To my women

Today is the International Day of Women. So I want to take a moment to pay homage to the women in my life who have shaped me and blessed me with their camaraderie, friendship, sisterhood, and care.

My girlfriends: My ladies (as I like to call them) have shown me that female friendship is vital to the feminine soul. My husband is my best friend, but he will never ever understand what it means to be a woman. You need girlfriends in  your life to share the ups and downs of being a woman. No one else gets how creepy it is to have a million empty elliptical at the gym and having that ONE DUDE pick the one next to you. Only my girlfriends can follow my tangents and how we can be talking about one thing, jump to another topic, and ultimately go back to square one.  My girlfriends have taught me that friendship with women doesn't have to be filled with drama. We build each other up, push each other.

My fellow female runners and co-workers: You guys have taught me the importance of ambition. Nothing pushes me to run faster or learn more than a women who knows runs faster or knows more. Not because I want to be better than you, but because I want to be as good as you. We need women who push us to be better versions of ourselves.

My Sister: My sister is the epitome of giving. She has shown me the giving nature of the female soul.  She is the sweet to my sour. I wish I could be as giving and nice as she is. My sister isn't also just nice, she has this underlying quiet strength. Like a river that looks calm and subtle, but the current underneath is one to be reckoned with.

My cousin: She is like my sister cousin (which sounds really backwoodsy; she's just my first cousin). My cousin is someone who gets me...I mean genuinely gets me. She understands my internal struggles of personal growth, my tugs and battles with the possibility of motherhood. She has also taught me that soul mates don't necessarily have to be the opposite sex, or sexual, or that there is just one.

My mother: The baddest of them all. My mother has taught me so much. She has taught me to love my body and my not shy away from my beauty. My mother taught me the importance of being "Cachimbona" (Salvadorean slang for being a badass). She praised and lauded me for every student of the month, understood and never shamed me for my academic struggles. She encouraged and valued my quirks and artistic desires. Knowing a bit of her past (my mom can be a bit of an enigma to me at times), she has got to be the strongest woman I know. Without her, I would have no scaffold of how a woman should be. She has taught me to work hard/play hard. She's taught me to run free and love travel. She has taught me the importance of sisterhood and family.  She has taught me to be the mother I want to be.

To all the women in my life, I value you you so much, you have all taught me the beauty and wonder it is to be Female.

Me Vs. My Brain

Back in September 2013 I came out of a stupor surrounded by men in uniform, in my bedroom, and half-consciously asking my husband "What's wrong?! What happened?!" I knew they were paramedics, and I was scared shitless. My husband then proceeded to tell me that I had had a seizure. According to him, I had drifted off to sleep for a bit, just to wake up a few minutes later complaining of my eye. Turns out it was an aura about to precede my seizure.  They almost didn't take me to the emergency room because I was pretty responsive, but my husband decided that it would be best just to be cautious. They led me down the stairs in my sports shorts and all I could muster to say (because my head was pounding) was "Scott, is my vagina hanging out" to which he responded "No honey, it isn't."

This was my first seizure. I had my first one around the age of 12-13, the other at 15-16, I can't remember. All this was brought on by a run in with Cysticercosis which lead to scar tissue on my brain, which in turn lead to seizures. I was on meds for about 5 years, until I turned 18 and my neurologist gave me the green light to get rid of my Tegretol. Fast forward 16 years later, and I am straight up convulsing again.

What this lead to was to 4 months driving suspension (which sucks, because my job requires it), pushing against the demands of my jobs, and relying on folks for rides (which sucks because I don't like asking for help). I found myself unable to get to the gym (HELLO WEIGHT GAIN) and walking to the train station. It also coincided with Daylight Savings Time, which meant shorter days and colder nights (cold by California standards). I found myself bummed out because I felt at the mercy of my neurologist, the DMV, and the Metrolink schedule.

My neurologist basically said she has no idea what triggered the seizure, and I may have another one. At anytime. Just randomly. It's bullshit really, the way my brain decided that right now was the best time to go into energy surge mode.  Luckily I haven't had another one since September, but unfortunately I'm looking at the beginning months of another 5 years on medication for something that may or may not happen.

My stint in not being able to drive and having to set boundaries at work lead to some pretty cool revelations.

1) I missed the part of me that would walk everywhere, and journal. I got to get in touch with a part of me I haven't really been able to since I was 18 years old.
2) A quiet early morning Earl Grey by myself is my idea of heaven
3) It's OK to ask for help or a ride. This is really hard for me, but I had some fortunate friends who jumped at the chance to give me a hand. Thank you!
4) My life will now come before my work. Letting my job know that I am prioritizing myself over billable numbers was empowering and necessary.
5) My husband is the shit: He would drive to pick me up on my late nights at work, at the train station, held my hand in the MRI machine. He's a keeper ;)

All in all it put some things in perspective for me that I think I needed, now, lets cross are fingers and hope my brain doesn't opt for another rewiring any time soon.

The Ode to my Z

This past Saturday, I said goodbye to my 350z. I had been so hell bent to get rid of this car that I didn’t realize how sentimental I would get when I finally drove off in my more appropriate-for-my-current-life-stage car (the 2014 Mazda CX-5). I’ve been thinking about the Z all weekend long. The Z was my car of transition, my quarter life crisis car, the car that I imagined myself driving when I thought about my future when I was 18.

I bought the Z  6 years ago. Around that time I had called off an engagement, moved out of my parents’ house, started a job that I had busted through 2 years of grad school to get, and started a relationship (which would eventually lead to marriage). The Z represented the badassary freedom I felt at the time. I was hopeful and tired of the bullshit I had put myself through. The Z was the spirit animal of my 18 year old self.  So when I said goodbye to her on Saturday, I was also saying goodbye to a little part of me  that I had grown out of. I was no longer feeling tumultuous.  I wasn’t an intern anymore. I was licensed, married, setting money aside for my house, contributing responsibly to my 401k, setting aside personal savings. OH MY GOD I HAD BECOME AN ADULT, and MPG’s mattered more than looking good, and cheaper gas mattered more than leather interior and sports car handling.

The new car ushers in the possibility of maybe future baby seats (NO I’M NOT PREGNANT),  camping trips, and road trips.  This car may transport the boxes into the new home I buy with my husband. I’m excited, and honestly I love my new car.

 

Good bye Z, good bye Sam, may you make some other young Adult the thrill you gave me.

The memory in song

Music moves me more than anything, with being outdoors and with nature a close second. Music and song take me back. MUSIC IS A TIME MACHINE! Pop in some Nine Inch Nails The Downward Spiral and I'm back to wearing my Doc Martins and feeling like the weird Goth girl in a Christian school. Hearing Dixie Chicks Cowboy Take me Away brings me back to my senior year in high school. I can still feel the sand beneath my toes and the stinging in my eyes from the bon fires on a Southern Californian beach.  Amores Perros sound track (an AMAZING one at that) will bring back images of a summer as an undgrad when I got my heart eviscerated. The songs that bring me back to being a Grad student usually consist of Smack That, Kanye West Gold digger.

Which I immediately associate with no study, going to Tequila Hoppers, and understanding the pain of Jagger bombs.

 

Enter Feist The Reminder. This album was given to me as a gift by my cousin at my bridal shower for an ill-fated engagement.  I associated this warm album with the hot IT guy who came into my life. The guy who all the girls talk about, the guy who looked amazing in jeans, and drove a fast car. The guy, who would never admit it to my face, was a little nervous about reaching out to me. Brandy Alexander  fills my head with the image of watching the sun setting in the September/October evenings. Those Californian evenings when summer wants to hold on a little longer, and my heart is being filled with the apprehension of new love and laughter.

 

How my Heart Behaves  and I can't trust myself with loving you (not Feist, but John Mayer. By the way, this is a sexy as song) reminds me of my heart giving way to my hesitation in this new relationship with a man who was not anticipated at all in my life.  I felt so many conflicting emotions at the time, not wanting him as a rebound, giving him the time and space he deserved in my life at the time.

1234 : When the dust had settled in the chaos that was my heart (this took like a solid year and some therapy) I could rejoice in the simple joy of loving and living life with my now husband.


No song will trigger the sheer excitement and apprehension I felt as I waited in the wings of our wedding venue. I heard this music start and I knew that once my bridal party started it was only going to be a matter of time before I saw the person I'd be spending the rest of my life with. My heart still races when I hear this song. I try not to hear it often, because I want to preserve that emotion for as long as I can. I grabbed my fathers arm, saw our guests before us, and walked into the rain with a sense of relief that my partner in crime was at the end of that walk.

I have too many songs that I couldn't possibly put down here. Wildfire by John Mayer will remind me of the bringing in the Southern feel of Louisiana as we explored New Orleans and learned about Scott's family. You been catchin on like a wildfire. So much music, but although we may have our first song La Vie en Rose as husband and wife. He will always be my Brandy Alexander

He's my Brandy Alexander
Always gets me into trouble
But that's another matter
Brandy Alexander

I'm his Brandy Alexander
Always get him into trouble
I hide that I'm flattered
Brandy Alexander

The Importance of Singing

As I sit listening to Ms. Ella Fitzgerald with Louie Armstrong on this cloudy Southern California song, I'm reminded of the love I had for singing. Strike that, have for singing. The first time I ever sang in front of a crowd it was at my 6th graduation. Then I was considered "the second best singer" by the "first best singer" in the school. She thought she was the best because she could hit Mariah Carey notes. Listen sister, hitting the notes does not make you Queen Butterfly. But I digress. We sang "A Whole New World." Of course I had to be 'the boy part' because I had a lower voice. This was to be my lot in life: Alto. The supporting structure to said Sopranos.

When I left my elementary school, I left my school district. My parents placed me in a private Jr High School, where I was one of two Latinas. My school was about 90% white and the other Latina, a Cuban, was blonde hair and blue eyed. I was big nosed, brown hair, thick eye browed Chica. It was in Jr High, that I really began to enjoy singing. My music teacher then, Mrs. Melody Dewitt (yes that was her name, and our PE teacher was Mr. Ball, I Shit you not) had an amazing voice and had this flightiness to her that only music teachers can have. She gave me my first solo, which I BUTCHERED in front of a 1st grade class. I mean I got the melody, but apparently I forgot the lyrics. Afterwards, a little kid came up to me and said, while giggling "you messed up." Yeah you little jerk I know!

Music was the source of my sanity, the voice to my gothiness, and the sound of the depression I struggled through my entire 8th grade year. When I got to high school I made sure I had choir in every semester. It was by my senior year that I felt so comfortable with my peers and teachers (because I had known them for a million years) that I could do solos without an uncontrollable falsetto or messing up lyrics. I did everything I could involving singing: freshman choir, girls choir, chamber choir, praise team, musicals. If there was singing, I was gonna do it. My poor dad kept hoping I'd sign up for Calculus or get that Sports Letter for my jacket. Instead he got intermissions and songs sang in Latin. My fondest memories was practicing or ending up at Denny's after a musical. I don't miss that time, because high school did blow at times, but I look upon that time with such fondness that I hope my future children have the chance to do the same, with the same wholesomeness I did.

I was in the Bel Canto Choir at APU with a singing scholarship that gave you barely enough money to buy one semester of books and committed you to a year of bubbly Christian girls who sounded like Disney Princesses. I don't sound like a Disney Princess. It was in that first year of college that I lost my voice. My experience in this choir was not something I enjoyed, mostly because I was just 1 of 100 voices, and was struggling with my own issues with Faith. I didn't feel like belonged with any of the girls there. And being asked by random strangers about my "personal relationship with Jesus Christ" didn't help. Out of 100 girls, I clicked with about 3, and my one home skillet (with a voice that is Amaze-Balls) left. At the end of this Freshman year we were 'contractually obligated' as part of the scholarship to do a 2 week tour of California. On a Bus. I found out a lot about myself on this journey, how to be happy with myself, how to convene with God alone. But I lost something really important. I lost my voice and my desire to sing.  I went 4 years without singing then I sang in public was when I lived in Mexico and made it to the finals of a singing competition for my rendition of "All that Jazz" (From Chicago). I hated it, I understand why singers drink. I don't do well with stage fright, and I couldn't control my voice. I lost to a Mariachi chick, and once again lost my voice. I also grew to hate that one song from Chicago.

It wasn't until my wedding day that I was able to sing in front of people, to my husband and our guests. I could do it, because I was surrounded by my homies, my pose, my family. The people I knew wouldn't judge me for a cracked voice, or a too strung out vibrato. I felt nervous for a second and I was able to sing again for the someone.For me to sing, I have to sing for a reason: to praise, for love, to act. I think the reason why my experience with my college choir took it out of me, was it felt too commercial and I felt too disconnected from everyone.

I'm finding my voice again, even if I'm only singing in the shower, or in the car, because I'm not muting my feelings, and I'm allowing myself to let go and belt out whatever feels right in my soul.  Everyone has their own song, some it's running, other's drawing, it's that thing that moves and heals your soul. Make room in your life to sing your song and voice.

Now excuse me while I go sing "Wrecking Ball" while I clean the kitchen.

6 years a Therapist.

On November 5th, I entered my 6th year anniversary at my non-profit mental health agency. I have been in this field for 7 years (1 year internship while I was in the graduate program) and I enjoy it because it's a field that always challenges me.


When I had the chance to work with graduate students I gave them a few pieces of advice

1) Find an agency that will teach you while you learn the ropes of DMH paperwork. DMH paperwork was not taught to you as a grad student and requires almost a year (or for me 2) just to get a handle on it.

2) Accept that you will never be caught up you over-achieving glorious goons! It's ok, accept it and walk away

3) Find what works with your energy. I work best at the beginning of the week and taper out in energy as the week progresses, I schedule more clients on Monday Tuesday than Wednesday and Thursday. Some people are the opposite.

4) Above all, take care of yourself. You are a well of support, empathy, and understanding. Make sure you are always filled with what brings you joy and life, or else you will run dry, rendering you empty. Take care of yourself.

 I have heard some pretty horrific stories of abuse, deceit, lies, and all around awfulness. I have been yelled at, challenged, and been complained about to my boss. I once actually had to save a 10 min rant on my voicemail because I called DCFS on a parent just to cover my ass. It was crazy, and I wish I still had it. Working with LA County DMH standards is enough to test anyone's tolerance. The mountains of paperwork, the productivity demands, and the constant change and push for evidence based practice can drive you batty. The current climate of health care reform has been challenging for many of us. Evidence Based Practice can suck to soul out of the most promising therapists. This field is not for the weak of heart or the weak of soul. However hard the day is, the week, or the fiscal year I have still managed to keep my faith in humanity. I still find the energy to do what do and here is why:

1) My clients: Not all my clients are gems or the most enjoyable people to care for, but when you find that flicker of desire to change it's amazing. You see that that person wants to change and wants you to be a catalyst for that change. It's pretty awesome

2) I now have mad UNO skills. I challenge you to an UNO duel, I'll win.

3) The ugly: When you hear about abuse in such graphic detail as I and my colleagues have had to  you wonder how can you keep going. It's the trust behind the ugly is what keeps me hopeful. You trust me to hold all that awful in your life. For a moment I can carry the weight of it for you, even though you go on living with it every day.

4) Group Supervision: man, learning different techniques from new therapists and group supervisors is amazing. You can never learn too much.

5) My colleagues/friends. I am surrounded by incredibly smart, empathetic, driven women (and men-but they are few in this field). They are the reason why I haven't lost faith in humanity, because of what they do when they are in the trenches of mental illness. Not only have these women supported me professionally, but they have also supplied me with female camaraderie that every woman should have by my age.

So, may I have many more years in this field, and still maintain the level of hope and faith in me to continue to give to others. Because the only way to survive in this field is to continue to have faith the the human spirit and the human desire to change.

Faith, Feminism, and F-Bombs

Lets get a couple things straight.

1) I'm a Christian. I believe in God and Jesus. I believe that Jesus died for my sins and was a radical liberal.

2) I'm a Feminist. This means I don't hate men and I don't burn bras (because they're expensive). I simply believe that women should be treated as equals to men. We're different I get that, but one is not superior to the other.

3) I cuss. Not a lot, but enough to add emphasis like "SHIT that FUCKING hurt!" or "FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK" when I'm really just tired of the day to day bullshit.

My faith in God has probably been the thing that has kept me most even keeled, calm, and OK during some different times in my life. Prayer during my long runs have helped me immensely. I have my doubts about religion and churches, I'm wary of any mass group of people being led by one person. I'm skeptical of men (as in human beings, not as a just men) but I'm not skeptical in God. I often wonder if He looks down at us with face palming all day. I believe the Bible can serve as guide, but I also can't ignore the fact that it was written by us flawed human beings. God talking to us is like pouring the purest water through a janky filter. If we go into the whole sin/original sin thing I think there is some validity to this.  There are a lot of things I don't understand, and I accept that I may never understand it. I once had a professor who summed it up perfectly " A person trying to understand God is like trying to look through a stained glass window. You get an idea of what's out there but you don't get a clear picture." I like having something bigger than me.

"when my heart is overwhelmed: Lead me to the rock that is higher than I" Psalm 61:2

2) When the Bible was being written, chances are it was totally being written by a dude. I mean oppression of women isn't something new people, it's been going on since like forever. Machismo and Religion are like homies. Hence why I take some Biblical passages with a grain of salt. The Bible is a reflection of its times. But I digress, I'm a Feminist. I believe in the whole equal pay for equal work. I believe in a woman's right to chose for her body and her career. If you want to stay home, stay home. If  you want to work, work. The women's movement has allowed for us to have more options. I also believe that Feminism benefits men, because it allows flexibility in all our roles. So much of roles is tied up with sexuality (no bueno), but it's good for everyone. Equality is a good thing. Equality is sexy. Equality for everyone YEI!

3) Some people say 'cussing is unlady like' but I say fuck it. What does it mean to be a Lady? Who defined that? (Well that's a whole other blog discussion). I try to curb the cussing around kids, because well, no one wants to hear a 5 year old say 'shit head.'  I just like to pepper it in, you know, for flavor. Not like, every other word, just a little emphasis.

I felt the need to write this blog because I've had people say "Oh I didn't know you were a Christian" because why? Because I don't memorize Bible verses, or attend church every Sunday. If 10 years of private school education has taught is that the most "Christian" Christians were some of the most hypocritical awful people I have ever met. It was in these Christian schools where I heard racist terms said to me and people were straight up mean because I looked different. If we can get passed the label of "good" Christian to  real Christian I think people would probably like us more. We're flawed, multifaceted people. I hate that so many out there associated my faith with hypocrisy and hate with Christianity.

This is me being real: I'm a Christian who cusses and believes in equal rights for women and the LGBTQ community. I'm a Christian who struggles with her faith, who misses a good praise song.I didn't get married a virgin (but mad props to those who did!) . I am what I am, I make no apologize, and to quote the great philosopher 2Pac: "Only God can judge me."