My heroes are the people who yell at God

My heroes are the people who stare at the clock on Sunday morning, trying to make up their mind. They have 20 minutes to decide whether they're going to church. Now ten minutes...now five...

And then they sneak into the back of the chapel just in time for the sacrament.

My heroes are the women who roam the halls during Relief Society because they cannot take one more lesson about the "joy of motherhood" without having a breakdown.

My heroes are the ones who get hurt, humiliated, offended. The ones who sit alone because they don't connect with anyone else in the ward. The ones who don't belong. The ones who have tried to reach out and have been rebuffed. The new member who doesn't know that their nicest pair of jeans isn't "appropriate Sunday attire" until a woman they've never talked to points it out in the hall. The longtime member going through a divorce who knows everyone is talking. The ones who spend three hours on Sunday feeling out of place, uncomfortable.

Because they come anyway.

My heroes are the people who question, and worry, and doubt. The ones who've learned the hard way that church leaders aren't perfect. The ones who struggle to reconcile their political beliefs with their religious beliefs. The ones who wonder whether the doctrine of the church is enough to make up for the culture of the church.

I asked my husband once why he thought it was that he never questioned the gospel, when others have, and he said "I do question. I do think critically about the the church. And that's how I know it's right."

My heroes are the ones who doubt everything, who come so close to completely losing their testimony, but then come back anyway. My heroes are the ones who know the less-than-savory aspects of church history, who don't necessarily agree with everything the bishop says, but who choose to believe anyway. The ones who tenaciously hang on to faith, because they have to believe that it will all make sense someday.

My heroes are the ones who, by all accounts, shouldn't go to church anymore. The ones who, if they left, people would say "Oh yeah I totally understand, I would have stopped coming too." The ones who feel abandoned by God and beat down by life, but who still turn to Him because somewhere, deep inside, they believe He's still out there, listening.

My heroes are the ones who came back. The ones who made the choice to change their lifestyle, agree to what many see a restrictive way of life, and face the judgements of their fellow members. I can't imagine how much courage it must take to walk into the chapel, bracing yourself for the reactions of your ward members, for the whispers and stares of the people who know exactly who you are and what you've done. But you're not here for them. You're here for you, and you're here for your Heavenly Father.

Having faith is hard. Trusting that things will be "okay" when things are obviously NOT "okay" is hard. Accepting that sometimes "I don't know" is the only answer is hard. Not knowing whether your decision is the result of a "still, small voice" or your own brain is hard. Giving up control to some other being you can't hear or see or touch is hard. Following the rules when you think the rules are stupid is hard. But there are so many brave, strong, smart people who have faith anyway. Because faith isn't knowing. Faith is hoping.

Supposedly, one of the biggest benefits of organized religion is the sense of belonging and community it gives to its members. Every single person in the community struggles with trials, imperfection, and moments of doubt. That's just life. But to keep going, keep trying, keep believing? That's a choice you have to make everyday, and my heroes are the ones who make the choice, even with the odds stacked against them.

My heroes are the ones who yell at God through the tears, because as angry and hurt as they are, they still believe He's up there, listening.

Who am I?

In college, a friend who was probably five or six years older than me had me take the Myers-Briggs personality test. I got the halfway point for almost every category. She said, "Take it again in a few years when you know yourself better."

Last year, at my First Real Grown-up Job, I took it again as part of a company activity. I took it twice. The first time I was INFP. The second time, I was INTP. So I apparently vacillate between being the "true idealist, always looking for the hint of good in even the worst of people and events, searching for ways to make things better" and "the philosopher, the architect, or the dreamy professor."

The fact that three of my traits remained steady seems to indicate that maybe I know myself better than I did four years ago. I'm a little more secure in my identity.

So who am I? And why do I care what some personality test says about me?

I have a pretty severe problem with comparing myself to others. Sometimes it's harmless, like when I try to emulate the heroic fictional characters I feel connected to. Sometimes it's really dangerous for my mental health, like when I post something on social media for the sole purpose of getting likes, or when I scroll through photos on the internet and think "Why can't my life be exciting like hers? Why can't I have my crap together like she does?"

Now the easy answer is "They have problems too, just like you, social media doesn't tell the whole story," but that doesn't work for me. I'm an observer, and an analyzer. I am always going to be watching others, learning about their lives, reading their blogs. I'm always going to watch movies and read books and figure out how to apply their messages to my life while the person next to me thinks "That was a good movie!" and leaves it at that.

I've been told that my nature as an observer is bad, that I need to participate more. Well, yeah, I can certainly try writing my own book instead of just reading them, or I can make my own crafts to sell instead of admiring others'. But that's not going to change who I am.

This year, instead of trying to force myself to become a different person and then being disappointed and even harder on myself when I fail, I'm going to try accepting myself the way I am, and learning to celebrate that.

And so, in order to accept myself, I need to know myself.

Myers-Briggs says I'm a mediator or logician. The color test says I'm a yellow. Pottermore says I'm a Gryffindor. My degree says I'm a journalist. My job says I'm an editor. My parents say I'm smart. My husband says I'm pretty. My cats say I'm fun to sit on.

And what am I not? I'm not a photographer. I'm not a blogger. I'm not an artist. I'm not a hipster. I'm not a decorator. I'm not a social media guru. I'm not a chef. I'm not a mental health advocate. I'm not an activist. I'm not an adventurer. I'm not a free spirit. I'm not a singer or musician. I'm not a poet. I'm not organized (as my mom, roommates and husband know all too well).

When I try to be those things, I get disappointed. I don't live up to the idealized version of myself. And it's tiring. It's exhausting to never measure up to your own standard of what you should be.

Here's what I actually am: I am an animal-lover who eats meat. I am a driver who turns the car off when I'm waiting to pick someone up who keeps forgetting to bring reusable bags grocery shopping. I'm a person who can't exercise unless I'm watching or listening to something. I'm a married woman who isn't ready to have kids, but who refers to her cats as her babies. I'm someone who loves going on vacation, but always feels like she needs to rest after. I'm someone who has never left the United States, but dreams of traveling all the time. I'm the person who goes to the pool or the beach and spends the whole time reading a book and getting sunburned. I'm a shopping enthusiast who balks at spending more than $20 on a piece of clothing. I find sports incredibly silly, but weep openly during a Star Wars movie. I saw Frozen six times in theaters, but was disappointed with Moana. I follow blogs religiously, but never let the writer know I'm reading them. I watch Parks and Recreation five times in two years because it makes me happy. I desperately want people to need me, then get annoyed when I feel like I'm being taken advantage of. I discuss the dangers of social media, then get a thrill when someone likes my photo. I want to blog so I can maybe reach out to others and make the world a better place, but the only subject I know how to discuss is myself. And I write really, really long blog posts.

I'm not the person I may wish I was. But I am the person I'm supposed to be. I think that person is good enough for my friends and family. She should be good enough for me too. And I'm going to try really, really hard to appreciate and celebrate her.

I miss sleeping

They told me adults don't really sleep, but I thought that was only after you had kids. I was under the impression that as a childless adults, I would spend my nights in blissful peace, having full control of when I went to sleep and when I woke up. Two things completely shattered this perfect dream.

1. My dumb stupid anxiety
2. My dumb stupid cat

It's always taking me a really, really long time to fall asleep. After staying up half the night reading, I would lay in bed thinking as I watched my clock tick closer to 5:30 a.m. Luckily, my wake-up time is a lot more...flexible now that I don't have to be at work until 2 p.m. You'd think all that extra time to sleep would make me a well-rested and pleasant individual.

It doesn't. Because sleeping has betrayed me. Because of...

Anxiety

I know a lot of people spend all day waiting impatiently to get back into bed, only to find themselves wide wake as soon as their head hits the pillow. I, too, am exhausted all day, but I can't fall asleep when I'm allowed to. Instead my brain goes into overdrive.

I think about all the embarrassing things I've ever done in my life.

I think about how annoying I was in high school.

I think about the time my brother bought a "secret codes" book because he thought it would teach him spy stuff but it was full of video game codes and he was so disappointed (at least it was slightly useful later once he actually started playing video games).

I think about how Matt's bike got stolen off our porch, and how I should have prevented that somehow.

I think about the opening scene in Oliver and Company when all the other cats get adopted except for him and he gets washed down a storm drain.

I think about all the things I did wrong at work and how I'm going to have to fix them the next day.

I think about that one time my friend said something mean to me and how it still hurts a little all these years later.

So there I am, 2-3 in the morning, tossing and turning and flipping my electric blanket on and off, trapped in this weird stress/guilt/embarrassment/empathy cycle. The only way I can fall asleep is to read until I can't keep my eyes open anymore. Probably not healthy, but at least I'm sleeping.

At least, until my second problem enters the picture.

Sophie

I have two cats. I would say I love them like my own children, but I don't know what loving my own children feels like, so I'll just say that they are a very important part of my life.

And they are demons sent from hell to ruin my life.

All cat lovers know there are really only two types of cats: the "admire me from afar" cats and the "I need you to cuddle with me right now" cats. My dear, darling Sophie falls into the latter category.

She needs lots of love and affection and can be very demanding. She gets personally offended if Matt and I are sitting down (especially with a computer) and she isn't on one of our laps.

That's sweet and wonderful and every cat lover's dream...except she also needs attention at five in the morning.

She has this loud, sing-songy meow that she uses to let us know if she's hungry or bored. If she's hungry, you can dump food in the bowl and stumble back to bed. If she's bored, you just have to lay there and pray that Griffin (who sleeps on the bed with us and is mostly not-annoying at night) will get up and go play with her. Otherwise, you're doomed.

Plus, I have highly realistic stress dreams that leave me feeling I just worked a full shift. Or I have nice dreams about being on vacation, so when I wake up I'm sad that I'm stuck in the snow and not on vacation. Even my dreams betray me. I used to have nice dreams about helping Harry destroy the Chamber of Secrets or visiting that candy-land room in Willy Wonka's chocolate factory or flying with my fairy friends. Being an adult even ruins your dreams!!!!!

Why did I wrote this post, complaining about the dumb stupid things that make me constantly tired? Because one of the things I do while I'm tossing and turning and reflecting on my life is write blog posts in my head!! All my body wants to do is sleep, and all my brain wants to do is think about how to properly put all my feelings about not being able to sleep into words. Instead of sleeping, I'm composing a whole novel about how I'm not sleeping, written for an audience that doesn't care if I'm not sleeping, because no one is sleeping, because we're adults and apparently adults don't sleep.

Judy Blume should have prepared me for this.

A full year of adulting

I didn't realize it was New Year's Eve until I woke up and checked Facebook. Thank goodness for Facebook.

This year was weird. You can't deny that. Weird stuff happened. On a personal level, and on a societal level. Two of my favorite animals in the world died. Other people I know lost loved ones very suddenly. Not to mention all the celebrities and people of import. I mean, Fidel Castro died. That guy's been around forever. Britain left the EU. Donald Trump beat the first female presidential candidate and is going to be our president. Did anyone really see that coming? We now have virtual reality devices we can use in our homes. Network TV is almost dead. Countries are planning feasible trips to Mars. Millions of people spent the summer running around catching Pokemon. Phones were banned on airplanes because they were in danger of exploding.  We're literally living in the future.

For me, this year was really weird because it was the first year since I was five where I did not attend school. I was a working woman! Two different jobs too. Now I'm working in a field that's actually what I went to school for, with one of my closest friends.

This year was tough. You know it was tough. You read my last four really depressing blog posts. But I'm proud of this year too. Because I did so many fun things, and I did so many adult things!

Here is a list of highlights from my first year as a real adult.

Real life

• Matt and I got our first married-person apartment, which meant I got my own kitchen for the first time in my life and it's wonderful. 
• We painted said apartment purple. 
• I finished and framed a cross-stitch design I've been working on for years. 
• We got Sophie, who might be the most affectionate and friendly cat in the world. 
• Since Griffin is no longer an only child, he is no longer as needy and neurotic as he used to be. 
• We built up our savings account and got Matt through another couple of semesters of school with no debt. 
• Matt's family took us to Disneyland and I legitimately felt that I had come home. A lot of places I build up in my head and then I'm disappointed when I get there. Not so with Disneyland. I could happily spend the rest of my life there. 
• I tried to be a better friend. 

Fake life

• Gilmore Girls: A Year in the Life happened. I stayed up til 7 am watching it, which was an awesome decision. 
• Many, many people fell in love with Hamilton and were really excited about it. 
• Captain America: Civil War happened.
• Zootopia happened. 
• Finding Dory happened. 
• Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find them happened. 
• Rogue One happened. 
• Each of those movies made me cry and made me really happy for movie franchises that never die (except Zootopia which was new but it made me happy Disney still does great movies). 
• This is Us proved that networks can still produce touching, uplifting, enjoyable TV. 
• Netflix knocked it out of the park with their original series. Stranger Things was life-changing, obviously, but their new cartoon Trollhunters (starring Anton Yelchin who died on my birthday, thanks 2016) is quality young adult television. And they gave us GG, so thank you Netflix. I have been, and always will be, your friend. 

This is my life. A nice balance of adult responsibilities and childlike delight. My parents wrote in their Christmas letter: "Emily still likes movies, cats, and all things Harry Potter." I have some goals for next year, involving all three of those things, as well as self-improvement-y things that everyone else makes goals about too.

But more than anything, I'm going to be happy. So I'm going to take those things that make me happy, and I'm going to do them. Because I'm an adult. And I can. 

Emotional breakdowns and Carrie Fisher

I've only written four posts for this blog, and I'm already falling into my old bad habits. I keep starting posts then losing steam and never finishing. And it's because I really only feel passionate about what I'm writing when I'm really, really depressed. So then my blog isn't even fun to read because it's just me complaining!

Whatever. It's not like I'm getting paid for this.

I did a lot of things over the past week. Matt and I drove back and forth to Salt Lake several times, we hung out with family, we went to concerts and movies. I woke up early, got out of bed, did chores, did my make-up, basically did the normal people things I'm not used to doing.

And Monday night, I crashed.

Matt had all these big plans when I got home from work, but I just got home and laid down on the bed and cried. Not like, normal crying, like panic attack, hyperventilating crying. And it was the third time I cried that day. We'd gone and seen La La Land earlier and I cried during the movie because it felt so real and I cried after the movie because it felt so terrible.

So I was already feeling pretty down. And then after work I was so exhausted and I was mad at myself for feeling exhausted, so Matt and I got into bed and watched Captain America: Civil War. And of course I cried again. Four distinct times in one day might be a record.

The worst part about feeling this way isn't knowing that I'm failing myself, it's knowing that I'm failing Matt. He didn't sign up for a loser wife who wakes up at noon on her day off and then takes a nap at 6 because she's just so tired. And who considers taking a bath as her "productive thing" for the day.

A secondary worst part is thinking that maybe you are just a lazy, entitled Millennial after all.

Oh, and then, on top of all this, Carrie Fisher dies. (Which was the first thing Matt told me when I woke up yesterday.)

Most of the celebrities who died this year didn't really have unfinished work, I think. Garry Marshall had already done Pretty Woman and the Princess Diaries. David Bowie had already finished his new album. Alan Rickman was done with Harry Potter. Prince had made that guest appearance on New Girl.

But Carrie. I still needed her to be Leia. She wasn't done.

Leia is a great heroine. We all know this. I don't need to spend time talking about how strong and scrappy she was, how she always took charge when Luke couldn't hack it, how she got on that speeder and left him behind, all while staying smart and sexy.

But I think Carrie is a great heroine too.

Yeah, she was a drug addict. Yeah, she had at least one affair with a married man. Yeah, her dad was also a drug addict who left her mom for Elizabeth Taylor. Yeah, she was pretty imperfect and probably made a lot of really stupid mistakes. But she was smart. And she was funny. And she cared about people.

And she never stopped trying.

She was a manic, bi-polar depressive with a history of drug addiction and alcoholism and one defining film role when she was 19, but she was also known to light up the room with her vivid personality and sharp wit. She was an advocate for mental health but didn't use her own mental illnesses to explain her behavior. I feel like she made the most of her life and never apologized for who she was.

I want to be like that.

I'm not gonna do drugs or sleep with Harrison Ford, but I'm going to keep trying. Even when it seems impossible. Even when walking on the treadmill for ten minutes seems like a waste of time, I'm going to make myself do it because it's better than walking on the treadmill for no minutes. Even when I wake up feeling like the worst person in the entire world and a disgrace to my family and my community, I'm going to get up anyway because if Carrie embarrassing herself during a live show because her medicine was wonky and she couldn't even speak, I can survive another day of Utah winter (fingers crossed).

She's our princess, she's our general, she was an unstoppable force, and I wish she wasn't gone.

Control

I'm weird about having control.

I wanted to do everything for my wedding myself (which got me into trouble because people thought I was leaving them out on purpose), but I don't like planning family parties or dinners. The less involved I can be, the better.

I don't mind being in the passenger seat while someone else drives, but I don't like taking public transportation because I don't like having to conform to their schedule. I want to go where I want, when I want.

Sometimes I wish someone would plan me a surprise party, but the idea of letting someone else take the reigns on something so important to me makes me anxious. What if they do it wrong???

When someone invites me to plan something, I have a tendency to either take it over or completely back off, depending on whether or not the person in charge takes my suggestions.

I say "Let people live however they want! It's their life!" but when someone close to me isn't living up to their potential as I determine, it's so difficult to keep myself from telling them how to run their own life. They could be doing it so much better. (Like I'm really one to talk, but therein lies the irony.)

The thing I probably hate most, however, is when people tell me how to do my job. And there's no antithesis of this. I just hate it.

So what does this say about me? I like making decisions. I like getting things done. I often think that my way is the only right way, and I hate waiting around while other people dither. Just make the decision, and follow through.

However, I don't like getting involved if I can't be in charge. I don't want to have any responsibility placed on me if things fail. I get easily frustrated during group planning sessions. I also really, really don't like getting told what to do, especially by older men. (One time, Matt and I went with his dad and his brother to a shooting range, and I shot a couple of times, and then I wanted to sit and read my book while they finished. Some old man came up to me and said "You need to shoot more! Tell your husband to let you shoot!" I said, "I'm really fine, thanks" but I thought "How DARE you tell me what to do and how to live my life?? More irony since that's all I want to do for people sometimes.)

Maybe irony is the wrong word. It's really just hypocrisy. I am a person who is both flaky and controlling.

I just need things to always happen the way I want them to happen, but I don't want to necessarily be the one to make them happen. Is that too much to ask for?

This week, I am going to make a concerted effort to follow in the footsteps of my personal role model, the beautiful, powerful and emotionally damaged life-giver and benevolent ruler, Queen Elsa.

I'm going to try really, really hard to just let it go.

Why blog?

I've tried to blog a couple of other times. You've probably read them. I always start with these grand aspirations of bestowing wisdom, or making insightful and scathing comments about the nature of humanity. But it always just devolves into whining.

This time, I'm going to be honest with you. The point of this blog is to whine.

Like I said in my first post, my life is really, really good. I am extremely blessed. But as I'm sitting here writing this, I feel smothered by a cloud of melancholy. For no reason! Other than the fact that my brain hates me.

I have depression and anxiety, which I control through medication. The medicine doesn't protect me from getting depressed. It protects me from having panic attacks in the work bathroom, from crying myself to sleep every night, from being so worn down that I can't even function.

I still feel terrible, but I am capable of doing my job and doing my chores while feeling terrible.

I also am kind of a hypochondriac and I have that impostor syndrome we millennials get. Despite the fact that I have both education and experience, I feel like a huge fraud. One day they're going to figure out how spectacularly unqualified and useless I am, and then it will all be over.

A long time ago, I realized that my biggest challenge in life would probably be overcoming myself. Forcing myself to be productive. Overcoming that stupid voice in my head that is constantly telling me how worthless I am. When something goes wrong, my immediate reaction is to think "I am a failure. I am the worst. I should not exist." Over the silliest mistakes!

I'm not trying to excuse my laziness or my obvious flaws. I have a lot of things I need to work on. But you know, I was #6 in my senior class of 600+. I graduated college at 21, and I never failed a class. I work more than 40 hours a week, doing jobs that I don't think I'm qualified for. But I do them. I work hard. I refuse to believe I'm just a loser.

And yet, I have a really hard time getting out of bed in the morning. I have to force myself up. This morning I cried because the prospect of getting out of bed seemed so daunting. It's not always this bad. Most days I'm fine. But in the winter, especially, and during certain times of the month, I have no energy. Wearing contacts instead of glasses feels like a big accomplishment. And I get really frustrated because I can't do the normal human things everyone else has no problem with. Thus, I struggle to cope with adulthood.

What's the point of saying all this? To inspire pity? To explain why I'm a flake/bad friend sometimes? To complain about how bad my life is, even though I know it isn't? To reach out to and help others who feel the same?

Honestly, I just need to get it out. This is completely and totally, 100% about me. Writing in a diary isn't as helpful, because it's still trapped inside of me...just in a different format. I need to let it out into the universe. I could get a therapist, but they cost money and ask questions. I could just complain to Matt, but I'm sure that get's old. I don't want to drown him in my negativity. I could call up one of my many friends who also experience anxiety and depression and commiserate with them, but I'm not really the kind of person who seeks someone out to complain to.

So I'm putting it here, on the internet. So there is a possibility that someone will hear me, but nobody is forced to listen. And there's even the possibility that someone will comment "Love you, Emily!" thus giving me the online validation I crave.

Much better than writing in a diary.

Also, if I keep up this blog, it's not always going to be this negative. I want to talk about my favorite books and movies and my cats and tell anecdotes about my life. I'm just having a really bad day today. But writing about it makes it a little better.