"You are the cause of my euphoria": A BTS Love Letter

This is the part in the romantic comedy when I realize I’ve been wrong about them the whole time. 

They were right there, for so long, and I just didn’t see it. I was foolish and I was prideful and I locked my heart away in the name of artistic integrity and I was wrong about all of it. 

And now I’m just a girl, standing in front of a KPop group, asking them to keep making music and videos and art and concerts.

There are people in my life who love fiercely and bravely, without shame or pretense. I want to love like that. So this is my love letter to BTS. 

They've been around since 2013, but didn't come into my life until the end of last year, when my roommate Ali showed us their Tiny Desk concert, shortly after her own love began to develop. For weeks (months?), she sent me and K memes and clips, showed us episodes of Run BTS. And I was definitely charmed. Of course each member is gorgeous and talented, and the few songs I heard were catchy. But in my hipster head, it was K-Pop. I was raised on Queen and Mozart and the Beatles. My iTunes is full of Tom Waits and Spoon and Fiona Apple. “Real” music. I thought of K-Pop as pastel bubble gum corporate nonsense, with a fandom of screaming teenage girls, in a world I had no connection to. 

This is the part of the story where I admit that I was a fool.

I don't know how or when the switch happened. I can't point to the exact moment when I fell in love. But somehow the memes Ali was sending me started to get under my skin, and I thought, "Well, I just want to learn their names." 

Famous last words. (This is literally a joke in the fandom. We all start by just wanting to know their names.) And then I fell hard and fast. 

First of all, before I get any further into it, anything I have to say, this Esquire article says better, so feel free to just read that. Or this older article from Entertainment Weekly. But for my own personal thoughts, read on.

KPop is an intense industry in Korea—there are trainee programs that churn out pop groups every few years and promote them while training the next ones. The idols and groups that populate the stages of Korea are marketed products. And part of the reason I love BTS so much is because while they occupy that space of being products, they also seem to subvert and defy the industry in many ways, just by being so deeply and genuinely THEMSELVES. 

Wait. 

Lemme introduce you to the boys. 

From left to right: 

Suga (Min Yoongi, Yoongi, solo work under Agust-D). Rap line. Probably one of the best rappers of our generation? Dry humor exterior, deeply caring interior. (Check out the music video for his solo track Daechwita, with cameos by fellow BTS members Jin and Jungkook.)

J-Hope (Jung Hoseok, Hoseok, Hobi). Dancer, rap line. Human sunshine. Everyone, including me, saw him during Carpool Karaoke and asked “Who’s the guy in the middle?” 

Jin (Kim Seokjin, Seokjinnie, Jinnie, “World Wide Handsome”). Vocals, visual. Oldest of the group. Caring older brother, king of dad jokes. 

Jungkook (Jeon Jungkook, Kookie, JK, “Golden Maknae”). Vocals, dancer, visual. The youngest of the group, or the “maknae.” Good at almost everything he tries. 

RM (Kim Namjoon, Namjoon, Rap Monster, “God of Destruction”). Rap line, incredible lyricist. Leader of the group. (Also spokesperson and translator, since he’s the most fluent in English.) 

Jimin (Park Jimin, Jiminie). Dancer, vocals, visual. Astonishingly talented dancer. Besties with V. 

V (Kim Taehyung, Taehyung, Tae). Vocals, dancer, visual. Breathy and ethereal vocals, incredible fashion sense. Besties with Jimin.

The seven boys have practically grown up together—they each joined the trainee program as teenagers, and Jungkook was only 14 when he started. When they debuted in 2013, their ages ranged from 16 to 21. And after all those years together, their friendship is so deeply evident in all of the HOURS of content available to watch (concert footage, Run BTS, Bon Voyage, In the Soop, V-Lives, fancams, BTS bombs, and memes and clips from all of the above). They care so much about each other and it’s my favorite thing. (Leader RM has said that the members think of each other as something between friends and family, and the editor of the Japanese magazine CREA once said "BTS love each other so much they don't know what to do.")

And the music. Oh dear readers, the music. I came to BTS in a weird sort of backwards way—I became a fan just from watching other content, and listened to hardly any of their music for weeks. And then I listened to “Love Yourself: Tear” front to back and it was over.

I could spend a bunch of time listing all of their record-shattering stats on Billboard and album sales. I could go into detail about KPop trainee programs and their vigorous schedules and how hard these boys have worked to get where they are. I could tell you how quickly they sell out stadiums. I could tell you about all the social media records they've shattered, and then shattered again. But you can Google all that. 

Instead I’ll just extol the hard-hitting synchronization of the dance rehearsal for No More Dream. (This video is from the year they debuted, so Jungkook is only 15 here.) Or the enthusiasm and passion in the dance rehearsal for On. The stunning vocals and desperation of the track House of Cards. The lyrical sensuality of the choreo in Blood, Sweat, and Tears. The classical beauty of the music video for Black Swan. The dark sexiness of Jimin performing Filter live. The playfulness of the dance rehearsal for Baepsae. And good night, the enormous, over-the-top intensity of Dionysus at the 2019 MMA awards. (The entire performance is like 40 minutes long—start at 29:14 to see Dionysus; FLASH/STROBE WARNING from 34:16 - 36:05.) 

The boys in BTS are also big ole goofballs, which is effing delightful. But even more beautiful to me is the genuine love the members BTS have for not only each other, but for their fans. It’s evident in their TinyTan videos like this one for Dream On. In the way they always thank ARMY (what BTS fans call themselves) in every album and every concert and every interview. And words fall short for the hope and beauty I feel watching the music video for Life Goes On. It feels like a such a gift. It’s this lovely poignant look at this pandemic-driven moment in history. Watching it, I felt so deeply that we belong to each other, we human beings, and that the future holds beauty for us all. (Also, the music video was directed by BTS’ own golden maknae, Jungkook, because he’s wondrous.) 

I think part of the reason I love BTS is because watching them reminds me of what it’s like to be with a bunch of theatre kids. It makes me feel the same way I did hanging out with cast-mates in Yellowstone during Playmill summers, or talking in the parking lot after a show at a theatre somewhere, or sitting at a cast party and laughing about everything that went wrong during the run of a show, or messing around in the greenroom before curtain or backstage. Watching BTS perform feels familiar too—sharing the stage with people you care about, doing what you love together, hyping each other up and celebrating each other's success, and having moments to shine yourself, and having SO MUCH FUN while doing it. 

I also love that they’re challenging some toxic masculinity in the rest of the world just by being themselves. In Korea, men and boys are much more physically affectionate with one another—arms around shoulders, hugs, shoulder rubs, sitting on each other’s laps, etc. There’s even a name for this kind of affection…“skinship.” A lot of this kind of behavior is coded as “homosexual” or “girly” or “weak” in America, and therefore unacceptable for many straight men. (One time in college, two guys I knew accidentally brushed hands while passing food to one another and one of them recoiled and said emphatically “No contacting man-flesh!”) By comparison, members of BTS share beds when they travel and cuddle up on couches together and slap butts regularly. A lot of Americans/non-Koreans see this and make assumptions about sexual orientation, but these KPop boys are literally just being their affectionate selves. 

And while we’re on the subject of breaking gender norms, GIVE ME BOYS IN MAKEUP ALWAYS. Have you seen these boys rocking lipstick and eye shadow?! Life-changing. For concerts and photo-shoots and occasionally everyday life, the boys don lace and chokers and bracelets and earrings and eyeliner and I am here for all of it. 

The K-Pop industry isn’t without its issues. Despite all of the makeup and same-sex touching, Korea is still homophobic. There’s an obsession with personal appearance that pushes folks into disordered eating. The trainee programs for idols can be grueling and overly controlling and downright abusive. The music industry in Korea can be exploitative (see "fan service"). There are legitimate reasons to criticize Kpop as an industry. But sometimes our reasons for dismissing KPop (and BTS) have more to do with internalized bullshit that doesn't hold up to any real scrutiny. That Esquire article I linked above really said it best: 

I originally intended to convert you all with this blog. But you're under no obligation to love or even be interested in BTS. Like Ali said to me once, people come to the boys if and when they’re ready. It took me a while to come to them. There’s a whole wealth of knowledge, an entire vocabulary, a slew of inside jokes that you learn as you become an ARMY. You may make a few incorrect assumptions because of your American perspective at first, like I did. (This article is a helpful guide in giving context to Korean media.) If you do come to the boys, be forewarned that they will probably come for you, one after another. You’ll cycle through a specific phase of love for each of them. 

One of my other original intentions in writing this blog was to defend myself and my love for the boys, to get ahead of the shaming or teasing I anticipate (perhaps falsely). But I don’t want to do that either. I just want to love them. Fiercely and bravely. 

Yes, BTS can be a distraction from the woes of our current timeline (pandemic, lack of COVID-safe theatre work, financial worries, recent breakup). But BTS is more than that. They offer hope and light and music and love in a world that’s uncertain, pandemic or not. I know it's cheesy, but I thank the universe that I'm alive on earth at the same time as BTS, and that Ali found the boys and then shared them with me. 

I love BTS because of their talent, their humor, their individual quirks, their attractiveness, their friendship. We stan a group that stans their fans and each other. When we see BTS performing on stage, or doing an episode of Run BTS, or traveling for Bon Voyage, we’re watching people spend their time with people they love and belong to, people who work hard at their jobs, and people who humbly show gratitude for the people who have given them what they have. 

I love BTS because they have what so many of us long for—to love our jobs and be good at them, a chosen family who can laugh and work together and encourage each other along the way. 

And by loving them, I find myself a part of a chosen family, too. One of millions of ARMYs who love these boys, fiercely and bravely, and are lucky enough to be loved back. 

Breathe

“I need another short breather,” I say. 

 

Patrick stops a few steps ahead of me. “No worries,” he says. “We’re in no rush.” 

We’re standing in the shade, halfway through the first ¼ mile of this hike, which has a 600-foot elevation gain. I lean forward and put my hands on my knees as my lungs struggle to gulp enough air. 

“Don’t let me forget my inhaler ever again,” I say. 

 I’ve only had my inhaler for a few months, so I never remember to bring it anywhere. I got it after I realized that my lungs were consistently tight after going on walks in spring. My lungs often felt tight in spring in general. But this time, my lungs felt tight in early spring when I was going on daily walks in an effort to stave off the madness of quarantine. (The albuterol prescription also helped alleviate my anxiety about having COVID-19. If the inhaler helped, it meant I was negative for the disease?) 

“Okay,” I say, once my lungs stop burning. “I’m ready.” We walk slowly, setting a deliberate pace. I glance around at the aspens, the rocks, the wildflowers. I take a sip of water. My head has begun to ache. Not enough oxygen. Not enough hydration. 

I put one foot in front of the other. I’ll probably be a little sore tomorrow. If I had marched yesterday, I would be sore today too. But yesterday, we stayed in the car, honking the horn, blasting Childish Gambino’s “This Is America,” participating in a drive-by protest of police brutality. 

I wish there was a phrase other than “drive-by.” 

My muscles and bones and lungs and heart carry me up the mountain. They’re carrying a lot for me nowadays. 

How it felt to dance in the blinding heat, a few hundred of us in the streets, dance-dancing for the revolution, blocks away from the District Attorney’s office. How it felt to lay on the hot pavement in front of the governor’s mansion, face-down, gravel pressing into my knees, for eight minutes and forty-six seconds. The burn in my feet and knees as we walked up the long hill to the Capitol building. I forgot my inhaler that day, too. 

Patrick and I pace ourselves, a slow and steady climb to the lake. When we get there, the light glints off the water, and the grass is wet and cool at its edges. The sky is blue blue blue, the leaves on the aspens twirling in the breeze. 

It feels good to be outside. I temporarily took Facebook, Instagram, and Twitter off my phone yesterday. I’ve recently found myself caught in an endless cycle of bad mental health, which I try to alleviate with social media, but social media makes it worse. So I’m doing a “fast” for a few days, even though I’m always judgmental when other people do that. Just have some f***ing self-control, I always think. Or, If you think social media sucks that much, I think you just have crappy friends. 

But I also apparently lack self-control. And it’s not that social media sucks, or that I have crappy friends. It’s that I mostly have passionate, empathetic, and compassionate friends who are constantly fighting for justice and equity and it’s beautiful and also somehow exhausting, and then I have a few friends who keep doing theatre and having social gatherings without masks and it is NOT beautiful and it is definitely exhausting. (The pandemic is not over, my friends. You are endangering everyone around you and prolonging hardship for yourself and your entire community, my friends.) 

And I’m exhausted by strangers stopping me to discuss how “not all police are bad” because they see the sign on my car. I’m exhausted by people telling me that Black Lives Matter is a terrorist organization. I’m exhausted by editing my resume for every remote job posting that I find on ZipRecruiter. I’m exhausted by not being able to breathe when I walk up a mountain. I’m exhausted by calling the DA’s office every day to ask that the life sentence charges be dropped against protestors. I’m exhausted by the steady and relentless heat of this corner of the planet, and by the wildfires that blur the skies for days on end, and by my dwindling savings account. 

So I’m taking a break. I’m taking a break, knowing that my whiteness is part of what allows me to take a break. But I'll be back to do the good work eventually. I just need a few moments. 

A few moments to just breathe.

It's Gonna Be Okay

There are so many things I want to write about. Kathleen and her memorial, opening night of Safe, thoughts on loneliness and friendship and love and illness and grief and self-esteem and romance. But every time I try, my psyche is like NOPE. So I’ll just have to let those things out slowly I think—just let them grow until they’re ready to be set down fully formed, or else put them down a little bit at a time.

So instead, I’m going to write a bit of encouragement to myself. A short imagined letter from the future Liz. If I’m continuing the growth metaphor from above, consider this the Miracle-Gro. (Or maybe this is an oblique way to write about some of those things I listed after all.)

Dear Liz,

It’s okay to feel grief. It’s okay to not “handle it well” and to accidentally fall short while you’re trying to process your sadness and fear. Grief creates a fog that sometimes you simply must walk through. You’re doing your best, and it’s going to be okay.

I know you’ve got the blues lately. It’s partly just January. Keep going on walks—I know you never feel like it, but you can handle the cold for 20 minutes, and those 20 minutes of walking make all the difference in the world to your mental health. You’re always glad you went, even if you never feel like going. Take naps if you need to. Be compassionate to yourself.

I know you may feel lonely lately. In your efforts to be professional as a director, you’ve put up a few walls between you and the cast and crew. In your efforts to protect Patrick from your own sadness, you’ve put some distance between you. And after Kathleen’s memorial, it was hard to leave Medford and Beckah and everyone behind—all of that love felt blinding and you still ache with it. But it will be okay. You are loved and loveable, even in your grief and sadness and confusion.

I know you haven’t felt very pretty lately. That’s okay. We all have those phases. So you’re fatter than you used to be and your hair is kind of at an in-between stage and your body hair is doing weird things lately. You still rock those curves, girl. Your eyes still sparkle, you beautiful soul. Give yourself a pedicure and a face mask just because it feels good. Stand in a hot shower with your beautiful body just because it feels good. “Pretty” isn’t objective. You’ll find it in yourself again eventually.

I know you’re dreading that audition on Wednesday. But I promise, it will be fine. You dread every single audition you ever do, and then you survive it and sometimes you even get to do a show afterwards. You have nothing to lose in doing this audition. The worst that could happen is they could say no, and if you do get cast and are overwhelmed by scheduling conflicts and other challenges, you can decline. It’s good to just practice auditioning, if anything.

I know that there are a lot of things that just feel uncertain right now. And you can look for guidance in tarot cards and universe splitter apps and self-help books, but sometimes you have to just embrace the uncertainty. You can embrace the age-old wisdom of that damned Serenity Prayer, which is so trite as to be cloying but is nevertheless one of the truest prayers ever written. You can accept the things you cannot change, change the things you can, and be wise enough to know the difference. Trust your intuition. It hasn’t failed you yet. You are a divine being navigating a beautiful world where you can grow and learn and give and heal. Trust that your journey is perfect exactly as it is. Let yourself be carried where you need to be carried.

And to give you some perspective on the goodness you do get to experience, here are a few things to give you hope and happiness. Between your tax return and your savings, you’ll be able to make a down payment on a car in the next few weeks…one that gets better than 18 mpg. Aaaaand you’ll be able to start saving for a bike soon too, which for short distances will be better for your wallet, your body, and the earth. In two weeks, you’ll be in Disneyland with Beckah and Mom and Ray. You have wonderful roommates and a wonderful boyfriend and a wonderful family and wonderful friends.

It’s gonna be okay. Better than that…it’s gonna be beautiful. It already is.

Gratitude Journal, again

Sunday, June 17, 2019
Wednesday, July 31, 2019
Tuesday, August 20, 2019
Thursday, September 26, 2019
Friday, October 4, 2019
and a dozen others
Today I love my life for naps/sleep.

I rarely want to go to sleep at night. There are just usually more interesting things to do. Books to read, shows to watch, Instagram feeds to scroll. But I find myself enjoying more and more the slow drifting in and out of long afternoon naps, or weekend mornings when I can sleep in.

I’m enjoying the simple possibility of naps. My therapist once gave me permission to sleep if I need to, and I think that absolution is what makes the naps so enjoyable. I don’t need to be productive every second of every day. Sometimes living life to the fullest means listening when your body says it needs rest. My instinct is still to think of naps as a “treat” or something to indulge in on special occasions. But I’m learning to let that go. I’m learning to embrace the “unproductive” “lazy” “indulgent” and “childish” practice of naps.

*  *  *

Wednesday, September 18, 2019
Today I love my life for going on a walk and rehearsing for auditions even though I didn’t feel like doing either.

I don’t feel like doing any of the things I need to be doing tonight either, or even could be doing tonight. I don’t feel like taking this dog on a walk, and I don’t feel like blogging, and I don’t feel like reading, or watching something, or sleeping, or being alone, or being with friends, or eating, or sound designing, or anything. But I’m going to take this dog on a walk, because I’m being paid to and because I suspect it will actually make me feel better. And I’m going to eat, because I suspect that will make me feel better too.

But that’s as far as I’m going to plan ahead. If I don’t actually feel better, maybe I’ll at least have the satisfaction of doing 2 things. I’ll figure the rest out after I get that far.

*  *  *

Wednesday, December 11, 2019
Today I love my life for Aaron and Jessa.

I’ve got some kind of poem building in me as this chapter closes. Right now it feels too big to write. Right now I’m simply holding it in my heart, waiting to see how it grows.

*  *  *

Wednesday, December 18, 2019
Today I love my life for impeachment.

I know it’s complicated. And I know that it all feels so partisan. And I know that it’s very unlikely that all of the Democrats and all of the Independents and at least 20 of the Republicans all currently in the Senate will convict the current President.

But dammit, we did the right thing. Even if it doesn’t lead to removal from office, impeachment was the right thing to do. It showed our commitment to the just laws that govern our citizens and leaders. It emphasized that no one is above the law.

I don’t think impeachment is meaningful ONLY if it leads to conviction and removal from office. No President in United States history has ever been convicted and removed from office. Presidents Andrew Johnson and Bill Clinton were both impeached by the House, but not convicted by the Senate. Richard Nixon resigned before he could be removed. But we remember that Nixon was impeached. We remember that Clinton was impeached. We remember that people stood up and said, “You can’t too that.” And that’s powerful. I like to think I’m bipartisan in this, even though I know my own biases run pretty deep. The rule of law applies equally to both/all parties.

*  *  *

Wednesday, December 25, 2019
Today I love my life for a beautiful Christmas with someone I love.

Here’s the problem with healing old family traumas and wounds. It means that now I miss my family all the time, and especially on holidays.

I think every family has traumas and wounds—it’s just the nature and extent of them that differs. I won’t spend time here describing mine, because that’s not the point. The point is that I’ve spent the last few years in therapy working to heal. And I’m discovering that all of those old wounds and traumas were also a wall keeping me from connecting with loved ones. And now that the wall is crumbling, I miss loved ones. We’re spread far and wide—California to Oregon to Colorado to Nevada to South America.

And holidays can be hard. I wish I could spend Christmas in the kitchens and living rooms of my own family, eating good food and singing and laughing and playing games and watching movies. I miss being with my people. I miss baked goods and caroling and homemade candy and reading aloud. I miss conversations with the people I belong to.

So if I can’t have all of those things with my own family, I’m grateful I could share some of them with someone else’s, and with someone I love.

Patrick and I opened presents together at his mom’s house, along with his sister and her husband, and it was a beautiful chaos of wrapping paper and explanations and thank you’s. We had dinner at a neighbor/family friend’s, where we played games and talked. I read “Angela and the Baby Jesus” and we did a Christmas Mad Libs.

But my fondest memory of Christmas is later that night, when Patrick and I listened to musicals and sang and played Rummikub and talked and laughed. It's so easy get lost in the stresses and uncertainties of life and dating and schedules, especially during the holidays, and in my anxiety, I forget to do the things together that fulfill us: good music and good company and good conversations. That Christmas night, just the two of us, I felt connected to him and to myself and to us as a couple, and it was beautiful. It felt like family.

The hopes and fears of all the years are met in thee tonight

There are few who know that emotions are tangible.

I know because I am filled with them. Humans have breathed life into my paint and foundation and flooring. I wasn’t born from a womb. All of humanity is my mother, and I become a mother to them, a womb to shelter them.

Within a few short millennia, humans have leapt into the skies and plunged into the oceans, photographed particles, measured the speed of light, split atoms, cured diseases. It will only be a few more years until their instruments are fine-tuned enough to measure the matter of feeling that permeates everything around us. A fine mist of pollen, an ethereal smoke, that floats through the air and settles into the walls and carpets. Here, feel the hum of fear in these walls. Here, the golden orange light of joy courses through the glass of the windows. It will straighten your spine if you sit near. Here, your feet will drag in the concrete sludge of sorrow left in the floorboards. I am what you make me.

I have heard whispers of houses where men re-arranged the insides in fury, drove nails into them as if their wooden flesh were a threat. The crash of porcelain echoed within those places, and the whip and crack of punishment, and the roar of disdain. The unshed tears of women and children seeped into the floorboards, a continuous, incomplete baptism. A sea that would not part.

In houses like that, after the terror is over, the weight of everything left becomes a grindstone. A house cannot help but let out some of what it carries. It bleeds from the walls, gathering in unseen beads that slowly drip towards the carpet and make the family dog whimper. It slips out in little ways…a creak on the stairs, a door that closes on its own. Sometimes it comes in gusts, bursts of wrath that topple books from shelves, send pictures flying from the walls, and make lights flicker and pop. Sometimes the memory of a man’s voice, his agony and fury, flies from the rafters, his words ricocheting from floor to ceiling. The neighborhood children would speak of it in whispers.

Perhaps I could have been a theatre. Never quiet places, where feelings upon feelings upon feelings bump and tumble and multiply, knocking props off from shelves and popping lights in the rafters. If I were a theatre, they would leave a light on within me, to appease the ghosts.

Or else maybe I could have been a museum, where every stroke of paint is buzzing with feeling, where stone and wood and metal and cloth are alive with it, and the air vibrates with what is left behind after people stand in awe and clutch their hearts.

But I am not a museum, or a theatre, or a house. I am a church. For some, God is just a word, but within my walls, reverence is tangible. There is a beauty to that uniquely human emotion. Other animals do not seem to worship. Humans look upwards and ache with hope. It fills the stained glass windows. Every beam of wood and every stone is weighted with meaning. “This is important,” each of them says. “I am made beautiful by your hope.”

In older places, the hope and sorrow and joy and fear of centuries make each room feel bigger than it looks. Feelings compound upon themselves, multiplying over time. At first, there is reverence and wonder and awe at the way the light shifts, at the coolness of stones, at the bend of wood. But that wonder seeps back into the light and stones and wood, until even people who believe only in what they can measure sense the weight of that wonder.

The stones do not matter only because they are carved. The wood does not matter only because it’s old. The glass does not matter only because it bends the light. Their power is in what they contain, in the fine matter of what was felt there. The word God alone does not make this place sacred. It is sacred because a woman came to that place and mourned the loss of a child. Because a man came to that place and thanked Something Bigger to be alive. Because a child came to that place and hoped for something they could not name.

Come, walk among my ruins. There is wonder here, a looking upwards and upwards. The acidic burn of hatred hissing in corners. Hope against hope. Whispered prayers, whispered sins. Tonight, the memories of these feelings taste of ashes.

An Ode to Plastic Wrap

“Maybe it was time to consign this chair to nothing, but I would do this on a day when it was not important. I would break its spell in my own due time.” –The Testament of Mary, Colm Toibin

It’s been 8 ½ years since Jacob and I got married. As one of the most practical wedding gifts in history, someone gave us 3000 square feet of plastic wrap. It’s a giant roll, from Costco. From the beginning of our marriage to the end of it, we went through maybe a fourth of the roll. 750 square feet.

Who knows how many plates and bowls and serving dishes of food it was used to preserve. 500, maybe? We used it to wrap up the window air conditioner for storage in the winter. It protected plates and picture frames each of the four times we moved. It’s a perfect temporary storage solution. It does the same job that bubble wrap or a Tupperware container would do—keeping things preserved for now, until the time when we need the thing it’s preserving.

The roll of plastic wrap came with us from 5th West to College Avenue in Rexburg, then from College Avenue to the farmhouse with Mama and Papa Chapman. It traveled with us to that first little house in Provo. When we moved to Salt Lake, we almost forgot it in a kitchen cupboard in that Provo house, and I drove all the way back to get it. “That would have been a huge loss,” Jacob said, half laughing with relief, as I carried it into the kitchen.

That roll of plastic wrap is “one of the things I got in the divorce.” Our separation was uncomplicated, legally speaking, and amicable, emotionally speaking, even if it was deeply painful for both of us. Jacob left the plastic wrap behind, which I’ve always interpreted as a sign of good will. I still have it. It’s seen me through maybe 100 more plates and bowls of food preservation. I still use it to wrap and store the air conditioner. Sometimes I use it to protect surfaces while I paint.

Most often nowadays, it’s used to wrap up finished cross stitches for my Etsy shop. The box the roll came in fits perfectly (PERFECTLY) into my craft cart, and it seems a logical way to protect stitches for storage and shipping. But it’s being used to protect dishes and picture frames lately, too.

Because I’m packing up this Salt Lake City apartment. I’ve spent four years here, two with Jacob and two without him. And it felt like time. My life is shifting, and, it feels like I’ve outgrown this place. I’m a houseplant in need of re-potting.

I’ll be joining a friend and another roommate in a perfect old house with a giant backyard, about ten minutes away from my current place. I’ve got two weeks before move-in day, so I’ve been emptying shelves and clearing out closets. And I keep stumbling upon things I saved when Jacob and I separated. Old pictures. Notes. A small book stamp that says “Chapman Family Library.” There are some things that I’m keeping. They’re the tangible equivalent of journal pages. A record of the past, of truths that were, that add up to become the truth that is. My marriage with Jacob was a big and beautiful and important part of my life, and I feel no need or desire to erase it.

But there are some things that fall into a strange “in between” category. Things that I don’t feel a need to keep for sentimental reasons, but that I’m having a hard time getting rid of. A few framed pictures of us. Things that used to decorate the Chapman home, when this apartment was the Chapman home.

Maybe it’s too much to let go of everything all at once. The apartment and the framed pictures, too. If I’m a houseplant in need of re-potting, I don’t want to cut off too many of my roots in the process.

So for now, I’ll wrap these things in plastic wrap. I’ll pull of yards and yards from that Kirkland Signature roll, and preserve those pictures temporarily. Until their spell is broken. Until I’m no longer in the middle of being transplanted.

There’s a voice in my head that cries out for me to make a decision, to let go or not. But I’m learning that I can roll my own, when it comes to healing. I’ll let those things from the Chapman home sit, preserved in amber, or in plastic wrap, as the case may be. Until it’s time to transplant them, too.

Today I Love My Life For

Gratitude Journal: Excerpts and Explorations

Monday, January 8, 2018
Today I love my life for successfully flirting a good flirt.

It’s been an ongoing discussion between B and I. “What even is flirting?!” I demand. B has multiple (and very good) examples and explanations, none of which come naturally to me. I use B as my flirtation sounding board. “I have a thing for forearms,” I try. “Whose?” he says. “You’ve got to make it specific.” I’m astounded at the idea of just telling someone that I like their forearms. Just saying it. Outright.

Later that night, we’re sitting next to each other in the theatre, watching the other cast rehearse. I rest my head on his shoulder, in that friendly, cuddly way that we theatre people do. But after a few moments, I sit up and whisper, “You smell too good to sleep on.”

B stifles his laughter, then says, “THAT was a good flirt.” I make him high five me.

***

Thursday, April 12, 2018
Today I love my life for Patrick’s smile when I dropped my pen at rehearsal.

His words onstage are so full of life and it makes my spine hum. When he’s sitting offstage, he has this habit of taking his pencil and running it through his hair, up over his ears, along the sides of his head. A soothing habit.

I’m sitting across the room from him, and take my pencil and run it through my hair. Patrick is right, it does feel good. I look up and we make eye contact. I smile and run the pencil through my hair again. But it gets caught and clatters to the floor. I give him a sheepish look. And Patrick smiles, all the way from his chest to his eyes.

***

Friday, May 18, 2018
Today I love my life for listening to the rain while holding sleeping baby Michael.

Benjamin was almost two when Adele and Daniel moved here. And Nathan is almost two now. I’ve watched both of them learn to run, speak in longer sentences, ask questions that I don’t know how to answer.

But I only have a few short, precious months with Michael. The family will be in Arizona when he says his first words. I’ve been trying not to think about it.

Most of my memories of Michael will be of holding him while he sleeps, in the dim master bedroom, while Adele does the hundreds of other things she’s doing. His snuggled up warmth as we rock in the evening light.

Today, he’s asleep, his head against my chest in his moby wrap. We’re standing in a stranger’s kitchen, while Adele’s clear voice and the tones of her crystal singing bowls ring out from the other room. I’m here to hold the baby so that she can work uninterrupted.

Michael and I walk up and down, up and down the length of this kitchen. Something in his little baby self can tell when I’m not moving, and he stirs if I pause for too long. Outside, the rain comes pouring out of gutters, hits the wooden deck in soothing plunks, runs in rivulets down the windows. But there’s a stillness in it, too. In this moment, everything is still. I don’t have bills to pay or laundry to fold or work projects or auditions or lines to memorize. It’s just me and this rain, and Adele’s music, and this sweet baby boy sleeping with his head against my chest.

***

Saturday, August 4, 2018
Today I love my life for the hummingbird on the wire.

Oma and Opa have had the hummingbird feeder for at least 30 years. The guest shower has a window, chin-height, that looks right out onto it. I’m thinking about the autumn when I lived here, in 2008, when everything was falling apart, and the night when I was brushing my teeth at 2 or 3 in the morning, and some crazy bird sat outside that bathroom window and sang like it was welcoming the dawn. I wrote a poem about it—about that bird not giving a damn if it was the middle of the night and singing despite the darkness.

I glance out the window now, and see, in the morning light, a hummingbird circling the trees outside. And then it pauses in its frenzied flight, and lands neatly on the telephone wire above. Such a tiny thing. Hardly ever still. Its iridescent throat catches the light as it turns. It sits there for a full minute, a warm jewel in the sunlight. I watch it, feeling like everything is holding its breath, until it finally flies away.

A Love Letter to My Body

I’m turning 33 this week, and I’ve been thinking a lot about my body. It’s not quite as healthy as I’d like it to be—going up stairs makes me a little short of breath, and I can’t quite lift things or climb things as easily. But I’m working on it. And I sometimes catch glimpses of my body in videos or pictures. And sometimes it looks different from how it feels. The curves are stronger, the rib cage wider, the neck shorter. Sometimes the number on the scale is higher than I realized. But still, I love this body.

I love my thighs, the way they brush against one another when I walk. The curve of my backside, the strength of it. I love the way the muscles of my calves shape themselves around my bones.

I love the proportions of my hands. I love the green of my eyes. I love the shape of my feet when I point them and then flex my toes. I love the curve of my breasts, the fullness of my lips, the hair between my legs, the arch of my eyebrows. I love the freckles and moles that cover my skin.

I love how my legs carry me from place to place, how I can make myself a few inches taller by standing on my tiptoes. I love that my hands can type and paint and touch. My throat can make music and words and laughter.

I love that my guts digest my food, and my lungs breathe. And there are trillions—TRILLIONS—of connections in my brain, and they’re shifting and growing and changing every single second I’m alive. I love that I can feel someone’s lips on my neck and their hands on my waist, and I love how my blood rushes in those moments.

I work in an industry that puts a lot of emphasis on appearance. Which makes sense in some ways—sometimes roles simply demand a certain “look.” But it’s easy to get caught up in how narrow those “look” expectations can be. And it’s even easier to get our value tangled up in how we look.

And I’m calling bullshit.

Bodies are bodies. They are lumpy and veiny and flabby and freckled and scarred and zitty and fat and skinny and strong and weak and broken and full. But my body is not here just for other people to look at. It’s here so that I can walk up mountains and swim in lakes and paint and write and sing.

I know that the reality is that we’ve always been obsessed with appearance, and a lot of people still are. That’s the world that we live in.

But I guess I uh…don’t want to live in it. So I don’t.

I rarely weigh myself. I intentionally don’t compliment people if and when they lose weight. (This is also because these compliments are extremely complicated and sometimes painful for those with eating disorders.) When little children ask me about the mole on my throat, or above my lip, I explain to them that my moles are part of what make me beautiful. Everyone has things that make them beautiful. Some people have lovely hands, or stunning eyes, or freckles, or shapely feet.

If and when I have children of my own someday, I will never comment on weight—mine, theirs, strangers’—as if it has anything to do with their value. As if weight has to do with character, as if it’s a moral issue. I will always talk about my body in terms of the things I like about its appearance, or in terms of things I like that it can do. Or else just factually. I don’t want my children to learn to dislike their bodies, or to judge them harshly.

If your body doesn’t meet your society’s idea of “beauty,” it’s not a moral failing. It doesn’t affect your inherent value. And if your body DOES meet your society’s idea of “beauty,” it just means that you won a genetic lottery. Either way, you’ll turn 40, then 50, then 60, and eventually your body won’t look like it did, or do the things that it did. You could get sick or get into an accident, and suddenly you won’t look the way you used to, or be able to do the things you used to.

So eat well. Stretch. Exercise. Use sunscreen. But do those things because you love your body, not because you hate it.

photo via Bruce Aoki
(Yes, that's me and also yes, I am naked in this picture.) 

Dear Diary: A Toddler's Life

I found this project I had started years ago, when my nephew Benjamin was just 2 years old. It was inspired by a nursery school teacher who had kept a similar "diary" on my behalf when I was that age. Benjamin just turned five about a month ago, and I'm feeling deeply nostalgic. It was fun to re-visit this two-year-old Benjamin and re-work this piece.

Wednesday, November 4, 2015

Aunt Liz has been asking me about my dreams lately, but I haven’t given her a straight answer until today. She explained that “sometimes we imagine things while we sleep, and those are called dreams.” After that explanation, I replied, “Oh yeah! ChuckWagon! Mommy more pay-dohs. Daddy don’t bite it.”

"Chuckwagon" is what I call the Chuck-A-Rama restaurant, because of the wagon in the logo. That restaurant a big deal in my mind. (So is Play-dough.)

No one knows where I got this, but I keep using the word “forty-eight.” Today after my nap, I sat up and looked at the bookshelves and said, “Whoa lots books. Forty-eight books.” I use this number to describe things all the time.

My favorite things at Liz and Jacob’s house continue to be the “duggle balls” (juggle balls) and the “cale” (scale) in the bathroom. I also love dancing to the Ting Tings, watching “Danel Tiger” on the iPad, pressing the doorbell button, and singing to Frozen in the car. Today, I discovered that I can slide around in the kitchen on my stomach, but Liz won’t let me—she says it’s too dirty. Maybe she should clean it more so I can slide.

Also today, Aunt Liz was pulling a sticker off a pear and I saw it and wanted it. But she had already thrown it away by the time I asked for it. She told me she was sorry and that she threw it away. So I stood in front of the garbage can and quietly said, “Sticker? Where are you?” I don’t know why Aunt Liz hugged me so hard and smiled so big after I did that.

Benjamin

Wednesday, November 11, 2015

I was sooooo sleepy all day today. But Aunt Liz and I had some fun running errands. We went to Walmart, where I held the little mirror she was buying for a long time, and that was fun. Then we went to the pet store, just because it was close by. There were so many fun things there! Fishies, kitties, birdies, and I even got to pet a puppy. I wanted to hold every animal, and open all the cages. But Liz told me they had to stay there in their homes. My other favorite things were the bags of rocks for fish tanks. I love rocks.

Then we went to the Dollar Store and played with toys for a long time. I found a cool microphone toy and made Aunt Liz sing into it, and then I looked for everything remotely shaped like a microphone and made her sing into them too—fake lightsabers, nunchucks, bubble wands.

The only sad thing is that grown-ups never let me take things from stores! I just want to hold everything and take everything home, but they never let me. Someday I’ll figure out why.

I do know some things, though. While we were at the store, Liz said, “I wonder what time it is?” And I replied, “Forty-eight!”

At lunch today, Aunt Liz gave me some special Jewish bread called “challah,” but that’s too hard for me to say, so I just call it “Lala bread.”

I’m still obsessed with listening to Frozen whenever we get into the car. My favorite parts are the very beginning of “The First Time In Forever”—the music is so exciting! It always makes me grin and dance when it starts. And I also love the end of “In Summer,” and I sing it reeeeeeealllly loudly. Liz always smiles so big when I do that.

Benjamin

Monday, November 15, 2015

I spent the WHOLE WEEKEND with Liz and Jacob and Grandma and Grandpa and Dave and Camilla and Anna and Laura. I saw Anna in a show called “Mary Poppins,” and even though it went waaaaay past my bedtime, I loved it. When we were leaving the theatre, I told Liz, “Saw Anna! We did it! Really really fun.” Then I saw someone that I thought was Anna, so I called out her name. Liz explained that it wasn’t Anna, but that she did kind of look like Anna. I said, “Kind of Anna. Friend!” and reached out to the person for a hug. I’m quick to make friends.

I played with Lucy and family all weekend, and it was fun. Grandma even gave me a haircut and I stayed still the whole time. I slept for most of the drives, but the last hour to Salt Lake City made me INSANE. I just sat and made crazy faces and crazy noises for at least half an hour. I was going nuts being strapped in the car seat, so Jacob ran around with me in the grass at a rest stop. It was FREEZING, and my little nose was red with cold, but I just wanted to run around, and I was pretty upset when we had to get back into the car.

I went to nursery in Grandma and Grandpa’s ward, and I was a little nervous to be in a new nursery, but then there were bubbles, and it was okay. And I made a shaker with two paper plates! I was very proud of it.

Benjamin

Wednesday, November 18, 2015

Today, I told Liz several very detailed stories during lunch.

STORY #1: “Go see lots books! Libary! And see see see? Winnie Pooh. And Eeeeeeeyore. And libary stay really quiet. Stay stay right by me. We did it!”

STORY #2: “Don’t ride it the frog. Scary frog at the zoo! Really really fun. See muggies [monkeys] throw bread up there! See lions. Eflants [elephants] water. Muggies stand in trees! Scary muggies.”

STORY #3: “Play outside, too shiny. Oh no, fall down. Hurt leg, go doctor. Benjamin hurt leg, Daniel Tiger hurt leg. Get sticker.”

The last story was probably inspired by the episode of Daniel Tiger I watched, where Daniel Tiger gets hurt and goes to the doctor for a bandage.

Also during lunch, I pretended to sneeze some apples into my hand. Then I looked at them and said, “Oh no! Apples fall down!” Then I dropped the apples on the tray, and said, “Try again, apples!” I did this a few times.

I’m starting to put longer and longer sentences together, and I’m starting to understand more about grammar. Today, instead of saying “Craisins good,” I said, “Craisins are good.” I also identified the fridge and told Liz that there was a second fridge. She explained that the top one is called a freezer. A few minutes later, I pointed over and said, “That’s a fridge. And that’s a freezer. At Liz house!”

I get kind of crazy when I’m sleepy, and sometimes it takes some persuading to get me to take a nap. But sleep always wins. One day I’ll stay awake! I will!

Benjamin

Wednesday, December 2, 2015

I went with Liz to get an oil change for the van today, and spent a long time in the waiting room. It was pretty fun. There was a baby in there, and paper to throw around, and vending machine buttons to push. I kept asking Liz if we could watch “Daniel Tiger” on the vending machine, but she said no. Also, Liz said we would go to the library today, but we never did! I reminded her about it in the afternoon, but she said we didn’t have time. Maybe next week. Because, as I told Liz today, “I really love books.”

I still have a cough, so my nap was a little rough. But when I woke up, Liz said, “Hi Benjamin.” I looked at her blankly for a full ten seconds, and then said, with no expression at all, “Muggies.” Liz raised her eyebrows and asked if I dreamed about monkeys, and with excitement, I said, “Yeah! And Benjamin go Chuck Wagon really really soon!”

As a two-year-old, the most influential experiences of my life have been seeing monkeys at the zoo, and eating at Chuck-A-Rama, so it makes sense that I would dream about those things.

Benjamin

Wednesday, December 9, 2015

Today, Liz and I took the train to Gateway shopping center. I saw Olaf in a window, which I was very excited about, and also watched a splash pad/fountain show. I kept telling Liz I wanted to play in the water, but she said it was too cold. When I heard the announcement for the musical fountain show, I looked up at the speakers and said, “Oh! That’s conference!”

After my nap today, I told Liz that I dreamed about “Mary Poppins! See Anna on stage!” And Chuckwagon. As usual.

I’m way more independent than people think I am. Today, Liz noticed I had a little hangnail. She tried to just pull it off, but couldn’t get it, so she said, “I’ll get the clippers.” As she walked to the bathroom, I belligerently called out, “No! I can do it!” A few seconds later, I walked into the bathroom and handed Liz the hangnail I had just taken care of myself.

Also, I have no idea what colors are. At age two, I can count to ten accurately and consistently. I can point out circles and triangles by name. Today, I correctly identified the letter E. But any time Liz tries to talk about colors, I have no idea what she’s talking about. “That’s a blue pillow!” I’ll say. She’ll say, “Actually, that’s orange. The blanket is blue.” And I’ll smile and say, “That’s greeeeeeeen!” So I know the names of colors, but not what they mean. But how am I supposed to know? There’s no shape to them! No one knows how to sufficiently explain what green or blue or orange is. Ugh. Babyhood.

Benjamin

December 16, 2015

I had a pretty uneventful day with Liz. We did go to IKEA, but it wasn’t super fun because she wouldn’t let me get out of the cart. When she said we were leaving, I said goodbye to everything I saw as we walked past it. (“Bye, boxes! Bye, other more boxes! Bye, so many clocks! Bye, lights!”) After a while, I didn’t know the names of things, so I just resorted to “Bye, stuff! Bye, other stuff!”

For the last couple of weeks, I’ve kept two toys in the car: a little flashlight and a little stuffed sheep. I always talk about them when we get into the car, and request them if they’re not immediately available. I also always say good-bye to them when I get out of the car. Today, when Liz woke me up from my nap in the car seat, I found the little sheep right away and exclaimed, “Oh, seep [sheep]! So sweet, seep. Like a little lamb! Snuggle up little seep.” Then I cuddled up the little sheep to my face and Liz almost died of my cuteness.

My outfit was so cute today: little blue jeans and a plaid button up shirt. I was like a little lumberjack! And when I sat on the couch to watch Daniel Tiger, I crossed my little legs like a grown up and Liz almost died of my cuteness again.

Also, Liz ate like, HALF of MY cheddar bunnies this afternoon, like a responsible adult. But I still snuggled up with her anyway. I’ve got a big heart like that.

Benjamin

Self-Care: An Incomplete List

I had another essay in the works that I was planning on posting today—a venom-filled indictment of those who say “men have to be so careful in this age of #MeToo.” But the time doesn’t feel right for that post. A lot of people are aching right now. (Let’s be honest—a lot of people are aching all of the time.) But I’m just aware of the sadness people are feeling about the loss of Anthony Bourdain and Kate Spade, and I’m aware of the private battles of a handful of close friends. So I felt that something tender would be better for today.

I’ve been thinking a lot about self-care lately. The need to be patient and kind with ourselves. I once heard saw on Pinterest that the Buddha taught that if your compassion does not include yourself, it is incomplete. And the fact is that we all just need a little extra TLC sometimes, whether we’re suffering extra work stress or a recent illness/injury or a deeply broken heart or good ole pedestrian clinical depression.

But the phrase “self-care” doesn’t really include specific details or instructions. So, I’ve crowd-sourced some ideas, and included things from my own list. Because when you’re in crisis, it’s hard to brainstorm ways to care for yourself. If you already have a list made, it’s a little easier to just take a look at it and find a good way to hug your own heart.

So feel free to use this list to create your own—exclude the things that don’t work for you (because of interests or budget), and include some things of your own. Some items on this list are distractions from spiraling thought loops, and some are ways to address the hurts you’re feeling, and some are a little bit of both.

I know that some of these things are extra difficult when you’re dealing with clinical depression, and I’m in no way suggesting that any of these things will fix your problems, or be an adequate replacement for medication, therapy, etc. But a list of self-care strategies is just another tool to add to your toolbox. Consider it a first aid kit—sometimes a bandaid really is helpful.

SELF-CARE IDEAS!

Watch a great movie or TV show
This can be an old favorite, a comedy to make you forget your troubles, or something sad or romantic to give you a good cry. Or you can splurge and take yourself out to the movies. Get a giant popcorn and sit in one of those luxury loungers. Or just queue up Netflix and let that next episode play.

Go on a walk
The left-right movement of walking actually calms the brain, and makes difficult emotions a little easier to process. Movement in general is pretty good for brains, unhappy or otherwise. Find a good podcast or put on a good playlist, and just explore your neighborhood.

Exercise
Because endorphins. It doesn’t have to be much—you can find a short, easy work out video on youtube and do it in your living room.

Paint or do art of some kind
Says the girl with the art therapist. The process is more important than the product. It doesn’t have to look good—just smear some paint. Fill a whole piece of paper with crayon scribbles. Get a coloring book and some colored pencils and have at it.

Take yourself out to eat
Someplace yummy, that you really love. Don’t count calories. And yes, order dessert.

Read a good book
An old favorite, or discover something new via Goodreads or your local library.

Shave your legs
Really really really well. Be meticulous. Use shaving cream. Use a new razor. Exfoliate and moisturize.

Manicure/pedicure
Either professionally, or at home.

Get a massage
If you can afford it, this is AMAZING.

Connect with someone you care about
Send a text/snapchat/Marco Polo/Facebook message. Spend some time in conversation with another person. Human connections are powerful and healing.

Journal/write
This is another one where process is more important than product. Just write what you’re thinking/feeling.

Reorganize something
How’s your bathroom closet look? Your bookshelf? Your Tupperware drawer? Sit down and go through and tidy it up. Sometimes your thoughts and emotions get tidied in the process.

Deep clean something
When’s the last time you wiped down your kitchen cupboards, inside and out? Just like tidying, a good deep clean can be cathartic.

Do a jigsaw puzzle
Just something simple that takes a little movement and a little thought.

Cook something new
Try a new recipe. Bonus if there’s chocolate involved.

Jerk off
Yeah, I said it.

Cuddle/kiss/make out/have sex with someone you care about
Physical touch can be so so so healing. There’s a phenomenon called “skin hunger,” where the human body and mind suffers if it doesn’t experience touch. If you have a friend or significant other who’s into this, ask them for some loving.

Sing
I’m a huge fan of YouTube karaoke.

YouTube Party
Speaking of YouTube, get on there and watch the things that make you smile. Favorite themes of mine include: babies laughing, cat/dog fails, dance videos, and bloopers. Watch your favorites and find some new ones.

Impromptu Emergency Dance Party
I have a specific playlist for this purpose. The exercise releases endorphins, and the music perks my heart up. And a lot of us just don’t dance like we used to!

Take a warm bath/hot shower
Water is healing, somehow.

Meditation/mindfulness
Sometimes it’s helpful to just take a moment to breathe and BE in the moment. There are lots of apps and YouTube guides to help you if you’re a novice.

Spend time in nature/get outside
Whether it’s a public park or a hiking trail, just being outdoors and surrounded by green can work wonders. Or just move a kitchen chair to your front porch and sit in the sun.

An exploratory drive
Hop in your car and explore a part of town you’ve never been in before. Take a moment to appreciate the architecture of the houses.

Retail therapy
Listen, use this one sparingly. But sometimes a stroll through Target or Barnes & Noble really is lovely.

Just give yourself permission to feel
I often subconsciously go numb when I’m feeling distress. While it’s uncomfortable, the best way to deal with that distress is to just give myself time to feel it. I’ll usually do this while journaling or going on a walk or a drive, or having a conversation with a loved one.

Listen to awesome music
Sometimes I’ll go through my iTunes, and think “Oh yeah! I effing LOVE Franz Ferdinand! I wanna listen to this album!” Revisit some old favorites. Find some new ones.

Hang out with some animals
Visit the pet store or humane society and cuddle kitties and puppies.



Take care of yourselves, everyone.



If you or a loved one is having thoughts of suicide, or dealing with a moment of crisis in clinical depression, call the National Suicide Prevention Hotline at 1-800-273-8255. You can also chat with them online at https://suicidepreventionlifeline.org/. They are open 24/7 and also provide services for those who are deaf or hard of hearing. You can also google "Suicide or Crisis Hotline" and see what resources are available in your area.

#MeToo

(Note: Much of this blog entry has been written with a focus on the sexual crimes men commit against women. I know that women also commit sexual crimes against men, and men against men, and women against women, etc. But it's the crimes that men commit against women that are most prevalent. I don't want to discount the very real experiences that men have as victims of sexual harassment and assault. I've tried to be somewhat inclusive in my language, but I do want to focus on the specific problems of men assaulting and harassing women.) 

It's been simultaneously heartbreaking and inspiring to see so many "#MeToo" statuses on social media over the past couple of days.

For those unfamiliar with the hashtag, on Sunday, in light of the Harvey Weinstein case, actress Alyssa Milano posted the idea on Twitter. She urged any women who had been sexually assaulted or harassed to simply post "Me too" on social media. She said, "If all the women who have been sexually harassed or assaulted wrote ‘Me too’ as a status, we might give people a sense of the magnitude of the problem."

I posted my own status, along with this story: Once, during my freshman year in college, a bunch of girls from my dorm building were all talking about the ways we'd been treated by men, strangers or otherwise. Finally, I said, "Well, heck, let's test the statistic. Apparently it's one in four women. Raise your hand if you've been sexually harassed or assaulted."

Every single woman in the room raised her hand.

There were twelve of us. We were all under age 20.

My own sexual assault was confusing to me at the time (and sometimes still is) because I was raised in a culture--both societal and religious--that placed absolutely zero emphasis on consent. Even within Mormonism, we don't talk about consent. We talk about "rules." There are things that you are and aren't "allowed" to do.

But just because you're "allowed" to do something, doesn't mean you want to. There's plenty of room for interpretation within the law of chastity. I can't tell you how many Mormon women I've talked to who did things (or let things be done to them) that they were uncomfortable with, simply because it wasn't "against the rules" so they didn't know how to say anything. There's this strange pressure to be "nice." You get into a situation and you think, "I don't think what he/I/we're doing is wrong. I don't want to do it, but I'll be selfless and avoid contention and just let it happen. Besides, I'm not one of those prude girls who don't know how to have fun!" All of these things set up a world in which women are voiceless, so that when something DOES "cross a line" or "break a rule," there's no precedent to speak up.

I'm infuriated and heartbroken at how many times I see "Me too" as I scroll through Facebook. At the same time, I'm filled with hope and inspiration for two things: that people can feel less alone and less shame, and that people WILL start to really understand the magnitude of the problem.

As I've read through the conversations that are happening everywhere, there are a few thoughts that I wanted to share. (Men, now is not the time to talk. Now is the time to listen, and then talk.)

For every "Me too" you see, there are millions unseen. 
It takes a great deal of courage to speak up. Survivors don't owe anyone anything. If they're ready to talk, they can talk. If not, they don't have to. Their journey of healing is their own. But this also means that there are probably a lot of people who HAVE been sexually assaulted or harassed who haven't posted. And those only include those who have internet access, which is less than half the world's population.

The statistic is insane because men tend to assault/harass multiple women. 
I've heard some men express disbelief at how many women claim to have been sexually assaulted or harassed. "Surely there aren't that many terrible men!" Well, there aren't. Statistically, most men DON'T sexually harass or assault women. But those who DO, do so multiple times to multiple women. If 1 in 4 women are sexually assaulted/harassed, it doesn't mean that 1 in 4 men are sexually assaulting/harassing. It means that a small percentage of men are sexually assaulting/harassing multiple women. A study from 2002 found that of college men interviewed, "only" 6% had attempted or completed rape. WHICH IS STILL TOO HIGH OF A NUMBER. But among those 6%, they had each been responsible for an average of 6 rapes/attempted rapes.

So already, if that's 6 men out of every 100, they're responsible for a minimum of 36 rapes/attempted rapes. And this statistic doesn't include any other form of assault or harassment, including groping, sexual comments, online harassment, etc.

Men, we know it's not all of you. But you're Schrodinger's Rapist.
I'm sure women would love to live in a world where we could assume every man around us was safe. Most of us adore the men in our lives, trust them, and know that they're good men. But when we meet someone new, we have no way of knowing if that man is going to try and harm us or not. Until he proves otherwise, we just have to assume he's dangerous. So don't take it personally if we don't immediately trust you, boys. Don't try to convince us that you're one of the good ones. Trust our sense of personal safety and show us that you're one of the good ones. (This article is a brilliant, more in-depth explanation of this idea.)

Men, you may not be aware of the problem, because men don't always assault or harass in front of other men. 
Men, you may have opportunities to speak up against harassment and assault that you witness. But the reality is, you're probably not going to be there when it happens. Men who are assaulting or harassing women do so when women are more vulnerable--AKA away from other people, and away from other men. (More great reading on this phenomenon here.) Be aware of this. Just because you don't personally see it, doesn't mean it doesn't happen.

We need to face the reality of how harassment and assault look 
I think a lot of men (and a lot of women) have this idea in their heads of what "rape" looks like. A woman is walking alone to her car or apartment, and a stranger with a knife jumps out of the bushes and violently assaults her. While this does happen, it's far less common. More commonly, we are raped and harassed and assaulted by our friends. By our boyfriends. By our husbands. By our bosses. By our neighbors. When you realize that, you're much more aware of the potential dangers around you.

Harassment and assault are all part of the same pyramid
There are some who say that "harassment" isn't that big of a deal. That we shouldn't put it in the same category as "assault." I'm not going to argue about who deserves compassion for their experiences. I'm here to say that both harassment and assault are symptoms of the same problem. They're both evidence of a lack of empathy and a disregard for consent. Check this out:

If we want to change the violent crimes at the top of the pyramid, we also have to address the issues at the bottom.

So how do we change things? Here are some ideas:

Emphasize consent
This goes for all activities for all ages. If your kid doesn't want to give you a hug, don't make them hug you. If a friend doesn't like to be touched, don't touch them. Don't take it personally. Allow people to set their own boundaries. When teaching youth about sexuality, emphasize that they must always always respect someone else's boundaries.

I worry sometimes that a lack of conversation around consent creates situations where someone doesn't KNOW they're assaulting or harassing. Because people sometimes don't know how to say "no," there are people out there who have just assumed that everything was okay, and unknowingly caused enormous pain. I don't blame these "accidental perpetrators"--they are victims of the system, too, in their own way. But I can still show compassion for their unintended victims. And I can still be an advocate for these conversations.

Finally, don't teach that boys are evil sex monsters "who only want one thing" and don't teach that girls are chaste vessels who are responsible for guarding their virtue. Almost everyone has sexual thoughts and feelings. Those thoughts and feelings are the responsibility of the one experiencing them, and no one else.

Emphasize communication
Even for those of us who got sex ed beyond "this is how babies are made" and "don't have sex," most of us didn't get many communication skills. Even if we WANT to say "no" or "stop" or "I don't like that," we don't always know how. I'm a big fan of the "red light/green light" system. Red light means "stop, don't take it personally, no questions asked" and "green light" means "yes, continue this." Quite often, you can tell from body language and other cues whether or not someone is into something. But if you're not sure, you can stop and ask. And it can still be sexy and fun to ask. Sometimes we think something like a first kiss is way more exciting if you don't say anything. But you can say, "I want to kiss you," or "If I kissed you, would you kiss me back?" which is kinda hot, and also let's the other person know what you're thinking, and also gives them a choice as to how to respond.

And here's the other bonus: People like and dislike different things. Just because one person liked the way you kissed their jaw doesn't mean someone else will. If a magazine tells you, "Try this--women LOVE it," don't believe it. Because here's the secret: ALL OF US ARE DIFFERENT. And the cool thing about communication about what's going on is that consent is automatically built into the conversation.

Ask "If I was dangerous, would this person be safe?" 
This is an especially good thing for men to ask themselves, but it can go for anyone. Could the person you are with "escape" if they needed to? Is there a power dynamic going on? If you are unknowingly "endangering" this person, or if there's anything about your circumstances that might make someone uncomfortable, do what you can to make sure they feel safe.

Call it out when you see it
Did the person next to you cat-call a woman walking by? Say, "Hey, that's not cool, man." Is a woman experiencing unwanted attention from a stranger on a bus? Intervene by sitting next to the stranger and engaging him or the woman in conversation instead. Is one of the guys on the team being picked on in the locker room? Defend him. Call out rape culture in books, movies, TV shows, plays. Listen to and believe victims. Don't laugh at the seemingly small experiences women have...they pile up.



It feels like all of the women (and men) who are posting about sexual harassment and assault on social media are really saying, "I'm mighty tired of carrying this." And the women (and men) around them are replying with a resounding, "Me too."

Weddings are fun, and marriage is crazy

My sister Annalicia got married! She and her now-husband Daniel eloped back in the spring, and we had a big wedding party celebration in September. Here's my sister and her husband wearing trachten.

And in true Whittaker fashion, it was a pretty epic party. There was a bouncy house, a ridiculous amount of Iranian food, and lots and lots of dancing.

Annalicia said I could give a wedding toast if I wanted to. I gave a friend a sort of rough outline of what I was planning on saying, and he said it might be the last time I'm ever asked to give a wedding toast again. But I disagree. In my humble opinion, this is what all wedding toasts should be like.

To Daniel and Annalicia, on their wedding 

There will be a day when you wake up and think, “I married the wrong person.” That day may have actually already happened. But what’s done is done, so here we are, with Christmas lights and Iranian food and a sense of optimism for your future as a couple. 

Admittedly, my seeming cynicism in this toast may be informed by my own recent experiences with marriage. But if I’ve learned anything from the last seven years, it’s that being harshly realistic doesn’t have to destroy your hope for the future. In fact, it makes that hope more beautiful. 

Doubt and pain are where we have choices. A golden retriever doesn’t doubt himself. He just follows his instincts. But we as human beings do experience doubt and fear. But a love that you choose, despite doubt or fear, is far more powerful than a love that simply happens to you. 

And so, with hope and realism, I take my toast from wedding vows penned by the philosopher Alain De Botton, who recognizes the beautiful insanity of something like marriage. After each portion of this toast, I’ll raise my fist, and when I do, I ask that you raise your glasses and give a hearty “hear, hear!” 

May you each accept that you are, in countless ways you don’t yet know, very hard to live with. 

("Hear, hear!")

May you accept not to panic when, some years from now, what you are doing today will seem like the worst decision of your lives. 

("Hear, hear!")

When you are mean to one another, may you remember that at heart, it is because you are hurt, and not because you are fundamentally bad people. 

("Hear, hear!")

May you remember that everyone has very significant things wrong with them. Don’t look around. There probably isn’t anyone better out there, really. Once you get to know them, everyone is impossible. 

("Hear, hear!")

May you be true to one another, not because you are perfect, but because you’ve each decided to be disappointed in each other, and each other alone, rather than foisting your troubled selves on innocent members of the community, who would be deeply annoying, too, once you got to know them. 

("Hear, hear!")

And finally, may you embrace the fact that the entire human experience, marriage included, is messy and wonderful and complex and flawed and fulfilling, and may you find joy in it, imperfections and all, for time and all eternity.

("HEAR, HEAR!")

Congratulations, Daniel and Isha. I'm so happy for you, and so excited for the years to come. I love you. 

Puzzle Pieces Purloined from Polyamory

Here's something you may or may not know about me: I and a handful of other ladies I know run an LDS sex website for women called Eternal Intimacy. A few of us got so tired of not having clear, honest resources about sexuality with an LDS perspective that we just created one. It's not super active, but I'm still really proud of it. (I'm especially proud of the "Newly Engaged Kit" section of the website, where we give details about birth control, answer common questions, give some basic anatomy, and detail what to expect on your wedding night.)

ANYWAY, a few months ago, we ran an article called "What Mormons Can Learn From Other Communities." In helping put together the article, I stumbled into all kinds of rabbit holes, but I spent a lot of time learning about the polyamory community, and now I'm coming back to my own world with some wisdom.

Polyamory is a blanket term for any consensual non-monogamy. It could be anything from a group marriage to an open relationship. It IS NOT adultery--the difference is knowledge and consent of all parties involved. Polyamorous people can cheat, the same as monogamous people. (You can learn more about polyamory here.) I'm not here to debate the idea of polyamory, or discuss whether or not is a real, sustainable thing. I'm just sharing some of the ideas I've found in that community that resonate with me. Because there are a handful of ideas in the poly community that I think apply to ALL relationships. Or at least they should. Not just romantic relationships, or sexual relationships. All relationships. Monogamous and otherwise.

I've been thinking a lot about relationships in general lately--everything from marriages to friendships. (Understandably.) And I keep feeling like I'm on the edge of figuring something big out...like I keep stumbling on puzzle pieces, but I don't know what the finished puzzle is yet. I'm probably tilting at windmills in trying to put it all together RIGHT NOW, but in the meantime, here are some of those puzzle pieces, stolen straight from the poly community.

Puzzle Piece #1: "New Relationship Energy" (NRE)
This refers to that giddy feeling of excitement and infatuation at the beginning of a relationship. Sometimes this is called the "honeymoon phase" of a relationship. You know the phase. The butterflies when they call. The way your stomach drops when you think about kissing them. The grin you can't wipe off your face when they say something nice. That phase when you want to talk to them all the time, and they're so awesome, and everything in the world smells like rainbows. This phase (or some variation of it) can last anywhere from a few weeks to a few years.

CLEARLY, this is something that most people feel, not just poly folks. But poly folks have a name for it for two reasons. 1, being non-monogamous means you're more likely to experience New Relationship Energy more often. 2, poly folks have learned that this phase is not a good time to make big decisions. And THAT'S the lesson I'm carrying with me. Hollywood and romance novels would have us believe that if that big sparkly feeling is missing, something is wrong and you shouldn't be with someone. But Hollywood and romance novels are full of crap. The polyamory world says, "Enjoy those giddy feelings! Have fun! But know that it wears off. Don't make any big decisions about your relationship during this phase. Wait until things cool down enough for you to think clearly." That's a damn sight smarter than how most of us do things.

And I think this can apply to more than just romantic relationships. I think we sometimes get a version of this in friendships, too, just not as strongly. But sometimes we get so excited about new friendships that we make plans, either consciously or unconsciously, that can't be sustained. Because NRE wears off. THAT'S NOT A BAD THING. Feelings don't disappear. They shift. They settle.

Puzzle Piece #2: Dealing With Jealousy
There's this myth about the polyamory world that poly folks don't get jealous, and that that's why they can have open relationships. But that's not quite true. There are poly folks who get jealous, and there are poly folks that don't. But here's what poly folks recognize about jealousy. 95% of the time, jealousy is about your own fears. There is the 5% of the time when there really is an issue that you need to talk about with the person in question. But before you do, you can pause and ask yourself, "What am I afraid of? What am I worried that I won't get? What am I scared I'll lose? What needs am I afraid won't be met?" And most of the time, you can work that stuff out for yourself.

Let's say your significant other has lunch with an old boyfriend/girlfriend. You're pretty sure they won't cheat on you, but you still feel jealous. That's an opportunity to tune in and say, "Okay, what am I scared I won't get?" Maybe the answer is time with your significant other. Maybe the answer is you're afraid they'll feel new relationship energy and not want to be with you. Maybe you're scared that if they leave you, you'll never find love again. Once you've identified those fears, you can go through and address them.

I don't know about you guys, but this has happened to me with friendships, too. I'll have a really meaningful connection with someone, and then they'll also have meaningful connections with other people. Which is actually just how friendship works. But dammit if I don't get jealous sometimes. Blame the trauma of middle school or whatever. But in recent months, when I feel twinges of jealousy, I've taken time to stop and think about what I'm afraid of. And then I've addressed those fears.

This doesn't prevent jealousy from happening. But it's a healthier way of dealing with jealousy.

Puzzle Piece #3: Compersion
So, the poly community coined this new term that's basically the opposite of jealousy. It's a feeling of joy or elation you get when your significant other (or one of them, if you're poly) finds satisfaction in another relationship.

This is another tool to help deal with initial feelings of jealousy. Step one, address your own fears. Step two, think outside yourself and try a little positive empathy. This doesn't just apply to people--you can feel compersion that your significant other/friend/roommate/sibling/parent/whatever has found a great new video game that they love, or a TV show that they can't get enough of, or a friendship that's enriching their life. Your initial instinct may be to resent whatever it is that seems to be drawing this person away from you. And you can't really force yourself to feel compersion if you don't. But sometimes you can choose to feel that way.

Puzzle Piece #4: Don't Make One Person Responsible for Meeting All of Your Needs
I've been realizing lately that I tend to do this sometimes, regardless of whether the relationship is romantic or friendly or what have you. This is something I'm still trying to figure out--how much ANYONE else is "responsible" for meeting someone else's needs. (I'll let you know when I figure it out...probably sometime around 2053.)

But this is one of the benefits that polyamorous people experience in their romantic or sexual relationships. Say you love playing video games with your partner, but you fall in love with someone who hates them. In a monogamous situation, you're stuck. But for poly folks, you simply find someone else to play video games with. (Technically, you can also do this if you're monogamous, but sometimes people make rules for themselves and their relationships that prevent it.)

THIS APPLIES SO MUCH TO FRIENDSHIPS. Sometimes I get into this weird head-space where I sort of put all of my eggs into one friendship basket for a little while. But it means that when that person is busy, or has other obligations, or other desires, I am basket-less and egg-less. This also means that I spend a lot of time in that friendship being selfish and TERRIFIED that they'll take away the basket and the eggs at any second and then I WILL NOT HAVE ANY FRIENDS.

(We're all neurotic somehow. Brene Brown, please high five me for being vulnerable right now.)

This is obviously a problem. It can make my friendships all about me and my fears instead of about who someone is or our common interests. It also means I'm miserable if they can't meet my every need. It means that any time I spend with that friend has a faint undercurrent of terror that makes me not quite genuine. It means that I think I have to bribe people into being friends with me.

I've found myself in this situation a little more often since Jacob and I separated, and I'm grateful it hasn't been drastic enough to burn any bridges down. I'm still learning how to get out of that head-space, and how to reach outward with less fear. (Granted, I'm a little fragile when it comes to any relationship at all right now, so I'm trying to be patient with myself as I stumble through. If you've been hurt by my neurosis, I apologize deeply. Come talk to me.) But I think the poly community has something right simply in recognizing that it's unreasonable to expect one person to meet all of our needs, all of the time. You gotta spread that love around. (In a platonic way, if you are monogamous.)

Puzzle Piece #5: Talk About It
Final thing I'm stealing from the poly world? I have rarely seen any group of people emphasize communication as much as these folks. It's simply a necessity. After the New Relationship Energy fades, a great deal of any relationship is just administrative tasks. For those who've been in a relationship, think about your schedule and how difficult it can be to make time for each other. Now double that. (Or triple it...etc.) And add on top of it discussions about making sure everyone's needs are met. Poly relationships demand that people talk to each other honestly and often.

But let's be real. Every single relationship we have, romantic or otherwise, could probably benefit from talking honestly and often.


I'll probably be gathering puzzle pieces like these for the rest of my life. I feel a little frustrated sometimes that I don't just HAVE IT ALL FIGURED OUT RIGHT NOW. I'm impatient like that. About most things. And given my recent circumstances, my desperate desire to figure things out makes sense. But I'm learning to just live in the moment a little more. To appreciate the knowledge I have, and to try and do kind and happy things, instead of worrying so much about whether or not I'm doing everything "right." Sometimes the road map we have doesn't have as much detail as we'd like. So for those moments, I'm grateful for what guidance I can find. Even if it comes in puzzle piece form.

I'm mixing my metaphors here, but I trust you know what I mean.