I will bless you doublefold

What if I told you that I believed that I had been chosen. Chosen to be special. To live a life so extraordinary. Would you think I was crazy? And why not me. It's happened before. Ordinary people chosen for extraordinary things. Noah. The Buddha. Oprah.

What if I told you, that this call was so strong, so persistent, it haunts me in my dreams. Angels speak to me. Tell me things. Special things. I see amazing places. I fly over canyons. I visit sepia cities and travel in cars with no drivers. Tornadoes swirl around me and leave me whole. Still stand. Would you laugh nervously? Gather up your bag and have to go?

What if I told you, that the desire for me to leave ordinary behind was so insistent, that when ignored, she pounds my head until I have to no choice but to take to my bed and submit to her will. Every minute not lived in "the new way" knots my muscles so tightly that I am unable to get out of bed to waste time in a farcical fantasyland. The anger I feel that she won't leave me alone is so dark, so deep that I am afraid to let it out. So I turn it inward and suffer in silence, lest anyone feel my wrath. It's easier. It's just safer that way.

What if I told you that I've surrendered? Would think I'm weak? I'm so sure you would know me to be crazy. Surrender to what? What makes you think you are so special? What are you going to do in your small town, in your small life? Are you going to change world? Foolish indulgence. Prophet and priestess. Yes, there it is. Crown her with many crowns: Fool, Dreamer, Prophet, Priestess, Free.

Mother, May I

Remember the game: Mother, May I? One child was selected to be "The Mom". The other kids lined up at a pretty good distance from her. Mom would pick a player at random and say: "Karen, you may take X steps." She would respond: "Mother, may I?" and it was up to the Mom to grant the request or not. If the player forgot to ask permission, she must go back to the starting line. The first person to touch Mom wins.

Seems like a pretty straightforward game. All you have to do is remember to ask for permission and you're all set. How hard could it be to remember 3 simple words in order to win?

On one sunny day, Mother is a kind, benevolent soul. She has a heart for fairness and wants everyone to win. Mom goes out of her way to make sure she picks each girl at least once, and chooses the shyest ones twice. Mother says: Nikki, you may take 6 giant steps forward. Mother, may I, I call out in respond. Yes, you may and I throw myself forward, lunging as far forward I can possibly go without ripping my pants apart at the seams. Maria, Mother beams, you may take TEN giant steps forward. Mother, may I, asks Maria in utter disbelief. YES YOU MAY cries back Mother, barely able to stand still at her post. At step eight, he realizes he's actually going to win. A slight hesitation at step 10, making sure this isn't some sick joke. Step 10 and he's the first to Mother. She has won Mother's favor. I'm close enough to see her pure ,gapped-toothed joy, and Mother's self-satisfying glow, too. I don't even mind losing, after all, Maria's life is an uphill battle. I know things. She gets extra help for reading. There are whispers of "social services". She's on the hot lunch plan. There will be other days to win. I don't mind. I really don't. I really don't mind.

Another peach of a day brings me back to the same playground. I stand in line with a dozen other girls. "Nikki, you may take 5 regular steps forward." I've been called first and take this as a good sign. "Mother, may I?" "No, you may not. Jennifer, you can take 5 regular steps forward." "Mother, may I?" winks Jennifer. "Yes, you may," Mother sing songs back. It goes on like this. Jennifer goes by, then Moira, Missy, Natalie. I stand in my spot, praying to get the call. "Nikki, you may take 10 giant steps forward." Bingo! and off I go landing smack in the middle of the pack. "You forgot to say Mother, may I" growls Mother and back I go, standing alone near the starting line, smiling on the outside because this is not bothering me, dying on the inside. As the game comes to a close, Mother is surrounded. The girls are standing so close, I'm certain she can smell the flavor of each of their lip glosses. She prolongs her pleasure and tortures her subjects with the skills of a long-practice dominatrix.

"Mother, may I. Mother, may I. Mother, may, I," I silently chant, far away from the maddening crowd, but still clinging to hope. "You can stop playing," says Maria from the sideline. "Don't you get it? You have no chance to win. This game isn't about you. It's all about her." And I know Maria is right. So we leave, holding hands the way girls do in order to show the world that we are together. Off to find a better way to spend our time.

The New Math

I've never been good at math. I remember my parents making a teacher give me extra math assignments so I could practice more. Hours and hours of sitting at the kitchen table with my father. I do a problem, and he'd ask me how I'd solved it. Most of time, it felt like dumb work. He'd look at me and say: "You have to understand the process." And I'd do the problem again. I'd start out fairly confident, but then around step 3 or 4, things would inevitably break down. I didn't know what to do next. I'd have a vague gut feeling and go with it. Sometimes it would get me the right answer, oftentimes, it wouldn't. But we'd stay at it. Failure didn't not seem to be an option. Looking back, I'm not sure why there was an insistence for me to "get math". The most valuable thing I learned was that it is in fact important to understand why I do what I do. This may be why I have always valued and sought out therapy.

Recently I came to the decision to stop seeing my therapist. I decided, just before the start of lent, that I needed to once and for all, start a grown up relationship with money. Ever since my first checking account, it's been one disaster after another. The CEO of Bank of America probably has a small bathroom in his house named in my honor, financed of my overdraft fees. I'd heard a financial expert on NPR touting her 21 day financial freedom plan. I bought the book, and jumped right in. (Head first) In order to complete her plan, I went on a 21 day financial fast, stopping any non-essential spending, and completing one task a day to lay the groundwork for financial freedom.

Day 7 involved the creation of a budget. My husband has our budget on his laptop on an Excel spreadsheet. Every so often, he brings the laptop home in order to go over the finances, either by my request of his insistence. He'd show me where we were spending our money and the areas where we overspent. I always took the overspending as solely my responsibility. I received a sum of money each month. It's for groceries, household expenses, things for our son, the pets, etc. Any money leftover was for me to use anyway I wanted to. Without fail, I was always left with more month than money. I'd always need to borrow from the main checking account in order to make it to the end of the month. A lot of times, even that didn't work. I would overdraw my checking account and get whacked with $35 overdraft fees on end.

These money talks, meant to be informational and empowering, always left me with a deep sense of shame. I'd vow that this time, I would do better. I'd download an app so I could track my expenses. I'd make up a spreadsheet of my own so I would know what I was doing. I closed the account and reopened another so I'd have a fresh start and there would no way I could go wrong. It would go well for a while, but it never lasted. The checks bounced, the spending continued, as did the recriminations, the self-flagellation, the fear, and the shame.

Shame had a running buddy. Hate. I pride myself on being a very capable and competent woman. I pride myself on being beyond capable, driving myself achieve the absolute best in whatever it was I was doing. I can not, for the life of my, understand my blind spot with money. My relationship with money is beyond dysfunctional.