I Love You Because...

I'm starting this post from the Kelleher living room.

The walls are covered in hanging carpets and interesting faces. Faces of turtles, faces of indigenous Africans, faces of nudes (and other parts of nudes), faces of zebras and fish and stout, proud warthogs. 

I love this space. So many memories. My first time getting drunk. Baha. Rolling on the grass near the pond and texting all the wrong people all the wrong things. Reciting bits and pieces from The Vagina Monologues with far too much enthusiasm. Cathy's magic soup. My first experience nude modeling -- and god, Janet made it so beautiful. Made ME feel so beautiful. It's her fault I like being naked ALL THE TIME. 

The wedding is over.

I grated eleven cabbages.

Cooked twelve cups of lentils.

Teamwork grilled fifty pounds of ribs.

And remembered all the reasons I love Janet.

(there are a lot)

Janet.

I love you because you befriended me in all my post-homeschool awkward glory.

I didn't understand how to function outside of that very specific environment.

I love you because you were so patient. So non-judgmental. So damn encouraging when my previous worldviews crumbled around me, under me. So beautifully understanding about the poor decisions I made from those crumbled places.

I love you because you've helped me break through boundaries.  

... including any sort of physical "bubble".

I like that we don't have a bubble. 

You are one of the most active people I've ever met. 

You are one of the most alive. 

I love watching you love living. 

Watching you break boundaries and push edges has inspired me to question mine. 

(Although I don't think I'll ever be quite as hardcore as you. But that's okay. I'm a yogi and not supposed to get all competitive. But... I'm also not "supposed" to eat bacon. So...)

I love you because you taught me the anatomy of male genitalia through cookies.

And you were understanding when I broke mine.

(although did say, "Aimee, this is why you can't have nice things.")

And you didn't judge when I demonstrated better knowledge of pterodactyls than penises.

I love you for making weird faces with me.

For introducing me to strange, new foods and being entirely unfazed when I spent more time playing with aforementioned food than actually eating it. 

I love you for your friends. 

You attract incredible people, Mrs. Kelleher. From all walks of life. 

Thanks for attracting me. 

I love you for our memories. 

Remember that one time we took Special Effects Makeup together and you stumpified my arm?

And remember when I attempted arm stumpification on you,  but failed miserably and just went with "Sea Creature Emerging from Chest"?

(I also love you for totally rocking the look, "Sea Creature Emerging from Chest". Not many can)

I love you because you have always been able to capture little moments like these --

-- and make me feel seen.

I love you for getting me drunk

for the first time. 

For taking such good care of me

and making it such a good time. 

I adore you for taking advantage of the fact that I pass out so easily. 

On multiple occasions. 

I love the way you listen. 

You met me at a time wherein I was processing a lot. 

Thanks for being my processing buddy. 

For never being too tired to listen (or at least never appearing too tired to listen). 

Everyone we meet changes us in one way or another. 

I'm grateful for the way you've changed me. 

I love the way we play together. Onstage and off. 

(but jesus, I fucking hated that globe hat. You lucked out on being the moon in this scene)

Once again.

You lucked out.

I love you, BUT... 

...next time you have to be the reindeer.

Do you know how many stagehands I almost punched in the face for squeezing my Rudolph nose?

A lot. A lot of stagehands were nearly critically injured. 
 

I love you for sharing this show with me.

For your creativity.

Your unbelievable ability to communicate your vision.

And how well you combine leadership with team-playership.
 

I love you for making rehearsals look like this.

I love you for letting me know that it's okay to be sad. 

Whatever I feel is okay. 

I love you for even finding beauty in my sadness. 

Your eyes, Janet. 

I love you for your eyes. 

The way you look at people. 

The way you look at challenges. 

(or the way you look for challenges)

Thank-you for letting me see me the way you see me.

I love you for your ability to get carried away and not give a shit.

Thanks for getting carried away with me,

for lending me your fake mustaches,

and for not minding that when I'm tired at a party, I curl up and pass out. Pronto.

Yesterday was your wedding.

You looked stunning. Radiant. Mind-bogglingly dreamy. In fact, you looked even better than when you were dressed as the moon in that play (although your ceremony was about as theatrical. In the best possible way).

I cried all over my peter pan shoes. 

'Cos you, Janet, are one of the most important people in my life.

Seeing you so exquisitely happy made my tear ducts explode.

I've always known you wouldn't "settle".

Not in the end.

But I could never have imagined how far above "settling" you'd fly.

And I, for one, would fly across the ocean again --

-- in a heartbeat -- 

to be able to hear you say those words

and to see you looking that goddamn, helplessly happy.

Letting Go of Shame, Falling through Fear, Landing in Love

I let go of vanity in February.

It's like Arnold Lobel's Frog and Toad story (I liked Frog and Toad even more than the vegetables who sang about God being bigger than the boogieman and Dave and the Giant Pickle) of Frog and Toad and cookies.

*ahem*

Frog and Toad bake cookies. They cannot stop eating the cookies, so Frog puts the cookies in a box, ties the box with string and then places the box of irresistible baked goods on top of a very tall shelf.

"Now we will not eat the cookies," said Frog.

"But we can climb the ladder, cut the string, open the box and eat the cookies," Toad argued.

So Frog went outside and gave the cookies to the birds.

"Hey birds, here are cookies!"

"Now we have no cookies," Toad looked sad.

"No, but we have willpower," said Frog.

"You can keep the willpower, Frog. I'm going home to bake a cake."

 I am Toad in this scenario. Just because I no longer have cookies doesn't mean I no longer want them. Just because I gave them all away doesn't mean I haven't stopped missing my perfect blue dress.

But what I crave even more emphatically than cookies (my blue dress) is the ability to love myself. To love myself regardless of how I'm perceived by others. To let go of my need to control my appearance and to let myself be. 

He thinks I look frumpy in my blue harem pants. She just glanced at and away from my hairy legs. Oof. That woman said my hairy armpits give her nightmares. Ouch. No. I don't need to feel oof or ouch. I mean, I can if I want. But I can also realize that I don't need to internalize, personalize the reactions of other people -- be it cat calling, disgust or pity. Their reactions have absolutely nothing to do with me. 

Every human on this planet struggles with insecurity. The primary difference is how this insecurity manifests itself in our lives. I think that when people are insecure, they reach out. Blindly. They need something to hold onto. Something to give them power. Something to control. 

When people are flailing in fear, sometimes what they catch surprises them. But they hold onto it because they're afraid to let go and to fall again. Because even if they hate what they hold, it's saving them from falling into the void. A black hole. The unknown. The place where all the nightmares they can't remember live.

Some people hold onto others and find their relationships becoming more and more abusive as their need to control something turns into their need to control their partner. Maybe they hate themselves for this behavior, but they can't let go. Dominating someone else gives them control over a frightening, confusing world. Over the nightmares. Inflicting pain and instigating fear makes them momentarily forget their own void as they happily, hatefully, regretfully watch someone else fall through theirs.

I sincerely believe no one in this world enjoys inflicting pain.

People just enjoy forgetting about their own.

When some people fall, they reach out and grab a part of themselves. It's easier to hold ourselves than it is to hold others, right? Deep down, I think we all know that the only person over whom we exert any real power is "me". And even this measure of control is limited by our experience and our genetic makeup. What we grab onto in ourselves is influenced by the demands of our society.

Society. Society is a weird word that I think has somehow become a character. A comrade or a villain (oftentimes both) in our lives.

Society (collective vindictive laugh) controls us with shame. Religion (similar laugh, but more soprano) controls us with shame and fear. When we're falling into the unknown, I think we reach out to hold onto the biggest thing around. The most cancerous growth in many of us is shame. What we have been told to loathe about ourselves becomes what we try to control -- in ourselves and in others.

For many, the shame is related to appearance. For some, it's intellect. For others, it's competitive sports. For loads, it's an unpleasant concoction of all the above.

Shame is a very effective glue. Once we've got it between our fingers and tangled up in our sense of self-worth, it's sticking around for a while. In my opinion, shame is surpassed only by fear and love (but love requires us to pass through our fear).

When I was thirteen, I reached out mid-fall and grabbed the shame associated with the words, "your thighs and butt wiggle when you move." This happens to so many girls that it almost feels normal. Maybe it is normal in an age in which physical beauty is deemed of paramount importance, but just because such a high percentage of girls reach out and hold onto eating disorders to keep themselves afloat does not mean that the pain should be disregarded.

Eating disorders were easy for me to get away with in my home. I've always fought for my health (which usually felt like a fight against me), and many of these fights included juice fasts or water fasts. In my childhood, there was a time I fasted on electrolyte water for a month. The first few days were hard -- dizziness, fatigue, cramps -- but the fourth, the fifth, the sixth... amazing. And the control. The sense of purpose in such a confusing, overwhelming time. Going to bed with a triumphant smile, an empty stomach and white knuckles from holding onto my shame so damn hard.

I thought I was conquering my shame, but in all honesty, my desire to combat those words defined my life. My shame had completely conquered me.

I remember the tiny bowls of frozen raspberries I'd allow myself for breakfast. Pinching that bit of skin where the forearm meets the elbow and indulging in moments of beautiful, seductive, wretched self loathing.

You're so ugly. I don't know how people can even look at you. But all you have to do is get rid of this. Then you'll be beautiful. Then people can look at you again.
 
The problem with this kind of addiction is that you can never win. You have set yourself up to perpetually fall short because the moment you look in the mirror (or in your heart) and truly love the person you are, guess what? You're falling. Again.

I think people are afraid to love themselves.

Love is the other side of the unknown. The void. And we're afraid to fall into the void because the last time was fucking scary. Life isn't perfect now, but at least it's under control... right? We're not happy, but at least we feel safe. We think (and hope) other people look at us and see what they want even if it isn't what we want. What Society tells them we ought to be. What Society tells us we ought to be. 

I hold onto many shames. One of my biggest shames was and is my body and appearance. Eating disorders continued to be my stab at control through university, but clothes weren't such a big deal because I had something else keeping my soul out of the void -- my shame about my inferior intellect. Being homeschooled alongside a veritable genius had filled me with a deep and poisonous shame regarding my intelligence. So during university, I held onto the shame related to the words, "What's wrong with you? He can do it. Why can't you?"

For me, academics were driven by my fear of not being enough. I worked hard not so much because I loved working hard, but because I was white-knuckling that shame

School ended. My eating disorder worsened and I started to worry more and more about my appearance. The year following my graduation from university was one of my most identity shattering years thus far, as my daily fight against the intelligence shame had been stripped from my clawing hands.

But then...

Travel.

I started my solo traveling adventures in June, 2011. Little did I know that travel would force me to let go of shame, fall into fear and face the unknown.

(I just thought I was gonna get better at directions and talking to strangers. Maybe do a little yoga here and there and learn a thing or two about harvesting beetroot. You know.)

I started off in Spain. Went to Italy. Then to Ireland, Denmark, France, Morocco. I quickly learned that every culture has very diverse ideas about the physical aspect of beauty (although said ideas are being more and more influenced by popular media and globalization).

But still. Travel taught me something super-duper valuable.

It's physically impossible to be physically beautiful for everyone.

And you know what that means? Physical attractiveness isn't about me and all I can do in this scenario is learn to feel comfortable in my own skin (which is quite hard enough, thank-you very much).

I can feel beautiful to me. Right now. Not after my skin clears or I lose that extra ten pounds.

Now.

Traveling left me with my shame of my youth echoing through my body, but paralyzed my hands. It is extremely difficult for an eating disorder to manifest itself whilst on the road. It is extremely difficult to hide.

I learned this on my first trip. Strangers notice the things friends don't see. Friends are often more afraid of offending than strangers. And some friends just take for granted that you'll tell them if something's wrong.

If you don't eat dinner two evenings in a row, your mama might not notice, but the Italian mama who prepared gluten-free pasta just for you sure as hell will.

I've learned that society gives us our choice of shame and then teaches us how to hold/fight it. But even though our shame is a gift from our culture, once we've grabbed onto it, it usually becomes a very private thing. Showing our shame makes us vulnerable. It reveals to us and to others our desperation and insecurities. And I think we're afraid of letting loved ones see our panic attacks, self-loathing and substance induced numbness because a) we're afraid of losing their love and b) we're afraid of the other kind of fallers -- the kind who reach out and hold onto those around them.

Shame. It's so big. It's like one of those rocks on an indoor climbing wall that you hold onto after a tiny teasing crack and you breathe, "Thank god, you're an easy hold. Think I'll stay here for a while."

So if you can hold onto it, someone else can too. Right? Someone else can exploit that big ass rock, so you sure as hell better keep it out of sight.

But traveling has crippled my hands by stripping me of control of my diet and by taking away my privacy.  I eat what I'm given when I'm given it and that's generally the way it goes. Instead of loathing myself, I've learned to close my eyes and enjoy the food in the present.

I did not always enjoy food as much as I do now. I could live off of gooey sprouted wheat (before I discovered my allergy) and electrolyte water.  I wasn't exactly happy with this, but I was safe. It was my shame inspired diet.

I lost control at mealtimes, but through February, I could still manage my wardrobe. I still had the power to create the person I thought others wanted to see by lining my eyes in black and wearing a sexy white shirt that showed off my tan skin and chaturanga muscles through its lacy back.

Three and a half years ago, I had no choice to loosen my grip on food, but eight months ago, I chose to leave that shirt in Istanbul. I made the conscious decision to release my last finger from that big fucking rock and fall into the void.

No control of diet. No choice of wardrobe. No power over my physical appearance.

I don't think I can reach self-love until I fall through my fears without flailing wildly in an effort to hold onto something. I need to fall through fear with my hands at my sides. Fall through fear with a still mind. I won't reach self-love until I learn to live without control.

This phase of my life is about acceptance. 

I've been falling for over eight months now. I've gotten very hairy and very bruised on the way down. I've caught myself reaching out for other things from time to time, but have done my best to keep my hands in my pockets.

Comparisons. Falling naked (and hairy) has taught me a little something about comparisons.

They are a kind of reaching out.

I see a woman wearing a gorgeous red dress that perfectly accentuates her kickass body. Do I think, wow, she's beautiful... and let it sit at that?

Hell no.

I think, I bet if she knew I've been traveling for 16 (and a half) months, she would want to be me. I bet if she knew that I'm going to Mexico in December, she'd think I'm pretty cool. Even though I'm wearing these ridiculous pants and this shirt that doesn't fit and have gained so much weight and probably look like I haven't slept in a real bed in about 17 years... 

The problem is... it doesn't matter how happy the person in the gorgeous red dress would be with my life. I'm the person who needs to be happy with my life.

If only she knew... then she'd want to be me. 

The problem... it doesn't matter/won't change anything if she wants to be. I need to want to be me.

But in order to not feel shame, I reach for a list of accomplishments --

-- and then I stick my hands in my pockets.

NO. Bourget. You do not need to hold onto this. Keep falling.

I think we are defined by our shame as long as we fight it. I think that when we allow ourselves to discover the person at peace, the person who doesn't need to constantly compare or fight or resist, we are getting our first glimpse of who we really are. Of the person who exists beyond the scripts given to us by our environment.

These last few months have been extremely hard for me -- especially since I've spent a lot of time in fashion conscious cities like London, Barcelona, Vienna and all of freaking Holland. 

I feel like someone who just quit smoking by sewing her mouth shut but that everyone around is chain smoking all her favorite cigarettes. And when boys say, "Aimee, you could be perfect if you would only wear a short skirt," I feel like they're blowing the smoke in my face and flaunting the cigarette in front of me.

But I continue to fall. I want to know that if I ever do put on that short skirt, it's not because I'm ashamed of who I am without it. I want to know that if I ever do shave my legs again, it's because I like how smooth they are and not because I feel gross with a bit of extra fluff.

This part of my life is about letting go of shame.

Falling through fear.

And (eventually) landing in self-love.

Family Reunions -- Bend, Oregon

I'm starting this post from living room of my family's house in Grand Junction, Colorado. Anna has just woken up (it's well after eleven o'clock) and is preparing herself some boxed pumpkin pancakes for "breakfast".  Mother sweeps dog hair off the floor (the dogs aren't allowed on the wood floor, but the amount of hair that accumulates suggests otherwise). Jaime eats apple slices dipped in almond butter at the marble counter and chews slowly, deliberately next to the essential oil diffuser. 

The house is beginning to smell like cloves, cinnamon and tangerine. 

Anna cooks bacon. Turkey bacon, 'cos the real kind isn't really eaten in this household. 

"Anna, you're drowning out the smell of essential oils," Jaime charges Anna in her incredibly soft spoken way. 

"Yeah?" Anna juts out her chin. "I wanna smell bacon." 

"Well, I wanna smell cloves." 

"Well, I wanna smell BACON." 

...

Guess which sister takes after me?

My old paintings hang on the walls. My first acrylic of a monochromatic landscape is behind me. To my left is a gigantic oil on wood of an Irish castle from Cahir. Tucked away under a kitchen cabinet is my oil toucan vase with a blue glass bottle and plastic orange. 

Mother uses my old camouflage backpack (from my tomboy phase. I had all the phases) to cart around her massage therapy books. 

There are photos of me on the refrigerator doors and above the electric fireplace and on top of wooden cabinets. 

It's bizarre. It's unsettling. I've become so accustomed to looking at walls and seeing photos of other people that looking at a wall and seeing photos of myself as a two-year-old definitely freaks me out. 

These people have witnessed most of my phases. They saw the princess turned tomboy turned soccer maniac turned horse girl turned so shy she nearly turned inside out. They were around when I was so afraid of spiders and snakes hiding in my room that I'd check the whole damn thing before I went to sleep every single night. They were around when I took all my problems to Jesus and didn't bother sorting anything out myself. They were around when I was so afraid of getting lost that I never went anywhere new.

I wonder what they think of me now? 

We returned from our girls only Oregon road trip at around midnight last night. The last week was full of family (most of whom I haven't seen in four years), acro yoga and cooking. 

Girl loves to cook.

We said goodbye to my Aunt Julie on Monday morning. I hadn't seen much of this effervescent lady because the majority of my time in Portland had been spent upside down at the Oregon Convention Center -- and by the time I'd finished being upside down, I was too worn out to hang out. In fact, the exertion gifted me with a raging headache about halfway through each day. I went to the first aid station to ask for an ibuprofen, and the woman said, "Well, I have ibuprofen... but I use peppermint oil for headaches. Would you like some peppermint oil?"

"Just give me the ibuprofen," I growled at the clear-skinned, glowing hippie.

When I told my little sister about getting ibuprofen for my headache, she scowled deeply and said, "I thought this was a hippie place. They should have given you peppermint." 

"They tried to." 

"Oh, okay. Then they really are hippies."

Saying goodbye to family is a little harder than saying goodbye to friends I meet on the road.  Perhaps I feel more guilt. Perhaps I feel like I'm missing out on building a community with blood. Perhaps it's because when I say goodbye to family, I really do feel like, maybe I'll never see these people again.

The friends I meet on the road often live a similar lifestyle. It makes sense that we'll see each other again because we move through life in a way that's bound to intersect eventually. But not many in my biological family move the way I do. 

Which is great. I'm a firm believer in happiness and that everyone should be allowed to make it happen and I understand that most people prefer sleeping in the same bed night after night after night....

But it does tend to make each hug feel like the last.

It took three hours to drive to Bend, but after the trek to Portland, three hours felt like nothing at all.

My goodness, I can't wait to see these people. 

I love my Aunt Pattie and my Uncle Scott. I'm surprised that Aunt Pattie still allows me in the house after how much I embarrassed her right when she started dating Scott, but this makes me love her all the more. 

I was young, so that's an excuse. I was romantic, so that's another. I thought the world revolved around me, and I suppose that's more of a character flaw than an excuse. 

"Awe (I couldn't say my Rs as a child) you my Unckwe (I also couldn't say my Ls) Scott?" I asked Scott. 

"Nope, I'm just Scott," was probably what he said. 

"Wew, I'm gonna caw you Unckwe Scott," I insisted. "Because youwe gonna mawy my Aunt Pattie." 

And then I drew a picture of Uncle Scott and Aunt Pattie getting married. And I triumphantly gave it to my Aunt Pattie's new boyfriend as I clamored onto his lap.

"See?"

My Aunt Pattie has a very big heart indeed.

This is Cody. He's the most precocious, energetic ten-year-old on the planet (and the galaxy, perhaps). When he was younger, he asked my grandparents, "Why do you have pictures of Jesus in your house?" "Because we love him," they answered. Cody waited a moment and then asked, "then why don't you have picture of me?"

Even though Cody weighs next to nothing, basing him is hard. Because he hasn't the faintest idea as to where his legs, arms, head or butt happen to be at any given moment.

Bend is a beautiful city. If I had to pick any one US city in which to spend a year, I would pick Bend -- no question about it. The nature is exquisite, there is kombucha on tap, their pork tacos are to die for, and the yoga community is just the right amount of hopping.

If you randomly throw a stone in Portland, it'll probably ricochet off at least four yoga teachers before it hits the ground (same as in Boulder, Colorado). If you randomly throw a stone in Bend, you might hit one. 

I could make a life here. For a little while.

These are my people.

Meet Tilly, my favorite dog in the whole world round (the part of it that I've visited, at least). She's the funniest, bounciest, most endearing puppy that ever was (my excessive use of superlatives is totally justifiable).

I tried to waltz with both seesters simultaneously. There was a smattering of success.

There was hot tubbing (my destroyed muscles were so, so thankful), risotto making, bacon, bacon, bacon, kombucha and a quick visit to an REI built into an old warehouse with smokestacks.

Uncle Scott and Aunt Pattie invited me to come and live with them for a year. I promised to cook delicious things and practice lots and lots of massage. 

I don't know when I'll be back to Bend, but I'm already looking forward to the day. Whenever it may be. I'm vewy gwad that Unckwe Scott went ahead and mawied Aunt Pattie. 'Cos they made the best family and I can't wait to be a part of it.

We spent two days with my grandparents, Patricia and Aime.

Guess how I ended up with the name of Aimee Patricia?

Guess how long it took me to realize why Grandpa Aime always called me, "little Aimee" all the time?

Too long. 

My grandparents play cards, so that's what we did. I'm not much of a card player (I prefer scrabble or bananagrams), but playing cards is how my grandparents socialize (when they're not in church or helping with food boxes or visiting sick people).

I lost. I always lose. By a margin I'd rather not talk about.

It was especially hard to say goodbye to my grandparents. My dream is to spend the next five years traveling in Central and South America with no money and then head over to Slovenia for a year to write a book about my experience.

Am I going to see them again? 

I hope so. 

"I want you to know that we pray for you every night," my sweet little grandma whispered in my ear as she pulled me in for a hug.  

We decided to conquer the drive home in one day. We left Keno, Oregon at 6:15 and arrived in Grand Junction, Colorado just before midnight.

It was a long and terrifying day. It was a long day because it took about eighteen hours to actually get home and it was a terrifying day because Anna drove the first two hours.

My sister Anna is sixteen years old. She's five feet tall. It doesn't look like she can reach the gas pedal or see over the steering wheel. She slaughtered me at bumper cars in our youth, but I still don't trust her behind the wheel of a vehicle moving 55 miles per hour at night.

I sat in the back and bit my nails and peered ahead into the darkness. As if peering into the darkness would somehow save our lives if something went horribly wrong (as it was bound to. My sister is sixteen years old and five feet tall).

"I felt safer hitching through Croatia with a drunken truck driver who didn't speak English and wouldn't stop hiccuping," I told my little sister between nail bites.

We stopped at the Salt Flats in Utah to relieve our throbbing backsides and stretch our legs.

How did we survive? 

Sometimes I feel like a bumbly giant when I stand next to the girls in my family. Jaime is five foot two. Anna is five foot. I think my mother is five foot four. I have no idea how the hell I got to be five foot six.

Jaime used the break as an opportunity to practice some ballet

We regretfully loaded our aching behinds back into the Toyota and wound our way onto the interstate. 

"Mom," Anna whined, "Jaime's being weird."

"My bottom is sore," Jaime said, very reasonably. "I can't sit on it anymore."

"Well, put your seatbelt on," my mom replied as we sped along the I80. 

I lost my bananas.

The rest of the drive home was uneventful.  Anna didn't drive and we survived.

And now I'm in my parent's home, sick with a bug I must have caught in Oregon.

Perfect timing, Bourget. Just when you need to be totally fit so that you can practice yoga and garden and enjoy the outdoors, you end up catching a sore throat and a runny nose and sneezes that would make the abominable snowman tremble all the way down to his furry toes.

Humbug.