up, turned to the doctor, and told him she had stopped breathing. The doctor immediate called a code blue and my grandma was forced to leave when the code team showed up.

After a long time, the doctor came out to tell my grandma that she had a cardiac arrest and they had put her on a ventilator and were life-flighting her to the university hospital in Salt Lake City. She was on a ventilator for two days and in grave condition but started to improve and eventually went home. In those seven years of dialysis nothing continued to stop her and she got her RN.

At one point her father was fighting prostate cancer and a blood clot in his lungs while in Utah Valley Hospital in Provo and she had been admitted to the ICU of University hospital in Salt Lake. In complete and total despair my grandma cried out to God, pleading with Him that if he was going to take both her husband and her daughter, to take her daughter first because she couldn’t go through her daughter’s death alone without her husband. Her husband ended up dying, but God blessed her by allowing my mother to heal and she became a great strength and support to my grandmother during that time.
 
Two weeks after he died, the phone rang. It was my uncle, my mom’s older brother calling to tell my grandmother that my mom had gotten in a car accident on her way to dialysis. They rushed to the hospital and were in complete shock when they saw her and found out what had happened.
Every bone in her face had been fractured including her skull, her collarbone was broken and her ankle had been shattered. The next day, on her 35th wedding anniversary, my grandma was told that a blood clot had been found on her brain from the skull fracture and that she would assuredly die without surgery but there was a high chance she would die during the surgery as well. She had the surgery and miraculously everything went perfectly. She looked pretty bad but was recovering well. 

Her current job was being a nurse at Wasatch Mental Health in Provo on the night shift. A few times she switched with whoever needed to and worked during the day shift. When my grandma visited her in the hospital my mom said, ‘Look at what I have” and handed her a small stuffed animal. She told how an orderly she’d seen a few times during the day shift had heard about her accident and came to visit her and gave her the stuffed animal. He visited with her until her dinner was brought and he left. He was headed towards the elevator when he realized she would probably need help opening her milk carton since she could only use on hand and went back to her room, opened her milk, and visited a little longer. One year later they were married on July 18th, 1992 (he later told my grandma that when he first saw her working at the hospital, he thought she was the cutest nurse he had ever seen). She was 26.

They moved to an apartment in Orem, Utah. A little after their marriage, she had either her parathyroid gland or adrenal gland(s) removed (I can’t remember exactly which one it was, all I remember was the ‘gland’ part) and suffered from petit mal seizures for a while. Because of her special circumstances she was able to have my dad help her in taking one of her nursing exams (without him she probably couldn’t have passed). She had been told that she was too high-risk to ever receive another kidney transplant ever again and that she would be on dialysis for the rest of her life. Luckily that didn’t turn out to be true or I wouldn’t be here right now. One day she had called my grandma, elated, to announce that the University of Utah hospital had called and said they had a kidney that was such a perfect match that they couldn’t turn her down for it. After a total of 12 years on dialysis and three transplants, she had what turned out to be her 4th and final kidney transplant.
As soon as she had the transplant, she asked her doctor if she could get pregnant, he said to her, “You stay out of the hospital and be healthy for one year and we’ll talk about it.”

One day approximately a year later she called my grandma telling her that she was pregnant. She had done a home test and had one at the hospital. She called her doctor’s office and told the nurse, who said in return, “Doctor Stephanz is going to have a fit when he finds out.” Luckily he turned out to be very supportive but also very concerned. 

They soon moved to Nampa, and though a high-risk pregnancy and preeclampsia usually is not a good combination, everything was just about perfect and I was born 1.5 months yearly. As a toddler we had all caught the norovirus, and she was in the hospital because of it, but was able to become well after a while. Eighteen months later my brother was born slightly smaller and had a longer NICU stay but all was well. She got a job working at the Boise Saint Alphonsus Behavioral Health Center as a psychiatric nurse in the inpatient area. It ended up being quite ironic that she was in that line of work and when I was in Intermountain those two times there were a few people working there who used to work with her, including the wife of one of my favorite teachers at my school who she used to carpool with every day. Whenever I see this teacher he always smiles and says that his wife wants to know how I’m doing and sometimes goes into a story about seeing me as a baby, and he always smiles when I tell him I want to be a nurse and says, “Just like your mother!” My counselor who I started seeing when I got out of Intermountain the second time found out that her boss used to be my own mother’s boss, and asked her for a few stories about her. My last appointment with her, she shared a few stories and said that her boss said she was always playing jokes on people at work all the time, and was always laughing or smiling. 

 The end was a surprise.

We weren’t expecting the end to come when it did, and how it did. She’d gone through dozens of surgeries, many life-threatening situations; she’d survived against the odds so many times. Her body had been put through hell and she had pulled through. It was expected she would die in the midst of a great battle between life and death, that in the midst of a great siege her body would eventually give up from the stress of some medical emergency. They never would have guessed that what would end up taking her life would be such a shockingly silent killer. Two and a half years later, minor problems showed up in a routine blood test, nothing too serious. Two days before Thanksgiving of 2000, she was admitted to the hospital just because her doctor wanted to see if he needed to adjust her meds.
The day before Thanksgiving, my dad spent the day with her and Kevin and I were with the grandparents. We visited with her and stayed until about 9:30-10:00, said our “I love you”s and “goodnight”s and hugged and kissed and went back to my grandparents’ house. At 4:15 am Thanksgiving morning, her nurse called.

At 3 am she was sleeping soundly and there was nothing to indicate anything was wrong. Twenty minutes later he went into her room again to check on her and she had stopped breathing and had no pulse. The medical staff performed CPR but she was unresponsive. She had lost the battle against fate for the very last time. 

The doctors and nurses were shocked that she had died. After doing a scan they determined that she had an aneurysm in her brain that had ruptured within that twenty-minute period between the nurse’s checks, causing a cerebral hemorrhage. 

I have only three memories of her. The first was my third birthday. My dad had gotten me a computer for my birthday (the good old boxy, 50 lb CRT monitor and computer tower, circa <2000s). It was a surprise and sitting outside my bedroom door giggling with my mom I didn’t know what he was doing, making all that noise in there setting it up. The next two memories are both within a few hours before and after she died. In my mind I vaguely remember being inside a hospital room, the outside pitch-black. I remember what I assume is her in the hospital bed. I don’t remember the mood being somber. I remember we were there visiting her and nothing was sad or depressing, as we didn’t know anything was wrong with her. We were happy and acting like it was any other day, and that her being in the hospital was a minor inconvenience. 

My last memory of her is when she was dead. I remember being in a hospital waiting room, and I believe my grandparents and a couple of aunts and uncles were with us. I remember walking through the halls, just my dad and I, and he asked me if I wanted to see her and say goodbye to her for the last time. I said yes, and we went to her room or wherever she was and she was just laying there flat. I kissed her cheek and said I love you. We left and were just walking around the hallway like before and after a while my dad said, do you want to say goodbye to her again, just one last time. I said yes again and we went back and I kissed her again one more time and told her I loved her one more time. We left, doing what we were doing before and just walking around the hallways. Again, my dad eventually asked me if I wanted to go back, just one more time, and say goodbye to her again. I said no, I didn’t. There were chemicals on or around her or something, and it made her smell weird and bad and I didn’t like it. So I said no.

I don’t know if these memories are real. It’s a good chance that they’re false memories, just something that eventually developed in my child’s mind. But I’m pretty sure they’re real, or at least they’re based on real memories that occurred. I try not to be mad at myself; I was only three, my world was black and white. But I can’t help but feel that I should have done it, should have said goodbye one more time.

When I was younger I used to pretend that my mom really was alive, that she really was working for the government and had to fake her death and that someday when I was older she would be able to come back and secretly visit and tell me it was all a misunderstanding and that she really wasn’t dead and had to pretend for the safety of herself and our family. I knew in my heart that it wasn’t real of course, but I’m sure I was not the only girl with a deceased mother who pretended that.
I only have a few items of hers I’ve been able to round up over the years. Her glasses, jewelry, work badge, large make-up case (saved in the attic for 13 years with dozens of eyeshadow and lipsticks and other makeup still in it, frozen in time. I found one of her favorite dresses at my grandma’s house when I was around thirteen, sifting through my mother’s hope chest. When my grandma came in and saw that I had found it, she smiled. “I remember that dress. Your mom wore it when she and your dad and Grandpa and I went to see “The Phantom of the Opera” at the Salt Palace. I think we got it at somewhere like… Dillard’s? No, I’m pretty sure it was Nordstrom.” Going through some of my grandma’s old pictures, I found a picture of the night they went. My mom is wearing the dress, with her hair down and her typical large smile spread across her face. Whenever I look at pictures of her, I study the eyes and the smile and think, she really didn’t know what was coming for her, did she?
At night I clutch the dress in my arms, holding it tight, inhaling that musty-yet-sweet smell of years passed in a cedar chest. It is soft to the touch, cool against my face, and makes me almost believe that my mother is here. I talk to it sometimes, pretending it is her. When I hug it, I hug my mom. When I tell her that I love her, it is she who hears it, not a piece of lifeless red fabric. One may chalk it up to madness; I chalk it up to grief.

The dress is among the few things I have left of a person I do not remember, aside from a few memories. It represents the person who loved singing alto in various choirs. It represents the person who would sneak microwave popcorn into movies using her purse. It represents the person who dedicated her life to her family and to her career as a psychiatric nurse. It represents the person who dealt with kidney disease and dozens of surgeries, along with a few near-death experiences. It represents the person who longed for a child for years, and in turn received two miracle babies.
Now, she and the sadness from her death are not supposed to exist in our seemingly happy and normal family. But when I have no one else to turn to, the dress with the remnants of a person long gone will always be there to comfort me.


The Spirit of [Christ]mas in the Hospital

Today, I am proud to say that I made a lot of people cry.

This isn't normally a good thing, but today it certainly was. And I am truly, truly humbled

Today at the hospital started out like the usual. The moment walked in I was told we had a dismissal so I went on that, then cleaned some charts, picked up and delivered a flower arrangement, went hunting for some wipes up at SPAR [Surgical Prep and Recovery] when we ran out, brought charts back to chart prep (and picked up a whole cart more of them, joy!!), and ate PowerBars and popcorn with my fellow JV Nicole when everyone else left to deliver six (!!) flower arrangements to someone from the gift shop. At around three the volunteer coordinator came over and asked if any of us wanted to go caroling with the chaplain and a couple of other people. That got my attention, and I hastily volunteered (and was the only) one. My motivation at first was just to stop cleaning charts and go do something fun and different, and I went and caught up with them when they were walking by.

I had heard of Chaplain Ben before, from when my mom's friend had surgery at Saint Al's and while getting prepped for surgery, Pastor Ben was going around with his guitar singing songs to people and having a grand time. She described him as a very friendly Asian man with an accent and told us that he came over to her and sang "You are my Sunshine", and she was tickled pink and told us he was probably the highlight of her hospital stay. Today he was wearing a Santa had and carrying a guitar, and I met him and two other ladies who were very Christmas-y and decked out in red, carrying a maraca and a string of bells. They were very excited that I was join them, and asked me if I sang (not really very well but I enjoyed being in choirs) and where I went to school, etc. Wearing my usual uniform of khakis, white collared shirt, sage-green scrub top/smock thingy and my badge, I looked 100% non-Christmasy (I think I'm just making up words here, but you get what I mean), so we stopped by the volunteer office and I grabbed one of the few Santa hats laying around in a drawer.

Our first stop was on one of the two rehab floors in the south tower, and went straight to a lady's room (I'm not sure if some of the people had been contacted beforehand if they were okay with us caroling to them or not, or if he already knew them, or what, but our first person was happy to see us). We sang "Silver Bells", "I'm Dreaming of a White Christmas", and exited with "Feliz Navidad". We went down the hallway humming (with Chaplain Ben humming and accompanying us with his guitar) "Silent Night" and came to a common area where a few patients were sitting and started jamming out to "Feliz Navidad" and other fun songs, having a good time. Another few people came out of their rooms to hear us sing, and the janitor and a few nurses stopped what they were doing to watch. As we were leaving a lady called for us, having missed our singing, and asked if we could go over to her and sing something for her. We sang and brought such a smile to her face. Her husband recorded us and as we were leaving both thanked us profusely. We sang "Little Drummer Boy" to a gentleman in his room, and left to go to the central tower.

On our way to the ICU, one of the ladies asked me what I was planning to do after I graduated, and told them I was going to hopefully get into BSU or CWI for nursing,

Facebook status: (I'm getting really lazy so I'm just going to copy this from FB... I apologize for my laziness. Though I'm really not sorry... :) )

I am so humbled right now. Today during my shift at Saint Alphonsus I was able to go around with Chaplain Ben, his guitar, and two other ladies singing Christmas songs and bringing joy and comfort to patients throughout the hospital. This past week I've been so focused on only my problems and caught up with all of the things going on with me, so today being a part of that experience has helped make me realize that there are so many people out there who are suffering and going to be in the hospital for Christmas, and that I should count my blessings more and appreciate my health and what I have. Singing to patients in the ICU and CICU, rehab floors, general surgical unit, etc., while at many times was very sobering, probably made my entire month, and being able to maybe ease their suffering a little was worth every minute, even if I spent half an hour more than my normal shift doing it. Whether we were singing to someone just recovering from surgery or to someone in the CICU who was very, very ill, I could feel the spirit of Christmas and most importantly the spirit of Christ. We made patients, nurses, and family members alike cry singing "Silent Night", "I'm Dreaming of a White Christmas" and "May the Lord Mighty God" (to the tune of Edelweiss) and brought smiles to the faces of many singing "Feliz Navidad" and "Silverbells". One of the best afternoons I've had in a VERY long time, even though I'm sure I looked very funny in my uniform and sage-green scrub top, badge, and a red Santa hat-

[This post isn't finished, but I don't know if I'll be around to finish it, so I thought I might as well publish it now... I'm sorry. The rest of the story really is great, amazing, touching. But I can't finish. If plans change and I am around longer, I'll probably end up finishing this, but if you're reading this, it didn't happen. Sorry.......]


Saturday, September 6, 2014

Depression: What Not To Say

Depression: What Not To Say 

(aka Words Can't Hurt You? Yeah Right. Of Course They Do.)

(aka Please Just Stop. Staahhhp.)


So, I got meeeeself into a mess.

I had just gotten back from a shift a Saint Al's and Winco when I was lazily scrolling through my little Facebook-sidebar thing, glancing at whatever looked interesting. I'm a member of the LDS SMILE Youth Group page (don't ask me why because I don't know either. When was the last time I went to church? Not sure), and saw that a Facebook friend liked someone's post, and I clicked on it.

That probably was a poor decision, because now I'm slightly considering deactivating my FB for a while and I can't bring myself to look at my mounting notifications. How did I get from there to here? My opinions. If you haven't noticed from my blog title, I just really have a hard time keeping my opinions to myself. I can't keep my opinions to myself. True, at school in some classes I'm the opposite of assertive, and I usually don't go into "preach-mode" with people, but if you strike a nerve my thoughts usually start bubbling out of my mouth (or typing fingers) at an amazing, slightly horrifying speed. After reading through this certain post, oh, about five times, I noticed my brain was already coming up with sentences to rebuke this person and his controversial/offensive opinion.

Only now after simmering for an hour and a half (and after compiling the screenshots and memes) have I realized that I hate people who do what I just did. I frequent fMh, and can't stand the comment-trolls who go to that website just to contend with and defeat others in a "holier-than-thou" (and "smarter-than-thou") attitude. Even though I believe that this guy is seriously out of the norm when it comes to opinions on this subject, I feel kind of bashful about it now knowing that I acted like the typical kind of person I dislike, believing that I'm totally right and there is no way in the world or universe that I'm wrong. Even so, I do not excuse my opinion, only the way and method that I shared it. I tried my hardest to be polite, though inside I was pretty dang mad. So now I will do this the right way and turn it into a blog post. I will start off with the original post.

If you want to read a few of the comments I found to be important, they're at the bottom of this post (with a few meme faces thrown in... I had to make it more interesting). 





"I hope I don’t regret posting this. It’s very long, but I think it is worth reading, if not for agreement then for hearing out a new idea. I apologize for the intrusion when much of the conversation has already taken place, but I feel like I have a different angle on a side that hasn’t been truly considered. Okay, I don't want to be contentious or anything, but truthfully, this just kinda shocked me with the black-and-white facts that, even so, you did a good job of clearly presenting. I do realize your point though; It's like when people complain that they failed math because they had a bad teacher. Though a teacher has a lot to do with what you learn, ultimately it is your choice on whether you are going to work for it, and it is not completely the teacher's fault if you fail. Like what [One of the Previous Guy Commenters] said, you choose your attitude, no one else does, and I’ve read a quote that says “Happiness does not depend on what’s outside of you, but what’s inside of you”, and for many people that’s true. But seriously, how can someone who is harassed and tormented every single day, assailed from all sides without a break or helpful hand, be expected to just “let it go”? Have you seen the bullying video that *the church* produced, where a girl is bullied and made fun of consistently at school, and where another girl is cyberbullied by someone saying things to her that no one should ever have to hear or read? It truly affected their lives, and is it really your idea that if they just ignored it and let it bounce off, they’d be fine; that they shouldn’t take something as “superficial” as words seriously?  Do you believe that in high school or middle school, bullying victims should just go through the halls trying to prepare themselves and try to mentally put on a suit of armor, hoping that today the things that their bullies and tormentors say will just bounce off if they have the right attitude? I realize that after a certain point, some people overplay things and act victimized, and that isn’t right; no one should try and use the position of victim to their advantage. But that does mean that words can affect you.

[Original Poster's Name], you said that “if you believe words can hurt you, then you already failed yourself. You fell for Satan’s trap and gave up the idea that you have agency.” You also said, “[Blue Guy in the Comments I Posted Below] you used your agency and chose to be hurt. You control your emotions. Your emotions dont control you. As someone who suffers from depression, I find those sentences and ideas misinformed and maybe slightly insulting. Again, I’m not trying to be too terribly contentious but with a subject like this many people have strong feelings. Anyways, does that mean that since I have depression, I’m stuck in Satan’s trap and have no agency? There are certain things under our control, and certain things not under our control, as all people must learn throughout life.  ***I’m not saying that depressed folks don’t have negative, pessimistic thought patterns. Of course they do — they  tend to obsess, ruminate, and nit-pick. But blaming an illness entirely on the way they think just isn’t cool, because it puts the bulk of the “blame” for their depression squarely on their own shoulders. There’s a big difference between feeling sorry for yourself (which you are correct in assuming that it is a thought pattern that should be and can be changed) and struggling with depression (which may be caused by more than just one’s own thought pattern, such as a physiological, true-blue chemical imbalance), although sometimes the two go hand in hand.***   
If I’m depressed, and someone starts bullying me, am I supposed to just hold my shoulders high and take it?


If words are not positive and uplifting the situation, in many instances it is negative and pushes things down, making the situation worse. Freshman year I was in a PE class. One day these boys came up to me and asked me why my arm looked kind of weird, why I had scars on it. At the time I believed that if someone asked me they deserved the truth, and that self-harm was a struggle that I had bravely fought and won, and I was proud of that. I told them that I used to cut myself. That was the worst decision I could have possibly made. Every. Single. Day. they tormented me, telling me that I should just go kill myself and that I shouldn’t have children because I was so messed up and disgusting. They called me a f…….... emo (I apologize for the assumed meaning of the word that you could probably be thinking right now), and somehow got a girl in the locker room to shove razor blades and those red ink Bic pens through the holes of my PE locker. They were both behind me in the attendance line so every other day I had to deal with them whispering things to me, calling me every demeaning and insulting name in the high school book, asking me whether I was going to slit my wrist or my throat when I finally listened to them and killed myself. 


 It made every other day a living hell for me. I faked sick to stay home a few times just to get a small break, a small reprieve. I don’t want to keep going on about this, and I apologize if I made it sound like some sob story and made it sound like it’s completely those boys’ fault that I was depressed. It wasn’t their entire fault, but their words, and actions, and decisions contributed negatively to my depression. But even so, please don’t say that words technically and literally don’t hurt me because they’re just a non-concrete, abstract idea.

Let’s think of some hypothetical situations: “You should toughen up.” Saying that to a depressed person completely trivializes and invalidates their feelings at the same time. “You have so much to be thankful for, so why let bullying and nasty words get to you? They can’t actually hurt you.” This does not contain the magical key to one’s mental health. Someone with a chemical imbalance in their brain going around reciting the things they are blessed to have doesn’t change the fact that they have a chemical imbalance that can be treated by medication.  Stress is a physiological condition as well as a psychological one. When you’re stressed you release what is commonly called the “stress hormone”, cortisol. Cortisol and your endocrine system are controlled by the hypothalamus. The hypothalamus also plays a role in “social defeat” (you can wikipedia it, but it sounds fairly self-explanatory) and the physical effects of humiliation in one’s body. (I may be full of crap since I pretty much stole all of that sciency stuff from Wikipedia, but I'm pretty sure it's correct).

 I’m a science nerd, so that might not make too much sense, but the main point is that **outside factors do indeed affect inside functions. You may believe that words can’t hurt you, but though in a literal sense that is the case, it is not the case when you bring feelings and psycho-physiological factors into the picture**. I have a diagnosed mental/personality disorder, called a “Major Depressive Disorder”, or commonly known as clinical depression or recurrent depression. I have been in a psychiatric hospital twice, and trust me, that is something that is definitely not a joke and it really isn’t a picnic, either. I have to go to an *actual* doctor to get meds to try and straighten chemicals and things up in my brain. In cases like that, **depression is not a choice**. (I feel as if I’m overusing the asterisks, but oh well.)

[Original Poster's Name], you are correct with your concrete use of and literal definitions that state that words alone do not make you do something or make you act a certain way. But as with the case of many things, theoretical ideas do not always translate black-and-white in this real, ever-changing world. Words affect feelings, which in turn affect behavior and ideas. There’s no way around it.




 Well, that's it. 

Right now I'm thinking, "guys, guys, come on!" If words didn't hurt, then it'd be okay to go around telling people that they're ugly, that they suck, that they should kill themselves, that no one loves them. That should just sum everything up. You can act like you're invincible, that you're Iron Man or the Tin Man or whatever and that insults and name-calling just bounce right off of you. But we're not robots. (Well, at least, I'm assuming we all are. But I could be wrong; I guess you never know what's out there reading this...)We're all different. We're strong in different ways. We're humans. 


Here are the outtakes/deleted scenes:








How 'bout we all just be nice to each other? Okay? I agree to be nice. Well, to try at least. To everyone. Even when it's hard. It's so sad that bullying has become such a problem. I feel like a hippie or something, but come on. Don't make me quote Thumper from Bambi here. Anyone with me?

Sunday, March 16, 2014

"Which of these words don't we understand??"

From a recent post on my Facebook page:

Westboro Baptist Church founder Fred Phelps Sr. “on the edge of death,” son says

So, I saw on my Facebook sidebar Fred Phelps' name, and I hate to say it, but after that first glance, the first thing that came to my mind was, "Is he dead yet? It's about time." Now, I feel horrible for saying that. I have read a memoir from one of the former members who was excommunicated and shunned by the church and her family, and I have read countless other articles and statements from other dissenters, and I have developed some strong opinions regarding this church and the members of it. I have been personally disgusted by the actions of these people, and whenever I read something about them, I've always felt hatred and disgust towards them. But when the first thought in my head was, "Is he dead yet? It's about time", I immediately felt ashamed of myself. This is a human being, who had people who loved him. He fought hard for what he believed in and I respect that, even though many people including myself have disagreed with it. I feel I have failed as a Christian and as a decent human being for glorying in the fact that he is dying and probably won't be around for much longer. I feel like by feeling that way, I have sunk to the level they are on. Now, I am trying to change my thinking and feel nothing but compassion and pity for this man who so many people hate. My heart has been filled with hatred in the past for him and his family members and other members of his church, and now I have finally realized that isn't the way I should be doing things. I should remember that they are doing what they believe is right, and that they happen to be people also. So I hope that my attitude change can be an example to other people who hate this man and are so disgusted by him that they only wish for his death and not his well-being.

Why should we judge him, when we ourselves have made mistakes, being selfish, bigots, self-righteous, judging others, being hypocrites? Fred Phelps and the other members of the Westboro Baptist Church are not for us to judge, they are for God to judge, in his mercy and infinite wisdom.


















Matthew 5:43-45

 43 ¶Ye have heard that it hath been said, Thou shalt love thy neighbour, and hate thine enemy.
 44 But I say unto you, Love your enemies, bless them that curse you, do good to them that hate you, and pray for them which despitefully use you, and persecute you;
 45 That ye may be the children of your Father which is in heaven: for he maketh his sun to rise on the evil and on the good, and sendeth rain on the just and on the unjust.

 Luke 6
 27 ¶But I say unto you which hear, Love your enemies, do good to them which hate you,
 28 Bless them that curse you, and pray for them which despitefully use you.
 29 And unto him that smiteth thee on the one cheek offer also the other...
 31 And as ye would that men should do to you, do ye also to them likewise. [aka THE GOLDEN RULE]
 32 For if ye love them which love you, what thank have ye? for sinners also love those that love them.
 33 And if ye do good to them which do good to you, what thank have ye? for sinners also do even the same.
 36 Be ye therefore merciful, as your Father also is merciful.
 37 Judge not, and ye shall not be judged: condemn not, and ye shall not be condemned: forgive, and ye shall be forgiven:
 41 And why beholdest thou the mote that is in thy brother’s eye, but perceivest not the beam that is in thine own eye?
 42 Either how canst thou say to thy brother, Brother, let me pull out the mote that is in thine eye, when thou thyself beholdest not the beam that is in thine own eye? Thou hypocrite, cast out first the beam out of thine own eye, and then shalt thou see clearly to pull out the mote that is in thy brother’s eye.

 Which of these words don't we understand??



Tuesday, January 7, 2014

For New People

If you've just now found your way onto my blog, hi :) I tend to write about a lot of varied stuff, from "Cognitive Dissonance" to [Mormon] church stuff; memoirs and essays to ideas and opinions and sociological views of the gender differences. I haven't written in pretty much forever since mid-October because it's been crazy-busy and I've gone through a lot of "potential-blog-posting-experiences" (maybe I should write about that time I had a nervous breakdown at Bogus Basin during Christmas Break) which range from *perfectly normal* to *you could write a freaking book*. I'll try and possibly catch up on some of that later. Anyways, some of my early stuff on this blog is... well, kind of really opinionated (hence the blog name!)

Before you read some of my early posts, this is my disclaimer: For a few months back there I wasn't really a happy camper with the church, and was all fired up and ranting about all the some of the wrong reasons. Some of those posts and my views in them kind of take up the tone of bitterness, because I went through this stage where I was just picking church doctrine apart and trying to find things to argue about and disprove. (I think I'm out of that phase now but I'm still having a hard time with church for different reasons.) Now, I'm not saying that I am now completely disowning these views, but that looking back I find that some of them are just angst-fueled and, in a nutshell, childish and making me sound like a whiny teenager who has taken it upon herself to unveil the "inequalities of life". I don't want to delete them because, hmm, this is difficult to word. I still believe in some of the things I have previously written about, but not to the point I was at and I think some of the posts really aren't worth looking at. But I'll leave them up, and you can read some of them if you want even though some of them are really dumb.

Please keep in mind that while I am not apologizing for the views and opinions in some of my earlier posts, my views have changed a little and many of the posts are only emotionally-driven, so I do not want to engage in a "comment-war" about them. If you feel differently from them you can sure let me know, but please remember my views have changed to a certain extent and I don't really want to spend time arguing about these posts.

If you're new, here's four of some of my posts that are actually really worth reading:

Cognitive Dissonance Part I: Psychological phenomenons interest me and I spend much time reading up on them (Wikipedia is a very close friend of mine). Alongside that, I've come up close and personal to some psychological conditions either through myself or through personal or second-hand experiences with others. Plus, I love Les Misérables, the character Javert (along with *cough*RussellCrowe*coughcough*), and researching things. Bingo. Plus, I get pretty creative with the story narration. It makes a pretty interesting read. [Note: It says "Part I" because I was originally planning on writing another post about it. But meh. Not feelin' it. It probably won't happen. Très désolé.]

CPR and Life... Totally Random: This isn't really a big post. It's pretty good, though, if you want to see me talk about an abstract way of looking at CPR and the concept of hurting someone to essentially help them in the big picture. (I have to warn about a Star Trek [2012 movie] spoiler, though.)

Memoir: Okay, this was actually a Language Arts gosh darn essay assignment that I think I did pretty well on. If you wanna read about mah family and maybe get a little depressed gain insight into the experiences of losing a parent, this is actually a brilliantly excellent (excellently brilliant?) essay to read. I believe that the subject of death does not have to be depressing, it depends on the view of the reader. Go ahead and read!

Clothing Memories: I compare this post to the Memoir post above, but un peu différents. It was actually a submission to a website (wornstories.com) about the memories associated with an article of clothing. It's kind of personal, but really good. Highly recommended.

I Am Not a Boy: Now, okay, this one is kindaaaa politically-motivated. But not like all of my garbage beginner posts. In a good way. No matter your political agenda or personal beliefs, it's a pretty good read. Seriously. I don't really know how to explain it or put a summary, but if it's on this list, it's one I think you should read.

Sooo I'm hoping that by now there's going to be a change in the attitude or maybe a slight shift in views of future blog posts, starting now. I can usually find something interesting to write about or recycle one of my thought-provoking essays [hopefully] without offending anyone (I'm the kind of Language Arts student that mostly hides in the shadows but consumes books like chocolate and writes really good essays if I don't procrastinate and if I actually give a crap about the topic. All that added to a small-but-growing list of missing assignments, and you get a kid who is good enough to stand out but then again *not living up to her potential* AKA I'm super lazy. In other words, I'm that student that kind of intrigues LA teachers but I'm kind of weird and lazy so they don't really get into it with me.) (Just to be clear, I have loved/really liked every single Language Arts teacher I've had [CyrRiceFineThomasWelker] except for 7th grade.)

Okay. That went off on a slight tangent (probably due to the fact that it's 12:56 am and caffeine is fighting sleeping medication. "Sleep? Who needs sleep? I don't!" That's not what my doctor thinks) My little dog has been alternating between trying to sleep and giving me pitiful little glances letting me know that he wishes I wouldn't keep him up and that I would go to sleep ("seriously, even though you sleep pretty much all day and it's not like you have a busy life"). I'd better go :-)

Happy reading, 

Kelsey