Through Thick and Thin

Today marks eight years since my dad was called heavenward.

This day sucks. A lot. Although I guess that goes without saying.

I considered writing him another letter, much like the one I wrote two years ago. I’d cover things like how I listen to podcasts and it reminds me of him listening to talk radio – I even add my own commentary like he used to. I’d tell him how I saw one of his old coworkers after spin class and immediately wanted to call him. I’d let him know that despite the fact that there are still days where I am overwhelmed with unfathomable grief, I’m choosing to not be a victim of my circumstances.

Instead today I choose to tell a story of the day my relationship with my dad changed.

Let me start this by saying I was a terrible teenager. I know this is hard to believe because I’m such a phenomenal human being now – but just call up my mother. She’s got some horror stories. Topping that list is most likely the story below (or possibly the time she found my emo thoughts journal where I wrote about how much I hated her but I WAS AN ANGSTY TEENAGER OK times have changed).

I was a freshman in high school in Minnesota and struggled with self-mutilation and was having a particularly bad episode on the day this story takes place. I don’t recall what the catalyst was, but I do remember screaming at my mother that she doesn’t know what it feels like to wish you didn’t exist (this is the part where I remind you how awesome and *mostly* mentally stable I am today). This spurs some verbal sparring that ends with me locking myself into my bathroom and carving the words “FUCK YOU” into my bicep. Very proud moment for me, infinitely grateful that particular incision didn’t scar.

Naturally my parents fear for my life – because they are good parents who love me despite what you might read in my emo thoughts journal. My mother calls the suicide hotline while my dad stays in my room.

At this point I’m given two options – my parents will either call the police to come pick me up to take me to the hospital, or I can willingly get in the car with my dad to be taken to the hospital. It’s safe to assume that I got in the car with my dad to head to the hospital. I had my rational moments.

The car ride to the emergency room was silent except the occasional sound of my dad running his thumb along his knee. The silence continues while we check into the ER and wait what felt like hours to be called in to an evaluation room. As time passes the tension lessens between us and we are finally called into a room to speak with someone about the reason we are there.

Upon telling the gentleman the reason for our visit, he asks to see the location of the most recent mutilation. I pull my shirt to show him the eloquent phrase etched into my skin – to which he replies with one word. “Nice.” He finishes his charting and we are taken to another room.

Here we are told we will be met by a doctor shortly. In the hallway there’s a homeless man shouting about how “No white man popo gonna take me down!” and it is at this point I realize maybe this isn’t the place I want to be. Dad and I exchange glances and a chuckle when the doctor comes in to chat with us.

After a short conversation about my history of self-mutilation, what medication I’m on, and the frequency of these episodes he pulls my dad into the hallway. When they return we are again presented with options – the psych ward in the Minneapolis hospital we were at was full, but I could be taken at the psych ward in Saint Cloud OR if I felt okay I could go home.

My dad turned to look at me, considered some things, then returned his gaze to the doctor and said this:

“I think she’s going to be alright.”

We are given the go ahead to leave and in the car dad asks me if I want to go through the Taco Bell drive thru. I ordered my first ever Crunchwrap Supreme and we joke and laugh on the ride home.

It was this moment that gave me hope for my future. It was this man that I am incredibly proud to call my dad. My dad instilled a faith in myself that has brought endless encouragement since that day.  I am so grateful for a father who stuck with me through the scary times.

Today I raise a chalice of the nectar of the gods (Mountain Dew, obviously), chow down on some Chipotle, and watch Star Wars in his memory.

Love you, dad – to infinity, and beyond.

Sticks and Stones

Ten years ago I quit.

I had gotten into a fight with my mother the evening before. Despite our very close relationship now, which I believe has only been emboldened by these many occurrences, we did that a lot back then. I got upset, and returned to the thing I had given up nine months prior.

The next day at school I turned to my best friend and told her what had happened. She in turn called her mother, who then called our principal at the time. I was sitting in Biology when I was pulled out of class.

This wasn’t my first time being pulled out of class for this reason. It had happened when I was living in Minnesota and my friends were concerned. The counselor told me I needed to get help, and when I told her I was seeing a counselor once a week she didn’t believe me. She was a little shocked when she got my mother on the phone and my statement was confirmed.

Carol pulled me out of class and we sat down. She knew me personally, which isn’t difficult when you’re at a private school with a graduating class size of 74. I was very close with her two sons that were around my age, I had spent movie nights at her house, and she cared about me as an individual. She asked me to roll my shirt to my elbow.

The word “worthless” was carved into my forearm. The letters were neat and methodical, not haphazardly scribbled. All thin red lines from the blade I stole from a shaving razor the night before. Much less offensive than the time "Fuck You" was etched into my inner bicep. 

It's a little ironic that that was the last thing that I wrote while self mutilating, because it's the very belief that got me into the mess in the first place. I was incapable of helping a friend of mine which resulted in their self harm, and I believed the lie that I was worthless and unable to be a productive friend.

As I sat with Carol in the hallway outside the biology class she took my hand, looked me square in the eye, and said to me "Bekah - you are not worthless. You are a daughter of the Most High King. And your friendship is worth everything to my family. Please do not believe that lie."

At that moment I realized that my actions had not only impacted me, but those around me. I was worth something to the people I had chosen to surround myself with, and that's what incited the change in me.

The past decade hasn't been easy - depression is a bitch of a disease that always finds a way to rear it's head. I lost my father in that time frame. At points I've struggled with nihilism. I've graduated college, stood next to friends during their weddings, and been a shoulder to lean on through divorces. I've had my heart broken and I found the joy that comes with adopting a dog.

Life isn't easy - but I'm glad I discovered it's worth it. 

riptide.

"Bekah - how do you find all of these adventures?"

When you're a girl that almost falls into the "severe" category when tested for social anxiety, this is not a question you expect to have directed towards you. When you find that it has been, it puts a shyly confident smirk on your face every time you think about it.

For much of my life I've allowed myself to be defined by my fear of failure. If I didn't know for a fact that I would succeed, I avoided the activity at all costs. I was consumed by the idea of appearing incompetent. Incompetent people, in my mind, brought nothing to the table and thus were not valued within a community and left behind. I had to make a choice to shift my mentality in order to live a life more abundant.

I find these adventures because I decided that the world is a beautiful place that deserves to be explored and experienced - despite an occasionally debilitating mental illness. I find these adventures by deciding to rise above my anxiety and ignoring that little voice in my head telling me that when I fail I'm going to look like a fool.

The photo above that found it's way to my Instagram doesn't simply represent a (phenomenal, if I may toot my own horn) sandwich that I made. Instead it tells me a story about how I tried something new despite the fact that it could come out as a failure. In fact, it did start out as a perceived failure. The hummus wasn't quite the right consistency [read: it wasn't the consistency I had planned for - the chunkiness adds great texture!], nor was it packing a punch of flavor [again: preconceived ideas can really be a bitch because it just needed time to sit]. 

Social media has a reputation of advertising a life better than the one actually being lived. Instagram is a medium I utilize to document experiences that range from everyday to extraordinary. My posts remind me that beauty can be found in any experience. So maybe my account does portray a life of adventure - but that's because I choose to treat every moment of my short time on this earth as such.

Daughter of the Bride

Most maid of Honor speeches start with how the MOH knows the bride. Well you see – when a man and a woman love each other very much…

But really – most of you can follow Mom and my antics on Instagram (follow me @bekahlarson) from regularly scheduled walks to Panera, to modern dance lessons, to lengthy birthday shout outs, you can tell this woman means the world to me.

However, it hasn’t always been all Mountain Dew and Power Sandwiches. As hard as it may be to imagine, I was a difficult child. All through my stages of punk/emo/goth to thug money corn rows, my mother taught me, not through words, but actions what it means to be a Proverbs 31 woman.

Proverbs 31:15 states: “She gets up while it is still night; she provides food for her family and portions for her female servants.” My brothers and I could not have gone hungry a day in our lives because every morning my mother was up before the sun making us breakfast. She’s the type of woman that won’t sleep if there is something that needs to be done. Case in point, I needed Mickey Mouse ears for a skit I was a part of in the eighth grade. Ladelle stayed up all night looking for those ears while I slept and threw out her back in the process, but didn’t cease until I had those ears in my hands. We could all learn a thing or two about tenacity from her.

Proverbs 31:20 goes on to say: “She opens her arms to the poor and extends her hands to the needy.” I see her exemplify this in the way she interacts with people that can be tiresome, overwhelming, and difficult to love – most of the time that person was me. Through these situations I have seen her exude patience, self-sacrifice, and unconditional love – things I would not have learned from a textbook but only from my mother leading by example.

Proverbs 31:26 is the one that makes me reflect most on my mother. “She speaks with wisdom, and faithful instruction is on her tongue.” If I had a dollar for every time I have come to Ladelle and told her I realized something she had told me years before to be true, I would be rich. Mom is the type of person who will hear you out and give you sound advice – whether it’s the answer you want to hear or not.

Her children arise and call her blessed; her husband also, and he praises her.

Not too long ago, Jim entered into mom’s life. I wish I could have captured the joy on moms face when she told me about their first failed date. Jim had planned on going to the Amway for a Magic game …. Which happened to be a game taking place out in California. Then he tried to walk in to a swanky restaurant he had heard about… that almost always requires a reservation in order to dine. In a last ditch effort he suggested they go see the Orchestra at Lake Eola… and walked up to the band shell being cleaned out. All of these events caused him to go with the flow and fly by the seat of his pants – traits that win a woman like my mother over despite what many may have called a “failed” date.

Over time Jim and Ladelle grew steadily closer – spending time actually attending Magic Games, going out on the Paddle Board, watching Micah play Lacrosse, and it was an endless seafood cooking class in Mom’s kitchen. Somewhere along the way they fell in love – and in true Ladelle fashion, when she decides on something, that’s what happens. And thus two months later, here we are.

Jim and Ladelle – I am honored to have a part in celebrating you two on your wedding day. I wish you love, laughter, and happily ever after. Congratulations to the bride and groom!

Yes Life

I'm the kind of girl that ranks compliments I receive. For a long time the indisputable winner was when I stood in a museum in London and my very brilliant friend turned to me and said "Bekah - If we went to Hogwarts, you would be a Ravenclaw."

That was challenged on Earth Day 2015.

I was standing in the grass outside of the office trying to get an .:{|ArTsY|}:.picture of my feet so I could create a before/after Birkenstock compilation when I heard a giggle from across the parking lot. My coworker lifted her head, shook it, and said with a smile on her face “Bekah – you live such a YES life.”

I didn’t quite get it – all I was doing was taking a simple picture of my feet. So I stored that thought away and proceeded on with my day.

It finally hit me.

About a month ago a dear friend asked about my evening plans and I excitedly described my itinerary. I was going to pop into The Woods about 6:00pm with my book (currently: The Lost World by Michael Chrichton) and wait for the acquaintance that was to accompany me, meet up with a very old friend from my Disney days, and attend the Lord Huron concert – which was quite possibly my ideal evening. I ended the conversation with “I’m finally doing the things I’ve always wanted to do, you know?”

I am living a yes life.

A “yes” life is not about saying yes to everything that comes onto your radar, nor is it saying yes to everything you want to do – it’s about saying yes to the things that enhance your life.

It hasn’t been an easy journey, this whole “contentment in self/yes life” thing. I still have panic attacks and I struggle with worrying what other people think about me, but my oh my has it been worth it.  

Puzzle Pieces

"You've been on tinder for two years and you've still never had a committed relationship? What's wrong with you?"

"Eventually you'll have to tell me why you're so closely guarded."

"You come across as so broken. What happened?"

"I still feel that somebody hurt you so much to the bone."

"I want to be the guy that makes you believe again."

All of the above are things that have been said to me in the past month. This is what it looks like to be a single, 25 year old woman in the year 2015 - and I can't say that I don't understand where these young men are coming from.

Somewhere along the way I grew to believe that my worth comes from a romantic relationship, and that if I pray long enough and hard enough that some day my prince would come. Unfortunately, I don't believe I stand alone when it comes to this mindset.

Maybe it was the Church, or pop culture and romantic comedies. Perhaps it was even some other outlet that I haven't thought about yet. At the end of the day I don't believe it was intentional or malicious, but the seed still took root in the minds and hearts of young, impressionable individuals like me.

If I could say one thing, it would be this: I am no more broken than anybody else.

I could easily blame daddy issues, pop culture, or organized religion for the feeling of being unwanted for the majority of my life. At the end of the day I have to look at myself and my life and know that the reason I haven't been in a relationship is because I haven't found somebody that I want to be with - and that's okay. There have been plenty of young men that I have wanted to be with who simply did not reciprocate the sentiment, and I can't hold a grudge against them because sometimes the feeling simply is not there. I know this because I have been the one that didn't reciprocate.

Recently I had it put to me this way: if you were a complete, whole, and non damaged puzzle piece, what would the puzzle piece that complements you look like? This is quite possibly the most beautiful way I have had the idea of a partner brought to me. A puzzle is not comprised  of just two pieces, and those two pieces cannot capture the beauty of a picture as a whole. That particular piece that fits alongside yours does not define the entire landscape of your life's picture - nor does it need to be a romantically interested puzzle piece. 

My twenty-fifth year has been one of the most fulfilling years I have experienced yet. I attend almost every concert I want to go to, I go to Disney World with family and friends, I'm going out and meeting new people, investing in the friendships I have here as well as across the United States, and (my all-time favorite) making time for nights on the couch with wine and Netflix.

Young gentlemen and possible suitors - please know that I don't need a hero, nor do I need to be saved. I never stopped believing in love... I just realized that there is so much more to life than romantic relationships.

#OrlandoDoesn'tSuck

A little over a year ago I went to a little bar in Orlando called Redlight Redlight for the first time. I had moved back to the area two years prior following graduation and was really struggling with making the city my home. Our bartender had a shirt on that told it's readers "#OrlandoDoesn'tSuck" to which I scoffed, bellied up, and asked him to explain to me why that was the case.

Fast forward one year and I couldn't be happier that Orlando is the city I call home - which is ironic because a month ago I was still considering up and moving to Phoenix, AZ because I thought location was the source of my discontent.

Post grad life is hard, especially when you move 8 hours away from where your friends you've spent the last four years with are. This makes it easy to blame your unhappiness on location as opposed to the lack of effort you've put into exploring your new home and investing in potential friends. It's easy to look at instagram and see your friends all out having a phenomenal time in Atlanta, Minneapolis, or New York City while you pout on your couch about how #OrlandoSucks and you post a photo of wine stained coffee mug.

That night at Redlight Redlight was the start to me truly exploring Orlando and finding the nooks and crannies that make it lovable. I went to Park Ave CD's and purchased a record that same night. A couple weeks after that I went to the Social for the first time to see a band that I had been wanting to see, and thus began my love affair with concerts. Since October of 2014, not a single month has gone by where I have not gone to a show. Whether it be Andrew McMahon at The Beacham (which is by far my favorite concert I've ever attended, btw), the Black Keys at the Amway, or going to Big Guava in Tampa, I've made a point to make live music a priority. Sometimes that even means buying a ticket and going by myself.

A few more notable Orlando mentions include the Stardust Lounge near Lake Eola where I went to a burlesque show and met the Orlando Rugby team that I still spend time with to this day. I recently became an annual pass holder out at Disney which has led to me meeting some of the neatest, most talented individuals in the city that I now get to call friends. I've become a regular at Wekiva Island and have the time of my life giggling at inside jokes with the bartenders and teasing the other regulars. There is also Orlando City Soccer, our own MLS team, right here in Orlando that I go out and support with my fellow Orlandians (is that a thing?)

I suppose what I'm getting at is that maybe the bartender at Redlight Redlight wasn't wrong. Maybe it wasn't Orlando that sucked but rather my attitude. Momma Larson always says to "bloom where you're planted" which maybe isn't such a bad idea - it is springtime, after all.