Confessions: A Lesbian's Open Letter to the Men I Dated

For readers who don't know me personally: I dated exclusively men before Rebecca and I became a couple. It never occurred to me to do otherwise.

This is an open letter to the men who dated me, for time ranging from a few weeks to several months.

Dear Ex-Boyfriends,

I'm sorry that I didn't love you better. I wish I had.

But I didn't know how to. You see, I didn't know who I was, and I definitely didn't love who I was, and that meant that I didn't have enough to offer you. 

I shouldn't have been dating at all. I should have held myself to a standard of defining what I needed before pulling you into the hot mess that was me before I was out. Before I knew. Before I saw the pattern I had of falling madly, unsustainably for men I couldn't make happy because I was unhappy. I thought you would make me happy, but that's not how love works.

I was socialized to believe that gay people were broken. I didn't think I was broken, so I assumed that I was straight. 

I was socialized to believe that women are called to marriage and childbearing as their highest form of service.

I was socialized to believe that I was unattractive and hard to love, too smart, too religious, too flat, too loud to be loved.

And then you found me lovely, for a time at least. You made me feel, for a time at least, that it was possible for someone to love me. You told me that women in many shapes and sizes are beautiful. You talked to me late into the night and found my interdisciplinarity engaging.

That was important. What you did and said mattered. What you didn't say mattered.

What I didn't say mattered too.

It didn't work. We didn't last. Things ended amicably for the most part. 

I can't pretend to know how you felt when I came out. You might have been surprised, or maybe you felt that things made more sense. 

Know that I never meant to hurt you, if it hurt. Know that I will raise my sons and daughters, Lord willing, to believe differently.

I hope you are happy. I hope you have found your helpmate as I found mine. I hope that you learned something useful from the time we spent together, as I learned from you.

The most fervent love I can give,

Erin 

Confessions: I Still Suck at Grief

I miss my brother.

I thought I'd get better at grieving over time. I thought by the fifth year that - what? I'd graduate grief? Become a superior human being? Be rid of all my flaws?

To many people, it might look like I have. A student wrote an essay about cyberbullying and used an example of a student who died of depression and I didn't burst into tears. I tell people what happened to Josh matter-of-factly when they ask how many siblings I have.

But grief is a heavy, heavy weight. I don't think it ever gets lighter. I think that we just get stronger to carry it if we survive the first experience of the anvil falling. For those who anticipate the loss, maybe they do some sort of emotional CrossFit before it happens or brace themselves and that's why it seems like they manage even though they're trying to carry an invisible, out-of-tune grand piano. For those of us blindsided, we may collapse into a puddle and then hopefully someone does something and we somehow get back up and assemble the pieces that are left and figure out what the future looks like  
without the person we always saw as part of our happily ever after and  
with a metric ton of devastation on our backs.

I lost my brother. The one who conspired to keep transgressions from my parents. The one who could remind me that not everything was perfect when we grew up, but we were in it together. The one who could make fun of my terrible taste in music and pets and stories.

The one who called out my children's book collection as too heavy on female writers to make sure my male students could see themselves as writers too.

The one who taught me that everyone can love to read when they find something that interests them.

The one who patiently explained to me how to learn to juggle and how it works, even though I'm super clumsy and never learned how.

The one who promised to come to my wedding because it was a shame for no one from the family to be there.

Who didn't, because his mental illness had taken him before I managed to get married.

Who hasn't seen the house I've owned for a year now and the yard that's a mess.

Who won't ever meet his future nieces and nephews to play soccer in that messy backyard.

In my head, in the parallel universe where he's living, he's married to a sweet woman and probably has two children and works for a bank. He would have turned 27 last week.

The grief doesn't get lighter. It doesn't even stay the same weight. If anything, the weight grows as the things pile up that I want to tell him and I can't. Lily, the mutt we adopted right after I finished high school, that Josh trained, that probably to the day she passed would have gone to look out the window when we said, "Josh is home," even years after his passing, died this year. Dorian, the cat that my brother made fun of me for getting, died this year. He never met Cesar. He will never meet Harry. He will never meet my parents' new dog, Cookie. The world keeps rolling and snowballing all the things that he will never see.

This time of year, the distance between my universe and the parallel universe where he lives now gets thinner. His birthday, the day he died, the holidays - sometimes the gap seems so small that I think that if I reached out hard enough, I could pass him the butter pecan truffles from Fabiano's that I continue purchasing because he loved them, even though they're not my favorite.

And you can't see me now, but I'm crying, the kind of crying that wracks the soul so hard that there's no sound left to come out, and I wish I could tell those of you with fresher losses that it gets easier, but it doesn't. Your arms will grow longer, your back will grow stronger, and you will find new ways to love and new people to love, and the grief will not finish you, but the grief will never finish, either.

For me, the world is divided into the time before December 15th, 2011, when my back was upright, and the time after I was issued my anvil with no instruction manual. I'm grateful for all of those who have helped me carry it and sent me pages of the instruction manual they wrote from trial and error and gone along with the pages I have written for myself that don't make sense to anyone else. And I will try to share the load for those who have received their anvil this year and send you pages out of that nonsensical instruction manual.

The grief will not finish, but it will not finish us.

Confessions: November 2016 Has Me at a Loss for Words

National Blog Post Month really didn't go well this year. In fact, it went better last year, despite our mold infestation and trying to close on a house owned by an incompetent, negligent, business un-savvy real estate speculator.

I haven't posted in about two weeks. I could try to blame hosting Thanksgiving and Sunday open dinner, but that's not the reason.

I could try to blame doing home repairs.

I could try to blame a stressful work schedule, or having to box up our antique booth, or any number of other things.

Most of you are compassionate. Most of you would give me a pass.

But I don't feel like I deserve a pass.

The truth is that I haven't been writing because I feel guilty and powerless after the results of the election.

I feel guilty that I didn't post about my concerns about a Trump administration. No, I don't have thousands of readers. No, this blog isn't a huge platform. But I do have readers. People here and there consider my perspectives.

And I didn't write because I thought that people already knew how dangerous a Trump presidency could be. I thought that my years of reading about Latin American dictatorships, of trying to understand what conditions cause revolution and political instability wouldn't matter, that people would write it off even if I explained it well, and I questioned if I could explain it well enough for people to see the parallels between Pinochet or Trujillo or the Perones or Bucaram and Trump. I didn't think he could win. I didn't want to rock the boat. I didn't want to sift through the comments on social media and moderate and defend. I didn't want to find out that more than zero of my associates support a bigoted, inept businessman for the head of state of a world power.

And if I continue in the vein of confessions, I haven't been writing because I've used up the energy it would take to write in calling representatives. I hate using the phone, but it's the best way to make elected officials listen. So it takes a lot for me to get up the gumption to do it. I haven't as much as I should. I see people who call every day, or more than once a day, and I'm in awe that they can. I'm in awe at how many voicemails they leave, that they  have a script, that they re-dial if the line is busy. It gives me hope to see their activism. But I also feel guilty that I don't match that level of advocacy.

I also feel guilty because I have so much privilege now that I might not be significantly impacted by many of the policies I anticipate being harmful. (Unless my wife or I are assaulted in a hate crime, which, you know, is now much more likely. So there's that.) We have so much privilege that we recently ordered a brand new couch for the family room at #fixerupperdetroit (our first brand new couch EVER - hooray for adulting). We don't really budget for grocery store purchases much anymore. We joke about "throwing money at problems," but we actually do, and it's great. It's so much easier than the "creative accounting" and "shrewd budgeting" and coupon clipping and waiting for sales and doing without and such that we used to do, and Rebecca's growing salary makes it okay. We're already married, and even if Obergefell v. Hodges and Windsor v. US are overturned, my marriage certificate will likely continue to be valid and recognized. We already bought a house at a reasonable interest rate, and Rebecca's salary will cover the mortgage even if we're underwater. We have the money to pay attorneys. We're White. We're Christian.

I feel guilty because we have a lot of privilege and because I've shirked what I perceive to be my responsibilities as an informed citizen.

But I also confess that despite my privilege, I feel powerless.

You see, I voted in the primaries. Carefully. Using research. Like, down to voting for former public defenders as judges instead of former prosecutors as judges because public defenders who become judges are more likely to support sentences that rehabilitate and restore.

I voted in the presidential election. Carefully. Using research. Like, down to comparing credentials for sixty-three Detroit Community School District school board representatives.

I voted, and I'm still terrified.


And now the research I'm doing is whether there's a such thing as personal political upheaval insurance. I'm trying to figure out if there's a financial advising firm that specializes in predicting the effects of political instability. I'm trying to figure out if we should try to pay of Rebecca's student loans faster or the mortgage faster if we need to mobilize or need cash on hand to pay bail for friends who are political activists. I'm trying to maximize the number of people who can stay in our house (or hide in our house) if the proposed Muslim registry happens and then turns into something more dangerous. I'm asking my wife to increase her disability insurance coverage so that we don't lose the house if she is incapacitated in a hate crime. I'm asking my family lawyer if we need to update any documents in case we end up hospitalized at a religious hospital that doesn't recognize our marriage and there's some form of "religious freedom" act passed that permits them to disregard my marriage certificate (yes, a bill like this already exists, and yes, Trump has said he would sign it).

Will all of these things happen? No, probably not. Do I know which ones will and won't? Of course not. No one really does. The outcome of this election was a surprise even to those who are far more educated on the subject than I am.

I've survived this far from a blend of privilege and preparing for the worst possible outcome I can imagine. I was lulled into  a sense of security when the economy was on an upswing and we'd mostly finished the major renovation and it looks like 80 hour weeks aren't going to kill my wife. I thought there wouldn't likely be another housing crash like the one in 2008. I thought it would get easier to be an out lesbian in a conservative state.

And I must confess: I'm at a loss. I don't know how to prepare for this many possible bad outcomes. Even with this amount of privilege.

So I haven't been writing. Maybe December will be better.

Confessions and an Invitation

When I woke up today, the first thing Rebecca told me was that Trump had won and the Republicans had taken Congress.

And I looked at her, and I said, "Trump has promised to pass FADA [the First Amendment Defense Act - essentially a nationwide RFRA like Indiana's], and he has the Congress to actually do it."

Make no mistake. This isn't an attempt to protect the first amendment. We already have the first amendment. There's no need to pile on or protect. The very language of FADA excludes my family. Mine. Rebecca and me. As in, it does nothing to protect us or our religion or our free speech.

And now I'm sitting in my living room under a blanket writing this. I'm staring at my dining room table where, just a couple days ago, people from multiple religions, races, socioeconomic statuses, and ages sat drinking cider and eating doughnuts. I wish more people had the chance to sit with such diverse groups (and took it).

I am scared. I am grief-stricken.

But I will keep looking at my dining room table that can comfortably seat 12 (and more if they like each other). I will keep my commitment to filling its seats, covering it in homemade dishes, and bringing people together in a safe space. We've dreamed of hosting a Sunday dinner, every week, for anyone who would come and abide in acceptance and love.

I will start this Sunday. I hadn't planned to do it so soon, but we need it now. Please message me if you're interested in participating in a potluck to share the love and share the food.

When I have more than I need, I commit to building a longer table, not a higher fence.

My Secret to Sanity in #owneroccupieDetroit: Meet Rufino and His Team

For almost the last year, I've been wanting to put up a post about Labra Design+Build, the business that has stood with us through #househuntersdetroit (even after the first house fell through), the land bank postering, and now, #owneroccupiedetroit.

Rebecca has known the owner, Rufino, since childhood and had been watching photos come through social media of all the beautiful work he'd been doing, so when we started looking for a home, she knew he would be a great fit.

You can visit their website to see Rufino Labra's portfolio or learn more about the work they do, so I won't spend too much time elaborating there.

Instead, let me tell you about

the ways that Rufino and his team have gone above and beyond 

 during the arduous #fixerupperdetroit process, to the point that I don't think we could have done this with any other team.

Most of Rufino's team, minus Rufino, who was on the phone. Top left: Abe. Bottom left: Eric. Top right: Marty. Bottom right: Big Rufino - Rufino's dad!

1. Showing up to the home inspections and asking thoughtful questions.

We were very blessed to work with a great home inspector, Matt Bezanson, (who now has a blog you can visit!), and that was an education in itself. Buying an old home, especially one in Detroit, especially one that's been vacant and neglected, comes with a lot more challenges than a newer construction. Rufino listened to what Matt had to say and considered it when setting up our construction proposal. We could tell that he would prioritize structural safety and quality work. That's of utmost importance in Detroit, where much of the previous work may have been patched poorly or done by non-professionals to save money.

2. Advising us on home-buying decisions 

A few days before closing, we still didn't know if the heating system worked, a major concern given that it was December in Michigan! While the seller insisted that it did, they never brought the house up to room temperature to prove it. When we brought out R&R Mechanical to inspect it, we were told that the boiler probably worked but there was no way to know without a cleaning, something we couldn't have done until we took possession, and something the seller refused to do. Rufino took the time to talk through the implications with me and help me decide whether closing was a good idea.

3. Reviewing documents from the Detroit Land Bank Authority

Most of you have already read about our horror story of having been postered with a notice threatening to seize our home.  You can read my Open Letter to Detroit Land Bank Authority here. These kinds of things don't happen in the suburbs, and I'm sure Rufino had never had to negotiate this kind of nightmare before. He looked over the documents and considered the timeline in the rehab agreement. In fact, I think he was more amenable to the terms than we were. I don't know how we would have survived those weeks without a contractor who cared on our side. We ultimately did get a resolution without a lawsuit being filed or signing the rehab agreement, mostly thanks to Craig Fahle, who does public relations for the land bank.

4. Setting up the home for us to occupy it and keeping us posted along the way.

Our construction team has a lot more to consider now that we're living in the home: will their work disrupt our normal activities? Will our cats escape while the team is going in and out? Will the fumes from their products jeopardize our health? In all cases, Rufino has made an effort to make it possible for us to live as normally as possible while not having a kitchen or laundry. By the time we moved in, we had a working bathroom, refrigerator, and laundry sink. When I asked him to set up the microwave, also, he did so promptly and in a space that was convenient for us (and inconvenient for his team).

5. Befriending our cats

Unlike us, the cats don't understand that the house is going to be really beautiful when it's done - and they don't really care. What they have noticed is that there are people they don't know here. All the time. Dorian has decided to supervise them all to make sure they do good work for us.

Dorian surveys his kingdom from a high vantage point.

Cesar has been hiding in our bed under the covers for entire days. Rufino has helped me figure out which rooms are safest for the cats while certain tasks are being completed and on more than one occasion has helped me secure them in that space when I couldn't do it alone and Rebecca was working. (Dorian has repaid him by getting incredibly underfoot.) Most members of the team have let the cats be out around the house as much as possible and will even chat with Dorian or pet him if he asks. I've never worked with a construction team before, but I'm pretty sure none of this is in the job description.

6. Visiting Architectural Salvage Warehouse of Detroit

 When we needed another radiator for the kitchen and I discovered a salvage warehouse rumored to have them for a reasonable price, Rufino met me there to see if we could find one and keep the heating budget lower to free up funds for something else. After some Googling about the different between water and steam radiators and sifting through the collection of doors, we emerged triumphant with not only a $90 radiator (that probably would have cost hundreds elsewhere), but a pocket door. We had hoped to find a 1920s lavatory sink to no avail, though the new one Rufino found and ordered is perfection.

In summary:

Many of you know that I'm a perfectionist workaholic, and that I'm not good at staying calm. While Rebecca has tried to keep me from being too anxious or overburdening Rufino, I recognize that this project has been fraught with challenges, including my temperament. Labra Design+Build has drastically exceeded our expectations not only in their quality of work, but in their encouraging, respectful nature and resourceful responses to issues problems. If you are considering a home renovation or new home construction, I hope that you will consider working with them. Detroit and the surrounding area need more small businesses that do such quality work, and we'd love to see the Labra family grow.

Confessions: Today I Hate this House

I'm grateful for #fixerupperdetroit. She's a beauty, or will be, when she's done. Our neighborhood is amazing, and I know that when our home is done, everything will seem better. We're making progress - we passed our insulation inspection, which means that a lot of new steps start, since we can close up the walls. The team working on our house has been positive, encouraging, and diligent.

But currently, #owneroccupieDetroit is a struggle.

I'm a hot breakfast person; I make huevos rancheros for myself every morning to get my day off to the right start. I can't do that until our kitchen is ready. It's not that I can't eat something else. I can, I do, and I'm grateful for the full belly. I didn't even realize how soothing I found the ritual of heating oil, frying a tortilla, cracking eggs, measuring salsa verde to be - a form of art, of creation, nourishment of my soul in addition to my body. I miss the process.

I'm not a great housekeeper. Many of you know. Many of you tease me. But even I find the plaster and paint dust overwhelming. My cats are constantly coated in dust. My clothes have dust clinging to them, my linens are filmed in particulates. It's hard to feel settled.

Of course, Rebecca has been working 6pm-7am shifts for the last week, and I'm always grumpy when we're ships passing in the night. A week more of that and she'll mostly be on day shift for the rest of the month. Between the progress we'll have made by then and the fact that we're actually seeing each other, I trust and believe that it won't stay like this. 

But today, I hate this house.

Reflections on Life in Southgate, Now that it's Almost Done

Back in 2011 or so, when we found out that Rebecca would be doing her third year of medical school at Henry Ford Wyandotte, we looked for apartments in Southgate. I didn't know much about Downriver communities. I can't say that I held them in particularly high esteem. We picked an apartment in Southgate but ended up finding a flat in Wyandotte that was cheaper.

The flat itself was terrible. Unsafe, not up to code, and horribly inefficient, but it was cheap and only about ten walkable blocks from lovely downtown Wyandotte. We fell in love with Nanna's Kitchen, visited the Wyandotte art fair without buying anything, and sometimes walked to the Methodist church for services.

When we left Wyandotte for Meridian Township, I thought our tenure as "River Rats" (a term used to refer to people who live Downriver from Detroit - used, at least by some, affectionately) was permanently over. We expected to stay in the Lansing area, where I would do my Ph.D. and Rebecca would get a residency.

Women plan. God laughs.

Our next move was to Royal Oak, and we thought we'd move from there to the Detroit house. The mold infestation left us scrambling to find an apartment with a six month lease, and we ended up finding one in Southgate, near the one we had picked a few years before.

The apartment here is okay. Carpet is less than ideal with two cats, and I miss having an outdoor space, but six months isn't so long. The commute to my Oakland county students is longer, and it ended up farther from the Detroit house than would be easiest, but it's temporary.

If I'm being honest, the worst part of our apartment building is the smell. The mail room, hallways, and laundry room are a mix of so many personal and/or foul odors, and then covered with an awful air freshener. Our apartment usually is okay, but both of us sometimes gag in the hallways.

In other words, my unhappiness here is more a reflection on our apartment building than on Southgate itself.

And here is what I remind myself:

1. This is temporary. We're moving out soon.

2. This is what we needed to do to get away from the mold infestation that made us really sick.

3. I am not too good for the things I need to do.

We needed to live in Southgate for a while to avoid anaphylaxis from the mold and still be able to afford our house. We needed to live in this giant complex that smells weird. We needed lower rent.

I see my students sometimes decide that they are too good for community college, even if it is their only option to continue their education. I see other people decide that they're too good for certain jobs, or parts of their job, even if they really need the work. And it's helped me realize that if there is something that I need to do to achieve an end goal, I'm not too good to do it (assuming that it is ethical, of course).

In twelve days, we'll be moved into #fixerupperdetroit, ready or not (let me assure you: not). I'm sure there will be new things that I'll do that I'd prefer not to. But the alternatives to struggle are boredom, stagnation, or death.

Slavery, the Generational Sin of White America

The United States was founded on free labor. George Washington and Thomas Jefferson owned enslaved people. 400,000 people were kidnapped from Africa and brought to the United States. At the start of the Civil War, it is estimated that 4 million people were enslaved in the United States alone.

White people in the United States were addicted to cheap labor.

After buying and selling people like chattel was outlawed, we could have moved into a better system in which everyone was given an honest day's pay for an honest day's work.

No such thing happened. In fact, the sharecropping system of the South is an illustration of how White people managed to make slavery continue. They threatened and lynched those who did not follow the system. They trapped Black people into debt cycles and low wages based on unpredictable productivity levels in the agricultural establishment. They prevented people who were not already White and wealthy from obtaining the means of production such as land and equipment. They used the one drop rule to maintain their own power structure.

Many lately have argued that the worst sin in the United States is the perversion of sexual intimacy. I disagree.

The greatest commandments that Jesus gives us is to love the Lord your God with all your heart, soul, mind, and strength, and to love your neighbor as yourself. Enslaving people, addiction to cheap labor and disposable goods, and prioritizing money over humanity fly in the face of that commandment. We essentially make idols out of money and power. This is the generational sin, and the greatest sin, of White America.

When people are discussing the state of the US, they sometimes say things like, "Employers just don't care about their employees anymore." Or "Corporations no longer take care of their employees."

Let me submit to you that in the brief window when employers did take care of their employees, it was not because employers cared to or were more ethical. It was because either unions forced them to do so or because they realized that it made good business sense to pay their workers a fair wage for fair work. (For example, Henry Ford realized that he would retain better employees if he paid them above the going wage, and he also realized that he was better off being able to market his product to his employees, who would not have been able to afford automobiles if they did not make wages sufficient to purchase one.)

Corporations fought unions tooth and nail. They moved to states with right to work. They outsourced labor. They downsized and pink-slipped.

They developed a new system of sharecropping in the United States.

We have a system where corporations have hired lobbyists to convince our legislators to allow the federal minimum wage to fall so low as not to provide full-time workers with enough to subsist on, even with careful budgeting. Minimum wage workers are then trapped in cycles of debt, and shamed for having this debt. They are trapped in cycles of needing public assistance, and being shamed for using public assistance. While the workers are blamed, it is in fact the labor system that is broken.

I assert that this is a generational sin. I come from a lineage of White privilege, of consumerism, of individualism. I had to learn to see my privilege for what it is. I had to study history and sociology to see how conditions favor me and how they trained me to see a meritocracy where none exists. At this point, even many White workers are falling into modern sharecropping, despite a system designed to benefit them, because so few people in the country take such a large percentage of the wealth.

 I have admitted to being a workaholic. I have admitted to sometimes sacrificing my love for others and my love for God to a need for ever greater financial security, and need for greater power within my employment situation. I have confessed this to you. I am working on it.

The sins of our ancestors have cursed many. While sins can be forgiven through repentance, the effects of them are not erased so easily.  It is going to take a generation of people who truly understand that humans are not commodities and that every human life is priceless, and who act accordingly, to start momentum toward atonement and equality.

Join me in confession.

Confessions: #MedWifeLife Rules

Over the past several years, and especially since Rebecca has started residency, I've made what I call #medwifelife rules. I know that sounds weird, but they're also not what you think. They're not about status or money or anything like that.

Dorian takes care of Rebecca while she rests after a long shift.

Here they are, with no further ado:

1. Thou shalt not cook dinner before confirmation that the helpmate has left the hospital.

I used to feel obligated to have a hot meal on the table when my wife got home. She has a hard job, is on her feet a lot, and contrary to US employment law, often doesn't get a meal break.

The problem became that I didn't know when she would actually be home (if there is work to do, residents can be kept a couple hours past the end of a 12 or 14 hour shift), so if I timed dinner for when I thought she'd be home, I'd end up trying to keep it warm, it ended up burnt or soggy, and I ended up resentful.

So I don't start heating anything that might be hard to keep warm until I know that she is on her way home. She has accepted this, and if she wants there to be food ready, she knows that she needs to let me know when to expect her.

Which leads to rule number . . .

2. Thou shalt serve frozen pizza without feeling guilty.

I work. She works. Sometimes we're too exhausted to cook something. I've given up feeling bad for eating frozen pizza.

3. Thou shalt not feel obligated to wash scrubs.

I do most of our laundry. Sometimes I wash Rebecca's scrubs and white coat. I know, though, that there is a laundry service at the hospital and Rebecca can get her scrubs and white coat laundered there. So if I'm short on time or laundry money, I don't prioritize the things that could be washed elsewhere. It's not my job to make sure Rebecca has scrubs. She's an adult person who can work it out.

4. Thou shalt not sleep when the helpmate sleeps and work when the helpmate works.

I've heard stories of medwives who have a cup of coffee with their spouse every morning before the spouse leaves for work, even if that's at 4 am. Props to them; that's a lovely, lovely tradition, and while I'm jealous, I've accepted that I can't do that because I won't go back to sleep. I'll start working at 4 am and not stop. I also have started forcing myself to go to bed at a reasonable hour when Rebecca is on nights, and I don't usually nap during the day with her when she gets home, even if I'm not working. Keeping my sleep schedule constant is important for me.

As a workaholic, it's also easy for me to believe that if Rebecca is working 14 hours, I should be too. Last spring, during my work's busy season, I worked several 50-60 hour weeks while she was working 80 hours a week. We had no time to cook or clean or do laundry (I paid someone to help out a couple times). I felt guilty chilling when I knew she was saving lives. But both of us being exhausted and irritable doesn't make for a better marriage. We still need the income (especially with the whole #fixerupperdetroit story) from my work, so I work a fair amount, and I try to be home when she's home if I can, but I don't feel bad if our work schedules don't line up.

5. Thou shalt remember this is temporary.

While Rebecca will always be a doctor, she will not always be a resident. At some point, she will have control over her schedule again, money won't be tight, we won't be back and forth between two housing situations. I will have my turn to be cared for when I find my calling. There will be brunch, and lazy Sunday afternoons, and vacations together, and shared housework (or a paid cleaning service). It's been a long road - Rebecca started applying to med school in 2008, had to do another application cycle in 2009, and started med school summer of 2010. She won't finish residency until fall of 2017, so at some point, it became easier to think of this as permanent, of the escalation of suffering as ongoing (Rebecca calls med school and residency boiling a frog), but we don't actually have so much longer now. Given that Rebecca is a family med physician, we will not have the largest salary people associate with doctors, but we'll live comfortably, particularly because of the choices we made while she was in med school and residency so that she can get out of debt sooner.

6. Thou shalt focus on why thou loves thy wife. 

When we're ships passing, which happens a lot, or the housework has fallen on my shoulders more than I would like, or when I'm exhausted, sometimes I don't feel married. But I am married, and I married Rebecca for a reason. When I'm starting to feel resentful of the way in which residency programs view spouses, how mistreated my wife is at the hands of insurance companies and large healthcare systems, and how much that has impacted pursuit of my personal goals, I try to consider the reasons I love her and the reasons she has become a physician instead of remaining a pharmaceutical engineer. Cheesy? Maybe. But it helps.

Do I follow all of these rules all the time?

No, of course not. There are always exceptions, and everyone fails. I definitely don't recommend this system for everyone. Every marriage is different. But consideration of these issues has made it possible for us to survive and some days thrive in a very difficult situation.

If your significant other is a doctor, what rules do you follow for yourself?

Confessions: My Life Felt Temporary until #fixerupperdetroit

Temporary.

The places we stayed while Rebecca was in medical school were temporary.

Lansing Township. 21 months or so.

Wyandotte. 14 months.

Meridian Township. 10 months.

And then she finished med school, and we thought there would be a longer temporary. A semi-permanent. We thought Royal Oak might be it until she finished residency.

Less than a year later, we were looking for houses.

To make matters so much worse, after 16 months in Royal Oak we had the mold infestation that almost killed us, and we moved.

To Southgate. For five and a half months. The most temporary of places yet. We didn't unpack all the boxes. We're using a bedroom as storage/pantry. Most of my serving pieces are still packed. I ditched the full-size artificial Christmas tree because I couldn't handle moving it. I'm telling myself that's okay.

Because we really live in our Greenacres home, even if we're in transition now. And we'll be there indefinitely - at least until Rebecca is done with residency and loan forgiveness, which will be 2020. Probably a lot longer if the neighbors are any indication.

It's a reminder that this world is not my home. These apartments have not been home, not really, although we were happy in some of them. For those of us who follow Jesus, the earth is not our home. We are placed here for a time to share joy, offer comfort, bring what peace we can, but we cannot settle here permanently. We are to look for a time that the kingdom comes. We are to do God's work to bring the kingdom. It is our blessing to serve.

#fixerupperdetroit feels like a space where Rebecca and I can serve more, love deeply, and help, in a small way, to bring the kingdom.

I hope you will take that opportunity too.

Confessions: Clothing I Wish I Never Had to Buy Again

Apparently I'm not a typical girly-girl. Who knew?

In spite of non-stereotypical behaviors such as (gasp!) wearing skirts and having long hair, I don't really enjoy shopping for most clothing items. I know this is a first world problem, as I am at a point in my life in which I can afford these items if I truly need. Here is a list of items I especially hate shopping for:

1. Slacks

Maybe because I grew up in pants that never seemed quite long enough, or because it's easy to fall prey to muffin top, or because the pockets are never big enough, or washing instructions are a pain, or the line between too loose and too tight is razor-thin. I'm fortunate that my employer doesn't often require business casual dress. I think I own one pair of slacks right now. I tried to buy more, almost had a meltdown, and gave up. I suppose someday I will have to try again, unless I make it a life goal never to work for an employer that requires business casual clothing.

2. Bras

Especially when it's chilly out, spending much time scantily clad isn't a fun proposal. Add the sticker shock, strangers measuring me, and the knowledge that in a few months, this article of clothing will probably attempt to stab me in the heart, and well, I put off bra shopping as long as possible. I've tried ordering online with little success - which I guess makes sense given how specifically they must fit - so I periodically trudge to the store. I suppose I could be a rebel and stop wearing this somewhat pointless undergarment, but I'm really not there yet.

3. Coats

This is mostly because I really love the coats I already have and want them to last forever. But coats are such a commitment. If properly cared for, a good coat can last for years, and I have a general policy of keeping things until they wear out. Therefore, I typically look for something I don't expect to go out of style. Add to that a penchant for buying coats that aren't black, and well, it's a bit of a challenge.

4. Socks

I would spend the year barefoot if I didn't live in Michigan. When I do wear socks, I have specific length and fabric requirements if I don't want to be tugging at them or despising my clammy, chilly feet. For some reason, bamboo socks have mostly not been in stock, and manufacturers seem to believe that I want socks that come to my knees or sit below my ankles. Sad panda.

5. Boots

Much like coats, I feel obligated to choose boots that will span multiple seasons. I also need soft-soled boots for proctoring (my students expect me to be a ninja), find the price of a good pair overwhelming, and need something I can wear for long periods without experiencing leg fatigue. Most women's boots aren't designed to meet all of those needs and still look chic.



Yes, these are first world problems, and I feel very fortunate that I can afford these items when necessary. I think a large part of the issue is how few designers live someplace like Michigan, where the weather gets cold and the streets get sloppy. I hope as Detroit continues to make its come-back, we see some of the designers there rise to influence with practical but awesome designs.

Confessions: Yelp's Star System is Pointless, But the Reviews Help

I'm Yelp Elite. I attained Elite 15 status last year and this year, I was renewed as Elite 16. It's been a good ride - free tickets to things (the upcoming one is a pair of tickets to Indulgence in Royal Oak), updates in my inbox about different food trends in metro Detroit, a social network that helps me plan my work meetings better. So I like Yelp, and I use it. Often.

But some parts of it are nearly pointless, including the star rating system (1-5), unless a business has a LOT of reviews. Why? Because people overuse the 1 and 5 star ratings. I can't tell you how many reviews I've read that described a single lackluster or just fine experience that included one negative (and probably fixable) element, and then gave the business one star. The algorithm tries to prioritize reviews that take more into account and show actual reflection, but for new businesses or the types of businesses that aren't typical Yelp fodder, it doesn't always help.

And I've noticed some things from reading so many reviews.

1. People are obsessed with their food coming fast.

Seriously, unless you're at a fast food restaurant, you're going to have to wait. Especially if you didn't make a reservation. Especially if you came at a peak time. That's just how it works.

2. People expect everywhere to operate the way large chains do.

Does it make me sad that Love & Buttercream isn't open on Sundays and Mondays? Yes. Do I wish more libraries were open later on Fridays? Yes. But doing that kind of staffing either costs a lot of money or is cruel to employees, and feeling entitled to everything all the time isn't a reflection of a healthy society.

3. There are so few second chances.

Typically, I try to visit a place at least twice before I write a review. That way, I have a fuller picture of what's going on. Maybe the first menu item I ordered wasn't great - that doesn't mean the whole menu sucks. Or maybe it took them a while to get settled in and the service improved substantially. I edit my reviews with some regularity, and I always try to be fair.

Yelp is one of the only places I don't feel guilty posting pictures of food.

Some parts of Yelp play to the worst in human nature. It feels almost anonymous and allows people to vent their opinions with little oversight. The Elite program was established to lend more credibility through a vetting process, but it's definitely not a panacea.

Still, reading the reviews has helped me make plans, so I'll keep using it for as long as it serves.

Confessions: I Don't* Read Homophobic Commentary Anymore

I've been giving myself permission to do or not do things lately.

I know that sounds weird, but I grew up in a White Baptist church where there were a lot of rules, spoken or unspoken. They would say it's not legalism, but well, okay.

So my brain is conditioned to view everything in terms of respectability. And there have been a lot of choices that I've made for a long time that neither reflect morality nor do they align with my preferences.

One thing I noticed that I have kept doing is reading the arguments against same sex marriage, or against church acceptance of it. I've been hearing about this issue from a church perspective since roundabout 2004 (well, since before that, but that was the first time there was any nuance at all).

Recently, a ministry posted a link to a series of podcasts on Twitter. My first reaction was that I should listen to the whole series, withhold judgment, engage the ideas, etc. So I clicked.

Here is how the podcast was framed:

"In society today, the orthodox Christian belief that the practice of homosexuality(1) is a sin is out of step with the times. This tension(2) is unavoidable. In a moment where the cultural consensus has completely flipped, many who hold to the historic belief avoid the depth of this conversation at all costs. The risk(3) of saying the wrong thing, offending a new friend, being extreme or worse yet—unloving, quiets the dialogue. Yet privately, Christians are desperate to address this important topic with love, clarity and biblical conviction. Is there really a way forward that demonstrates both truth and grace(4)?"

If you really wanted to track through my tweets or do some googling, you can figure out where this comes from, but I'm not linking you because that's not the point.

As a gay person who has been thinking about this for more than a decade, here is what I notice that a lot of Christians who are relatively new to an actual conversation on LGBT rights would miss:

1. It still uses the word homosexuality.

This means it's likely to ignore transgender people altogether or lump them in with gay people, and also that it clings to a general notion that homosexuality is bad. 

Yes, the connotation of homosexuality refers to religious interpretations that skew negatively. Some style guides already recommend using something else. It's a red flag for me to see this word.

2. Tension.

Always so much tension. People don't want to say conflict. They don't want to admit that my marriage is an argument, that they don't like it, that they think I'm a sinner. Often, they like me once they've met me, or they think that Rebecca and I are a lovely couple. If there's tension for you when this topic crosses your mind, what do you think it's like for me in the pew every Sunday I see you? I'm so tired of the tension and of you phrasing it this way.

3. Risk 

Look again. Who is framed as at-risk here? No, seriously, scroll back up and look.

It's not the gay person coming out who may be refused communion, or denied a marriage ceremony, or fired, or refused medical treatment, or evicted. It's the straight person with Christian privilege. And the risk is one of perception - people might not like  this conservative Christian as much.

4. Both truth and grace

You know what this means? They're trying to look fair and balanced by including truth and grace. Let me suggest that the truth here is still going to be that homosexuality is unbiblical and unbecoming to a true Christian. The grace part? They mean trying not to look homophobic when saying the truth part, usually by adding that God will forgive gay people, or that celibacy is an option, or that it's not a worse sin than any other sin, or something that seems loving to someone who has never had someone say something like this to their face.

 I didn't listen to this podcast. I gave myself permission not to.

I'm giving myself permission to extricate myself from these situations. I often do try to engage. Really.

But justifying my marriage, my existence, my identity, my theology at every turn is exhausting. It detracts from actual worship. It brings up a lot of pain from when discrimination against my family was even worse than it still is now.

I can't tell you how often I hear straight, conservative people claim that I should listen to their point of view, because they're not homophobes and their perspective is compassionate and different. And then they tell me something I've already heard, a bunch of times, for the last six years at least.

But they hadn't heard it before. They didn't have to, because as someone with straight privilege and religious privilege, these issues affected them very little, they could ignore them. If they wanted, they could keep asserting simply that the Bible says homosexuality is a sin, without reading the verses, without looking at cultural context, without consideration of whom they hurt. Without considering how the closeted gay kid in youth group or the member of the congregation that never could pray away the gay was reacting (you think we didn't try this? We did. Trust me, that was the first thing we tried.). Because mostly, the issue/tension/truth/grace/risk didn't hurt the straight, conservative Christians. Because for them, mostly, it was a philosophical or rhetorical exercise to even engage with the issue.

And so now, they want my approval that they have considered the issue. In some cases, I am the only gay person they know, or maybe the only gay, out Christian they know. And because they have had the privilege of ignoring the issue and are now finally considering the nuance, they feel that I owe them my attention as a sounding board. For a while, I gave them my attention. I listened and read. I tried to see how this argument was different. I tried to explain things. I blogged. I posted specific blog entries. I re-posted specific blog entries. I wrote new blog entries.

If you've just decided to get up to speed on this, good. Better late than never. But you are late. There are a lot of resources out there. Most of your questions can be answered with a quick Google search. No one owes it to you to explain it, or to use their backstory to convince you. And if you still believe that LGBT people should be disadvantaged at your church, do not ask them to agree with you or to approve. Do not ask them to be kind and nod politely. You're entitled to your ignorance, to your opinion, to your theology.

But I have given myself permission not to engage it when doing so would hurt me.

This picture has little to do with anything, but I like it, and I think I haven't posted it before. It's our first bites of cake as a married couple, at our first wedding - the religious one, when we still couldn't have a marriage license.

*Yes, the title is clickbait. I'm sorry. Would you have read it if I said that I often skip reading or listening to homophobic theology but sometimes decide to engage?

Confession: I Don't Believe I Deserve #fixerupperdetroit

A friend commented a couple days ago that she's impressed that we persisted in purchasing #FixerUpperDetroit in spite of the numerous challenges we faced. She said that after we had to give up on the first home, we would have definitely been entitled to take a break from our home search. And I know that she is right. And if you are in the middle of a home search like ours, and you need to take a break, I encourage you to.

I think one of the reasons that we continued on our journey, besides all of the positive ones (like loving the city, wanting to host more, setting down roots, etc), was that we really didn't understand what it would be like once we closed on a home. We've had a lot of meetings to go to, demolition and cleaning to do,

and last night Rebecca told me that she thought we would probably never end the process of restoring hardwood and original tile, as long as we live in our home. 

Confession: The first few days after we closed, I hated the new house. We had a lot of paperwork to do, and filing it didn't go well because our deed was issued improperly by the seller's title company, and I didn't have time, and Rebecca was busier than I expected, and a million other things. And I had told myself that if I could get through our closing, then I could rest. And then I felt like I couldn't rest. And I resented the house.

Now that we have that slightly more in hand, though, I am realizing another reason that homeownership feels very strange:

I don't feel like I deserve this home.

I know many of you may believe, deep down, that we have taken pity on Detroit, or on this home, and it's this gargantuan task to rehab it, and aren't we such good people?

But I never believed that story. That story isn't true.

AND I grew up in a home much smaller than this, where we shared bathrooms, sometimes poorly. Where we couldn't always have people over because we didn't have room. Where there wasn't enough space for books. It's not that we had nothing, but we made a lot of choices based on the limitations of our house.

Deep down, I don't believe that I deserve my own bathroom. I don't believe that I have earned a large kitchen where I can prepare any dish I like. I don't believe that I deserve my own office. I don't believe that I deserve a nice master suite. I don't believe that I have earned a fireplace. Or three fireplaces. One of which is surrounded by gorgeous built-ins.

This is a real fireplace in my real house.

And in the sense that the world doesn't owe us anything, and we are not entitled to anything, and it is only by God's grace that anything is ours, I don't deserve it. I haven't earned it.

BUT in the sense that I have committed to a city, into a very difficult purchase agreement and path to closing, and to a large renovation to get to the home of our dreams, this home is the result of some of my choices.

This house is the result of my work, and Rebecca's work, and our commitment to fiscal responsibility, and the relationships we've built with people. It's the result of careful consideration of what we need to accomplish our calling as a couple.

So in this new year, I need to realize that not only are we adequate to the task of restoring this home, and joining this neighborhood, but that I deserve to belong to a place where I matter. I deserve to have the things that I need to fulfill my calling.

So do you. What do you need to get there?

Confessions - If I Don't Laugh, I'll Cry: The 9 Stages of Moving

I couldn't tell you now how many times Rebecca and I have been involved in moving without sitting down and counting over the last ten years. A lot. That has given me some insight into the moving process - I wouldn't say we're pros or anything, but repetition has bred reflection. So here are the stages I find recognizable throughout our years of semi-nomadic life.

One.

Realizing that there is a need to move.

Two.

Seeking and finding a new apartment.

Three.

Packing, which is mostly procrastinating and thinking about packing, and then really packing at the very last minute. Some boxes are packing strategically at first, with labels and good intentions, and then as you pick up steam, you end up with random boxes you know you will hate yourself for later. The more notice one has in steps one and two, the better job you will do on step three.

Four.

Moving some of the stuff to the new place, but not all, so you now have stuff in two places, and you're not really sure which stuff is where. Also, the stuff that you wish were at the new place is never at the new place. You buy more cat food.

Five.

All of the stuff is at the new place, but you don't know where any of it is really, you don't know which box, you don't know where to put it, and life is hard right now. You are struggling to survive on takeout, once you can find a spoon, and your toiletries might still not be located. So then you buy new deodorant.

Six.

You you have the essentials unpacked (those of you who have moved a lot of times feel me on this one). You know where there is a spoon, and a couple plates, and your soap, and a bottle of some kind of shampoo, which may not be your favorite shampoo, but it will get your hair clean. This is a dangerous stage. The risk of plateau is high. You are no longer going to starve, and your coworkers probably won't notice that your hygiene practices are subpar and with any luck, there will be something that pushes you into stage . . .

Seven.

In stage seven you have now on packed enough to be able to perform fairly simple household tasks, including preparing simple meals, bathing, including with your normal toiletries, and you may even have located an extra set of towels. The boxes have been shifted out of the bulk of the living area, furniture is in a somewhat workable arrangement, and that you are generally doing OK at this part. The risk of plateau here: exceedingly high. You are now functioning like an almost real adult (or as real an adult as you ever do). At this point what you need, what is really essential, to push you above the threshold, is the possibility of having company, or needing to make something complicated for some reason. The holidays may also serve. I'm somewhere around this stage hoping to head into . . .

Eight.

This is the stage where you are actually moved into your apartment. You have everything you intend to use for the next few months, things arranged, and it may almost feels like home at this point. Your cats are no longer panicking, and have mostly accepted your new environment. You have established a clear daily routine and can typically find the things you need. This stage is one that may or may not ever be attained, and those who manage it are to be commended.

Nine.

Nirvana. This is the stage when the walls are painted, the rugs are rolled out, the art is hung, you may have a established your own lighting, or additional power strips, or whatever the finishing touches are for you. Many people never achieve this status. Rebecca and I probably will not in this current apartment. We'll essentially be trying to do this step on the house while living in our apartment.

And I've accepted that.

Coming Out: I'm a Feminist, & Here's Why

This started as an e-mail response to the writer of a Christian non-profit that focuses on women's safety primarily in the developing world. As usual for this blog, I won't disclose specific names, as the goal of this post is to address the underlying belief, not to guilt or shame a particular entity. Also as usual, I've been thinking about these concepts for a while but this post responds to something of a catalyst in the form of a newsletter from the aforementioned non-profit.

Dear Writer,

You say that your daughter's generation falsely believes that your organization is feminist and that they state wrongly that feminism is a belief system in accordance with Christianity. You assert that your generation correctly believes that feminism is problematic, bashes men, and has fascist tendencies.

I am of your daughter's generation, I suppose, if we must sort people by age, and gender, and country, and all of these other artificial divisions, and in that artificial division you have created, it is not "us" who have feminism wrong. You have mischaracterized feminism and even implied that feminism is a profane word we should avoid using.

The following is a description of my logic for supporting Christian feminism. Those not adhering to Christianity have a completely different process for arriving at feminism. Because you identify as a follower of Christ, I hope that you will find it clarifying.
 
Given that all good things come from God
Given that humans are created in the image of God
then the Christian God must have all of the positive characteristics culturally attributed to both genders
and from that it follows that as we become more like Christ, we will attain more of the positive qualities ascribed to both genders
And
Given that God created humans in the image of God
Given that God sent Jesus to save all humankind
Given that God calls all humans into a relationship with the Trinity
Given that Christians are called to proclaim the Gospel and use the talents God has endowed them with to advance a world of peace, justice,  and unconditional love
then it follows that Christians of every gender must advocate for humans of every gender to be treated as having inherent value and thus afforded all rights and opportunities associated with such value.

In truth, the Christian feminism your daughter's generation holds is the belief that many women may be called to more than cleaning house and being sexually available to a male partner - a belief I know that your nonprofit shares. It is the belief that current constructions of masculinity prize aggression, hypersexuality, and stoicism, and that hurts men and women both.

Christian feminism calls for vulnerability for all, protection (physically, emotionally, and spiritually) for all, and says that men too, are harmed by an artificial binary wherein men are strong and women are sensitive.

You know that many of your women are physically, mentally, emotionally, and spiritually very strong. You know that many men are compassionate, sensitive, nurturing. 

I don't see how acknowledging the soft side of men or the strong side of women or the coexistence of both of this is twisting what humans - male and female - were created for, as you imply it does. We don't need a new word to use instead of this supposedly profane "f" word, though some have been using "equalism," if you are still in search (problems with framing the issue as equalism will be deferred to a later post). We don't need a new word. Those who have distorted and denigrated the concept of feminism need new insight. I hope that this message provides a little, as the word itself is viable and vibrant and not going away.




In fact, the feminist movement is the reason that my generation generally has been able to take for granted that we will attend university and get the training to pursue our callings. It is the reason we have a voice for the women you serve who have no voice. It is probably even the reason you are able to head an influential nonprofit. It is the reason we have female legislators to pass laws to protect women. It is the reason that you and your women in the United States can hold your own paychecks and bank accounts instead of giving their income to a father or husband. It is the reason that you and the women you protect who become US citizens can vote. In short, it is the reason that women in the United States are (mostly) no longer viewed as property, a belief your organization hopes to spread to the developing world.

This is why "my" generation says that your nonprofit is feminist. We value the dignity that your organization gives to all people. We see your team as helping all whom they help to move closer to God and closer to their God-given callings. I don't know what would be profane or fascist about that.

 

In short, you are a feminist, whether you believe it or not.

Blessings,

Erin

Confessions: I'm Thankful that My Wife is Working Today (for surprising reasons)

I'm thankful that Rebecca is working today.

Not because I wanted to spend the day without her - I wish that I could spend this holiday and every holiday with my beloved helpmate.

Not because of the holiday pay, though I believe she will be paid a little extra.

Not because I approve of the kinds of shifts they've been forcing her to work - today is only 13 hours, but she averages 80 hours a week on rotations like this and has worked shifts as long as 28 hours this month.

I'm thankful that she is working in the ICU today because I can't imagine a more challenging holiday than having a loved one in intensive care, fighting to survive. I can't imagine having to discuss whether to intubate or resuscitate a loved one on a holiday like this. And I know that Rebecca will be as compassionate as possible. I know that she will explain to them gently, answer their questions, and keep patients as comfortable and dignified as possible. She will, today as all days, put the family in family medicine.

I would want that if a loved one or I were in the hospital, especially on a holiday like today. I take comfort in knowing that staff at a major metropolitan hospital - staff such as my wife and her colleagues - is there to care for the families struggling through illnesses.

She is away from her family. So are the other residents, nurses, attendings, mid-level providers, custodians, cooks, cafeteria workers, social workers, paramedics, and so many others. If you are not in the hospital and don't have a healthcare worker family member on the list, it's easy to forget the sacrifices they are making to care for people. It's easy to take it for granted. It's easy to sit down at a table in front of a home-cooked meal and forget that those at the hospital are lucky to get enough of a break to make it down to eat cafeteria food. It's easy to pat a full tummy and lay down for a nap while healthcare workers fight to stay awake near the end of a long shift.

I am thankful that my wife is working today, because it means we live in a place where we can count on medical care. I am thankful that other families will have compassionate providers to help them.

Even if I miss her.

Confessions: I Hated Being Poor

I just read an article posted by a friend of a friend about the trend of tiny houses and the glorification of poverty or "the simple life." You can read The Troubling Trendiness of Poverty Appropriation
for yourself - it's definitely thought-provoking. It isn't demonizing the practice of minimalism for a reduction in consumerism, but it criticizes the middle class and wealthy, particularly hipsters, of romanticizing and copying behaviors or items they associate with poverty. Pretty sure reusing Mason jars counts. Ditto the obsession with "authentic" dive bars, dumpster diving, and a trend I don't understand where anarchists go on welfare to avoid participating in capitalism (yeah, read the article, I guess people do this, though given how hard it is to go on welfare in Michigan when one actually has no other option, I don't know how they manage).

I read the article introspectively - things were really tight for a while during the Recession while I was underemployed/underpaid/underinsured and Rebecca was in med school, and as members of the LGBT community, we also faced oppression in terms of some of the systems we could have used. Our marriage wasn't recognized, which affected our tax status and my access to her insurance. So as you know, we were on food stamps for a little bit, I calculated the price of food per pound, I worked two jobs with irregular hours, avoided seeing the doctor so I wouldn't have to pay a co-pay or deductible, visited the student food pantry, and rented out our second bedroom to lower housing costs. That's around the time I started playing the remnant game, too.

It wasn't simple. It wasn't easy. It was really, really hard, even with an end date. Some of you remember the story about the second worst day of my life and 72 hour psych holds, which happened in the thick of this. With the benefit of hindsight, of course, I know that we didn't stay broke forever, and that I would mostly get my mental illness managed on much lower amounts of medication than I thought possible, and that someday we would be buying a house, and that having money drastically reduces the likelihood of having to sleep on someone else's floor. At the time, though, it wasn't glamorous.

And in some ways, for us it was a choice for Rebecca to follow her calling (into a career that admittedly hasn't made enough room for people with even slightly limited means, such as her, let alone people who grew up in poverty). She could have remained a despairing pharmaceutical engineer with a high salary and no integrity. We could have lived in a nice suburb, driven nice cars, eaten whatever people eat in that situation. We still had access to credit that helped prevent the worst effects of poverty and the knowledge that it would be over someday, or even that if it came down to it, Rebecca could leave med school (or I could take a position in Asia that paid a significant amount for the teaching of English).

Our poverty was clearly temporary and to some degree, optional, and it was still incredibly difficult. Romanticizing it, and worse, capitalizing on it, is strange. I learned a lot during that time, and I hope I will continue to use my resources well. 

I also hope I will never have to scramble like that again.

Confessions: Sometimes I Don't Feel Married

As most of you have gathered, Rebecca is on an inpatient rotation this month - she's working 80 hours a week, with only 4 (yes, just 4) days off the whole month. I've lost count of how many 28 hour shifts she's working, but several, including one that's probably a violation of residency rule restrictions. She's helping families and saving lives in the ICU, and finding it important and fulfilling to bring her family med perspective to such critical situations. But I know that she is also exhausted. Not as exhausted as she was from trauma surgery, and more fulfilled than when she was on radiology, but exhausted just the same. Helping families make life-or-death decisions, managing end-of-life care, and the administrative tasks that come with such a role can be a lot.

And so this month is a lot for her. We're also moving. I'm in a bit of a transitional time at work. The holidays are coming. We're still working on buying the house (I turned in more documents to the bank this morning! :)). On months like this, when she works so much and life gets so busy, things shift.

I get into a mode of semi-singledom. I have tried to train myself to plan social engagements, to go out to eat by myself, to attend church alone (although I only walk through the doors alone, and then my chosen family is there), to plan meals and housework and laundry differently.

I doubt this has anything to do with us being a same sex couple, really, although the length of time we went without a legally recognized marriage took its toll and may affect me forever on this front. I think it's just part of being a DO wife, or any kind of doctor's wife, though I should write sometime about DO wife life specifically.

I think most of us, as medwives, learn to be alone without being lonely, because if we can't learn to be alone, we just can't BE. That's the cost of loving someone, marrying someone, supporting someone that works nights, weekends, overnights, 30 hour call, etc to keep your spouse, your mother, your child safe and cared for in the hospital. That's the cost of watching my helpmate glow with satisfaction because a family finally got the support they needed, or flush with anger that someone wasn't treated as a human being. But some days, usually about this point in the rotation (most rotations are about a month, so I'm about halfway through), it's hard to really feel married.

If I'm honest, some nights when she is working, I sleep on the couch because it doesn't feel like there is simply too much space there. The cats are more likely to tuck themselves into the bend of my knees or the crook of my arm there and stay snuggled for long periods, as if they know that I am trying not to feel the emptiness next to me that should be my helpmate's warm body.

And I don't feel married in that schmoopy way romantic comedies paint love and marriage. I still feel that I am a helpmate, charged with supporting another human being, but the ways in which I love her are different. It may be as simple as boxing leftover lentils into a lunch-sized, microwave-safe container, and then not getting upset if she forgets to grab them on her way out the door at 6 am. It may be bringing a cat to snuggle her in bed when she sleeps during the day and I'm getting work done. Some days, it means directly asking if there's something I want her to do, instead of hoping she'll think of it, because I know that she's too tired and she can't think of it.

I don't know. Maybe feeling married isn't a thing. I see friends post about their husbands on facebook and maybe it's the social media halo or maybe healthy hetero relationships are different or maybe I'm just doing this wrong.

But some days, right now, I don't feel married. I'm grateful to see my helpmate realize her calling and love people like Jesus would. But it's not a fairy tale. It's not a romantic comedy.

It's messy, and it's hard, but that's how real love is.

Confessions: Writing Every Day Doesn't Feel Transformative Yet

I have now been in NaNoWriMo for 12 days, though I started posting more often before the month started to get used to it. I don't know exactly what I expected. I guess I thought I'd have good ideas every day, and the energy to treat them with the compassion and logic I usually aim for. I didn't think, when I decided to do this, that this roof leak and mold thing would happen or become such a big thing or that I'd be moving in the middle of a month when my wife is working 80 hours a week.

I didn't think that all I'd want to write about is how mad I am at the leasing company, and how overwhelmed I am with the number of things I have to do, and how I'm frustrated with work. It is a lot. And I get to be frustrated. And some of it is also my SAD kicking in, especially since I've been missing vitamin D doses, and so I'm doing the stuff that always happens this time of year: crying a lot (sometimes over very small things), splitting (everything is either good or bad), catastrophizing (everything is going as wrong as possible), and perseverating (getting stuck on things, in my case, usually things I've done wrong or perceived faults). And I'm trying to tell myself that it's okay to feel that this is a lot and that these other things will simmer down when we're moved and closed on the house and I get my vitamin D levels back up.

And so writing every day hasn't been the magical experience that I hoped for. At least not yet. I've had a few posts that got a fair number of hits, but none that knocked it out of the park the way some past ones have. I haven't been offered a speaking gig or a book deal or any pay for my writing. That's not really how this works.

That said, I've learned that I do have time to write every day if I make it a priority. I've started thinking about which room, in the house we're buying, will be for writing and what I would need in there to get a lot of writing done. Maybe a little part of me is starting to think of myself as a writer - not just a blogger, not a dabbler. And we'll see, at the end of the month, what happens, but I think I'm learning that writing isn't always as much having epiphanies as it is about sitting down to write when you just. don't. feel. like. it.

And hey - that was worth learning.