a disconnect.

Brace yourself. I'm gonna talk about religion for a second. But only for a hot second. Now, don't worry--I'm not gonna get all preachy or judgmental or anything. Good heavens, the last thing I want to do is push a reader away, scare him or her off. I just want to explore something that's been on my mind lately. And, heck--maybe you can help. In fact, I hope you can. So I hope you'll stick with me on this one.

Religion is a touchy subject. It has been for me for a reeeeeally long time, as a matter of fact. I grew up surrounded by some people who said things that made me feel bad about myself, made me feel like I was doing the wrong things, thinking the wrong things, believing the wrong things. That I wasn't a good Christian.

I'm not only a Christian, I'm a Catholic. That adds another level to my situation.

My mom's mental illness manifested itself in some pretty scary and disregulated ways, which resulted in my first experiences with Catholicism and All Things God and Jesus being not so good. In fact, they were awful. And I had other people in my life who weren't Catholic, but were Christian (some born-again {whatever that meant}, some non-denominational), who spoke in a language I didn't understand and talked about Jesus all the time. In every sentence. And it pushed me away. It all did. I folded up into myself and hid, batting away anything and anyone that tried to bring Jesus, religion, or Christianity into any equation or experience. I couldn't handle it. It was trauma. It was all trauma-related. It was my Vietnam.

Fast forward to now, and I have come to a place in my Catholic faith that I'm really comfortable with. I love Mass. It's so beautiful to me. The sacraments? Awesome. I love God like he's my best friend. You may recall my award-winning post in which I express my desire to have a beer with the big G. And Jesus? Dude, if I could be more like any human that ever lived, it'd totally be him. I mean, he was, like, it. But I don't agree with everything the Catholic Church teaches. And so, some may say that completely disqualifies me from actually being Catholic. I disagree. Until God looks me in the eyes and says, "You know, Laur', you were a really sucky Catholic," I'm not going to worry too much about it. The truth is, I'm just trying to find my way through this thing called life as best I can. I mean, aren't we all?

With that being said, I've been trying to find some other Catholics out there--specifically, young adults who are modern, hip, living in this world like the rest of us--who are, well, on that same journey. Who will help me feel like I'm doing okay with it all. Validation. Yes, that's it. From other Catholics. I've found a couple of cool blogs for Catholics, but when I go online and stumble upon blogs written by Christians, I feel a bit alienated. Because although I'm a Christian, I'm a Catholic, and that separates me from other non-Catholics. Because we actually do believe some different things. And so when I'm on these Christian blogs, I feel like there's virtually no Catholic representation at all. And I feel like I can't relate to non-Catholics sometimes because 1) I don't always get some of the language/vernacular they use, or what I've experienced as a constant reference to themselves as Christians (i.e. "As a Christian, I've decided to....", "As a Christian, I feel this about xyz....", "As a Christian, I shop at...", etc.) and 2) we really do believe some very fundamentally different things, which makes me feel like we don't really share a faith.

I mean, I read a blog post once where the writer asked if Christians should smoke. I was like, What? And while I really like this blog and the way the writer writes, I sometimes feel alienated, because it feels like it's all about what people do as Christians. And it makes me feel like the human side is negated. It feels like they're saying they're Christians first, and every single thought and action revolves around that, and it seems like it's obsessed upon, and it brings back my trauma from earlier in my life. And it makes me very, very uncomfortable. Maybe I'm generalizing, or even judging (that's not my goal! I promise!). I just don't experience of lot of Catholics who talk in that way, nor have I experienced it much in the blogosphere (with the exception of Catholic Chicks). Maybe that makes me a bad Christian, or not really even a Christian. Or, and this would suck, a bad Catholic. Or maybe I just need to talk to more people. Open myself up more for the possibility of not having a disconnect.

Does that make sense? I feel like I'm rambling and being completely inarticulate.

I guess what I'm trying to say is, why does that disconnect exist? Or is it just me? Am I the alien? Do the non-Catholics want us to stay away? I have no idea. But I'm noticing it. And it makes me sad. I mean, I don't like to categorize people as Catholic and non-Catholic, but there are fundamental things that non-Catholics probably won't ever understand or relate to. And so that creates a bit of a separation. At least for me it does.

I just want to yell from my blog sometimes, "Where my Catholics at?!" Or does anyone even care? Am I too liberal? Am I not Catholic enough? Am I a lazy Christian? Am I alienating? Does it even matter? I'm proud to be Catholic, and I want people to see that Catholics can be cool and modern and hip and not push people away or make them feel alienated or judged. Maybe I'm failing miserably at that, but I really hope I'm not. Gosh, I'm probably waaaay overthinking this crap, aren't I?

Ugh. My head. Anybody got any help for me?

with love from Pittsburgh,
Laura

ouch. ugh. blech.

The Ross-a-tron always rolls his eyes at me whenever I say I think I'm dying. Which is a lot of eye-rolling, to be honest. Like, I can't believe they haven't just rolled on out of his head by now. And I'm not saying this to be mean, to make the Ross-a-tron out to look like some heartless creep. He's actually very tender and understanding. I'm the one who's lost her marbles.

I'm convinced I currently have: fibromyalgia; various types of cancer, including (but not limited to) breast, skin, and colon; a brain tumor; cataracts; blocked arteries (hello, I love dairy), and a currently undiscovered rarity that is only acquired by women between the ages of 30-35 who have been south of the Mason-Dixon Line during the third Wednesday of June 2009 when it was rainy and they'd previously had cantaloupe with their breakfasts. No, I haven't been south of the Mason-Dixon Line recently, but that doesn't mean anything.

I am constantly in pain. I'm not making this up. Seriously. Pain. All the time. Every single day. My lower back, my wrists, the joint in my left thumb, and that soft spot between your shoulder and your collar bone. My shins, my arches, my hips. Sometimes it's a dull ache, other times it's a quick, shooting pain that lasts for only a second. Even my boobs hurt. Not PMS-like, but twinges that feel like electrical charges. Granted, my oncologist said that was normal after an excisional biopsy, but can't a girl catch a break?

And don't even get me started on my intestines. Let's just put it this way: the ladies' room and I are intimately involved on an hourly--yes, hourly--basis. I hate eating. If there was a pill I could take or an IV that could just hook into me once or twice a day, that'd be awesome.

So, basically, I'm convinced my body is revolting against me for, well, something. It hates me. And right now, I'm not too fond of it, either. I'm going to the doctor on the 17th of this month because I'm at the point of desperation. I'm ready to hear the hard truth. I'm ready to do whatever I have to (gasp! exercise?!) to get my body right. And I'll get bloodwork done. I'll change my diet if I have to. (Well, I'll still be a vegetarian, but I'll work harder at it.) If I have to stop wearing heels because they're throwing my bones and joints out of whack, well, then....aw, crap. Something has to give. I'm 32. I shouldn't feel like I'm 92.

And I don't want to hear anyone say, "Oh, sweetie, it just gets worse as you get older." I'm not making this up. I'm not imagining this pain. None of my other thirty-something friends feel this way. (Well, except for this one...) Something is wrong. And I have to fix it.

Even if it means staying above the Mason-Dixon Line. Or wearing--omg--flats.

with love from Pittsburgh,
Laura

{photo from here, and loving it}

who died and made me queen?

Confession time: I sometimes think I'm more important than I actually am. Like when I'm driving, and I slow down and let a pedestrian cross at the crosswalk, I think I should get the I'm-not-a-jerk-so-I'll-wave-a-thank-you-to-you-for-not-mowing-me-down wave from said pedestrian. I mean, it should be required. Same goes for merging. Hmmm...I'm noticing a theme here... There's this spot on my way home from work that always gets congested because people need to merge left and right. And I feel as though I'm important enough to be given a turn signal indication that the car in front of me would like to merge. Or, if you're in the car next to me, I feel as though you should get my attention, smile, and make the Can-I-get-in-there? motion with your hand. And then, when you actually do merge (thanks to my benevolence), I believe it's only proper for you to give me the courtesy wave in your rearview mirror. Yes. Be nice to me. I am that important.

When I send you an email, I expect you to respond. Quickly. With details. Lots of them.

When I have to call my agency and re-schedule an audition, I always think that as soon as they hang up the phone with me, they turn to whoever is around and say, "Sheesh! That Laura...she's always being an inconvenience." As if they think about me that often. Or that centrally. Because why wouldn't they? I am important. Aren't I the first thing they think about when they get to the office in the morning? What time is Laura coming in? Is she going to re-schedule like she always does? Gah! I hate that!

When I studied and lived in London somanyearsagoI'vepracticallylostcount, a friend of mine back here in the States said to me, "Laurita," (he was originally from South America) "your way is not the way." I was flabbergasted. It's NOT?! I thought.

Huh. Apparently it's not.

And now, here I am in my thirties, and I'm all what do you mean you don't like my idea or think about me all the time or do what I think you should do? Don't you care that your shoelaces are all wrong and that the font you chose is atrocious and that you're committing a crime by wearing white after Labor Day? How can you cross the street and not bow to my compact car in grateful acknowledgement and why on earth would you think that the decision you made last week about that thing was a good one and what do you mean we're having that for dinner?

Seriously.

But not.

I am a control freak. A daughter + a schizophrenic mother = I have to rule the world and make sure everyone knows that I make the rules and that my way is the way.

And I have a lot to learn. Because my way can't be the way. Well, at least not all the time.

Help.

with love from Pittsburgh,

Laura

don't make me yell at you.

I'm in therapy. I know, I know. You? you're asking. Yup. Me. In fact, I've been in therapy for, oh, areallylongtime. See, when you grow up in a house where your mother is a schizophrenic, you're pretty screwed up by the time you're in your late teens and early twenties. I'm now in my early thirties. There's a whole bunch of screwed up there. When I got to college, I told myself that I'd go to see a therapist since it was free (one of the perks of being part of an academic community) because I was feeling totally depressed and hopeless and all of the things that so many of us humans feel, but for me it felt a milliontimesworse because I had a certifiable crazy woman as my mother. Compound interest, if you will.

And so...therapy.

Most of my therapy sessions revolved around the utter sadness, frustration, and anger I felt towards my mother and her illness. However, after 20 years of Certifiable Crazy, including (but not limited to) year-long stints in state hospitals, week-long stays in psych wards, delusions, the inability to leave the house, and a suicide attempt, my mother is better now than she's ever been. Miraculously. Yes, a trifecta of healing: God, the right meds, and a near-death experience.

My anger has turned to compassion, and my sadness to joy, because for the first time in my life, I have a mother. So what do I talk about now in my therapy sessions? Finding my voice. Yes. The little voice inside of me that's been pushed so deep down for so long has finally started squeaking a bit more loudly. I want a voice. My voice. I want to learn how to find it completely and to use it. Without fear. Do you know how hard that is? It's reallly, really hard. It's hard to have a voice, to be taken seriously, especially when you're a woman-a model-an actress-a glorified secretary.

I am such a people-pleaser. Oh, yes, a self-proclaimed doormat, but instead of the word "WELCOME" written across my head, I have the words, "YES, PLEASE TAKE ADVANTAGE OF ME BECAUSE YOU KNOW YOU CAN BECAUSE I HAVE ABSOLUTELY NO BACKBONE AND AM SUCH A 'FRAIDY CAT TO SPEAK UP...OH, AND ALSO I REALLY WANT YOU TO LIKE ME."

Well, no more. The Reign of Terror has officially begun. Oh, yes. Watch out people. This voice? She's on her way to coming in loud and clear.

I am going to give my opinion.
I am going to tell you what I think.
I am going to express my beliefs.
I am going to say "no" and not feel bad about it.
I am going to disagree if I do, in fact, disagree.
I am going to speak up for what I need.
I am going to speak up for what is right.

Oh, yes. This voice is on. its. way. up.

with love from Pittsburgh,
Laura

having my cake and eating it, too.

Aw, snap. If my hair was made out of licorice, I'd never leave the house. I'd just sit around and eat my hair all day, looking awesome and bein' tasty.

I realize that came out totally wrong, but you know what I mean.

Anyway, imagine the money I'd save on groceries and haircuts. Seriously.

Alas, I do not have hair made out of licorice, nor is my name Ireland. But let me say, she is One Lucky Girl. If only my birthday cake looked like Lil' Wayne.

Happy Birthday to me anyway.

with love from Pittsburgh,

Laura

me? worry?

I worked with a woman who once told me that the reason she shaved her legs every single day was so that if she was ever in a car accident, and the paramedic who was trying to save her life had to rip her pant legs to free her from the wreckage, that she'd be relieved to know that her legs weren't all stubbly and gross.

She wanted to be prepared. Ah, yes. A girl after my own heart.

My Pappap always told my dad, who eventually told me, that you should never have less than a quareter of a tank of gas in your car during the winter months. You know, in case you get stranded somewhere and have to leave the car running to stay warm.

He was a POW for almost three years, a veteran of WWII and, yes, always prepared.

Whenever I leave the house, I have to make sure that:
1. the oven is turned off
2. my space heater in the living room is unplugged
3. the cord to my hair straightening iron is hanging on the hook next to the bathroom sink so as to signify that said straightener is, in fact, not turned on

The inside of my purse contains a make-up bag (thank you, Clinique!), in which I always carry the following essentials:
1. hand cream
2. hand sanitizer
3. Pepto-Bismol
4. Pamprin
5. Excedrin Migraine tablets
6. deoderant
7. purse-size body spray (Pink Grapefruit, in case you were curious)
8. lip gloss
9. tampons and pantyliners
10. a small mirror
11. my tiny Swiss Army Knife
12. a thin pocket mirror

Always.

I set my clothes out each night so that I'm ready to go in the morning. So that I don't have to think or worry about being ready when I've hardly even remembered turning off my alarm because I'm so groggy.

I really like to be prepared. I like control, order, and reliability. I don't like to get caught in a situation where I don't have what I need to make me comfortable. And I'm happy to say that I've used, at least once or twice already this month, every. single. thing. in my Preparedness Purse Pouch.

I worry a lot. About stuff. Everything. All the things. I get so worried that the world will fall apart if 1.) I sweat and don't have back-up deoderant, ii.) there's broccoli in my teeth that nobody told me about, or c) somebody shakes my hand seconds after sneezing into it. I need to be prepared for these things, because they can, and do, happen. Thus, my constant companions include travel-size deoderant, a thin pocket mirror, and a tiny bottle of hand sanitizer.

Does anyone else feel and act this way, or am I out on a limb here? Is there something you do every day to feel prepared, in contorl, or less worried?

Go ahead. You can tell us. We're all friends here.

I'd like to think that others are also equally concerned with being prepared and letting go of some of the worry that accompanies not being prepared. You know, in case only minutes before The Great Rapture we're swarmed by mosquitos. Then we'll wish we had face masks, fly swatters, and lizards on hand to take care of that.

with love from Pittsburgh,
Laura

happy hour with the big g.

It's times like these when I really wish I could just text message God and be like, "Dude, wanna grab a beer? It's been a hell of a week!" And He'd text back immediately, "4 sure! C U in 10!" And then we'd meet up at the local bar down the street from my apartment, only He'd be there early, of course, because He's like that. A seat would be saved for me, and He'd would have already ordered me my favorite drink, because, well, He's like that. And before I even let out my first sigh of decompression, He'd be all, "I know, right?! It has been a rough week."

This whole Haiti thing has me wanting to just sit down with The Big G and be like, "Luuuuucy, you have some 'splaining to do!" Because really, I just. don't. get. it. I didn't get it during 9/11, I didn't get it during Hurricane Katrina, and I don't get it now. I don't get it. I believe in God, with all my heart and soul, and I love Him. Completely. In fact, I'd go so far as to say He's the greatest love of my life, my best friend. But right now, I'm pretty pissed at Him. Because I just cannot wrap my head around the pain and suffering and destruction. I cannot wrap my head around why He's letting this happen.

I want to sit down with Him over a drink, have a real chat, get serious. I'd be all, "Remember that time you shook the earth and let thousands of people die?" And He'd be all, "I do remember. Sorry 'bout that. But you gotta trust me. It's all part of My Plan." And I'd be all, "Your plan? Was your plan designed by someone who claimed to be an event coordinator but was actually a professional video game player who didn't know how the real world really functioned?" And He'd be all, "Now, now, my child. Simmer down. Where's your trust in me? Where's your faith?" And I'd be all, "Hold on, I gotta pee. I'll be right back."

And He would hold on. Because He's like that.

And after I got back from peeing, He'd be like, "I missed you. Even though you were separated from me for just a few minutes, I missed you. I always want you near me." And I'd be like, "Really?" And I'd feel really guilty. Because I'd separated myself from Him. But I'd also feel so loved, because He missed me. Me! Can you believe it?! So, I'd be like, "I'm sorry. I missed you, too. And I do trust you, but I just don't understand." And He'd be like, "As long as you trust me, and keep me near you always, you'll eventually feel peace. But you gotta let me do my thing, okay? I make the rules, remember?" And I'd grumble and roll my eyes and be all, "Yeeees, Daaaaad."

And we'd continue to talk over drinks, there in the local bar, with The People. And He'd say hello to everyone, but He'd never make me feel like He wasn't fully present, like He wasn't completely focused on me. And our talk would be down-to-earth, real, no frills. And He'd smile the whole time, because that's what He wants. That's what He loves. And I'd cry (because I always friggin' do), and He'd take the cocktail napkin from underneath his drink and wipe my tears. And then He'd be like, "Let's do this again tomorrow. Let's just keep talking, and I promise you, you'll feel peace."

And He'd pick up the tab.

I think I'm gonna text Him tomorrow.

with love from Pittsburgh,
Laura