Official as of today, the Supreme Court ruled same-sex couples have the right to marry nationwide.
As of today, my Facebook and Twitter feeds have blown up from both Christians and non-Christians sharing their thoughts and opinions on the matter.
I don’t really need to write about it, because a million other blogs are already discussing it, but I do have something to say, so I’ll make it short and sweet.
Are you dealing with the same struggle over and over again, feeling stuck in your desperation?
Perhaps you just keep going back to that addiction. You stay sober for a week, then have a drink on a lonely Saturday night. You’ve been on track with your eating habits, then one bad day sends you into a spiral of emotional eating.
My friend, that’s called bondage. It’s very real.
Dear Bruce (Caitlyn),
First of all, I want to thank you for your bravery for being so vulnerable with the photographers at Vanity Fair. I can’t speak for you, but that probably wasn’t the easiest thing to do. Thank you, also, for your willingness to talk to Diane Sawyer about your struggles so openly. Again, probably not that easy.
I don’t write this letter to condemn or judge you. As a matter of fact, I would like to apologize on behalf of any Christian who berates you with their words and judges you with their looks. Please remember, not all Christians are alike.
Can I share my heart with you for a moment?
I’ve had a lot on my heart and mind these last few days. More like the last couple weeks, actually. Would you mind praying for me?
None of it’s bad. It’s all good. Even when it’s good though, sometimes it’s still really hard.
I think the reality is setting in that I’m living back in my hometown. It’s not a bad reality, it just is what it is. I’m here. For real. For the long haul.
Yesterday I had a mini meltdown. I missed my friend, Jammie. I missed our Tuesday nights, where we drank coffee or went to a movie, or laughed about absolutely nothing. I missed my other friends. I missed Branson. I missed comfort.
I come from a family of secrets, just as most others do. Perhaps a few of those secrets should be taken to the grave.
“You don’t talk about being sexually abused. You don’t talk about your addictions. Some things are just better left unsaid.”
Have you ever heard these words? Maybe you’ve said them yourself.
Someone asked me this question the other day: “Do you think there’s a connection between homosexuality and sexual abuse?”
I don’t want to answer it. Why? Because I know regardless of what my answer is, someone, somewhere won’t agree with my answer, and then I’ll be labeled as a hypocrite, religious jerk, etc. etc. etc.
I’ve avoided publishing topics on homosexuality for this very reason. Because somehow, some way, despite being careful with my words, someone will get hurt, me included. But it’s time…
Yes. Yes, I think they’re related. Definitely not in all cases, but I would bet the majority. I’m not a scientist. I’m not a psychologist. I have no initials behind my name to qualify me to answer, but I have my own experience.
When someone takes their own life, those closest to them immediately ask, “What could I have done differently? What if I did this? What if I called her more? What if I visited him more?”
There’s an immense guilt survivors feel and it takes a while to get through that grief. Then comes the anger. “Why would she do something so stupid? Why didn’t he bother to think about us before he decided to take the easy way out?” Insert your own question here.
I’m angry. Angry that while I type this blog post, women in Africa, India, the Congo, and all over the rest of the world and United States, are being kidnapped, raped, beaten, tortured, and humiliated to think they deserve to be where they are.
I’m angry I didn’t sleep well last night because all I could think about was storming into a brothel in Kenya, Rambo style, and taking out the men committing these grotesque, shaming, hideous crimes with a smirk on their faces. I’m angry I slept in my queen size bed, snuggled up with my four pillows, while little orphans in Phnom Penh are lucky to sleep on a piece of cardboard.
I’m angry Ashley Judd’s childhood was stolen from her and I just want to hug her and say, “I know. I’m sorry.”
The scale. My eyes met his eyes for the first time in two months after I finally broke down and bought one for my own. It’s the only scale I’ve ever owned.
I’ve determined the scale fits under the male category for two reasons: It’s easier to blame him when we don’t get the results we want, and when we see good news in the numbers, we want to wrap our arms around him and waltz across the bathroom floor. No? Just me? That’s fine.
Anyway.. back to the scale. April 1, the start of a new month. In less than five seconds, I would have to determine how I would approach the results and whether or not I would allow it to ruin my day.
A couple of weeks ago I was hanging out with some new friends. We’re still in the “getting to know each other” stage, so there are still those awkward pauses, stares, shifting in our chairs, etc.
Things were going well, until I heard these words come out of one of my new friends’ mouths.
“I’m the fat girl,” she said with a smile, as though bringing humor to it would lighten the impact of those words. They may have for her and the others around us, but not for me.
It made my blood boil. I was mad. I still am. Not at her. I’m mad she believes what the devil is telling her. Mad she truly thinks of herself as the “fat girl” when God thinks of her in such a different way.