Knocked Out No Longer

Less Than Seven Days

June 22, 2015May 15, 2017by Kim2 Comments

I found out I was adopted when I was about the age of a preschooler. According to my mom, I had a friend whose mom was pregnant, and I had learned all about how “babies live in their mommy’s tummies.” My mom sat me down and explained that even though some other lady had carried me around in her stomach, she and my dad were my parents. Apparently, this idea that some other lady was the one that carried me around intrigued me, because I began to see women on the tv and around town and would ask my mom if that was the lady she had told me about (Aretha Franklin was even discussed at one point).

As I grew up, I dreamed that my biological family was royalty or somehow famous. I dreamed of the day that they’d find me, saying it was all a mistake, and wanting to integrate me into their wonderful lives. I think that’s probably a very common fantasy for children of adoption, reinforced by stories like Anastasia and The Princess Diaries, that there’s a possibility of a secret royal family. One of my favorite books in late elementary school was called The Face on the Milk Carton, a story about a girl who finds out she wasn’t the adopted granddaughter that her parents believed her to be, but a girl who was kidnapped. She eventually goes on to meet and get to know her biological family in the following books in the series, but that was the first time I really thought about the fact that there might be people out in the world who actually looked similarly to myself.

At 18, when I finally saw a picture of my biological mother and read her first words to me, I became fixated on my hands. My hands apparently looked like her hands when I was an infant, and I constantly wondered what other similarities we might have. In her photo, she was wearing a facial expression incredibly similar to one I make on a regular basis. Until that moment, I had dreamed about finding someone who I looked like, and there I was, staring at a lady who shared the same half-smile I made all the time. That was a moment of clarity that I think will always stick with me. I can still close my eyes and visualize the entire thing. It happened in a matter of moments, but it feels like it could go on forever.

From 18 to 23, I used the birth information I got from the state of Alaska to search for my birth mother at least once every six months. I don’t think there’s a single database used for finding people that I didn’t use. I even toyed around with the idea of hiring a private investigator, but what 23-year-old can really afford that? Four months before I turned 24, when I finally found some of my biological family, I thought I would find some sort of inner peace. A rest. Something that felt like the search was over. I emailed back and forth with my birth mom, got to know the family a bit better, but there was so much left unanswered. When I went to Alaska last year, I thought I might get to do a little more research into my history, but things didn’t work out quite as planned.

This week, it all comes to a head. This week, I meet them. I meet my mother, her family, and some of my aunts and uncles. This is what I’ve been wondering about and searching for for almost 22 years. But the last few days have been almost overwhelming. I’m caught between excitement and nervousness. I’ve wanted this for so long, but I don’t want to build up all these ideas in my head. I feel like I already know some of them pretty well, thanks to the magic of social media, but there’s just something about meeting people face to face for the first time. There’s a fine line between expecting too little and expecting too much. I keep trying not to get overwhelmed, but this is just something I’ve made up scenarios in my head about for years, so it’s incredibly difficult to clear out those expectations.

As my flight creeps closer and closer, I’m trying to prepare myself for “just another trip”. It’s just another adventure. I’ve had tons of these in the last year or so. I’ve gone places and seen things I wouldn’t have believed possible two years ago. And if it’s one thing I’ve learned from this family so far, they love each other fiercely. That’s the start to something good.

listening to: Portugal. The Man

mental health

Loving Me

June 4, 2015May 15, 2017by Kim2 Comments

“It’s hard to pour into you”

I’ve been turning this statement over and over in my head since Monday. Monday was the day that I’ve had possibly the most honest and eye-opening conversation with a dear friend that I’ve ever had. Talking to someone who I think was finally able to understand a portion of my thoughts was a revelation. Thinking through all that we talked about, however, has been the only thing I’ve really been able to concentrate on all week. Being told that I make it very difficult for people to put energy into isn’t something that surprises me because I feel like some part of me has always been aware of that issue, but actually hearing it was something I wasn’t expecting.

There’s a line from The Perks of Being A Wallflower by Stephen Chbosky that (in my opinion) is far over-quoted and over-used, but it’s so very relevant to this topic: “We accept the love we think we deserve.” I’m not sure when I first started to feel this way, but constantly feeling broken and a burden to the people around you directly affects the way you accept love from other people. I can’t even begin to count the amount of times I’ve told people in the past few months how messed up I am, how much I’m in the way, and how many times I’ve apologized for wanting to talk or spend time with them.

In reality, it’s bizarre. Even verbalizing these thoughts to a couple of my closest friends this week has left me in tears both time. It’s crazy to think that at some point, something in my mind snapped from thinking “you’re worthy of spending time with” to “people spend time with you not because they want to, but because they pity you.” I think it’s something that’s been right below the surface for at least a decade, if not longer. Thinking about school trips where I would just retreat into myself because I couldn’t stand the thoughts that I wasn’t funny or interesting, or even always being the one to end a relationship because it was better to be the one ending it than the one being rejected…I’ve been spending the past several weeks trying to nail down how those thoughts got in my head to begin with.

I could get into the whole spiel of how I think a lot of it is cultural, how we are constantly bombarded with thoughts of never measuring up to the impossibly high standards society sets for us, but that would take me down a whole different path for today’s post. I could point out the fact that I’ve had so many friends continuously cancel plans with me in the past few months that it makes me wonder what I’m doing wrong and why they don’t seem to want to spend time with me, but that just sounds like wallowing in self pity.

I do know that ever since I’ve been back in Texas, I’ve felt like an outsider, an observer, and not like somebody who’s in the midst of things. All of the people I spend time with have all known each other far longer than I have, and while getting to know them is relatively easy for me, feeling like any of them actually get me is far more difficult. I think it all goes back to the beginning of today’s rambling: the fact that we only let people love us as much as we think we deserve, so when we don’t feel like we deserve much of anything, life suddenly becomes very lacking in deep human connection.

While there isn’t an automatic fix for any of this, I think finally having some of these things pointed out to me verbally is a good first step. So for those of you who might be reading this and know me, be patient. I know I’m probably not the easiest person to connect with, but I desperately want that. So be patient. Be there. That’s the only thing I can think of right now.

Milk Grotto, Bethlehem, West Bank - March 2014 — Church of the Nativity, Bethlehem, West Bank – March 2014

listening to: Glen Hansard

Reflections

Love and Writing

May 22, 2015May 15, 2017by KimLeave a Comment

One of my favorite quotes lately is one that I discovered reading Donald Miller’s newest book, Scary Close: “Being afraid to love and being paralyzed at the keyboard both involve a fear of being known, a fear of making mistakes, a fear of being found lacking.”

I’ve been working through this idea of writing a collection of short stories based on some character descriptions I did a couple months ago. However, as I delve deeper and deeper into these different story threads, the harder I find it to continue. The paragraphs I originally did were all based on people I know and have come to love, but I’ve been wanting to take those characters and fictionalize them a bit more to create more interesting narratives. However, their stories are already interesting. The struggles and the triumphs that I’ve seen them go through are incredible, so I’ve found myself writing much more truth than fiction.

I’m an observer. Even if I can’t claim to be talented at much else, I know that I’m good at reading the emotions in a room and understanding the back stories that shape people. That’s partially why I’ve come to love writing so much…because I can use that skill. However, in stories, not everybody can have a favorable role. There has to be conflict, there has to be struggle, there have to be antagonists. And this is where I’ve hit a wall. I want to write as exposed and vulnerable as possible, but the people that will read these stories first are the ones who inspired the characters, and it worries me to think about the fact that some of them might not appreciate the path I want to take those characters down.

Most of all, sometimes I fear that writing a character that is inspired by some of my life experiences might paint a too-real picture of myself, and the people who really understand how to read between the lines might decide I’m too much, too complicated, and filled with too many issues to really invest time in anymore.

It seems like I’ve been struggling with this thought process more this week than I have in some time. Wednesday night, it hit a boiling point. It was one of those moments that I actually verbalized the reasons behind why I don’t think I’ll ever find someone who can actually stick with me through all the bad, why I absolutely do not want to have children, and basically just word-vomited all of my insecurities out to two people (one being a complete stranger, and the other being a person who I used to exhaust myself wanting to impress). The more that I’ve reflected over those hours of excruciating emotional pain, the more I’ve realized that it’s not as much of an issue of trusting somebody else to love me, but it’s the worry that I’ve lost the ability to wholeheartedly care for someone the way that I want to. The worry that there will always be fears to hold me back, and the idea that I could cause someone even a fraction of the pain that shoots through my heart and soul.

The more I read the quote at the beginning of this post, the more it resonates with me. It is a fear of being known. It is a fear of making mistakes. It is a fear of not measuring up. It’s a debilitating fear.

Bluebonnets at Black Rock Park, Texas - April 2015 — Bluebonnets at Black Rock Park, Texas – April 2015

listening to: eastmountainsouth

Relationships

Making Sense of Late-Night Musings (and Something About A Crush)

May 15, 2015May 15, 2017by KimLeave a Comment

I get a lot of my blog post ideas late at night, but they don’t often make too much sense. For example, I met a girl this week who opened with the line, “I’m really good at making out” and my mind was blown. Maybe I’m just a bit old fashioned, or maybe just somewhat reserved, but I don’t ever recall a situation where stating that fact gets you lots of high quality friends. So I came home and started the beginning of a micro-story attempting to understand the psyche behind her…at 3 in the morning. Needless to say, I fell asleep before finishing and woke up completely lost as to where to go next.

That same night, I was somehow mixed in this feud of friends. This has been going on for quite some time and it almost physically hurts to see people on both sides of the issue that I care for deeply that just keep hurting each other. In my private journals, I’ve been exploring friendships and what that idea actually means. That still hasn’t gone much of anywhere yet either.

Rewind a couple more weeks, and I’d started a piece all about my dad and all these crazy stories I’ve just learned about him involving the 1950s, a tiny town out in West Texas, and a bunch of synchronized cherry bombs. This guy, the one who’s always been such a stickler for the rules and kept a stoic face for the majority of my life, was a hilarious teenager.

Most recently, I woke up a couple mornings ago with a message on my phone (from myself, of course) that read, “THE END OF A CRUSH. WRITE IT. BLOG IT. DON’T FORGET IT.” I obviously felt that this topic was incredibly important in the moment, but all week, I’ve been struggling to expand on the idea.

It’s true that for the past several months, I’ve been dealing with a bit of a crush on this guy that I know. It’s been a strange experience, a feeling I haven’t had often. While I’ve had feelings for various people and felt emotional connections throughout the years, this was the first crush I’d had in seven years.

I’ve never enjoyed the word “crush” because it’s far too accurate for describing the emotional state involved. It’s the overwhelming sense of excitement when he says he wants to spend time together followed by the even stronger feeling of being let down when he just doesn’t show up. It’s literally a crushing feeling, and it’s not enjoyable in any way.

The odd thing is that one day I woke up and could almost physically feel the relief crash over me when I realized that nothing was to come out of this crush. I had known this in my mind, but the self that is in control of emotions kept whispering “maybe the next time, maybe he’ll change, maybe the timing is just bad.” Despite my mind, my emotions kept my heart hopeful, but at some point my mind had become fed up and shut off the ability to feel anything but a friendship for him.

I’ve been so emotionally fragile in other parts of my life lately that I find the switch in feelings quite beautiful. The way the mind can protect from harmful things is fascinating to me, no matter how well-intentioned they may be. It was just as if my mind snapped back into control, slapped me in the fact with a curt “get over it”, and the rest of my being followed suit.

As with the rest of my writing lately, my thoughts on the subject just end there. They end abruptly. Even my journal entries have paragraphs and paragraphs of musing, then just trail off without a conclusion of my thoughts. Perhaps I really enjoy cliffhangers. Perhaps I like the experience of someone’s mind ingesting the ideas I write about and then taking off on their own with a different thought process. Or maybe I’m just lazy and never finish the things that I start. That’s the most likely explanation.

Old Main at the University of Arkansas, Fayetteville, Arkansas - May 2015 — Old Main at the University of Arkansas, Fayetteville, Arkansas – May 2015

listening to: Letts

mental health

Brain Bruises

April 21, 2015May 15, 2017by Kim2 Comments

“It’s important that we share our experiences with other people. Your story will heal you and your story will heal somebody else. When you tell your story, you free yourself and give other people permission to acknowledge their own story.” -Iyanla Vanzant

I went camping this weekend. Actually, if I’m honest, it was more of a blend between camping and glamping. We had a cabin, running water, and electricity, but we still cooked everything over an open flame in the fire pit outside. The details of the trip aren’t really relevant to this post or the thoughts in my head right now though, so I’ll just move on.

I went on this trip with three friends I went to high school with. We were all in choir together, but with them being a grade below me, they knew each other far better than I did. About halfway through the second day, one of them asked me a bit hesitantly if I had been married, or if she had just imagined it. Admittedly, it is a bit of a touchy subject, but I really don’t mind sharing it with people because of the simple reason that I feel a bit of relief and a sense of calmness after getting it off my chest yet again.

This is why I write what I write, and this is why I share so much of my personal struggles: it’s always felt healing to me. I think our culture has become such a culture of secrecy and false exteriors. It has become so important to create the illusion of “everything is perfectly okay”, but the consequences of living that way are incredibly detrimental to our health. So I write about divorce. I write about insecurities. I write about depression.

Lately, I’ve been caught in the midst of another depressive period. It shows itself in the lack of energy to do much of anything, in the feeling of utter exhaustion, in the inability to feel emotions even a fraction as brightly as last year, and in the annoyance and irritability of the people who tell me to just “cheer up”. The difference is that I’m able to recognize the symptoms this time around. The last time it was this bad, I felt completely lost and like I was drowning without any way to be saved.

There’s this quote I love about depression by Jeffery Eugenides that says, “Depression is like a bruise that never goes away. A bruise in your mind. You just got to be careful not to touch where it hurts. It’s always there, though.” Yes, last year I was doing better. I was the healthiest I had been in close to a decade. But the thing about depression is that once you’ve truly been held captive by it, it’s so easy to be recaptured. Sometimes there’s almost a relief to not feeling emotions as strongly anymore. It sounds twisted, but there’s some sort of comfort in the familiar nothingness. However, the comfort is coupled by a terror that this time, you might not get back out of the hole, that you might not get to be healthy and feel anything anymore.

The reason I write this is because practicing a life of openness and honesty, a life of true vulnerability, means sharing the struggles along with the triumphs. After writing about my struggle with depression over two years ago for the first time, I was able to really see and experience that I wasn’t nearly as alone as I felt. Depression is such an alienating experience, but writing about it helps take the edge off.

So this is who I am: I’ve had high moments, moments where I still feel joy and excitement, but the empty nothingness is very present in my day to day life, and the road to recovery will be one that I’ll be trudging through for a very long time to come. I’ll continue writing about it, because sometimes that’s the only thing I can do.

Bluebonnets at Black Rock Lake Park, Texas - April 2015 — Bluebonnets at Black Rock Lake Park, Texas – April 2015

listening to: Phosphorescent

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