Strong, but Not Tough (Part 1)

Growing up, I was painfully shy. I remember grocery shopping with the Czar and Queen one day and asking where something was. When they told me I should ask a clerk, I immediately burst into tears. The thought of talking to a stranger filled me with an intense and inconsolable fear.

Whenever the Czar would discipline me with his time-tested method of endless hours of berating and yelling, I was never allowed to speak up. Of course, the occasional yes ("Do you agree with me?") and no ("Do you think what you did was right?") were in the script, but outside of that, I was to keep my mouth shut. I learned very early on that truth and justice had no place, but instead compliance and silent suffering were the easiest way to escape the verbal and sometimes physical lashings. I resolved that nothing was worth looking at that enraged, red-veined eyeball as he whipped me with a hanger, comb, shoehorn, whatever was nearby.

As I grew older, I got the bright idea that I should at least say something if the Czar misunderstood something. Any time I attempted at justifying or even proving my innocence, the result was merely more culpability. Whether it was for talking back or suggesting that they wrong (how dare I?), any words from me were met with more punishment and anger.

I learned that the most my "voice" would ever be was an internal wail of injustice, an all-night crying session, a cold ice-pack on the welts on my thighs. But even nurture can't quiet quell nature entirely. Outside the realm of home, I began to find my strength. Excelling in academics earned me a bit of authority, at least with classmates and teachers, and I began to find joy in others hearing me.

When I moved out for college, I decided to reinvent myself. I didn't want to be the girl that people knew was smart but never invited to parties. I didn't want to be the sucker who always took the blame because someone else told me to. I learned to be friendly. I learned to talk to strangers. I learned to talk to large groups of people. Recently, the boy asked me why I never considered business as a major. I explained that, as a shy person all my life, I never thought a career of working with other people and mingling suited me.

Anyone who met me after high school, knows me as a fairly outgoing, often funny and goofy person. I'm not a natural leader, but I'm not afraid to lead. I wouldn't say I'm combative, but I'm not afraid to call people out or make complaints when it's called for.

But at the root of my being, the insecurity and fear of returning to that once-lonely girl whose pillow was her only audience lead me on a spiral of anxiety. Like an offensive lineman, breaking through a row of bodies, I see everything as an obstacle. Everyone looks like the Czar to me. They're trying to shut me up. They don't believe me. They think I'm mindless. They'll never listen. They'll never care unless I force them. I bite, punch, kick, shove my way to the podium, when there may be no obstacles at all. The longer it takes to reach an assurance that I've been heard, understood, feels like precious seconds of holding my breath underwater. As another second ticks by, my heart quickens, my breath shallows, my mind races, and panic grows. I flail, I reach, but I can't seem to break the surface, find any relief.

While explaining this feeling to someone recently, I mentioned that I had felt weak for so long that I had to teach myself, make myself, be strong. They replied that, while I can be strong, and being strong is good, I didn't have to be so tough. That the forceful and abrasive nature with which I demand from people only recreates the loneliness. Navigating clumsily from one extreme to the other, I guess I haven't quite picked up the skill of asserting my strength with grace. I only know this because I see the one I love most has scratches and bruises from my pointless attempts to be heard.

Waiting...Always Waiting

As I face some of the most promising and positive changes of my lifetime, I guess I'm worried that it won't live up to the hype. I'm waiting and dreading at the same time, as if I'll find out that, in the end, these things won't bring me peace either.


I've always admired the "cool girl." The one who refuses , even forgets, to call her boyfriend. The girl who doesn't care too much about her job yet excels in it. But instead of that girl, I was always the girl who cared and thought way too much.


This has been a tough year on that end. I've cared too much when my boyfriend was angry with me or just plain having a bad day. I've cared too much when I screwed up at work. I've cared too much when the P's said something I didn't like. Last night, I lay in bed and felt myself begin to worry. Not about anything new or anything worth losing sleep over, but nevertheless, I did. At one point, I had to just say to myself, "What's the point, anyway?"


There is none. The increased heart rate, the loss of sleep, the welling of emotions, and the constant (no, really, CONSTANT) level of fear is really pointless. If there's no crisis to worry about, I'll search my life for things to pick apart. Yes, it is a beautiful day, but I feel fat. Yes, it is exciting that I'm getting married, but some things may not go my way. Yes, it is a relief that I'll have some distance from the P's now, but I don't know the exact timeline.


The Boy is recently studying for his master's, and he said that there are several times a day when a man's brain is literally "at rest," but it doesn't appear women experience the same. This attests to the notion that women are better multitaskers, but it also points to the fact that women are worriers. I'm tasking myself with learning and practicing brain rest. To enjoy the good without a second thought. To be thankful for the good without a "but."

Student by Day, Streetwalker by Night

I'm well into my 20s, actually closer to my 30s, but I have what you might consider a "curfew on steroids." Even in high school, I didn't have the traditional curfew my friends had. It wasn't ok to go see a movie as long as I was home by 10. It wasn't ok to go to a dance as long as I was home by midnight. I never went out. This might account for why I had but 2 friends in high school, really. We would hang out at someone's house until about 4, when I rushed home to get there before the Czar or Queen were home from work. This worked for the most part. My social life was ablaze from 3 to 4pm. Hoppin.

When I came home during breaks in college, I made sure to find a seasonal job and pick up as many hours as I could. Take your shift? Sure! Take an extra shift? Sure! Someone called in sick? I'll stay late, sure! I schemed to make sure I was closing so that I could wake up late, enjoy a silent house, and then leave before they came home. There were a few times where I would say I was working and instead hang out with friends, and those were glorious days of freedom.

After college, I moved back home and a dilemma presented itself. I had lived by my own schedule, coming and going as I please, for 4 years. What now? It became very clear that my non-curfew from high school was still in place after I babysat for my pastor. Yep. Pastor.

At the time, my pastor was probably in late 30s or early 40s, and a friend of his was finally getting married. He was to be a groomsman, so he and his wife were looking for a babysitter for their 3 children while they celebrated this very special occasion. I was a graduate student at the time, so I gladly offered my help. Besides, they lived just 7 or so minutes away from my house.

That night, I played some Scrabble with the eldest, shared some girl talk with the middle, and put the stubborn youngest to sleep successfully. I was enjoying the silence of the house when my pastor called to say he'd be a little late. Maybe 30 minutes. This would put me home past midnight, so I called the Czar. The response I got beyond baffled me.

What kind of church is this? What kind of pastor stays out and leaves his kids at home past midnight? You... are a street walker. What are you doing!? You're so stupid. This is ridiculous!

Yep. He called me a prostitute. Babysitting for my pastor who lives 7 minutes away until 12:30 on a Saturday night as a 23-year-old clearly means I'm selling my body for money. Is it any wonder that I've learned to lie so easily to them? It's very sad, but it's the only way I can get any sense of freedom. So if anyone asks, I'm working late tonight...

I Am The Exception...Every Time

It's funny how the Queen and Czar are demanding. They are demanding of absolute and unquestioned forgiveness, grace, and apology from everyone else, yet they never see the need to grant those to anyone else. After the debacle involving the boy, my mom reminded me that it's just an apology now that would suffice... for something he never intended, for something that was completely misunderstood, for something he did.not.do.

You've got to be joking me. I wonder in what world it was where they were served endlessly and to no limit that they expect this now. Bite me. No apologies are coming your way for the thing that you misunderstood that should never have offended you that you are demanding so that I can plan my wedding to make you happy so that you will get the wedding you've always dreamed of. No. Bite me.

Since when did everyone else become so entitled to OUR wedding? Where's my gin & tonic?

You'll Be in Jail

During one conversation, the Czar told me to get a firm grasp on my husband-to-be. Until recently, I had the boy dress in his finest and polish his appearance each time he met the Czar and the Queen, as anyone would when they meet their beloved's parents. However, as the wedding draws near, I knew that they would need to be introduced to his quirks and eccentricities, that quite frankly, were exactly what attracted me to him. Yes, he has morning breath when he wakes up, he leaves his socks on the floor, he hates to dust, his dishes go unwashed, and *gasp* he does not always wear a suit with his hair combed to the side.

The aberrations presented were more than the Czar could stomach. What kind of parents would allow their children to dress outside the terms of Court guidelines? He wanted the boy to change his look, to abandon his individual "style" and to conform to his demands. There's a fundamental difference in belief that forms the foundation of the differences between me and the Czar. To him, it is my mission, given at birth, to realize the dream he had when he set sail for the New World. For me, it had always been my mission to find my own dream and make it my reality. In the New World, it is up to you make your own happiness. These two differing views are undoubtedly at odds with one another.

That's why it's no wonder that the Czar constantly speaks of "control." Clearly, the boy's parents had lost control of him. I had better learn to control him, to make him listen to my demands, which should coincide with their own, lest he control me... then, they say, I will be in jail. He actually said I would be in jail when I marry the boy. I am nearing my 30s, and I'm unable to share a meal with a friend without getting a lecture about how unnecessary friends are. I cannot buy a gift without hearing how it is not enough. I'm told that I don't spend enough money on the Czar and Queen. I'm told I should not marry the boy I have chosen. And when I leave this place is when I'll be in jail? Oh, the irony.

Imaginary Kingdoms

There is an irony in the Czar's title... if it walks like a duck... talks like a duck.... it's a duck, right? So yes, he barks orders, makes his own rules, utters the occasional "off with his head"... he is king of the castle...

But no one told him that beyond the walls of our house lies a whole world that operates on a different set of rules...on the value of the individual. As in every individual... not him... the individual. But when the Czar climbs into car, heads to work or the golf course, he believes his rules still apply. He's the Czar at work... he can do no wrong. He's the Czar amongst his friends... they can do no right.

Have you ever tried to grab a speck of something in a cup of water, only to have it go farther and farther each time you get close? A recent explosion of anger from the Queen resulted in an outburst from me. I told her that I had recently gone to the ER with abdominal pains, the result of an ulcer... which I had aptly named after her and the Czar. I had pain meds flowing through an IV and spent the better part of 2 weeks trying to recover. Did she know this?

I don't know what I expected. Some sort of epiphany on her part about how she and the Czar drive me to such head-splitting anxiety? There was no acknowledgment of my recent medical dramatics, and instead she lamented... what did she do to deserve such blame from me for things that are my own fault? Hmm... that IS a mystery.