AntiCommitment

The gunshots used to just haunt his nightmares. Now they follow him into the day, threatening to take away the very fragile grasp he has on reality. Moments and faces are a blur. He gets embarrassed every time he has to ask someone their name; they always act offended because they’ve met at least ten times. There are no more large crowds or fireworks displays or movie theaters. He changes his daily habits, becoming a hermit as he struggles to function as a civilized human being. 

You see, he is not civilized. He is a soldier.

And he is my father.

According to the law, he is an invalid. He is incapable of taking care of himself or being responsible for his own actions. The man who sang me to sleep, loves me unconditionally, taught me right from wrong, and continuously gives me a shoulder to cry on is considered insane and dangerous. 100% disabled due to Post Traumatic Stress disorder from 10 years in the Army and Secret Service.

We don’t talk about it. But what exactly are we not talking about?

Post Traumatic Stress Disorder affects over 31 million people in the United States. Any traumatic event such as rape or accidents can cause PTSD. However, the biggest concern stems from soldiers who have seen battle.

1 in 5 soldiers returning from the war in Iraq will be diagnosed with this disorder. Now that PTSD is being researched more thoroughly, they’re doing a better job of providing support. However, PTSD was actually not even considered real or a threat until World War II. Millions of soldiers suffered from the disease without it being reported, diagnosed, or treated. Even now society is uninformed and uneducated about what is happening to the men and women that sacrifice daily to protect our freedom as American citizens.

Hollywood has gotten its hands on PTSD recently, as it does with what they consider the “trendiest” new disorder. It sickens me. I mean I literally have knots in my stomach when I watch the way that they portray or discuss soldiers. They become monsters. They’re violent, dangerous animals that no longer have a heart, soul, or self-control. Or, sometimes, they become the punch line or scapegoat of whatever issue is happening in the most recent drama. I can never begin to imagine what someone with PTSD is going through. Honestly, I was also ignorant of what it was and it was staring me in the face for 18 years.

My dad had “quirks,” but who doesn’t? I thought it was normal, what was happening in our household. Once I began growing up, I realized that it wasn’t quite right, but there was never a name for it. There was no medicine and no therapy sessions where Daddy could release his pain. Instead, we learned methods to prevent anything terrible from happening. I learned how to speak in a soothing tone. I learned what to say so as not to scare him. I have been taking care of my father since age 12. I finally got him help when I was 18.

A piece of who they are is left in war. Something so large that they are never truly themselves anymore. My father has always described his life in two ways: pre-war and post-war. The way he talks about “pre-war” makes it sound as if he’s attempting to describe a total stranger. The stories he tells about who he used to be seem impossible - but it isn’t. Because he exists only as a shadow of himself.

There is little to be done for someone diagnosed with PTSD. With the different levels of severity come different treatments. There is counseling, anxiety medication, and training. Daddy has one of the worst cases recorded in the United States, actually, and is currently working on getting a guide dog to assist him when he has to go out in public. 

There is no predicting behavior. I believe that’s the worst part about PTSD: the unknown. It can be something such as stress that sets off an “episode” or it could just be a bad day as soon as he wakes up. Sometimes it’s just a little shaking, sometimes it’s having to tell him who he is.

I have heard my father ask who I am. I have looked in his eyes to comfort him, only to see that there is no warmth, no love, and no recognition. I have seen him back himself into a corner, growling and mumbling unintelligibly, to get away from me. I have been called out of classes, out of sorority meetings by family members or policemen to let me know that he’s been missing for hours - only to have him show up with no recollection of where he’s been. I have heard the pain and frustration in his voice when the strongest man I know is overcome with fear at a loud noise or sudden movement. I have cried for hours, knowing that the demons that haunt him will never let him go.

Hollywood has no idea what that is. 

“They prepared them to go to battle. But not to come home.”

The things that I post on Twitter are, more often than not, the things that I’m having to tell myself on a consistent basis to continue reaching out for the world. At this point in my life, commitment is safe. Commitment is easy. Finding comfort and solace in someone else’s arms would be a defense mechanism because I’m too scared to figure out my future on my own. 

I date. Throughout my college career, there were a number of guys that I “talked” to, but none are ever really worth mentioning because they didn’t keep my attention past a month or so. I was in four or five actual relationships. So, yes, I have committed before. 

It was important to me to let you guys know that I have been in relationships before. In fact, my friends like to call me Queen of the Exes. Not only have I committed, but I can’t seem to let go of them.

Commitment is not something that comes easy to me. If a guy keeps my interest longer than usual, then I begin considering making him part of my life. See, I’m an all-in kind of girl. I allow that guy to be part of my life, my family, and my heart. So when something like that ends, it’s almost impossible for me to break off and walk away. Not completely, anyway. I care about them. By the time we break up, I usually no longer want to be WITH them, but I want to be in their lives. I don’t understand how I’m expected to spend a year (or more) with someone, and then instantly pretend that I don’t want the best for them. I want him to be happy.

So a break-up is usually a long, drawn-out process. Neither one of us is willing to let go. Therein lies the title “Queen of the Exes.” They’re always still around in my life. They pop up with a random text or a phone call months after we’ve broken up. “Well what are you going to do about —?” is a common question coming from sisters.

The one ex I was truly in love with? Well that’s been ending for three years now. I keep going back to him. Friends and family hate him and sisters think I’m certifiably insane, but I do it anyway. I’ve loved before. Each guy I dated I loved. This one particular ex has been the one that I not only loved, but that I was in love with.

Our lives and emotions are so intertwined at this point that I always find it difficult to walk away. For example, with everything going on with Momma, he was the first person I wanted to talk to. I had so many decisions to make and doctors to talk to during that week that I never once had a chance to breathe, much less deal with the emotions that were rumbling inside of me. I saw him a week later and instantly began bawling. He held me, rocked me, and when I became overwhelmed with rage…he let me kick and punch at him. Literally three hours later, I calmed down. I needed that. And because he knew me, he knew he needed to give that time to me. I don’t know if I would have lasted if it had not been for him.

And the butterflies still exist. That’s what really gets me. The butterflies. I am such a firm believer in them. So he and I keep getting back together. Then, one of us gets mad two months later and storms out the door, swearing we’re done for good. Until three weeks later. I’m not sure when it will end.

I don’t know how to completely cut someone out of my life. No matter which ex it was, whether we ended amicably or he cheated, if he called me at two am and needed something….I would still be there. Honestly, even though people make fun of me for it, I like that quality in myself. I like that I’m incapable of shutting down my emotions for someone that was once so important to me. 

Today’s reason I’m anticommitment? When I do commit to something, it’s not casual. It means something to me and will forever mean something to me. Not every person gets that kind of promise from me.

Anonymous asked: Can you name three things that you are actually committed to?

1. Strengthening my faith and relationship with God.

2. My family

3. My sorority and the wonderful women that share my letters. 

I’ll even throw an extra in there for you…

4. Believing and pushing my students to reach their potential.

And that is probably the full and complete list of the things I am actually committed to. For now, at least.

Two things you must know before reading this:

1.) As many of you know from my Instagram and the occasional Twitter slip, I am currently working in the same area that I grew up in. The community is made up of 6 small towns with one consolidated school system. After my father was discharged from the army, we came back home. I lived there for 8 years. I lived in all 6 of the towns at one point or another. 

2.) I am not currently “living” anywhere. Instead, I jump from place to place. There are seven or eight different houses in which I am always welcome. Don’t panic; it’s not as if I am ever in danger of not having a roof over my head. To me, this is nice. I like being able to wake up each day and decide where I’ll be that night. No obligations, rent, or complications. If I want to stay with my aunt for a few nights, I do. But, if I’m feeling down in the dumps and want to snuggle with my boy, I go stay at his house. A lot of the places I stay are back in my college town, which is a 45 minute commute from the high school in which I’m working. The drive is usually worth it.

Okay. Now we can begin.

It has been so long since I sat down to write a new blog. I’m constantly thinking of great ideas to center my text around but when I sit down to type it, my fingers refuse to move. I thought it was being overwhelmed with my new job, the move, or a million other reasons.

Today was different.

I drove by an empty lot and I was overwhelmed by the sudden emotion. You see, that empty lot used to be a house. That house used to be mine. 

Some of the happiest memories of my childhood, or really my entire life, were in that house. It was just my dad and me at this point, and I had the world at my feet. We were poor, my dad was sick, and I had no idea where my mother was…but it didn’t matter. I was loved. 

I’ve never known whether it’s me being anticommitment, bipolar, or a combination of everything that has created this ball of tension inside of me. Houses seem to swallow me up. If I stay in one place too long, the claustrophobia sinks in and I can’t breathe. This tiny two-bedroom house was different, though. I never needed space. I’m not sure why that is. I just know that I’ll never forget that feeling. The comfort of walking through a door and knowing I was safe. 

When I bring it up with Daddy, he rarely will talk about it. He remembers that he couldn’t always afford food. He pictures the sagging floor because the foundation was falling apart. It reminds him of when my mother walked out on us and that same night that he and I just there and cried. Or the times that the PTSD took control and I came home to our living room in shambles because, in his mind, it was actually a war zone.

I had my first official sleepover at that house. It was the first time my crush ever called me on my landline. It was the tradition of cooking supper and having it ready for when Dad got off work at 9 pm - we would eat together, always, and then he would clean the kitchen while I fell asleep on the floor, talking about my day. It was watching Aladdin every single day (at the age of 14) and my father never complaining. The house where I found out I made the cheerleading squad. 

Eventually my father became so sick that he could no longer take care of me and, even though I didn’t understand why at the time, I could not take care of him.  I moved four hours away from my father that year and it still is such a life-altering memory for me. A month later, the house was torn down. All I’m left with now are the memories and that piece of land. 

Today’s reason I’m anticommitment? Bonus. You actually get two today.

1. Everything in life is subjective. My father and I lived in the same house, day in and day out, together for 18 months. Our memories and our feelings toward that time could not be more different. He’s ashamed of them and I mourn for the loss of them.

2. I can never bring that house back. The bricks, the tiles, the windows…they’re gone. But that’s not what it made it a home. The love and the memories and the life-changing process of growing up made it the happiest times of my life. I don’t need the attachment of material items. My heart holds everything I need.

I know it was bad a lot of the times. But for me, the good outweighed it all. 

Anonymous asked: Are you moving to South Korea then?!

I have until March 1st to decide. It’s February 25th….so who knows.

Not trying to sound creepy or anything, but I just wanted to let you know that I absolutely adore your whole entire site. And your writing is brilliant and I am a fan.

:)

I’ve been in love. Once. 

As a child, I always wondered how I would know that I was in love. I thought maybe there was some special message my body would send; I pictured it as fireworks that would erupt when my heart and mind met in this beautiful harmony. Then, I grew up. And I found out what special message my body would send me.

Nausea. Accompanied by raw hatred. The first time I saw him in public after it was over, I literally had to excuse myself to the bathroom where I did an awkward combination of crying and throwing up. It was the worst epiphany of my life; realizing I was in love while I had my head buried in my knees on the cold tile floor. It was heartbreak in its purest form. 

In true “first love” fashion, he would only appear back in my life when I was on the verge of letting him go. Yet, I couldn’t let go of the anger. Perhaps it was the only thing keeping me from falling off of the brink into depression. It was a shield from the vulnerable, fragile state I had allowed myself to get in. 

What he and I had was casual. I met him at a fraternity party and things escalated quickly. It was my first experience with lust and as an inexperienced junior in college, I was enjoying it. It didn’t hurt that he was fun to hang around and joke with.

We were exclusive, but there was no pressure. He was busy with college athletics and I enjoyed the option of choosing my sorority sisters over him without any upset feelings. There were fights, but he always ended up at my door. He had a toothbrush in my dorm and I kept my mini-fridge stocked with red Gatorade even though I couldn’t stand the stuff. It wasn’t until a year later that it came crashing down - in the form of another girl. A girl that he was more than just casual with. Until that moment I hadn’t realized what I had been missing. There was little contact after that - he might drunkenly call me, I would drunkenly yell at him at a party. I usually ended up crying.

Fast forward another six months and, just like always, he was back at my front door. But later that night as we were cuddled up, I couldn’t stop thinking about how to get him out of my bed. Here was everything I had been praying for and I no longer wanted it. His jokes were no longer funny and I couldn’t care less that he wanted a Gatorade. I still see him occasionally (as most of you see on my Instagram or Twitter), but the nausea is completely gone. So are the butterflies. 

My heart doesn’t beat faster when I get a text from him. I don’t get a pit in my stomach when I see him with another girl. I’m truly over him. It’s pretty great.

I’ve come to a brilliant conclusion. The first time I was with him, it was magical. He made me feel absolutely special, and that’s not something I’m used to. But, then he hurt me. He was embarrassed of me along with many other things, so I built a wall. So the optimistic fairy-tale emotions I was feeling didn’t exist anymore. And I’m not okay with that. I won’t settle for any other kind of love. 

Today’s reason I’m anticommitment? He may have shown me what love was, but he also showed me how quickly it can fade. So I’ll keep going until I find the man who keeps the butterflies there.

Before I begin this, I have several disclaimers:

1. What I say will probably offend someone. Funny thing about the human race is that no matter what happens, not every single person will be pleased with an opinion, choice, or decision. Funny thing about me is that I stopped caring about pleasing most everyone by the time I was 15. 

At least ten of you will email me, arguing against what I say…attempting to prove my facts wrong or saying that I took it out of context. I’ll read it. And then guess what? I’ll delete it. I’m not arguing with you. You’re allowed to have your opinion just as I have mine. Difference is you feel the need to defend yours against strangers. I don’t. Oh…and I have a lot more people reading mine.

2. I do not eat Chik-Fil-A under normal circumstances. My college town’s franchise constantly has the giant cow walking around inside and outside of the store - sometimes even touching you. I’m terrified of mascots. So it’s just not happening. I will cut a bitch. Things would get ugly.

Now that the pretty much unnecessary information is out of the way, let’s begin.

S. Truett Cathy is a businessman. I’m sure if I did my research, I may even find that he’s one of those charming little stories of a man who began with nothing…but now owns a huge chicken franchise. From what I understand, it is actually his son Dan Cathy who is in charge and responsible for all of the donations. 

Anyway, my point is…he worked for the money. It is his hard earned money. I am not furious at the fact that an American tax-paying citizen gave HIS money to the cause of his choice. If so, I would have to protest every single person who has ever given money, time, or support to the belief that homosexuals are wrong. As lousy as it is, that would mean I wouldn’t be able to go to my grandparents every Sunday for dinner. It’s what they believe. I wouldn’t want to take that freedom away from them any more than I would want someone to take away my freedom to believe that one day I will marry the love child of Beaver and Cappie from Greek. Mine is somewhat more of a fictitious whimsy but damn it, it’s mine. 

Now, before going and getting all in a huff…FINISH READING WHAT I HAVE TO SAY.

I love the gays.

No, but really. I do not care about all of that bullshit. I care about the person you are inside. If I were to judge someone for being gay and voice my opinion by shouting out all of these random Bible verses…well, that would just be opening up a door for a gay to shout out a Bible verse about gluttony every time I drunk dial him/her. I was taught in Sunday School that God believes all sins are equal. So you being gay is the same as me back-talking my mother. Want to protest me, anyone?

The only reason I even care about sexual orientation is when I see a cute guy that I want. Then I ask. Because it affects me. Otherwise, you can tell me which side you swing on or you can keep it to yourself. Your choice.

I also find it humorous that probably 76.375% of these people standing in line for hours to show support have more than one sex partner. Or signed more than one marriage license. Because that is a definite no-no for the Lord too when it comes to love. Just another thought. 

Do I agree with Cathy? No. Will I ever change Cathy’s mind - either by standing in line for hours to support or by never buying it again? No. The only reason people care is because America feels the needs to constantly have internal turmoil. We can’t just accept each other…especially when so much money is involved.

What really infuriates me is that SO much more is going on in the world. We have soldiers overseas dying for these stupid arguments. Two weeks ago, one of my high school friends was shot in Afghanistan. Did that get any coverage? No. Today I had a 5 year old beg me to take her home so she’d have somewhere to sleep, food to eat, and wouldn’t have to worry about getting hit. Is there a 100-person-deep line waiting to stand up for that little girl or the other 13 neglected children in my classroom? No. America is so hell bent on persecuting people for who they love that they’re not paying attention to the ones that aren’t loved at all. If you’re a man in a relationship with a man, I just thank God at night that you’ve found someone. Hell, if you want the right to have a child…I’ll fight to hell and back for your right to adopt just so my kids will have people of any gender or sexual orientation that won’t burn them with cigarettes or leave them in a dirty diaper for two days.

Hating Cathy for being anti-gay is the same as Cathy hating gays for being…well, gay. It’s a hypocritical circle that I want nothing to do with. It’s totally possible that I have such a belief because I am not personally homosexual. If he were donating money to anti-women I’m sure I’d have a bigger fire underneath me. But until then, I will just take my five dollars for chicken nuggets and donate it to an organization with a rainbow emblem. 

³⁴ “A new command I give you: Love one another. As I have loved you, so you must love one another. ³⁵ By this everyone will know that you are my disciples, if you love one another.”

John 13:34-35

That’s the verse I live by.

Anonymous asked: This isn't a question but I just want you to know that yo inspire me to live my life to the fullest, & that I can't look at everything i don't have and live life by that. I should look at the things I do have and appreciate it. (: SO thank you.

This message is absolutely the reason for my account. Thank you so much!

Please feel free to send me any questions you have!

You can send them to me through tumblr.

However if it’s a private question or you do not have a tumblr, just email me at anticommitment@gmail.com

I absolutely love interacting with all of you!

Even if you aren’t wanting to ask me anything feel free to just say hello, let me know what’s going on with you, provide some feedback about my tweets, or whatever your heart desires.

AC!

Wisdom teeth out. Owwwww.

I woke up this morning from a nightmare around 3:30 am. Even though I was exhausted, I could just not fall back asleep - I was far too rattled.

So, instead, I took a really long shower and actually did my hair for work rather than throwing it in a ponytail. I also put on a little bit of make-up; my boss is hot, I can’t help it. 

When it hits nap time at work, I am desperate to get my kids to sleep. The hour and a half that they’re zonked out is the only time I’m able to do paperwork, clean up the room, eat, or really even sit down. So I cuddle with them, I pat their backs, I read them stories…literally ANYTHING.

Today one of my babies was curled up in my lap with three or four kids surrounding me on their mats. Little boy looked up at me as his eyelids were drooping and asked me in that adorable almost-asleep little-kid way:

“Ms. J? Are you a princess?”

I laughed and said of course I was, understanding that he was half asleep. I didn’t think a thing about it past those few seconds. But, when my kids woke up, I realized they had not forgotten. For the rest of the day I was referred to as Princess. If they refused to listen all I had to do was tell them that the princess really needed their help. It was such an easy day after nap time!

It shocked me how easily they accepted that. Without proof, without doubt. They saw me as a princess because they wanted me to be a princess. It was adorable and reminded me of why I love my job so much.

Today’s reason I’m anticommitment? Life is what you make it. So, I never want to get so bogged down in my day-to-day life that I don’t remember that I can be a princess by simply saying I am.