45. Eliminate credit card balance (carry no monthly balance) by the time I go to grad school.

One of the biggest issues that I have been dealing with for over a year and a half and have not talked at all about on this blog is my fight with debt.

Probably the most dramatic stories that you hear of my generation is college graduates being saddled not only with huge amounts of school loan debt, but also a crushing amount of credit card debt.  One of The Boy’s colleagues graduated school with $30,000 in credit card debt – independent of his student loans.  He ended up getting married and having a child while saddled with this debt.  I cannot even fathom that: I can’t bear the thought of The Boy marrying my financial responsibilities.

I did not have $30,000 worth of debt.  Nowhere close.  I did not have to declare bankruptcy, eat ramen noodles three meals a day, or sell all of my worldly possessions to clear my debt and my name.  My debt was more insidious than that.

Before I got the job that I have now, I kept a $0 balance on the only $500-limit card I had.  I only paid a finance charge once since I’d had credit from the age of 16.  When I wasn’t making money, I wasn’t spending money, and I got along just fine.

I can’t pinpoint a single item that began this long road I’ve been on, but I can cite a single event: I got a job that paid me a salary.  A seminal event on this long road was buying my $800 laptop on credit as a present to myself.  I thought that I was fine because I had $1,000 in my checking account to back me up, but my miscalculation was that I wouldn’t  receive an actual paycheck for 3 weeks after the date I was hired.  I began to buy everything on credit during those three weeks.

That, in and of itself wouldn’t have been enough to get me in the situation I found myself in with credit card debt.  But across an entire year, I developed a hubris that I could spend within reason and I wouldn’t have to worry because I’d have a paycheck to take care of it.  I gained a false sense of security, believing that I had the money to back my purchases.  The only thing that paid off in my gamble is that I was right, I was still getting a paycheck.  Had I not had those paychecks, this story would have been a lot different.

I did not get to spend either my tax return or my stimulus check, because it all went to debt repayment.  In addition, I was taking 45% of my after-tax paycheck to pay down my debt.  I was also making payments on backed rent and two surgeries.  If I had lost my job during this economic crisis, had become disabled from my foot surgery, or was otherwise unable to bring in a paycheck, I would have been completely unable to make any kind of payment to any of my debts.  There were days that I was robbing Peter to pay Paul to cover some of my debt obligations.  The worst part was, I didn’t stop buying on credit.

I didn’t get really serious about my spending issues until I’d run up $3,000 on a $5,000 card that I’d opened to get finance-free through what was supposed to be a final $800 worth of debt (which, obviously, wasn’t the end of my debt).  It took me a year to clear out that "last $800" worth of debt.

I did the math, since June of 2007, I paid a whopping $5,627 dollars to my credit card (this is roughly 1/6 of my paycheck).  This doesn’t factor in what I paid in interest, nor what my original charges were.  This just covers lost income gone to paying debt.  If I’d just saved those payments, I’d have been halfway to my budget for my wedding (or not-wedding, but that’s another story for another day).

I realize that my story of debt isn’t as dramatic as some other stories, but I think it’s a reality more applicable to those who carry debt.  And yes, it is embarrassing to admit, but I feel that if this account helps you, or you forward it to someone as a wake-up call, then my story is not an expose of shame.

The most important part of this story is what I’ve learned from my experience.  There are some schools of thought that say if you can’t handle credit, you should eliminate your exposure to it.  That might work for some people, but my view is that credit is necessary in today’s economy, and is a wonderful tool if used correctly.  And just like any other tool, if you ignore the warnings and insist on using that tool for a job other than what it was intended to do, you’re going to get hurt – sometimes seriously.  I’ve proven in the past that I can, in fact, handle credit.

I don’t have any particular tips for eliminating your debt – I would recommend several fantastic finance blogs that offered me other financial help and have wonderful advice for people in my situation (The Simple Dollar, Wise Bread, and I’ve Paid for This Twice Already. . . for starters).  The only thing that I can offer is that I stopped thinking of 45% of my paycheck as my money.  That money was no longer mine to spend – it belonged to my credit card company.

I will still continue to save that 45% of my paycheck, because I’ve grown accustomed over the last six months to not having that money.  I can also say that I’ve learned my lesson about spending money I didn’t have, because I cannot explicitly express in words just how good it felt to make that last payment on my debt, and how much I look forward to never having to do it again.

Sometimes, I like to indulge in something I have dubbed The “I Love Jesus” Effect, in which, I – a normally non-retaliating person – has no choice but to react in the exact manner requested.

The “I Love Jesus” Effect is so named because of a bumper sticker, “Honk if You Love Jesus”.  One day, when I was still working long hours at the department store, I was about five cars deep at a light at a busy intersection at the busiest time of day.  At that point, I’d been cut off about four times, had three customers give me shit that day and was generally cranky.  Sitting idly at the stop light, I read the bumper sticker ahead of me: “Honk if You Love Jesus.”  I read that bumper sticker, and a wicked Grinch-like grin crossed my lips, and I though, “Hmm, I love Jesus. . . .”

Five-deep in line at a stoplight, I mashed the horn for a few seconds, and wickedly giggled at the thought that the bumper-sticker-lover was going to have to have his car detailed.

I very rarely use the I “Love Jesus” Effect, simply because it’s a douche-y thing to do, but there are just some times where it is completely appropriate.  The Boy used it yesterday on me.

We stopped at Circle K so that he could buy cigarettes and I asked if he would buy me a “Polar Pop”, which is Circle K’s gimmicky drink that you can buy a soft drink up to 32oz for only 59 cents – and stays colder longer because the cups are made out of the most Earth-unfriendly Styrofoam.  The Boy, both humored and annoyed that I’d called it buy it’s stupid name, stood in front of the soda fountain, though to himself, “Well, it is cost effective to buy the biggest one. . . .”

He came out with the biggest friggin’ soda I’ve ever seen.  The base was as big around as a small salad plate.  It wouldn’t even fit in my cup holder, I had to squeeze it in there, and hope that I didn’t produce a stress fracture and explode all over the center console of my car.

The worst part is he grinned like an ass every time I had to wrestle it out of the cup holder to take a sip.

I have a really nice planner in my office who I’ve worked on a few cases with.  He’ll bring me cookies every now and then, just because he’s that nice.  I let him know that we were going to have to work quickly to finish his plan as I was going to be gone for a few days because of my surgery.  He wished me well, wished me luck, and brought me the last two truffles out of a box he’d gotten from a company called Coblentz’s – since my teeth were going to be out of commission for a while. 

Coblentz is a company out of Walnut Creek, Ohio, and have been awarded the Best of Ohio Amish Country award for their wares.  (And seriously, oh my God, these were the best truffles I’ve ever had in my life, and I live in the same town as a legendary chocolatier, Malley’s. If you want to get someone a great box of truffles, buy them from Coblentz.)

The “Amish thing” never really phased me all that much, even before I went to school in Ashland County.  I appreciate their conviction for their religious beliefs, but I’ve never been a person who freaks out when they see an Amish buggy rolling down the street (actually, I hope that there are no children in the buggy and that other cars are careful).  The things that I am fascinated with, however, is the simplicity of lifestyle, and the care they give to their crafts.  I can tell you that if you buy a piece of Amish furniture, you will have it forever.  My father and mother hired some Amish construction workers to build a barn for the yard.

In Kidron, OH, which is about an hour from my home, there is a sort of Amish general store called Lehman’s.  In part, it’s hugely a tourist trap, but, there are “Amish appliances” where the Amish can get cast iron stoves, ice boxes, and non-electric tools.  My favorite rooms include the oil lamp room (which has thousands of oil lamps in various styles and sizes, some of which can be fitted with modern-day bulbs), the crockery ware (where I got four apple bakers for my mother), and the kitchen appliances (an entire wall of different cookie cutters, mixing bowls of all sizes, all kinds of finely-crafted knives, gigantic copper kettles you can bathe in…all kinds of stuff).  I can’t wait to go back so I can spend a few hours just wandering around and looking at all the neat things they have.

I would recommend popping through the Best of Ohio site and checking out what the retailers have.  If you’re looking to get me a Christmas gift, I have my eye on a cedar chest.

The Boy and I (ages 21 and 18 respectively) when we first started dating.

Back when I started college, Ashland was a different place than it is today.  It had not yet seen the growth that you would see now.  In the fall of 2002, if you got off US 250, you would not have seen a Goasis loaded with FlexFuel gas pumps, a Starbucks, a Popeyes, and a Pizza Hut.  You would have seen an old Travel America, set back a little from the road, potholes through the parking lot, sketchy looking hillbillies rambling in and out, and usually three to five semis parked in the back.

Open all night, the TA was a good place for a trucker to get a good meal, talk with his boss on a phone at the table, take a shower, pick up a carton of smokes for the road, and maybe even get some stuff for the cab.  My favorite staple of the truck stop is the mirrored glass case showcasing the standard glass art fair: roses, dragons, fairies, cats, swords, etc.  Despite the blessing of its existence for the road-weary traveler, this TA was a total hole, but maybe that’s what made it perfect for The Boy’s and my early courtship.

He and I were talking tonight, and during lulls in the conversation, I use the idle filler, “Tell me a story” in the hopes that somehow, we’ll get the conversation going again.

He’s always been good at telling me stories, I think that’s part of the reason why he and I fell in love – I’m a sucker for a story.  I may have mentioned this before, but The Boy went to the brother high school of mine, but he was a senior the year I was a freshman, and I was a transfer-in student when I was a sophomore.  So, by the time I even got to Beaumont, The Boy had already gotten to Ashland, and any chance of him and I running into each other in high school had been quashed.  At any rate, The Boy (and the Twins) have a lot of stories to share about the time they spent at Benedictine.

In December of 2002, the anti-smoking law in Ohio hadn’t passed yet, and I was a kid fresh from the watchful eye of parents, so finding a place to sit and smoke was the most appealing option.  This TA was apparently an old hangout of some of the band and KKY kids, and The Boy followed suit.  The waitress was usually kind, and kept the ashtray empty and the coffee cup full.

He and I would roll into TA at about 10 at night, order food, coffee and Diet Coke and sit for hours telling each other stories.  He told me all of the hijinks he’d gotten into with JohnBoy during high school, and eventually the stories about him in college.  I heard a those stories for the first time on those nights; and they are stories I love to hear over and over again, because every time I hear them, I remember those cold nights when we first started dating and I wanted to imbibe everything he had to offer.  He was the first guy I’d met who had interests other than of himself, much less interests at all.  He was charming, sweet, attentive, smart, and chivalrous enough to buy my food and Diet Coke on his meager $44/pay period income from lifeguarding at the university’s gym.

I do appreciate the economic growth and change of Ashland.  There’s a part of me that finds it heartening that there is a Super Wal-Mart and a Starbucks on the main highway into Ashland.  But at the same time, I get sad when I look at the Goasis, and in my mind, I can faintly see a shadow of the TA that was – I see the place where The Boy and I first began to fall in love.  That’s what makes me the most sad about the advent of change – the seemingly sterile erasure of an entire history.  The only upside that I have to show for that entire part of my history is I still have the person I shared it with.

In relation to yesterday’s entry about the goodie-grab, I have another wholesaler goodie story for you.

As I was saying yesterday, before the economic crisis hit, one of the big perks of my job was the wholesaler “stuff”.  We would get everything from a holiday party, to regular parties, to lunches for product introductions, to sponsored meetings in other cities, and of course, the requisite tschochkes.  Sometimes, the stuff is pretty cool: I like the nice ballpoint pens that say in their quiet way, “I have arrived.”  I also have a wine-cooler carrying bag (which, for the record, I had to have, even though I’m not a wine drinker).

But sometimes, the stuff stinks pretty hardcore.  For example, one wholesaler gave us Slinkies made out of plastic that didn’t have enough mass or length to actually do what they were supposed to do.  How do we know?  Because, a group of us – early-to-mid-20-somethings working for a Fortune 500 company – took to the stairwells on our lunch hour after receiving our Slinkies and tried them out.  Talk about a bummer.

Another wholesaler goodie that I’ve never experienced but I’ve heard legend of is the wholesaler t-shirt.  This is not the same as the Nike golf-shirt-giveaway; those golf shirts are actually quite nice, and the envy of the office.  Nay, the wholesaler t-shirt is a wonder to behold.  It’s innocent and unassuming in its pre-washed state: simple, usually white or gray, very basic logo on the left lapel; perfect for running, or yard chores, or sleeping.

However, when washed, the wholesaler t-shirt becomes a terrifying assault to the body and the eyes.  Instead of shrinking all over to something that would now fit your child, the wholesaler tee shrinks in one direction, and that direction is hoochie.  The wholesaler t-shirt becomes a lovely mid-riff-bearing skank top.  Which would be okay if you were a hot cheerleader at a high-school car wash fundraiser, but not when you are my male co-worker who was going to wear it mowing the lawn.  Howdy, neighbors!

I guess, adding insult to injury, apparently, it can’t even be worn under a dress shirt.  My co-worker would start out the day, warily confident that the 1/4 of fabric that he had stretched down and tucked into the waistband of his pants would be fine for the majority of the workday.  Come mid-day, or the first time he had to actually reach for the phone, the tee would come rocketing out of his waistband and underneath the pecs or even up into the armpits.  And even if one were to smooth the shirt back down from the armpits, there is still the issue of “gappage” of about two inches, which is just enough to piss you off.

I hope that the next time there is a tschochke-grab, I might be able to find a wholesaler tee of my very own.  If for nothing else, just for posterity.

The Boy in on art conference in Toledo this weekend, doing all kinds of fun things to bring innovation to the classroom.

The perks to both of our jobs is that, on occasion, we get to go to conferences that are either sponsored, or attended by wholesalers in the field.  Not unlike medical professionals, The Boy and I will get handed all kinds of tschochkes peddling products: in The Boy’s case, selling art supplies, in mine, life insurance and annuity products.  I can get anything from pens to pen/highlighter-combos, to folders, to lanyards, to highlighters, to coin-purses, to Slinkies, to mints in pop-up tins, to wine totes.  The Boy gets paints, brushes, aprons, pens, highlighters, colored-pencil samples, art bags, and paper.

When I was on my trip to Atlanta in March, I was actually complimented by two top-producing planners on my tschochke-grabbing abilities.  The key is to come in from the side, when two or more people are already at the table, and the wholesaler is in mid-spiel.  That way, you get some bad-ass tschochkes and not caught in a long-winded presentation.

My crowning glory from the Atlanta trip was a bobble-head that was going to go in my office, but I had to leave it behind because there was no room left in my suitcase – and I had taken one of the gigantic suitcases by brother had taken on his first trip to Japan.

I think the other piece that went over really well was a set of “buzzing” magnets that you threw into the air just so and they would “buzz” because of their polarity.  I gave them to The Boy, who left them at my in-laws house, where they can’t be used, because the noise they make causes the dog to barf (I know, I know: only in my life does weird shit like that happen).

I’m excited to see what The Boy might bring home for me this year.  I talked to him today, and he mentioned that the current economic climate had hit art supply wholesalers, too: there weren’t nearly as many tschochke-grab opportunities.  He did say, though, that he got a new apron, and he got me a multi-color highlighter.

Well, maybe if I’m lucky, he’ll bring me a Toledo shot glass for my collection.  And maybe even a little beef jerky from Michigan.

A girl can dream.

I wrote in a previous post about a medication I was taken for a condition that I’d been suffering through for half of my life.  I have acne (not just your basic black- or white-heads; I’m talking your full-blown, under-the-muscle, swollen-for-days cysts).    Every day with acne was a nightmare for me, because it wasn’t just a breakout here or there: my face would be swollen, red and painful to the touch from cysts.  And it only got worse as an adult.

So, when I write that I have a “condition”, I can’t promise you that it will kill me, but I can promise you I’ve been through hell treating it.

I have been through every single topical medication and every antibiotic prescribeable for acne.  In addition, I’ve also adjusted my diet, washed my face three times a day, and got acne-clearing facials in an effort to try to clear my skin.  But the problem with cystic acne is that no amount of topical creams, antibiotics or facials will get rid of them.

It’s not just about looking like a model, or feeling like I had to live up to a standard of beauty.  Every day through my teenage years, I had to deal with groupings of breakouts on my face, or a cyst deep in the dermis that would take two weeks to fully disappear.  No matter how much or what kind of makeup I used, I couldn’t cover up my breakouts.  Because I have very fair and very delicate skin, every single cyst, and nearly every breakout has left a scar.  Without full-coverage makeup, I have purple marks all over my cheeks and my chin in a color-coded map of the history of my breakouts.  I have cysts in my scalp that cause me to cry out in pain if I’m not careful when running a brush through my hair.

I believe in loving the skin that you’re in; but when you can’t look co-workers and bosses in the face because you are embarrassed and convinced that all they can see is a cyst, there is no amount of self-love that can take that humiliation away.  Employers and clients don’t take you seriously if you are covered in acne.  And when it comes to getting jobs, I certainly would not have gotten a second interview if I had a serious breakout that I couldn’t cover up.

I was 21 when I started my first course of Accutane.  It was the first time in ten years that I had clear skin.  It was tough trying to find a lip balm that would actually help with my perpetually-chapped lips, and the moisturizer that I had to use on my skin was very expensive, but it was worth it to have clear skin for the first time in years.  And it was worth it to go through that time so that I could not have to worry about another acne-medicated face wash again.

Everything changed when I got a Mirena IUD.  Suddenly, I had an influx of hormones that I didn’t have before.  I was able to wax some of the excess hair, but the acne came back.  It wasn’t as bad as before, but about as painful, and particularly embarrassing for work in a field where I see people every day.  All of the original feelings of humiliation and self-loathing came back, as acute and as tear-inducing as when I was a teenager and in college.  (In the back of my head, when I finished my first course of treatment with Accutane, I always sort of knew that I would have to go on it again.  There are a lot of patients who take multiple courses of Accutane therapy.)

Millions of people are just like me, who suffer through painful breakouts, who are so embarrassed by their skin, they can’t bear to show it in public.  We have online support groups; we have people who love us and hate to see us suffer in our own private hell, fighting so hard against our own skin; we have doctors who are willing to listen and give us options.  For some of us, it’s not “something we’ll grow out of” or “not that bad” or about “loving the skin you’re in”.  For some of us, it’s a public hell that we have to fight in private every day.  But we won’t have a magnetic support ribbon to stick on the back of our cars, and we won’t have anyone racing for our cure, and we won’t have have foundations set up to help with our medical bills.  I’m okay with that: I certainly don’t need a magnetic ribbon, a race, or a bowl-a-thon to feel like I’m being helped in some remarkable way.  I think what I’m really asking for is that for people who have never had to deal with painful, scarring acne be kind and understanding to those of us who do.

Accutane was a godsend for me.  It is a godsend for hundreds of thousands of other people who have suffered with me.  I am happy to stand with those people and say, honestly and truly, that this medication saved my life by treating what had previously been an untreatable, chronic condition.

My message is clear: if you have acne, if you have cysts, if you have spent years and thousands of dollars on medications, creams and washes to treat your skin and nothing has helped, be your own best advocate.  Go to a dermatologist, keep records of your condition, make sure that you are seen an evaluated, cry if you must, but be strong, and be firm.  And if you are a parent, please listen to your son or daughter, and be their best advocate if they can’t be their own – I was so lucky that my mother listened to and understood my pain and humiliation with my acne.  My biggest regret was that I didn’t go on Accutane sooner when I had the chance.  Our skin is the only organ that other people get to see; the reality is that we are judged our skin.  So when there a problem with our skin that is treatable, non-permanent, and has no effect on the content of our character, why wouldn’t you do everything you could to help?

(Please note: this post has been edited from its original posting.)

For two years (summers and Christmas breaks) in college, I worked as a cashier for an independently-owned chain of grocery stores here in Cleveland.  It was one of two jobs that I said I wanted to do before I died: grocery store cashier, and retail.  Neither were the most glamorous job in the world, but I am grateful that I worked them; they taught me quite a bit about myself (and taught me to appreciate the job I have now).

This story is about the most important lesson I learned about myself while working at the grocery store.

The location that I worked at catered to the wealthiest of all of the stores’ clientele.  The wealth of this particular neighborhood is not the wealth of Orange County, or even the Hills; but for a rust-belt city that has been known as one of the poorest cities in the nation, the $10 million net worth mark is considered extremely wealthy.  In the two years I worked there, I had two American Express Black cards pulled to pay for groceries, local TV celebrities shopped at my store, and even a few Cavaliers and Browns players would come through on a Thursday night to avoid a crowd.

The biggest (and perhaps worst) impact that this time in my life had was that I began to see the not-so-subtle cues about being wealthy.  I saw large and many diamonds in jewelry, designer handbags like Chanel, Coach, and most-prevalent, Louis Vuitton.  I saw women who would have Chanel sunglasses with Tiffany diamonds while “popping in” to the grocery store in their (Bebe Sport) workout togs.  I saw Lexus keys on key chains, BMWs parked in the lot, and Mercedes in line to wait for the packers to load their cars.  I saw women well into their 50s looking as tan as Tahitian ladies in a Paul Gauguin painting, with $500 haircuts, wearing clothing that cost more than my entire wardrobe.

(As an aside: I remember the woman who really epitomized this whole look. She was absolutely stunning. She had to be about 45-50; had beautiful, tan, tight skin, and had the most gorgeous glossy-black long hair. She always wore 2-carat diamond earrings and Chanel sunglasses, drove an Accura, and usually dressed impeccably. I don’t think I ever talked to her directly, but apparently, she was pretty friendly with a lot of our bag boys and male managers (go figure). She would flit about the store, laughing and smiling the whole way through, a trail of men behind her – but she always seemed just a little cold.)

I was jealous of the money, jealous of the status, jealous that these women didn’t have to worry about wether they would be able to pay for gas and a night out with friends.  I was jealous that these women’s most agonizing decision with their money was which boutique they shopped at made them more important than their other wealthy friends.

Several of these wealthy women used to take great delight in making us cashiers completely miserable.  From the most complicated bagging orders, to tearing down a fellow cashier in front of you, to grabbing a manager and tearing you down to him while you were standing right there.  These women were not happy people: and there was not a time in my life where I was made to feel more small.

Despite myself, I began to covet the objects that I perceived to be signs of wealth, which has followed me past my tenure at the grocery store and into my current life.  My first purchase of the signs of opulence was a Louis Vuitton wallet. I’ve bought an authentic Coach bag as a sign that I had “made it” when I became employed where I am currently.  My “upgrade” engagement ring took me from a 1/2 simple diamond on a plain band to a 1-carat diamond on a band with 20 pave-set diamonds.  I did all of this to be seen as wealthy, to be a part of that exclusive club of women.

While I enjoy my nice accouterments, I’m equally repulsed that I hope that people who see them think I’m as wealthy as I want to project. I think that I will always be plagued with this ardent desire to look rich, while the more composed part of myself knows that things aren’t always as they appear.

To be fair, not all of these wealthy women were complete witches.  I met a lot of very pleasant wealthy women as I rang them through my line: they are women that I have stopped and had a conversation with if I run into them now.

But I recognize now that most of the women who had all of these “nice” things that I came to covet, were the same women who loved to take two hours out of their week and make everyone they came in contact with miserable.  Though I like having my nice things and hope that I get noticed for them, I am so grateful that I don’t have to drag people down and make them as miserable and empty as I am.  Perhaps that is the saving grace of that period in my life: I know that I am quintessentially more than my stuff.

On my way out to a party on the far west side, I stopped by Miss Mary Kay’s parents house, as she is in Cleveland for a wedding and to visit her clients here in Cleveland.  Miss MK’s family lives in a semi-spacious area of Cleveland – it’s not like my house in Geauga County, but it’s close.

At any rate, as I pull into her driveway, there are four deer chillin in the yard, eating.  I sat in the car for about five minutes just watching them, and taking a few pictures on my camera phone.  Even out in Geauga, I don’t get to be that close to the deer.  One of the deer was still pretty brazen and stood their watching me as I went to the front door.

Miss MK answers the door with her nephew, and I point out the deer in her front yard, and she’s like, “Oh my God, get inside, quick.”

Later, she confesses to me that maybe she’s turned into a bit of a city girl.  My response?  Well, maybe a little.  I mentioned on my way out the door, that I need to be a little fair.  It’s hard to be afraid of a dopey-eyed deer when I’ve had a racoon try to climb in the car and make friends when I was smoking.  Rabies at midnight strikes more fear into my heart.

When writing a blog, it’s easy to forget that these words are forever. When you set them loose on the Internet, that’s it: they are out there, in cyberspace, interminably.

I sent this blog address to someone, comfortable at first with the things that I’ve written here. Then, as I was reading over some of the older entries, I had doubts about what I had said. Was I really ready to own the things that I have said in the past, knowing that I’m not necessarily the same person that wrote those words before?

The reality is that people change. That some words that have been said in the past aren’t necessarily true anymore. That having put these words out for the whole world to see means that I have to own them for what they are. Some of the words that I have said do not apply to me anymore. And some of those words I wish that I had never said, and some of those words I wish I could take back.

I had taken down all of the posts that I transfered from the old blog to this one. And then, I got called out on it by the person who I’d sent the link to, and the words were, “I am going to read all the articles on your page, but please tell me where I have to look for the [odious] things you [wrote]. Do you believe it will change my mind about you?”

That statement stuck me more than anything else: I worry that some of the things I have written might be deal-breakers regarding some of my friendships.

I have always advertised myself as an open book. I’ve said that there are few things that I regret in this world. But the reality of the situation is that because I am not that person anymore, and I am not necessarily proud of the person that wrote previous words, I still have to admit that I once was that person.

And so, I put the posts back up.

My hope is that the people who know me, and want to know me, will understand that I have grown profoundly in the last two years. And the people who know me now like me, warts and all. I hope that they can still love me, perhaps more so because they know more of the truth about me.

So I must own those posts as part of my past. Though some of the words I’ve said aren’t quite true anymore, some of the other ones are. And if I’m ever asked to verify which ones are still true, I will answer honestly.

I am me: I have been through some traumas in my life, but I have also overcome a lot of them. I’m still a process, as I believe I always will be. But who isn’t in the process of becoming who they are?

But I have learned a lesson: words, once written, have to be owned. I must be careful of the things I say. This does not mean that I will not be honest about what I write, but it does mean that the things I say will be tempered with reason. Only then can I look back on some of the things I have written and not cringe. Sure, some words will be like the mutton-sleeved 80’s prom dress, but at least they won’t be words that I am ashamed to have written.