Laughing and Listening and Not Being a Dick

Turns out, I can't laugh about Bob Jones University anymore.

They were cute at the Meeting of Astronomers in South Carolina that we all attended at USC that year. I looked at them like I look at...middle school students from a wealthy community. How adorable, in their little suits. How neat their little presentations were, even though it was clear that their advisers neither taught them how to make a presentation, nor taught them about the subject matter or its beautiful intricacies; complexities that mirror the brilliance of the Creator they so admire. 

Since their fundamentalist beliefs prevent them from accepting that the universe is larger than our own galaxy group, they are constrained to studying eclipsing binary star systems. Brilliant research projects, but absolutely no potential from where they sit. No room for growth. No ability to answer even the simplest questions on extrapolating their studies for application. These young men do exactly what they're told, and they're told to talk about light curves and then to glare at us when we make the blasphemous suggestion that the universe is probably close to celebrating its fourteen billionth birthday. 

But while coming dangerously close to being scientifically useless, there is no inherent evil in studying eclipsing binaries and eclipsing binaries alone. Reason says, in fact, that they should be the leading experts on eclipsing binaries, but I don't have any data to either confirm or deny that, and it's neither here nor there. The point is, if your beliefs are hinged on a speculation so obviously false that the mere suggestion that it may be false results in a total shutdown of coherent thought or collaborative energy, that's okay with me. In theory, BJU is filled with (more or less) grown-ass adults, and they are entitled to their grown-ass beliefs without any friction from my end. It's fine that a subset of the well-groomed young Southern Christian population can't conceive of a Universe as large as ours (which, to me, tells me that they can't conceive of a God as large as ours, but I'll shut up) and it has no bearing on my research, or my life. It's fine. I'll respect your presentation, ask relevant questions, act satisfied with your unsatisfactory responses, and giggle like a schoolgirl with my colleagues later over beers. It really is that simple.

Or, it was.

Up until now, I've done a pretty good job of laughing things off. Not really, but we can pretend. I don't devote my energy to convincing people that one theory is probably more likely or more supported than another. If you can't see the evidence yourself, then you can't be convinced. My most heated arguments mostly consist of me passionately explaining my side of things, listening to the other side, and generally, deciding that neither of us is wrong. I pay very little attention to groups that are radically ridiculous, even if I am a member of their targeted community. Traumatic stress is fun in the way that I feel unsafe in normal situations, and completely safe in perilous ones. It's my joy to carry it around with me, my greatest fucking joy.

But if there's one thing that I really can't handle right now, it's Bob Jones University. Not because of its unscientific scientific process, but because it's currently the cherry on top of the way I've felt this week. Just...like...a bad PTSD week, really. And then BJU comes out with some bullshit and I just can't deal with the fact that people like this still exist, people who believe that they are champions of love but are really poisonous harbingers of actual evil.

A lot of schools, my alma mater included, have been under investigation for the ways by which they (don't) handle sexual assault cases. Progress, y'all. But this one just pretty much makes me want to join in chorus with the rest of the survivors at BJU, throw in the towel, throw my hands up, and set everything on fire because this is hopeless. Instead of taking a more Christ-like approach to life, they seem to be taking a holier-than-though, wrath-of-God approach to handling struggles of, I don't know, the typical student that attends BJU. If you really want to, you can read more about this here, but I'll sum up.

Instead of hiring licensed trauma therapists to take care of the survivors' needs, they seem to be using any literate higher-up who can take the bible and twist its words and its spirit into sessions full of victim-blaming blasphemy. Instead of focusing on protecting students, they're expelling and shaming students who come forward with symptoms of trauma. Instead of focusing on sins against their sanctified bodies, they're focusing on sins committed (?????) by their "impure" bodies. 

And, just like that, and just like BJU as a whole, I'm thrown back a decade (at least) into the past. Because I resonate with this so strongly. The fault must lie with me. God is punishing me for my sins. I deserved this. This was meant to be a wake up call for my life. I must've been too stubborn. If I don't listen, God will use his wrath to make me listen. These are the things that are being told to survivors by the counselors at BJU. And they are being told as gospel truths, grace and healing be damned. 

Thankfully, I've grown into a human with a brain that is slightly less self-deprecating. But at the time, these were some very real thoughts and enormous fears floating around in my adolescent mind. Any rational beating heart can recognize the faults in these ridiculous accusations, but when a survivor already feels violated and already feels disgusting and already feels guilty, these are easy lies to believe. And to have your university refuse to advocate for you, and even worse, to have your university tell you that you are not welcome in an environment that is supposed to foster learning and growth...well, it's a little too much. 

At some point, it would be pretty rad if these things stopped happening. But as per my reflections this past week, they won't. Even if they did, it changes nothing in my past or ours. The brilliant Cheryl Strayed spoke about how the things I resolve in my twenties will have to be resolved again, and again, and again, in my thirties and forties and fifties and until-I'm-dead-ties. It's not a joyful life sentence (that was indeed sarcasm above) but it is not a doomed life. As far as I know, there is not a man, woman, or child alive who has not been impacted by violence in some capacity. Instead of overwhelming me, I'm learning to humanize my trauma. Not normalize it or make it okay or acceptable or deserving, but simply humanize it. It is part of the human experience. It has made me stronger. It has made me better. It has made all of us better, despite the woefully blind "leaders" at BJU and the toxic environment there.

Toxic not just for scientific stagnation, but for crimes against the human spirit. At best, it's additional unacceptable behavior aimed at individuals who have already survived violent instances of unacceptable behavior. In simplest terms: not cool. 

So, BJU, you are not a laughing matter. I get it, and I take you very seriously. But remember: as you short-change your Creator during your scientific presentations, you are also breaking His heart when you disregard, dismiss, and publicly shame His children. That isn't something about which I can laugh over beers with colleagues. Perhaps it's time to realize that the entity you worship has not abandoned these survivors, and despite your blatant terribleness, He hasn't abandoned you, either.

In my experience, God is pretty good at helping people not be dicks, if only we listen. 

Listen, and don't be a dick, BJU. Don't be a dick. 

Relationship Status: Meds

I'd like to say that it's only those who are closest to me, but really it's anyone within earshot of my recent tantrums and rants who knows how I've been adjusting to my meds. 

Passionately. Irrationally. Dizzily. Angrily. 

But right now, I'm also adjusting to being at home, and finally having my very own door to shut. 

Living in my car in Davis, it was a rare occasion to find myself in a space where I was not on public display. If I needed a moment alone, I had to do some serious planning in advance. And moments alone usually can't be planned in advance; especially those that are needed the most. My car was my own space, but there were too many windows. More than likely, several people had the privilege of witnessing one or more of my biweekly tearful meltdowns. Starbucks was always buzzing, and I was an obvious regular to fellow customers and baristas alike. I could escape into a bathroom stall at the park, but it wouldn't be long before somebody came in. I was alone in the shower room at the gym, but California is in the middle of a drought and I couldn't run the water forever. I was excruciatingly lonely a lot of the time, but I was never alone. I could go an entire day without speaking to more than two people, but I was surrounded. All the time. And I remember, specifically, wishing that I had my very own door...just so that I could shut it.

Digression: I think I've gotten comfortable with being a "good writer," so much so that I don't even think about what I'm writing anymore. Right now, for instance, I've hit my second wind after my afternoon slump; I have creative energy but not a clue what to do with it, the results of which are this substandard writing, and the fact that none of this prose makes any goddamn sense. No flow. No outline. No roadmap. No sense.

So basically, it's a metaphor for my life as we are, as I am. I was recently asked if I'm sick of relaying the same exact stories (fun an adventurous as they are) to so many different people after traveling for six solid months. And yeah, I am. I'm tired of it. I'm tired of talking. I'm tired. And for whatever reason, I fluctuate heavily between wanting to spend time with everyone my heart has missed so much, and shutting myself inside of my own precious space because a) I haven't had my own precious space in ages, and b) everyone is on my damn nerves. 

Irrationally, of course. But on my nerves, nevertheless.

Be advised: the following statements have nothing to do with my emotional personal growth, my heart, how much I love everyone I spent time with last year, or how much I enjoyed what I did.

Everything is a mess. I had no idea that I was so terrible at making decisions; rather, I had no idea I was so terrible at discerning whether or not a person is lying to my face, whether or not I'm boarding a sinking ship, whether or not I can afford to do what I love to do. But the truth of the matter is, none of the things that I've done for a paycheck in 2015 were the least bit sustainable. In fact, I seem to be magnetically attracted to unsustainable, barely surviving establishments with zero funding and millennial enthusiasm, from tiny nonprofits to branches of the US Government. It makes sense; that's how I live my life. Zero funding. Millennial enthusiasm. 

In my own defense, I started from absolutely nothing and I worked very hard to earn my keep, and my six months of adventurous travel. And really, my priority at that time was to have something to fill my schedule so that I didn't kill myself. In that sense, mission accomplished. But now, in a bitter attempt to avoid being taken advantage of, I can't resign to working on anyone's terms but my own. Not until I go back to school, anyway.

I just got a call from Dakota, and boy, what great timing! She's dealing with the bureaucratic nonsense that (unfortunately) is the NPS, and it's a cycle that I just can't afford to ride anymore. It's not because my supervisory rangers don't want to take care of me. It's not because I won't advocate for myself. It is because my supervisory rangers can't take care of me, and because I'm in no position to advocate for myself. And for the past few years, I made enormous sacrifices to provide the best damn astronomy program I could come up with, and decided that it had been worth it. But when the financial burden becomes too large and there simply isn't enough money to survive above the poverty line, that's what clouds my thoughts instead of the ways by which I could improve upon the program. That's what I'm thinking about, that's what I'm stressing about, and I have no patience for visitors when my supposed "brilliant mind" is trying to figure out how to ask for more money, where I'm going from there, what I can possibly do to keep my heart and my wandering feet in public lands without going into financial red.

With two degrees in physics, I'm a trained problem solver. But I can't solve this problem.

So, save for a few trips here and there so that I don't lose my mind, I'm staying put for a while.

It wasn't the plan. A career-halting nervous breakdown was not going to happen, and continuing to be in recovery a year later was not in the cards. But now, I have a shot at a reset. 

And now, I have my own door to shut.

The Rest of Us

"Go anywhere but home." -the ultimate philosophical reference, Dove Chocolate

Seven Falls Trail, Sabino Canyon, AZ

Key West, FL

There are several reasons why I'd consider being a travel writer. However, there is one implosive reason why I know that I can't, and it's the fact that I've been traveling for six months but haven't written, really, many posts about it. I've had readers request updates while I was abroad and I had intended to oblige; however, my hands were busy clutching plane and train tickets and keeping my jaw from hitting the ground at every moment.

Switzerland Trail, CO

Tuolumne Meadows, Yosemite National Park, CA

Jökulsárlon, Iceland

Lots of people wonder about me. It's fair; I am wonderful, and I try very hard to keep my life that way. Perhaps many of us began as wandering children. Children who are, for better or otherwise, displaced. Displaced children grow up to become women like me. And at the minute, I must admit that I feel a bit incomplete and empty...though, I may just be tired. And those feelings are rare and far between when I am off exploring. 

Antelope Island State Park, Great Salt Lake, Salt Lake City, UT

Brugge, Belgium

So at first glance, or even for several consecutive glances, it would seem that I've followed Dove's advice like my life depended on it. And in some ways, I think that it did.


One of my California friends who invited me into her life during my brief spell of homelessness recently challenged me to write down one significant event for every month of 2015. If anyone would have asked me to do this one year ago, I might have broken down. I had an alright 2014, but it was difficult to survive and it ended in a complete and shameful disintegration. Honestly, I had very little interest in seeing 2015; however, when I started to feel a bit better, I conjured up a creative way to make sure that I could do my best to stay alive for the lot of it, and I have.

Rendezvous Point, Teton Village, WY

Most of you know about these plans. They weren't secrets. And they involved seeing the world.

Biscayne National Park, FL

Notch Trail, Badlands National Park, SD

Boca Chita Key, FL

Blue Lagoon, Iceland

So, I did marvelous things. I explored Biscayne National Park, which is 95% underwater. Hiked around Devil's Tower and blew kisses to its basalt columns. Walked around the Yellowstone caldera, watched Old Faithful erupt, and survived a car breakdown in Montana. Found a hostel in Teton Village, and rode a tram up into the Teton peaks. Got stoned in Wyoming and hated it a lot. Camped on the shore of the Great Salt Lake. Got caught in an alpine rainstorm at Great Basin National Park, then headed underground to explore its caverns. Summited Half Dome at Yosemite National Park and then ate half of an enormous pizza. Lived in my car for 45 days. Worked for a criminal. Learned how to teach online. Learned how to climb. Returned to Badlands National Park for Astro Fest, and debuted at Joshua Tree National Park for Night Sky Fest. Climbed the 366 steps to the top of the Belfry of Brugge. Laughed on the inside while being shown the supposed blood of Christ in Belgium, because it actually just looks like a tampon. Ate mussels in Brussels. Made Irish s'mores with my Irish family. Got caught up in Irish Time, and missed my flight to Germany. Fell asleep with Syrian refugees in Frankfurt, and made friends with a guard who kept me safe until my train arrived. Met my baby nephew. Met my baby niece. Lived with my biological family and hung out with Max all the time. Saw all of my sisters. Saw the Mountain Goats live in London. Visited Buckingham Palace and Big Ben a week after the Paris attacks and nothing bad happened. Hiked on Icelandic glaciers and crawled through ice caves. Saw the Northern Lights dance in the Reykjavik skies. Soaked in Icelandic geothermal pools. Drove thousands of miles across the US. Wasn't afraid.

Woodville, MS

Clearwater, FL

Old Faithful, Yellowstone National Park, WY

Sólheimajökull, Iceland

And for the most part, all of those things are things that I did by myself. More accurately, I solo traveled en route to visiting lots of my friends and family. But in between, I signed up for a lot of group excursions and was often one of very few who went alone. I never even think about that until I get there and meet the families and couples and friends who go together...and meanwhile, it's just me. It doesn't bother me though; I talk to them and everyone is friendly and wonderful. And I have so many people in my circle who would join me if they could...but it mostly ends up being just me. It wasn't at all lonely in the way that being homeless was lonely; instead it just makes me wish for, I suppose, a copilot. 

But now, here I am in Michigan watching the winter storm blow in and the snow accumulate. I'm home indefinitely, which absolutely nobody believes when I say so. But, I am for a minute. At least until my life begins to show some semblance of order, and until I can financially rebuild a little. I have plans for mini adventures, but ultimately, I don't know where my life is taking me and I can't make any long-term commitments until I do. I can't.

Those who are closest to me know that this is, in theory, phase two of my (hopefully) brief break from academia. Phase one involved maniacal traveling and trying a million different things, which based on the list above, I think I've done quite well. Phase two involves doctors, medication, and sitting still. An actual medical approach to the nervous breakdown for which I've attempted to self-medicate. Basically, a chance at healing disguised as a death sentence, because of its requirement that I stay put. 

I've already begun phase two. I've been medicated all month, which has allowed some beautiful days but it seems now that these particular pills are better at shortening my temper than leveling my dark days. It's hard to tell if I'm just exhausted from constant movement and just need several full days of sleep, but something is not right. Without reason, I am irritable, hot-headed, and angry more times than not, in addition to my baseline of traumatic stress that tends to make me feel frightened of being desired as well as feeling undesirable, simultaneously. 

Once again, I can take comfort in Einstein's branch of relativistic physics, which tells me that simultaneity isn't really a thing...but of course, observation triumphs over theory once again. And since my observables come from a chemically imbalanced observer, I'd never know the difference between reality and shadowy falsehoods, anyway.

And these realities and shadowy falsehoods are nesting grounds for the rest of us: the unattached needy, the ones who bask in love one moment and feel unlovable the next, the independent gypsies who secretly search for home, the wanderers who are afraid to stay put, but sometimes need to in order to get better. The anxiety and the sorrow mixed with the peace and the joy. 

Over the past couple months, I haven't felt like writing much, clearly. But, I picked today to write. Today was not a mentally healthy day. It was a lovely day filled with adventure and laughter on the outside, but it was not a healthy day inside my head. I'm not sure what kind of tone this post would have were I feeling better, but I suppose it doesn't matter. 

What matters is that, whether I like it or I don't, whether I feel like celebrating or I feel like crying, whether I'm wandering or staying, I'm still alive.

Half Dome Summit, Yosemite National Park, CA

To Davis

The first time I heard a song by Halsey was in LA, appropriately enough. And since then, I've lived in her electronic bliss and lyrical genius; exercising my body to Gasoline and stretching my body to Colors. 

You can't wake up; this is not a dream
You're part of a machine
You are not a human being

Sometimes, Skrillex would get me going in the morning, and Sufjan Stevens would sing me to sleep in the evening.

Tuesday night at the bible study,
we lift our hands and pray over your body
but nothing ever happens

In between the songs, though, exists the uncomfortable silence during which I had to address what my realities were. This post isn't meant to be about those realities, though, and it isn't really even an update. Instead, it's a gentle nod towards those who helped to ensure my survival during my time in California. A love letter, if you will, to Davis.

There are few better places, in my limited experience, that are better suited to a transient life than Davis. Resources, public parks, and an atmosphere of acceptance...movies in the park and film festivals on the weekends, book discussions and clubs, farmers markets twice a week. Something for everyone, easy on the pockets and delightful for my observing eyes and wandering feet. 

But out of an entirely different necessity, I learned something else. I learned how to climb.

I feel closest to God when I'm in nature. My relationship with God grows when I grow my relationship with creation, and part of that, I'm realizing now, is fostering an awe and a love for myself as a valid member of that creation. When I started to learn how to climb, I was able to feel my body getting stronger and to use my body and my mind in ways I hadn't needed to before. That resulted in a deep appreciation for my body, and fostered some of that awe. And over the course of six weeks, I traded my state of vulnerability for a state of acceptance.

Even if this particular post falls largely on deaf ears, I'd like to go on record and say that every individual who climbs at Rocknasium in Davis is a wonderful person. So friendly, so encouraging, so outgoing, so adventurous, so easy-going, so accepting, so strong, so talented, and just so good at grilling pork. I miss you all, I love you all, and I'm more thankful for you than you'll ever know! I found my tribe there, and I found a safe space, and you all made the choice to welcome a vagabond into your lives. 

Every day, you watched me grow. At a snails pace, maybe, but growth nonetheless. Every day, your smile felt like home to me. Every day, you asked how I was and offered kind words of complimentary encouragement. You memorized my shoe size, you fed me, you taught me, you cheered for me. Every day, you saved me a little bit. And a heart like mine can't forget hearts like yours. 

In fact, I'm not too worried. Adventurers and wanderers like us? We have a way of finding each other. We'll see each other again.

So, until then, know that I'm thinking of you. I'm incredibly thankful for you and your energy, and I love you. I love you, Davis.