ElizabethEsther.com

The 7 Stages of Blog Grief {a handy guide to pathetically freaking out all over the Internet}}

So, my blog went down sometime Friday afternoon (thank God it wasn't a Monday, am I right?). But THAT didn't prevent me from having a HUGE freak-out. 

In order to redeem my stupidity, I'm dissecting the 7 stages of blog grief for you. Just so you'll know what to expect when (NOT IF) your blog goes down.

1. Shock/Denial: when @adam_thedad tweeted me that he couldn't see my site. I was all taken aback. Hence, my brilliant response:

2. Calm, cool acceptance: it's time to notify everyone involved that yes, a tragic accident has occurred. Be professional. Use correct grammar.

3. Mood swings: even though you know it's not your fault and that the problem will probably get fixed, you start getting all irrational and worrying incessantly that nothing will ever be the same again.

4. Anger/Questioning Everything: if you find out that the problem is a result of a massive "malicious attack" on your host's company site,  just launch over the cliff into full-blown meltdown. Triple-tweet your distress (expect people to offer you cheese with your whine because OBVIOUSLY, lame "first-world" problems.).

5. Start crying literal tears about your virtual problem: your non-blog-reading husband is sure to COMPLETELY understand. 

6. Realize that you've just shot your "Christian witness" to, um, Hades. Clearly, you think too highly of yourself and your blog's importance. Also? You said damn in one of your tweets. Time to go to Confession. How do I explain a "blog" to a priest?

7. When your blog comes back online, act like a war just ended and you SURVIVED! Go around kissing everyone (virtually). Commit acts of random capitalization. Pretend you're Sally Field winning an Oscar. 

***Addendum, Disclaimers, ETC.***

The weirdest thing about all of this? It wasn't a fundie conspiracy to shut down my blog!
Also, I found out that some of you really DO love me. THANK YOU!
Lastly, my husband thinks I'm cute when I'm stressed out.

 But I'm really not interested in looking cute again. ANYTIME SOON.

And now that you have proof of my clinical insanity, why not join the fun by subscribing to my blog? :)

7 Quick Takes {plus? pictorial proof of my fundie past!}

1. I found a picture of myself at age 14. Nothing says fundie church group (or maybe just 1991?!) quite like a herd of "sisters" in ankle length floral dresses! Too bad we're not wearing our headcoverings.

NOTE: Dontcha like my sup-ah fly (and scandalous!) sleeveless dress and my dangly, clip-on earrings? I felt so sass-ay! This pic was taken during a '91 summer mission trip to the heathen wastelands of Seattle, Washington. The best part about that summer was that one of these ladies had contraband: a tape of Simon & Garfunkel. My parents occasionally let us listen to that tape on the one condition that we fast-forward a terrible, worldly song called Cecilia. By summer's end, we still knew all the lyrics to every song. I have no idea how THAT happened. :P

2. Last month, my aunt gave me a bust of my Grandpa (the nice one--not the cult leader!). I gave him the seat of honor: the center of our dining room table. Later that afternoon, I walked in to see one of my twins hugging and kissing him. And after dinner, Jude left him a drink offering. I think Gramps is gonna like it here. 

3. Someone asked me recently how I get my writing done before deadline. I don't have any magic tricks, sadly. Mainly it's hard work, early bedtime, early wake-up, having the twins in pre-school and the rockin' time-management skillz I learned in my fundie childhood (REDEEM THE TIME!). Did I mention hard work? Lastly, never underestimate the power of a supportive spouse. That has made a huge difference, too. Thanks, honey!

4. There are few things in life that thrill my soul quite like a bookstore. A friend of mine introduced me to this used bookstore and I think I could wander around here all day long. *happy sigh*

 

5. I've officially fallen in love with the written prayers of the Church. I've never been good at extemporaneous prayer. And when I do pray, I often feel like I'm leaving something out. Committing some of these wonderful, ancient prayers to memory has helped me focus. It also reassures me that I'm not missing something. Our family now says this prayer before each meal. The kids have memorized it quicker than I have!

Bless us, O Lord, and these Thy gifts which we are about to receive, from Thy bounty, through Christ our Lord. Amen.

6. Speaking of prayer, I found a prayer app I can use on my iPhone. It's offered by DivineOffice.org for $1.99 and I love it! Before I go to bed each night, I say my prayers and this app has given me access to richer, deeper prayers that linger with me after I fall asleep. 

7. A HUGE thank you to some special women in my life. Looking back at my childhood pictures made me realize how far I've come. Especially when it comes to writing, there are some women whose shining optimism and enthusiastic support have meant the world to me. I just want them to know how much I love and appreciate them.

Thank you, Jennifer Fulwiler--one of my dearest friends who also has the best sense of humor EV-ah! 

Thank you, Suzanne Broughton--my editor/boss at OCFamily.com who took a chance on me, a woman just beginning to find her voice. Thank you for believing in me, Suz!

Thank you, Amy Stevens--my editor/boss at The Orange County Register who encourages me to keep writing even when da haterz hate.

And lastly, thank you to ALL my readers. I don't take for granted every time you comment, tweet, follow or the emails that let me know I'm not alone. Thank you, thank you. xoxoxoxoxoxo.

Have a great weekend, everyone! And go check out more 7 Quick Takes @ Jennifer's Conversion Diary.

Welcome Fox & Friends viewers!

Why, hello. I'm Elizabeth Esther. Perhaps you saw me on Fox & Friends this morning and decided to check out my site. So, welcome to my (opinionated) little corner of the Web!

If you'd like to know more about me, try reading this first.

If you'd like to skip to the good stuff, choose from the following:

Die, skinny jeans, die!

Why I Regret Voting Yes on Prop 8

Eat, Pray, Barf: one woman's search for every fling

Why "Twilight" is a misogynistic piece of hard-boiled crapola

Chief Executive Butt Wiper

A conversation with Frank Schaeffer, author of "Crazy for God"

Sewing myself sane

And say, how about subscribing to my blog? Just click here:  

An ending & a beginning

I attended a funeral today, so you'll have to forgive me if I'm a little disorganized and more emotional than usual (as if that's even possible?). 

The funeral was simple and sweet, a fitting tribute to my best friend's Grandpa. He was the kind of man who always liked to make other people happy. I remember visiting his house as a child and Grandpa Ron was always delighted to see us.  We spent countless hours at his house drinking PEPSI! and watching TV! (a ridiculously huge treat for us TV-less/health-food-only kids).

I attended the funeral alone (note to self: never attend funerals alone, you always need someone to hold your hand) and cried through like 15 tissues. I have a very sensitive cry-reflex and when I see other people in visible emotional distress, I start crying, too. Perhaps weeping, like laughing, is contagious.

I drove through my hometown on the way back to the freeway. Every street triggered a memory. Every memory reminded me of something the officiant said: We were made for relational attachment.

And oh, I have so many broken attachments.

It's enough to overwhelm me.

But I don't want to think about that anymore. I'm bone-weary of thinking about all that's been lost.

It already seems like the darkness that engulfed me after the twins were born has robbed me of part of my life. Depression is, if nothing else, a thief. Looking back, it seems like I've lost months to this stupid illness.

As I drove, I could feel a rising need. An urgency. I don't want to stay locked outside my life anymore. I want to come back inside.

I want to build new story. Yes, bad things happened. But there is so much good now. I want to live it! Yes, attachments were broken. But I have new attachments now.

Already I can see that the good in my life is starting to outweigh the bad. Just being able to SEE the good is a change--a good change. I can't be sure, but I think it's probably the result of the active work of forgiveness I've been doing.

I think it's time to say goodbye to the past. 

As confirmation, I just landed an exciting new writing gig that is going to require fresh energy and a different focus (I will share details early next week). Perhaps this is God's gentle way of telling me it's time to move onto a new chapter in my life.

So, I've decided to lay aside my book. Permanently. I wrote what I needed to write. It's not time to share it with others. 

It's time to bury the dead.

Life is calling....

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would you like to come along as I venture into this new chapter? subscribe here:  

Oreo & Julietano

Two households, both alike in popularity

From ancient grudge break to new mutiny

From forth the fatal loins of these two foes, a pair of star-blessed lovers take their life
And by giving birth to their own baby, do bury their parents' strife*

For never was a story of more love, yo
Than this of Julietano and her Oreo.

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*my apologies to Master Shakespeare, may he rest in peace.

Rejection, Acceptance & Depression

I fell into a funk last week. The darkness grabbed me and pulled me down, quick. I'm still tumbling, grasping, fumbling, trying to break the fall.

I keep telling myself maybe this time I won't fall as far or as deeply. Maybe this is just a shallow trench depression. Maybe it's not an abyss.

But it's really hard to tell. The whole not knowing thing is terrifying and frustrating. My mind is acting like an obsessive little hamster on a wheel: how deep is this hole? how long will it last? how did it happen? Repeat.

Frankly, I don't even want to write about this. I feel ashamed. Embarrassed. Do you know how much I wish I didn't have this "problem"?

But I'm forcing myself to be humble, to sit here and write anyway. 

Warning: my emotional protective covering has been stripped raw. My sensitive nature lies bare, exposed. I feel uncomfortably vulnerable, like even the slightest hint of rejection will break me.

So, bear with me. The following may or may not make any rational sense.

If I think back in time, I can probably identify several event triggers that unfolded in the last couple of weeks.

The first was a re-alignment of some personal relationships. Suffice to say, there's nothing like a difficult season of life to show you--with blinding clarity--who your real friends are. It's a blessing in disguise, I guess. My depression/burnout has efficiently knocked out all the artificial props holding up certain friendships. It's been eye-opening to see who remains.

But I still struggle not to take it personally. It feels dangerously close to rejection.

My sister remains. My husband remains. A few, precious souls remain. And there have been the unexpected blossoming and/or deepening of new friendships. All in all, this season of my life has renewed and strengthened my relationships.

So why do I weep for the one who has drifted away?

"Oh, Elizabeth," my sister gently reminded me. "Don't you remember? This is how she's always treated you."

"It is?" I asked, all choked up. "But I've always been there for her!"

"Exactly," my sister said. "You're always giving. And she's always taking."

It's an uncomfortable truth I haven't wanted to acknowledge. This whole past year has been full of uncomfortable truths. Lucky me.

And then there was the writing rejection. It was a fairly significant project that seemed like it was going to take off. Lots of good feedback, lots of momentum, a solid editorial contact. And then? Fizzle.

I hate rejection. It makes me doubt myself to the very core. It makes me wonder if I'm delusional. Like maybe I actually suck at writing. Like maybe all those published articles were just flukes.

Rationally, I know I'm a decent writer. But every time I get a rejection, I feel just awful. Sometimes I think I'm too sensitive a soul to swim in the heavily competitive waters of published writers. I take rejection too personally.

The final trigger, the one that sent me over the edge, happened last week when I re-arranged my entire schedule to make a doctor's appointment. I don't know if doctors realize this, but it takes a Herculean effort for a mother of five to go see her doctor alone. I got there, signed in was promptly informed that they didn't take my insurance.

WHAT?! I called to confirm they took my insurance.

Nope. Sorry. 

It was the last straw. And I totally, completely lost it.

My eyesight blurred, my heart-rate skyrocketed and I had to excuse myself to the hallway where I tried to control a full-blown panic attack. I was shaking and hyperventilating. It was just a follow-up appointment, easily rescheduled. But I felt sick with rejection and panic.

It took a huge effort of willpower to walk back in and calmly reschedule my appointment. I cried all the way home. Even while I was losing it, the rational side of my brain was standing outside myself tsk-tsking: Holy crap, woman. Pull yourself together! It's probably just a data entry error.

Turns out, the insurance company had committed a data entry mistake. I was covered. 

I wasn't going to die alone and abandoned, after all.

See? This is what's weird. A friendship changes and/or drifts apart and I immediately think I'm a total loser and I'm never going to have a normal social life. I get a writing rejection and instead of shaking it off, I instantly think I'm the worst writer in the world. My insurance gets denied and I assume I'm going to die of some terrible, undiagnosed disease. Alone. Abandoned.

It makes no sense. I mean, my irrational thought processes would be downright hilarious if they weren't so damn terrifying.

My best guess is that the root cause of my panic lies in a deeply embedded pattern of all-or-nothing thinking. These thoughts are rigid, harsh and inflexible. Everything is either black or white, wrong or right, good or bad.

I mean, this kind of thinking works well in crisis situations when you have to drastically eliminate extraneous information and focus only on life-saving CPR or something. But it's no way to live everyday life.

But Crisis Mode is my default setting. It's where my mind goes when I think I'm starting to see emerging patterns of rejection/impending doom/getting left behind at the Rapture. Heh.

The problem is that our bodies aren't meant to live in Crisis Mode. For one thing, it's exhausting. After the flurry of crisis comes the crash of depression.

So, that's where I'm at right now. The Crisis Mode has dwindled away. I feel safe again. I'm just....sad.

You know, it's extremely difficult for me to write about this because I still feel twinges of mortification like: if I were a "real" Christian, I wouldn't have these problems.

The thing is, I'm fully functional. I'm able to take care of my children and my obligations. I'm even able to "keep a happy face." This little funk isn't entirely debilitating. It just feels like recurring beads of sadness running through the necklace of my days.

And by the end of each day I'm very, very, very tired.

There. I wrote it. I'm even keeping comments open.

Be gentle with me, loves.

Hey, blog friends! I wanna get to know you better!

Something good has been happening on my blog in the last couple of months. It feels like we're building a community. And although the comment box is fantastic, sometimes I feel like I need to "see" you. I'd like to get to know you better!

So, I've created a Facebook page called Elizabeth Esther's Blog Friends. I'm hoping that this little spot will encourage more conversation. Maybe also it will feel safer for those of you who aren't big on blog comments but are happier on Facebook? Consider it my virtual living room couch where we can swap stories, ideas, jokes, urbane, witty conversation. Or just potty training tips. :)

Anyway, it's an experiment of sorts. Check it out and let me know what you think. Let's be friends, shall we? 

Historical Accurassy

After suffering a minor physical breakdown last week, I fled to the bookstore. Because this is how I drown my sorrows: in the pages of a book.

And it would have been perfect  if not for the noisy meeting of Future Bestselling Authors Who Wear MuMus Covered In Cat Hair. They had spread their fat massuscripts all over the middle of the coffee shop and were criticizing each other's work at full volume.

YOU CAN'T FEEL YOUR TEARS IF YOU'RE UNDERWATER! I MEAN, WHO DOESN'T KNOW THIS??

I hazarded a glance at the poor old lady whose novel-in-progress was being decimated by Balding Critic. I wanted her to stand up for herself, like HEY, have you ever tried crying underwater?

But Balding Critic wasn't done.

THIS IS 1945 WE'RE TALKING ABOUT! YOU HAVE TO USE THE APPROPRIATE RACIAL EPITHETS!

Then Balding Critic started listing them out--for the entire store to hear. 

I was like: oh, crap. My geographical proximity to this is making my whiteness feel guilty by association.

After an agonizing moment, another member of the group spoke up, timidly: "Well, do you think someone will buy a book that has [racial epithet] on the first page? I know I wouldn't."

I was about to cheer for Timid One when Balding Critic shook her head vehemently: "NO! NO! THIS IS ABOUT HISTORICAL ACCURACY!"

Well, at least, her version of it.

Which was more like historical accurassy.

And that's when I moved camp to the far end of the store.

Dude, no wonder I gave up on graduate writing seminars. What a joke those were, all us unpublished authors sitting around slamming each other's writing. Or trying to come up with brilliant analysis of some guy's story about a dinner party where the main entree was Poop Loaf (I'm not making that up).

Now I just blog. And people send me hate mail.

Know what? It's way better. Dude, I love the Internets.

Some exciting news!

Holy hate mail

Being a writer means getting hate mail. It's kinda fun, actually. Secular hate mail says: "Go to Hell." Christian hate mail says: "You're going to Hell."

The funny thing is that non-believers don't necessarily think I'm damned while some Christians are damn sure about my damnation. 

Which makes me realize: the Catholic Church is the most hated religious organization in the world. Because even if I dare hint that I have an appreciation for it, I get emails accusing me of being a hypocrite who is aiding and abetting "a false church leading millions of souls to Hell."

I wonder if Mother Teresa would agree.

What's interesting about these emails is that many times folks regurgitate "pseudo-knowledge." In other words, the only thing they know about the Catholic Church--or any other liturgical church, for that matter--is what they've heard second-hand. It's obvious they haven't read primary sources.

I don't blame them, necessarily. I used to say and believe the same things. Mostly because Evangelicalism is rife with sermons, pamphlets and books that propagate misunderstanding.

But the Catholic Church is not the "whore of Babylon" anymore than I'm a circus clown. I mean, my nose is red today, but only because I'm cold. Heh.

Other fiery emails informed me that Frank Schaeffer attends an "apostate church" and demanded to know why I didn't disclose that. Like I'm part of some Apostate Church Conspiracy.

Believe me, I'm not smart enough for subterfuge. What I do understand is that hyperbole is a tool of fear. And hate mail is a form of fear-mongering. 

I will not be frightened into silence. Been there. Done that.

Here's the thing: I'm not presuming to provide The Answers for anyone. I'm only sharing my story. I'm not gonna compromise that just because I don't wanna make people mad.

I believe what unites us is much stronger than what divides us. I believe this because I've stood in that place called I Have All The Right Answers and I know that it does nothing to promote the Gospel of Christ.

Not even when I throw out 15 Bible verses to back up my position.

I can be right, right, right until I'm blue in the face and guess what? I'll destroy relationships.

This is why I think being right is over-rated. Understand: I'm not saying truth is relative. But I am saying that in the chasm of what divides Christians, there are bridges that span the breach.

I choose to walk those bridges. I realize that this will make some people mad. I'm willing to take that risk.

I'm willing to make mistakes--even publicly on this blog. It's a small price to pay for the privilege and freedom of speaking out.

I'm still on this journey and I can tell you one thing for sure: this journey doesn't end in Hell.