because it is art, only now would we call this art.
love, jessieh
PS: Jen and I are having loads of fun.
and I miss the twins and Ms.Hepburn and Mere.
6.30.2007
6.29.2007
6.26.2007
Why I Chose Abortion by Gretchen Voss
To balance things out a bit:
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Real Life: Why I Chose Abortion
By Gretchen Voss
Fireworks lit up the sky; great, big booming explosions of color. It was New Year's Eve 2002, and I'd just found out I was pregnant with my first child. Surrounded by a dozen friends on Cape Cod, I thought those fireworks were meant just for me.
Fireworks lit up the sky; great, big booming explosions of color. It was New Year's Eve 2002, and I'd just found out I was pregnant with my first child. Surrounded by a dozen friends on Cape Cod, I thought those fireworks were meant just for me.
We wanted to keep it a secret, my husband, Dave, and I, so I stealthily poured nonalcoholic O'Doul's into my frosty mug, trying to act like I was the same old person I was yesterday. That lasted about an hour. I've never been good with secrets, especially life-changing ones.
Four blissful months later, the lights dimmed and the screen brightened. My rounded belly was covered in slick, warm gel. As I lay back on the cushy examining table at my doctor's office in Lexington, MA, fuzzy gray images of our baby pulsed on the monitor. It was curled up like a question mark in my womb -- our baby -- and Dave and I oohed and aahed over its perfect little features. "Is it a boy or a girl?" I asked, giddy -- thinking, really, that the sole purpose of this routine full-fetal ultrasound was to determine what color to paint the nursery. The technician was quiet. Evasive. Her furrowed-brow focus finally brought an end to my bubbly chitchat, and I began to feel uncomfortable. Then she left the room, and I started to panic. Trying to distract myself as the seconds stretched into minutes, I stared up at the silly pictures of fuzzy kittens and kissing dolphins taped to the ceiling. When she returned, she said that our doctor wanted to see us upstairs. Dave murmured reassurances, but it did no good. I started crying. I could barely get my maternity clothes back on.
Four blissful months later, the lights dimmed and the screen brightened. My rounded belly was covered in slick, warm gel. As I lay back on the cushy examining table at my doctor's office in Lexington, MA, fuzzy gray images of our baby pulsed on the monitor. It was curled up like a question mark in my womb -- our baby -- and Dave and I oohed and aahed over its perfect little features. "Is it a boy or a girl?" I asked, giddy -- thinking, really, that the sole purpose of this routine full-fetal ultrasound was to determine what color to paint the nursery. The technician was quiet. Evasive. Her furrowed-brow focus finally brought an end to my bubbly chitchat, and I began to feel uncomfortable. Then she left the room, and I started to panic. Trying to distract myself as the seconds stretched into minutes, I stared up at the silly pictures of fuzzy kittens and kissing dolphins taped to the ceiling. When she returned, she said that our doctor wanted to see us upstairs. Dave murmured reassurances, but it did no good. I started crying. I could barely get my maternity clothes back on.
The waiting room upstairs, usually bustling with radiantly serene pregnant women devouring parenting magazines, was empty. My doctor -- young and trim, and usually quick with a smile -- was tight-lipped as she led us back to her office, the half-eaten contents of her lunch and photos of her own children scattered about the desk. The ultrasound, she said, indicated that the fetus had an "open neural tube defect," a spinal-cord condition with a range of severity from life-threatening to hardly noticeable. We had to go to Boston, she said, immediately, today, where a new, high-tech machine could tell us more. She directed someone to make an appointment and give us directions. Then she abruptly left us to cry.
There were no fuzzy kittens or dolphins in that stark white hospital room at Beth Israel Deaconess Medical Center in downtown Boston. Just ominous-looking machines and monitors that beeped and whirred. Dave grasped my hand tightly as the technician squirted gel over my belly and rolled a cold wand across my roundness, gently punching it down here and there unexpectedly, trying to get the baby to move and provide a better view on the screen. I couldn't bear to see my baby in sharp, black-and-white relief -- What does a life-threatening spinal condition look like? -- so I stared at the technician, like a panicked airline passenger caught in a thunderstorm, taking her cues from the expression on a flight attendant's face. But the technician revealed nothing. She did not utter one syllable in 45 minutes.
And then she spoke words no pregnant woman wants to hear. Instead of "healthy" and "strong," our baby was discussed in clinical terms like "hydrocephalus" and "spina bifida." Like a defective zipper, the spine hadn't closed all the way, and a gaping hole was located near the brain -- the worst possible spot. What the doctors knew -- that the baby would be paralyzed and incontinent, its brain smushed against the base of the skull and the cranium filled with fluid -- was awful. What they didn't know -- whether it would live, and if so, the degree of mental and developmental defects -- was devastating. If the baby did live, countless surgeries would be required, and none of them would repair the damage that was already done.
And then she spoke words no pregnant woman wants to hear. Instead of "healthy" and "strong," our baby was discussed in clinical terms like "hydrocephalus" and "spina bifida." Like a defective zipper, the spine hadn't closed all the way, and a gaping hole was located near the brain -- the worst possible spot. What the doctors knew -- that the baby would be paralyzed and incontinent, its brain smushed against the base of the skull and the cranium filled with fluid -- was awful. What they didn't know -- whether it would live, and if so, the degree of mental and developmental defects -- was devastating. If the baby did live, countless surgeries would be required, and none of them would repair the damage that was already done.
I was numb with shock. It sounds naive now, but I'd never considered pregnancy a gamble. Nobody warned me that what was rooting around inside my body was a hope, not a promise.
Sitting in the genetic counselor's windowless office, I tried to read between the lines of complicated medical jargon, searching for answers that weren't there. But I already knew what I had to do. Even if our baby had a remote chance of surviving, it was not a life that we would choose for our child.
Sitting in the genetic counselor's windowless office, I tried to read between the lines of complicated medical jargon, searching for answers that weren't there. But I already knew what I had to do. Even if our baby had a remote chance of surviving, it was not a life that we would choose for our child.
In Washington, DC, on the same day I decided to terminate my pregnancy, lawmakers gathered to discuss a new bill -- one that would effectively outlaw so-called partial-birth abortions, the term preferred by pro-lifers to put a decidedly graphic spin on abortions that occur after the first trimester. It wasn't an issue I'd given much thought to, since I'd long been ready to have children of my own. Although I'd always considered myself pro-choice, I just assumed that meant choosing whether or not to keep a baby after an accidental pregnancy, not whether or not to terminate a pregnancy after you'd already fallen in love with your child.
Looking back, I'm not sure which was worse: the three days leading up to the procedure (like most women who have gone through it, I've never called it an abortion) or the rip current of emotions following it.
Looking back, I'm not sure which was worse: the three days leading up to the procedure (like most women who have gone through it, I've never called it an abortion) or the rip current of emotions following it.
Walking around with a belly full of broken dreams, I felt like I was drowning. I couldn't shower, because I didn't want to touch my stomach and accept that there was life in there; yet I couldn't bring myself to have a glass of wine to calm my nerves, because, of course, I knew there was.
My decision tortured me. This wasn't some mysterious clump of cells that would simply be sucked away in a vacuum. This was a 19-week-old baby, one that I desperately wanted, that would be pulled out of me bit by bit -- that's the way it works through the "dilation and evacuation" procedure.
My decision tortured me. This wasn't some mysterious clump of cells that would simply be sucked away in a vacuum. This was a 19-week-old baby, one that I desperately wanted, that would be pulled out of me bit by bit -- that's the way it works through the "dilation and evacuation" procedure.
I asked over and over, Are we doing the right thing? Our family -- even my Catholic father and Republican father-in-law, neither of whom were ever pro-choice -- assured us that we were. Politics suddenly became personal -- their daughter's heartbreak, their son's pain, their grandchild's suffering -- and that changed everything.
My regular obstetrician, who only handled healthy pregnancies, referred us to someone else. I was glad. Whereas she'd seemed cold and dismissive upon learning of my decision to terminate the pregnancy, I felt nothing but compassion from my new doctor, who reminded me in looks and manner of Dr. Larch in The Cider House Rules.
His eyes, the kindest, saddest I'd ever seen, teared up as Dave and I cried in front of him.
In his cramped and unfashionable private office in Brookline, he started the two-day termination process by inserting four laminaria sticks (made of dried seaweed) into my cervix. The pain was excruciating, like needles piercing my abdomen, and he apologized over and over as I cried out. Afterward, ghostly white and shaking, I could barely walk to the recovery room. The pain increased through the long night as the sticks collected fluids from my body and expanded, dilating my cervix as though I were in the beginning stages of labor.
My regular obstetrician, who only handled healthy pregnancies, referred us to someone else. I was glad. Whereas she'd seemed cold and dismissive upon learning of my decision to terminate the pregnancy, I felt nothing but compassion from my new doctor, who reminded me in looks and manner of Dr. Larch in The Cider House Rules.
His eyes, the kindest, saddest I'd ever seen, teared up as Dave and I cried in front of him.
In his cramped and unfashionable private office in Brookline, he started the two-day termination process by inserting four laminaria sticks (made of dried seaweed) into my cervix. The pain was excruciating, like needles piercing my abdomen, and he apologized over and over as I cried out. Afterward, ghostly white and shaking, I could barely walk to the recovery room. The pain increased through the long night as the sticks collected fluids from my body and expanded, dilating my cervix as though I were in the beginning stages of labor.
The next morning in the operating room, I was petrified and fought the anesthesia, clinging to my last moments of pregnancy. As I finally started to drift off, my doctor held one of my hands and an older, female nurse held the other, whispering in my ear, "You're going to be okay, I've been here before, lean on your husband." It's my last memory of the experience. When I woke up, it was all over. I was empty.
For the next week, my mother tried to bring me back to life with grilled-cheese sandwiches and chicken noodle soup. But I felt like a freak in a world of capable women having babies -- Why did my body betray me? -- and for months I quarantined myself from the world. I just couldn't bear well-meaning friends saying, "I'm so sorry."
I took that nurse's advice and leaned on my husband. He seemed so resolved in our decision, in a way that I just couldn't be. Perhaps it was guilt -- it was my body that had failed us all: my husband, myself, our baby. Dave was strong where I was weak. But then I found him one night, all alone, kneeling on the floor of our bathroom with the light off and the door half-closed, doubled over, bawling. It nearly killed me, and I realized then that I did not own this pain alone.
In an effort to pull myself together, I wrote my doctor a long note on my good wedding stationery. I thanked him for his compassion and said that it must be hard, what he does, but that I hoped he found consolation in the fact that he was helping women at their most vulnerable. When I went in for my six-week checkup, he told me that he kept my note, along with other letters of appreciation, in a large bundle, to remind him of why he does this difficult work. And he keeps that bundle right next to his stack of hate mail, which is about the same size.
In an effort to pull myself together, I wrote my doctor a long note on my good wedding stationery. I thanked him for his compassion and said that it must be hard, what he does, but that I hoped he found consolation in the fact that he was helping women at their most vulnerable. When I went in for my six-week checkup, he told me that he kept my note, along with other letters of appreciation, in a large bundle, to remind him of why he does this difficult work. And he keeps that bundle right next to his stack of hate mail, which is about the same size.
Seven months later, in November 2003, 14 weeks into my second pregnancy, I gently rubbed my rounded belly, tears rolling down my cheeks as I watched George W. Bush sign the Partial Birth Abortion Ban Act on CNN. It would be at least two more weeks before I could learn via ultrasound if this baby squirming around inside my womb was healthy or not. Taking in the scene, I understood that if this baby were plagued with the same genetic defects as my last, any choices I had were being taken away from me.
Once the president signed the act -- the first federal ban on any abortion procedure in the 30 years since Roe v. Wade, and the first ban on a surgical technique in the history of this country -- the 400-strong crowd at the ceremony exploded in whoops and hollers. "For years a terrible form of violence has been directed against children who are inches away from birth, while the law looked the other way," Bush said. It was time to "defend the life of the innocent."
I stared at the screen. The president was, in essence, calling me a baby killer. Even members of the Democratic Party -- 17 in all -- voted for the ban. One of my own senators, John Kerry, perhaps looking to dodge the liberal label in anticipation of his bid for the White House, conveniently missed one of the key votes (as did his future running mate, John Edwards).
According to the Bush administration, the new law would put an end to the "gruesome and inhumane" procedure used to kill healthy babies after the first trimester. But the language of the law was less clear. Essentially, legislators invented a previously nonexistent medical term -- "partial-birth abortion" -- and then banned it. By giving it a purposely vague definition, the term could feasibly apply to all abortions after the first trimester, including my own.
Legislators also made no mention of fetal viability (the point at which a fetus can live independently of its mother for an extended period of time) or gestational age. There were no exceptions for a fetus with severe birth defects incompatible with life (many of which cannot be detected until well into the second trimester). Nor for a mother who would be forced to have, for example, a kidney transplant or hysterectomy if she continued with the pregnancy.
"When we look to the unborn child," Bush said into the television cameras, "the real issue is not when life begins, but when love begins."
I stared at the screen. The president was, in essence, calling me a baby killer. Even members of the Democratic Party -- 17 in all -- voted for the ban. One of my own senators, John Kerry, perhaps looking to dodge the liberal label in anticipation of his bid for the White House, conveniently missed one of the key votes (as did his future running mate, John Edwards).
According to the Bush administration, the new law would put an end to the "gruesome and inhumane" procedure used to kill healthy babies after the first trimester. But the language of the law was less clear. Essentially, legislators invented a previously nonexistent medical term -- "partial-birth abortion" -- and then banned it. By giving it a purposely vague definition, the term could feasibly apply to all abortions after the first trimester, including my own.
Legislators also made no mention of fetal viability (the point at which a fetus can live independently of its mother for an extended period of time) or gestational age. There were no exceptions for a fetus with severe birth defects incompatible with life (many of which cannot be detected until well into the second trimester). Nor for a mother who would be forced to have, for example, a kidney transplant or hysterectomy if she continued with the pregnancy.
"When we look to the unborn child," Bush said into the television cameras, "the real issue is not when life begins, but when love begins."
Over the next 36 months, three federal courts -- as well as three appellate courts -- struck down the ban as unconstitutional. But on November 8, 2006, the eight men and one woman of the Supreme Court heard two new arguments on the ban -- both of which, experts predict, could result in expanding its reach. The Supreme Court upheld the Partial Birth Abortion Ban Act in a ruling on April 18, 2007.
Maureen Britell used to stand outside a Planned Parenthood in Maryland shouting Hail Marys. A devout Irish Catholic, Britell was raised to believe "abortions were for bad girls who couldn't keep their legs closed," she says. Her husband, a major in the Air Force, flew F-15s for a living. Then, when she was five months pregnant with her second child, Britell found out their baby girl had anencephaly -- no brain or any chance of life.
"Could we have continued the pregnancy? I guess, but we'd have been on a death watch," Britell says today. Because they were Catholics, the Britells decided to have a labor induction instead of a surgical abortion so that they could baptize and bury their daughter whole. But, after 13 hours of labor, the baby came out breech, stuck in the birth canal with a too-short umbilical cord. Halfway delivered, the doctors had no choice but to cut the cord, an "overt act" that killed the baby while partially delivered. In other words: a partial-birth abortion.
As if the heartbreak weren't enough, CHAMPUS, the government-funded health insurance for military families, refused to pay Britell's $8,000 hospital bill, as it does not cover abortion unless the woman's life is in jeopardy. In the middle of the financial battle, the Britells went to church on Mother's Day, which was also the occasion of their 6-year-old daughter's First Communion. After the service, Britell was confronted by dozens of chanting protesters from the National Right to Life. Her pastor -- who knew about her baby girl -- had sold her out.
It's holiday season 2006, and I'm deep inside the concrete bowels of the University of Connecticut Health Center in Farmington. Down hidden elevators and along desolate corridors littered with abandoned filing cabinets, I see the sign I've been searching for: "H.O.P.E. Memorial Service," written on blue construction paper. It stands for Helping Other Parents Endure, a support group for families who've terminated a pregnancy due to fetal abnormalities. Tonight is its annual memorial service.
It has been three years since I ended my pregnancy. Gathering with strangers feels awkward. The room is too large for such an intimate gathering. The event organizer hands me a 14-page program, filled with beautiful poems and letters submitted by other parents. I didn't submit anything. She asks me to sign the guest book with my baby's name and take an ornament: pink angels for little girls, blue ones for little boys. I tell her I didn't know whether my baby was a boy or a girl, and we never gave it a name. She feels bad that she didn't consider that circumstance. I feel bad that maybe I didn't mourn properly.
After a few words by the chaplain, the social worker leads us through a door onto a dark concrete patio. In a tight circle, we light candles off one another with shaking hands. "I light this candle in honor of..." each person says, then recites the child's name. Abigail and Travis and Grady. I say, simply, "Baby Voss." "Now we'll blow out the candles," the social worker says. "But the light your child brought into your life will never be extinguished." I lower my head to blow out my candle, but the flame is already gone. The freezing wind blew right through my protective hand and took the light away from me.
It's an awkward process. Just a month before, I find myself sitting in the dining room of the Concord Country Club at a baby shower for a pregnant friend. Over plates of salmon, the foursome at my table shares hilarious tales of raising children. Then the woman next to me turns and says brightly, "I want a third child, don't you?"
I don't know what to say.
These women are aware only of the two healthy boys I've had in the past two years, not my first child, whom I will never know. As I sit in the members' dining room, I feel like an outsider. Pregnancy, for me, is an experience I associate with sheer terror. How do I explain to this woman that carrying my two sons to term left me exhausted from worrying? That as I consulted genetic counselors and gobbled down massive doses of folic acid, I floated in an emotional no-man's-land, completely unable to attach to the new life in my belly?
While I scramble to find some suitable answer to her question, I can feel the ears of a friend at the next table prick up. Last year, in her 18th week, she, too, terminated a pregnancy that had gone horribly wrong. She knew my story -- her parents and my in-laws are friends -- and she called me. I remember her asking through tears, "What am I going to tell everyone? What if people judge me?"
While I scramble to find some suitable answer to her question, I can feel the ears of a friend at the next table prick up. Last year, in her 18th week, she, too, terminated a pregnancy that had gone horribly wrong. She knew my story -- her parents and my in-laws are friends -- and she called me. I remember her asking through tears, "What am I going to tell everyone? What if people judge me?"
"Just tell them you lost the baby," I said. "It's nobody's business, anyway."
We talked for a long time that night. But we haven't talked about it since.
Turning to my cheerful tablemate, I briefly consider telling her the truth. Then, instead, I mumble something lame, like, "Kids are a handful -- I think we're all set with two." As the words leave my mouth, I feel like my silence is letting all of us down.
On one level, it's nobody's business, I realize. But on another, isn't it everybody's?
We talked for a long time that night. But we haven't talked about it since.
Turning to my cheerful tablemate, I briefly consider telling her the truth. Then, instead, I mumble something lame, like, "Kids are a handful -- I think we're all set with two." As the words leave my mouth, I feel like my silence is letting all of us down.
On one level, it's nobody's business, I realize. But on another, isn't it everybody's?
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love, jessieh
Adoption over Abortion by Donna Lewis
READERS NOTE: I AM NOT AGAINST ABORTION IN CASES OF RAPE. I BELIEVE THAT ABORTION SHOULD REMAIN SAFE AND LEGAL.
'I Received Grace'
A young woman, pregnant by a stranger's rape, chooses adoption over abortion.
By Donna Lewis
It was January, and cold. I sat in the frigid car, my insides twisting in fear, tears streaming down my face. It was an ugly cry. I sobbed out loud, and pounded my head on the steering wheel. What now? I was at a complete loss. I prayed for an earthquake that would make the brick building in front of me crumble and crush my car—with me in it. I just wanted to be dead.
This was my second abortion appointment. The first was canceled because I had to pay for the abortion up front, and all I had was a check. They didn't take checks. I had to make another appointment. This was it.
I took a deep breath and started the car. Frosty air blasted from the vents and kicked me out of my hysteria and into a dull, nearly comatose state. My nose was completely plugged, and my eyes were swollen and felt like gravel. I should have headed back to school, but I didn't want to. All I knew was the overwhelming need to flee the clinic parking lot.
It had all started four months before with a group of friends out to have a good time downtown. Since there were so many of us, we all agreed that if we got separated, we would meet back at a particular building whose lobby was usually open after hours, and where we liked to hang out on the roof and talk about everything and nothing. Forget getting in touch by cell phone—at the time, only CEOs and high-ranking government officials had them.
We did get separated along the way, when I had to go to the restroom and my friends took off. I couldn't find them, so I decided to go to the roof of our building and wait.
I waited for a few minutes. Since it was October and somewhat chilly, I decided to wait in the lobby instead. I got in the elevator, and a man entered a few floors down. This man pressed the emergency stop button and coldly raped me as I struggled in vain to fight him off. He got off at the next floor and left me a crumpled mess on the elevator floor.
My mind was in chaos. What had just happened? I could make no sense of it whatsoever. My brain cells slowly reorganized themselves in an attempt to deny the incident. I left without meeting my friends and simply went home, took a shower and went to bed.
I am not sure I would have ever mentally revisited that night again. But I was pregnant.
Initially I would not even entertain the idea. I was stressed. Finals were around the corner. My dad was let go from his job. There were plenty of things that could cause stress and mess with my system. I even refused to acknowledge the vague nausea I felt every night. Nerves, I supposed.
But after three months, I could not deny it much longer. I told a friend of mine who worked with me at the library, and she took me to her OB/GYN. I had never been to one before. I gazed at the diagrams of unborn babies on the wall, used so that women who were excited about their babies could see exactly what was going on inside their bodies. I couldn't stop staring at the tiny little toes on the picture of the four-month pre-developed baby. Ten tiny toes. Perfect.
The doctor didn't notice my gaze when he came back with my test results. Even though I knew it already, it still felt like I'd been hit in the stomach with a baseball bat when I heard, "Well, the test is positive. What would you like to do?"
After collecting my breath, I asked for clarification. "Do? What should I do?" He looked right into my eyes and said, "I can schedule an abortion for you if you like."
Silence.
Likely knowing that I would have sat there in his office in a stupor all afternoon, he gave me a card with a phone number for the clinic down the street, wished me luck, and ushered me out.
I grew up in a home that followed the teachings of Jesus Christ. I had dedicated myself to that relationship years earlier. It was expected that I would graduate from college, have a wonderful career, marry and have a bunch of children. This horrible event was not part of the plan; I had never discussed with anyone, investigated for myself, or even really heard in passing, what a woman's pregnancy options were.
Interestingly enough, my faith simultaneously drew me toward and away from an abortion.
The word "abortion" meant nothing to me. What had profound meaning was the phrase "pregnant out of wedlock." This phrase reverberated through my life, sending feelings of doom. I felt intense shame and embarrassment. I couldn't look anyone in the eye. It did not matter how it happened. I was, effectively, a statistic. Another black girl pregnant out of wedlock.
God set up some teachings that He knew we would need in order to be happiest and healthiest. It pleases God to see us live according to design. This includes the ideal of having children inside the protection of a good marriage. However, because of this principle, some Christians show disdain, even revulsion, toward women whose sexual lives are made public through pregnancy. That anticipation of judgment, pity, and being shunned as an "outsider" in my own church drew me toward an abortion. I did not anticipate grace from people.
But at the same time, that very same faith drew me away from the abortion. I knew of God's great affection for children, and His fierce desire to protect them. The Bible repeatedly speaks of how God wants us all to be like children. I knew He would not be thrilled if I decided to abort. I anticipated God's anger, which drew me away from an abortion. I did not anticipate grace from God either.
The fact is that I did receive grace. But I had to take a risk to receive it.
A few days later I called the number on the card I got from the OB/GYN and made an appointment for an abortion. When I tried to pay with a check, I was told I had to come back later. So two weeks later I did.
But the day I returned, hoping for a compassionate face, a smile, something, all I got was a cold question: "Do you have proper payment?" She didn't even look up. Something happened in that moment. Something broke inside me and I turned around and left without a word. There I sat sobbing in my car out in the cold. Lost.
After that I slowly changed my mind. I felt incapable of parenting, but I wanted this baby to live and decided to take a personal risk on her behalf and face whatever came my way. I told my parents. I told people in my church. And to my great surprise, I received grace. I was treated with such love, affection, compassion, and acceptance, it still amazes me. I couldn't even absorb it all at the time, but later the realization of it brought me to my knees in grateful tears for those people who demonstrated real grace to me—the kind of grace that God wanted to show, no matter what I might have decided.
Many have asked me why I decided to make an adoption plan for my daughter Vanessa, when some people would have understood if I aborted. I don't think there was any one reason—so many things merged into the eventual decision. I think my choice had four components:
Truth: I saw the truth of what was happening inside me. When I saw the medical pictures of fetal development, I couldn't deny that she was human.
Love: I secretly loved that baby. It seemed to me then that I wasn't supposed to love her because of the way she was conceived. I came to realize later that the love a woman has for her child has incredible strength—no matter what the child looks like, what handicap he may have, or the way he was conceived. I also wanted this child to have one thing I could not provide—the love of a daddy who had been waiting for her.
Vision: I had a vision of what I wanted. I wanted to be a mother someday. The conflict that went on in my head was this: How I could be a good mother later if I aborted my first child? I struggled with the knowledge that the value of a child is constant. My circumstances would continuously change. Should one of my children live or not live, depending on my changing circumstances? Or should I protect my children in the face of unpredictable circumstances? My desire became to protect this child, even though I couldn't figure out how to protect myself.
Belief: Even in my numb state, I believed that doing the right thing would benefit me at some point. The right thing was to let this child live. It did not feel good. I knew I would have to walk through five more months of stares, questions, and self-perception struggles. But I believed, and it turned out to be true.
The process of my pregnancy was the most painful, difficult, and frightfully emotional thing I have ever gone through. The healing process was not easy either.
However, I am now much stronger having fought my way through it, and I have been able to incorporate my experience into my life, and my career as a life coach. I believe that most women can choose to use similarly difficult experiences to become stronger, more self-aware, and more compassionate human beings.
Seeing my beautiful daughter has been a huge factor in helping to heal my wounded spirit from the violence of the rape. Beauty was brought from ashes. The world now has this incredible person with potential to give back in ways I cannot foresee. She, too, has brought grace into my life.
In the years since we've been in contact, I am increasingly proud of the decision I made. I am also proud of my daughter, a fabulous addition to the world. She is a happy, intelligent, centered, socially aware human being, preparing to be launched into young adulthood and make her mark in the world.
Take a risk to receive grace into your life. You might be surprised where you find it.
'I Received Grace'
A young woman, pregnant by a stranger's rape, chooses adoption over abortion.
By Donna Lewis
It was January, and cold. I sat in the frigid car, my insides twisting in fear, tears streaming down my face. It was an ugly cry. I sobbed out loud, and pounded my head on the steering wheel. What now? I was at a complete loss. I prayed for an earthquake that would make the brick building in front of me crumble and crush my car—with me in it. I just wanted to be dead.
This was my second abortion appointment. The first was canceled because I had to pay for the abortion up front, and all I had was a check. They didn't take checks. I had to make another appointment. This was it.
I took a deep breath and started the car. Frosty air blasted from the vents and kicked me out of my hysteria and into a dull, nearly comatose state. My nose was completely plugged, and my eyes were swollen and felt like gravel. I should have headed back to school, but I didn't want to. All I knew was the overwhelming need to flee the clinic parking lot.
It had all started four months before with a group of friends out to have a good time downtown. Since there were so many of us, we all agreed that if we got separated, we would meet back at a particular building whose lobby was usually open after hours, and where we liked to hang out on the roof and talk about everything and nothing. Forget getting in touch by cell phone—at the time, only CEOs and high-ranking government officials had them.
We did get separated along the way, when I had to go to the restroom and my friends took off. I couldn't find them, so I decided to go to the roof of our building and wait.
I waited for a few minutes. Since it was October and somewhat chilly, I decided to wait in the lobby instead. I got in the elevator, and a man entered a few floors down. This man pressed the emergency stop button and coldly raped me as I struggled in vain to fight him off. He got off at the next floor and left me a crumpled mess on the elevator floor.
My mind was in chaos. What had just happened? I could make no sense of it whatsoever. My brain cells slowly reorganized themselves in an attempt to deny the incident. I left without meeting my friends and simply went home, took a shower and went to bed.
I am not sure I would have ever mentally revisited that night again. But I was pregnant.
Initially I would not even entertain the idea. I was stressed. Finals were around the corner. My dad was let go from his job. There were plenty of things that could cause stress and mess with my system. I even refused to acknowledge the vague nausea I felt every night. Nerves, I supposed.
But after three months, I could not deny it much longer. I told a friend of mine who worked with me at the library, and she took me to her OB/GYN. I had never been to one before. I gazed at the diagrams of unborn babies on the wall, used so that women who were excited about their babies could see exactly what was going on inside their bodies. I couldn't stop staring at the tiny little toes on the picture of the four-month pre-developed baby. Ten tiny toes. Perfect.
The doctor didn't notice my gaze when he came back with my test results. Even though I knew it already, it still felt like I'd been hit in the stomach with a baseball bat when I heard, "Well, the test is positive. What would you like to do?"
After collecting my breath, I asked for clarification. "Do? What should I do?" He looked right into my eyes and said, "I can schedule an abortion for you if you like."
Silence.
Likely knowing that I would have sat there in his office in a stupor all afternoon, he gave me a card with a phone number for the clinic down the street, wished me luck, and ushered me out.
I grew up in a home that followed the teachings of Jesus Christ. I had dedicated myself to that relationship years earlier. It was expected that I would graduate from college, have a wonderful career, marry and have a bunch of children. This horrible event was not part of the plan; I had never discussed with anyone, investigated for myself, or even really heard in passing, what a woman's pregnancy options were.
Interestingly enough, my faith simultaneously drew me toward and away from an abortion.
The word "abortion" meant nothing to me. What had profound meaning was the phrase "pregnant out of wedlock." This phrase reverberated through my life, sending feelings of doom. I felt intense shame and embarrassment. I couldn't look anyone in the eye. It did not matter how it happened. I was, effectively, a statistic. Another black girl pregnant out of wedlock.
God set up some teachings that He knew we would need in order to be happiest and healthiest. It pleases God to see us live according to design. This includes the ideal of having children inside the protection of a good marriage. However, because of this principle, some Christians show disdain, even revulsion, toward women whose sexual lives are made public through pregnancy. That anticipation of judgment, pity, and being shunned as an "outsider" in my own church drew me toward an abortion. I did not anticipate grace from people.
But at the same time, that very same faith drew me away from the abortion. I knew of God's great affection for children, and His fierce desire to protect them. The Bible repeatedly speaks of how God wants us all to be like children. I knew He would not be thrilled if I decided to abort. I anticipated God's anger, which drew me away from an abortion. I did not anticipate grace from God either.
The fact is that I did receive grace. But I had to take a risk to receive it.
A few days later I called the number on the card I got from the OB/GYN and made an appointment for an abortion. When I tried to pay with a check, I was told I had to come back later. So two weeks later I did.
But the day I returned, hoping for a compassionate face, a smile, something, all I got was a cold question: "Do you have proper payment?" She didn't even look up. Something happened in that moment. Something broke inside me and I turned around and left without a word. There I sat sobbing in my car out in the cold. Lost.
After that I slowly changed my mind. I felt incapable of parenting, but I wanted this baby to live and decided to take a personal risk on her behalf and face whatever came my way. I told my parents. I told people in my church. And to my great surprise, I received grace. I was treated with such love, affection, compassion, and acceptance, it still amazes me. I couldn't even absorb it all at the time, but later the realization of it brought me to my knees in grateful tears for those people who demonstrated real grace to me—the kind of grace that God wanted to show, no matter what I might have decided.
Many have asked me why I decided to make an adoption plan for my daughter Vanessa, when some people would have understood if I aborted. I don't think there was any one reason—so many things merged into the eventual decision. I think my choice had four components:
Truth: I saw the truth of what was happening inside me. When I saw the medical pictures of fetal development, I couldn't deny that she was human.
Love: I secretly loved that baby. It seemed to me then that I wasn't supposed to love her because of the way she was conceived. I came to realize later that the love a woman has for her child has incredible strength—no matter what the child looks like, what handicap he may have, or the way he was conceived. I also wanted this child to have one thing I could not provide—the love of a daddy who had been waiting for her.
Vision: I had a vision of what I wanted. I wanted to be a mother someday. The conflict that went on in my head was this: How I could be a good mother later if I aborted my first child? I struggled with the knowledge that the value of a child is constant. My circumstances would continuously change. Should one of my children live or not live, depending on my changing circumstances? Or should I protect my children in the face of unpredictable circumstances? My desire became to protect this child, even though I couldn't figure out how to protect myself.
Belief: Even in my numb state, I believed that doing the right thing would benefit me at some point. The right thing was to let this child live. It did not feel good. I knew I would have to walk through five more months of stares, questions, and self-perception struggles. But I believed, and it turned out to be true.
The process of my pregnancy was the most painful, difficult, and frightfully emotional thing I have ever gone through. The healing process was not easy either.
However, I am now much stronger having fought my way through it, and I have been able to incorporate my experience into my life, and my career as a life coach. I believe that most women can choose to use similarly difficult experiences to become stronger, more self-aware, and more compassionate human beings.
Seeing my beautiful daughter has been a huge factor in helping to heal my wounded spirit from the violence of the rape. Beauty was brought from ashes. The world now has this incredible person with potential to give back in ways I cannot foresee. She, too, has brought grace into my life.
In the years since we've been in contact, I am increasingly proud of the decision I made. I am also proud of my daughter, a fabulous addition to the world. She is a happy, intelligent, centered, socially aware human being, preparing to be launched into young adulthood and make her mark in the world.
Take a risk to receive grace into your life. You might be surprised where you find it.
6.23.2007
Where art thou Hillary? President Bush Mess
READER'S NOTE: I AM NOT A BUSH-HATER. I HAVE RESPECT FOR HIM AS THE LEADER OF OUR COUNTRY. THAT IS THE CREDIT I GIVE TO HIM, AND IT IS THE BASIS OF MY AMOUNT OF RESPECT.
When President Bush announced his budget plan for 2008, I was more than frustrated and relieved to know that he is leaving the White House:
"President Bush’s FY 2008 Budget also proposes cutting $12.2 million (or nine percent) in funding for the Office of Violence Against Women (VAW). VAW provides national leadership on issues relating to domestic violence, sexual violence and stalking by providing grants to help victims with the protection and services they need. The budget request would eliminate all VAW formula grant programs, including the STOP grant program and the sexual assault hotline grant program. Further, because the request shifts all funding to discretionary spending, grant programs that protect children and people with disabilities could be eliminated. "- The Senate, 2007
"In 2006, RAINN helped pass legislation that enhances penalties for child sexual abuse and tightens the registration requirements for sex offenders. The final version of this legislation, now known as the Adam Walsh Child Safety and Protection Act (H.R. 4472), passed both houses of Congress. President George W. Bush signed it into law in July 2006." -RAINN, 2006
"President George W. Bush said in a press conference yesterday that he supports abortion in three cases - rape, incest, and the life of the mother." - Washington Daily News, 2006
"Dear Attorney General Gonzales:
On behalf of RAINN, which is the nation's largest anti-sexual assault organization, I want to commend you for the important role you played in the enactment of the Violence Against Women Act (VAWA) of 2005, which President Bush signed into law in January...." -RAINN, 2005
"Today, I have signed into Law S. 1435, the "Prison Rape Elimination Act of 2003." The Act provides for analysis of the incidence and effects of prison rape in Federal, State and local institutions, and for information, resources, recommendations and funding to protect individuals from prison rape. The Act also creates a National Prison Rape Reduction Commission. " - George W. Bush, 2003
THE BAD:
When President Bush announced his budget plan for 2008, I was more than frustrated and relieved to know that he is leaving the White House:
"President Bush’s FY 2008 Budget also proposes cutting $12.2 million (or nine percent) in funding for the Office of Violence Against Women (VAW). VAW provides national leadership on issues relating to domestic violence, sexual violence and stalking by providing grants to help victims with the protection and services they need. The budget request would eliminate all VAW formula grant programs, including the STOP grant program and the sexual assault hotline grant program. Further, because the request shifts all funding to discretionary spending, grant programs that protect children and people with disabilities could be eliminated. "- The Senate, 2007
THE GOOD:
"In 2006, RAINN helped pass legislation that enhances penalties for child sexual abuse and tightens the registration requirements for sex offenders. The final version of this legislation, now known as the Adam Walsh Child Safety and Protection Act (H.R. 4472), passed both houses of Congress. President George W. Bush signed it into law in July 2006." -RAINN, 2006
"President George W. Bush said in a press conference yesterday that he supports abortion in three cases - rape, incest, and the life of the mother." - Washington Daily News, 2006
"Dear Attorney General Gonzales:
On behalf of RAINN, which is the nation's largest anti-sexual assault organization, I want to commend you for the important role you played in the enactment of the Violence Against Women Act (VAWA) of 2005, which President Bush signed into law in January...." -RAINN, 2005
"Today, I have signed into Law S. 1435, the "Prison Rape Elimination Act of 2003." The Act provides for analysis of the incidence and effects of prison rape in Federal, State and local institutions, and for information, resources, recommendations and funding to protect individuals from prison rape. The Act also creates a National Prison Rape Reduction Commission. " - George W. Bush, 2003
THE FRUSTRATION AND CONFUSION:
President Bush wants to 'eliminate' prison rape, sign the Violence Against Women Act into law, approve abortion in cases of rape or incest, enhance penalties for child sexual abuse and tighten the registration requirements for sex offenders BUT
President Bush also wants to eliminate the funding for violence against women awareness programs and victim's advocate groups. He may as well be saying, "Well, I am against rape. I do not want people to be raped, but if they are-tough luck-I'm not going to support the agencies that help them..."
President Bush also wants to eliminate the funding for violence against women awareness programs and victim's advocate groups. He may as well be saying, "Well, I am against rape. I do not want people to be raped, but if they are-tough luck-I'm not going to support the agencies that help them..."
Yeah. Because- that makes perfect sense and everything...
love, jessieh
-Hillary Clinton 2008-
6.21.2007
Simplicity. Selfishness and Happy Endings
IN THOUGHTS:
love, jessieh
Originally written as a seperate blog entry...
According to some family members,
I am "very very selfish".
I speak: Give me an example of how am I oh so selfish?
Response: Because you repeatedly step on the rugs when you get out of the shower and wet them, even after I've asked you not to.
---
Yes. I am the definition of selfishness.
---
Please, feel free to give me suggestions on my other oh-so-very selfish deeds. I'll have to get working on these, it seems as though the less-than-soaking-wet bathroom rugs are causing the up most distress.
I breathe deep into my belly and repeat the words, "This is Crazy and Jesus Loves You" in my head over and over again.
love, jessieh
----
6.20.2007
April's Law
What is April's Law?
In short, this new law will make all web sites that promote paedophilia and display children or child like sexual images on the Internet ILLEGAL. These sites only promote crimes against children. They feature horendous crimes against children. They have chat rooms where pedophiles can openly discuss their fantasies and give each other advice on where to find children. April's law would soon bring an end to these sick websites.
Sign the petition to support April's Law.
Who is April?
April is a victim whose perpetrator stalked children over the internet after being inspired by legal sites that encourage pedophiles to have sex with children. The man then raped her and left her with a sexually transmitted disease at the age of six.
Why we need April's Law?
Because of this...
Sign the petition to support April's Law: http://www.thepetitionsite.com/takeaction/753015856
love, jessieh
PS: Last night I saw two little girls in leotards, probably around five years old and I wanted to throw up. We were in a public place, and here were these two innocent little girls who were being exploited and didn't even know it. The people who shouldn't be allowed to have children, do, and that is (like many other concepts of this world) frustrating.
6.19.2007
Basket Cases
I'm not sure I could recall what happened today.
I know I was with the twins.
I know I had therapy.
I know I want to read the book, "Quiet Room"
That's it.
I am DELIRIOUS.
There is no doubt involved in that statement.
I need serious sleep but
It's not happening.
love, jessieh
6.18.2007
The good news: 700 pedophiles arrested.
BREAKING NEWS
Updated: 18 minutes ago
LONDON - Police shattered a global Internet pedophile ring, rescuing 31 children and rounding up more than 700 suspects worldwide, British authorities said Monday.
Some 200 suspects are based in Britain, the Child Exploitation and Online Protection Center said. The ring was traced to an Internet chat room called “Kids the Light of Our Lives” that featured images of children being subjected to horrific sexual abuse.
The investigation involves agencies from 35 countries and lasted 10 months.The host of the Web site, Timothy David Martyn Cox, 27, of Buxhall, who used the online identity “Son of God,” admitted to nine counts of possessing and distributing indecent images, authorities said.After his arrest in September, authorities were able to infiltrate the chat room and collect evidence on the other members.
Please check back for more details on this developing story.© 2007 The Associated Press. All rights reserved. This material may not be published, broadcast, rewritten or redistributed.
---------------------
(Whoops. Jessieh broke the rules.)
I got this from MSNBC.
and when I read it, I felt better. 31 children saved, only about 19,797,895 left to go.
love, jessieh
.
.
.
v
(and these)
6.16.2007
Anorexia, Bulimia, The Food Situation
Readers Note: I am not advocating eating disorders. I am not blaming eating disorders on people reading fashion magazines. I am discussing my own history with eating disorders, and my personal opinions surrounding them. If you are recovering from an eating disorder, I suggest you not read the following blog entry, for it will more than likely not contribute to your recovery. This blog is for my venting interest and I feel like venting right now, so you've had your warning. Feel free to proceed...
The past two days I have had this strange desire to deny myself food. It has been a want. There is something wrong with that. I am still eating though, I refuse to allow myself to stop eating. I have never been declared anorexic. I have been miss-diagnosed with bulimia and then re-diagnosed as a bulimic with anorexic tendencies. The most recent diagnosis is recovering bulimic with anorexic tendencies, e.d.n.o.s. That diagnosis came from a quack shrink in purple polyester pants, whom I have little a certain sense of humor towards.
My metabolism is shot. I can't lose weight even in a healthy fashion. My body doesn't allow it anymore. I'm fat, and my self esteem is crap but getting better.
How I feel about food and eating and disorders and the media and the recovery process.
I started purging when I was ten, of course, at the time I didn't know that I was purging. I just knew that the food didn't belong in my stomach, that it was bad, and it needed to come out. What I didn't know at the time was that the real reasons for my purging have never had anything to do with the food I've consumed. I've never really been a binge eater, that's why the diagnosis of bulimia was so off. I've typically speaking, just eaten normal amounts of food and then gone into a bathroom, or somewhere else, and puked. I have binged on several occasions, but I didn't do it alone and I didn't purge alone. I found it gross. It didn't make me feel light and in control when I binged. I only feel light and in control when I control how much I eat and I make it all come out of me.
To be honest, I haven't found anything that has made me feel the same way that purging did. I no longer purge because it has already caused me some serious health problems, and I want to be healthy. I want to live my life without feeling like a fraud. Throwing up your food, is a big secret to keep and I'm frankly just tired of secrets. Plus, I know now that it's not the food I've been trying to get rid of, it's a place of pain, and I know that that place of pain is not going away by me hurting myself. It just isn't. I could justify the act of purging in a way that would make the average person want to puke but it wouldn't make purging right. I am learning to do things and develop a passion for them so I can avoid seeking that drive from an eating disorder. My eating disorder has always 'fed' me. I say all of this to conclude, that I am learning to seek other things and I still have a daily battle with food, I'm just not acting on my desire to purge, and it's hasn't been acting on me. I want everyone who reads this to know that I want to purge every single time I eat, but I am making a conscious choice not to.
I'm not organized in my thinking, forgive me.
1. I'm a total hypocrite sometimes because A.) I hate that the movies about eating disorders are all lifetime movies. B.) I hate that they all portray ALL bulimics as freak animals raiding kitchen cabinets and locking themselves in closets with their incapable-of-actually-holding-all-that-food
amount of food in their arms. C.) In these lifetime movies, the bulimic never drinks anything in the midst of her binge. I have never met a bulimic who has consumed the amount of food presented in these movies without drinking plenty of water. It is dangerous to purge as a general statement, it is more dangerous to not binge before purging, it is certainly most dangerous to not drink anything with the food. A serious choking hazard. No one wants to die from their own puke. D.) Despite the fact that these lifetime movie specials really irritate me, I enjoy watching them, they make me feel stronger for some reason. I know, it's pretty pathetic.
2. This heavy amount of blame placed on the media for eating disorders is wrong. We are placing the blame in the wrong places. The media encourages people to be dangerously thin yes, but eating disorders are not REALLY about being thin. Eating disorders are an unhealthy venue for control (among other things) masqueraded by the desire to be thin. If I feel worthless and ugly after reading a beauty magazine, I was feeling that way before I read it. Seeing someone skinny in a magazine doesn't automatically develop a low self esteem, it just helps in the process. I think we need to focus on the other contributing factors to eating disorders. These other factors most often include childhood trauma (i.e. sexual or physical abuse), they include emotional and personality disorders, family pressures, and some believe genetics are involved. I'm not saying that we ignore the fact that the media does play a role, I am just suggesting we address the other issues at hand. I know that a magazine model had nothing to do with me puking up my Ramen noodles in a bag underneath my bed at ten years old. It just didn't.
3. There was initially something meant for three, but for now I'm going to give myself a rest and go grab a diet coke. I hope someone will comment.
4. If you or someone you know is battling an eating disorder and needs assistance I suggest you refer to the resource list provided by the National Eating Disorders Association at http://www.edap.org/p.asp?WebPage_ID=384.
love, jessieh
The past two days I have had this strange desire to deny myself food. It has been a want. There is something wrong with that. I am still eating though, I refuse to allow myself to stop eating. I have never been declared anorexic. I have been miss-diagnosed with bulimia and then re-diagnosed as a bulimic with anorexic tendencies. The most recent diagnosis is recovering bulimic with anorexic tendencies, e.d.n.o.s. That diagnosis came from a quack shrink in purple polyester pants, whom I have little a certain sense of humor towards.
My metabolism is shot. I can't lose weight even in a healthy fashion. My body doesn't allow it anymore. I'm fat, and my self esteem is crap but getting better.
How I feel about food and eating and disorders and the media and the recovery process.
I started purging when I was ten, of course, at the time I didn't know that I was purging. I just knew that the food didn't belong in my stomach, that it was bad, and it needed to come out. What I didn't know at the time was that the real reasons for my purging have never had anything to do with the food I've consumed. I've never really been a binge eater, that's why the diagnosis of bulimia was so off. I've typically speaking, just eaten normal amounts of food and then gone into a bathroom, or somewhere else, and puked. I have binged on several occasions, but I didn't do it alone and I didn't purge alone. I found it gross. It didn't make me feel light and in control when I binged. I only feel light and in control when I control how much I eat and I make it all come out of me.
To be honest, I haven't found anything that has made me feel the same way that purging did. I no longer purge because it has already caused me some serious health problems, and I want to be healthy. I want to live my life without feeling like a fraud. Throwing up your food, is a big secret to keep and I'm frankly just tired of secrets. Plus, I know now that it's not the food I've been trying to get rid of, it's a place of pain, and I know that that place of pain is not going away by me hurting myself. It just isn't. I could justify the act of purging in a way that would make the average person want to puke but it wouldn't make purging right. I am learning to do things and develop a passion for them so I can avoid seeking that drive from an eating disorder. My eating disorder has always 'fed' me. I say all of this to conclude, that I am learning to seek other things and I still have a daily battle with food, I'm just not acting on my desire to purge, and it's hasn't been acting on me. I want everyone who reads this to know that I want to purge every single time I eat, but I am making a conscious choice not to.
I'm not organized in my thinking, forgive me.
1. I'm a total hypocrite sometimes because A.) I hate that the movies about eating disorders are all lifetime movies. B.) I hate that they all portray ALL bulimics as freak animals raiding kitchen cabinets and locking themselves in closets with their incapable-of-actually-holding-all-that-food
amount of food in their arms. C.) In these lifetime movies, the bulimic never drinks anything in the midst of her binge. I have never met a bulimic who has consumed the amount of food presented in these movies without drinking plenty of water. It is dangerous to purge as a general statement, it is more dangerous to not binge before purging, it is certainly most dangerous to not drink anything with the food. A serious choking hazard. No one wants to die from their own puke. D.) Despite the fact that these lifetime movie specials really irritate me, I enjoy watching them, they make me feel stronger for some reason. I know, it's pretty pathetic.
2. This heavy amount of blame placed on the media for eating disorders is wrong. We are placing the blame in the wrong places. The media encourages people to be dangerously thin yes, but eating disorders are not REALLY about being thin. Eating disorders are an unhealthy venue for control (among other things) masqueraded by the desire to be thin. If I feel worthless and ugly after reading a beauty magazine, I was feeling that way before I read it. Seeing someone skinny in a magazine doesn't automatically develop a low self esteem, it just helps in the process. I think we need to focus on the other contributing factors to eating disorders. These other factors most often include childhood trauma (i.e. sexual or physical abuse), they include emotional and personality disorders, family pressures, and some believe genetics are involved. I'm not saying that we ignore the fact that the media does play a role, I am just suggesting we address the other issues at hand. I know that a magazine model had nothing to do with me puking up my Ramen noodles in a bag underneath my bed at ten years old. It just didn't.
3. There was initially something meant for three, but for now I'm going to give myself a rest and go grab a diet coke. I hope someone will comment.
4. If you or someone you know is battling an eating disorder and needs assistance I suggest you refer to the resource list provided by the National Eating Disorders Association at http://www.edap.org/p.asp?WebPage_ID=384.
love, jessieh
6.15.2007
they say not to admit weakness
i dare to defy.
terribly afraid of, in short:
men
losing myself
recliners
cotton balls
watermelon
beer
styrofoam
soup
the human body
dying a painful death
bathrooms
swimming pools
being talked about
dressing rooms
rooms, i suppose as a general statement
certain patterns
nail files
needles
hands
small children
infants
water beds
Christmas parties
marriage
the very idea of sex
becoming any fatter
my teeth falling out
things i have no control over
the twins being severely hurt
anger
feeling things
rejection
more moles growing on my face
opening up
speaking.
love, jessieh
PS: and I have a certain disdain for cockroaches and frogs
6.13.2007
we the people
are tired. goodnight. does this end? or does it just stay, frank, a pledge to we the people. try making sense of this and you'll get sick. it's contagious.
6.12.2007
After Rape
love, jessieh
PS: Anne Frank would have turned 78 today. It seems as though she would have been much older, it's funny how it always seems that way.
and yes I do know
there is alot to look at.
Focus. Painting.
The good very good.
1. On June 28th I leave to catch a flight to see Jen! That is more than exciting. That is an unwritten amount exclamations!
2. I had an incredible birthday. I spent it with the people I love (of course, if I didn't spend my birthday with you, this does not exclude you from my love).
3. I have almost half way filled up my second therapy notebook. That's lovely.
4. I got new paint supplies.
5. I did this...
The bad.
1. Children all over this free country are being tortured.
2.I am gone.
3. I feel as though I have nothing more to write about.
love, jessieh
6.11.2007
6.07.2007
Personality. I laugh harder and harder.
A friend e-mailed this quiz to me. I hate these stupid quizzes. Curiosity got the better of me.
I personally think the results are almost humorous.
Go figure. Eh?
| Disorder | Rating |
| Paranoid: | High |
| Schizoid: | High |
| Schizotypal: | High |
| Antisocial: | Low |
| Borderline: | Very High |
| Histrionic: | Low |
| Narcissistic: | Low |
| Avoidant: | Very High |
| Dependent: | High |
| Obsessive-Compulsive: | High |
-- Personality Disorder Test -- -- Personality Disorder Information -- | |
Go take the test. Post them on your own blog. Laugh about them.
----------
As far as what type of personality I allegedly have:
My Type is INFJ
Introverted 78%
Intuitive 62%
Feeling 12%
Judging 22%
About Personality Type INFJ
The Counselor Idealists are abstract in thought and speech, cooperative in reaching their goals, and enterprising and attentive in their interpersonal roles. Counselors focus on human potentials, think in terms of ethical values, and come easily to decisions. The small number of this type (little more than 2 percent) is regrettable, since Counselors have an unusually strong desire to contribute to the welfare of others and genuinely enjoy helping their companions. Although Counsleors tend to be private, sensitive people, and are not generally visible leaders, they nevertheless work quite intensely with those close to them, quietly exerting their influence behind the scenes with their families, friends, and colleagues. This type has great depth of personality; they are themselves complicated, and can understand and deal with complex issues and people.
The Counselor Idealists are abstract in thought and speech, cooperative in reaching their goals, and enterprising and attentive in their interpersonal roles. Counselors focus on human potentials, think in terms of ethical values, and come easily to decisions. The small number of this type (little more than 2 percent) is regrettable, since Counselors have an unusually strong desire to contribute to the welfare of others and genuinely enjoy helping their companions. Although Counsleors tend to be private, sensitive people, and are not generally visible leaders, they nevertheless work quite intensely with those close to them, quietly exerting their influence behind the scenes with their families, friends, and colleagues. This type has great depth of personality; they are themselves complicated, and can understand and deal with complex issues and people.
Counselors can be hard to get to know. They have an unusually rich inner life, but they are reserved and tend not to share their reactions except with those they trust. With their loved ones, certainly, Counselors are not reluctant to express their feelings, their face lighting up with the positive emotions, but darkening like a thunderhead with the negative. Indeed, because of their strong ability to take into themselves the feelings of others, Counselors can be hurt rather easily by those around them, which, perhaps, is one reason why they tend to be private people, mutely withdrawing from human contact. At the same time, friends who have known a Counselor for years may find sides emerging which come as a surprise. Not that they are inconsistent; Counselors value their integrity a great deal, but they have intricately woven, mysterious personalities which sometimes puzzle even them.
Counselors have strong empathic abilities and can become aware of another's emotions or intentions -- good or evil -- even before that person is conscious of them. This "mind-reading" can take the form of feeling the hidden distress or illnesses of others to an extent which is difficult for other types to comprehend. Even Counselors can seldom tell how they came to penetrate others' feelings so keenly. Furthermore, the Counselor is most likely of all the types to demonstrate an ability to understand psychic phenomena and to have visions of human events, past, present, or future. What is known as ESP may well be exceptional intuitive ability-in both its forms, projection and introjection. Such super normal intuition is found frequently in the Counselor, and can extend to people, things, and often events, taking the form of visions, episodes of foreknowledge, premonitions, auditory and visual images of things to come, as well as uncanny communications with certain individuals at a distance.
That's nice to know.
love, jessieh
6.06.2007
6.05.2007
"Christian Girl in Sometown, Somewhere Gets Raped" (and Gianoelle and I)
From Marcelle Chester at Abyss to Hope ( http://abyss2hope.blogspot.com/2007/06/christian-prayer-as-rape-prevention.html):
"I don't know who wrote the original, but this chain mail caught my eye:
"A girl went to a party and she ended up staying longer than planned, and had to walk home alone. She wasn’t afraid because it was a small town and she lived only a few blocks away. As she walked along under the tall elm trees, Diane asked God to keep her safe from harm and danger. When she reached the alley, which was a short cut to her house, she decided to take it. However, halfway down the alley she noticed a man standing at the end as though he were waiting for her. She became uneasy and began to pray, asking for God’s protection. Instantly a comforting feeling of quietness and security wrapped round her, she felt as though someone was walking with her. When she reached the end of the alley, she walked right past the man and arrived home safely. The following day, she read in the newspaper that a young girl had been raped in the same alley just twenty minutes after she had been there and had been. I could have been HER, but SHE prayed.
Repost this as A GIRL RAPED IN (your city) if you truly believe in God… "
In case this was a spoof chain mail designed to mock the power of prayer, I did a search and found other copies and versions of this where it was treated seriously.
I saw another version of this which had the girl bravely going to the police to identify the rapist, who is conveniently brought in for the line up, and once she ID's him, the man promptly confesses. She then bravely faces this admitted rapist to find out why he didn't rape her and learns that the rapist waited for the next girl because he saw two men walking with her.
This chain email is deeply troubling because:
1) It turns God into nothing more than an omnipresent form of mace.
2) It says that Christians should feel smug about the suffering of non-Christians who are similar in all ways but their faith. Because prayer can prevent suffering, all suffering becomes self-inflicted.
3) It says that Christians who dodge a clear and persistent harm should do nothing to remove or reduce that harm so others don't get hurt. After others get hurt, then Christians can come forward heroically to wrap up a tragedy in a nice neat bow.
4) It reinforces victim blaming since no lesser being than God decides who is worthy of being spared from rape.
5) It reinforces stereotypes about who rapists are and where rapes are most likely to happen.
6) It creates a false picture of what the legal system is like for those who are pure and innocent which implies that those who are treated poorly by law enforcement must not be pure or innocent.
Here's my version:
A girl went to a party and she ended up staying longer than planned, and had to walk home alone. She wasn’t afraid because it was a small town and she lived only a few blocks away. As she walked along under the tall elm trees, Diane asked God to keep her safe from harm and danger. When she reached the alley, which was a short cut to her house, she decided to take it. However, halfway down the alley she noticed a man standing at the end as though he were waiting for her. She became uneasy and began to pray, asking for God’s protection.
A moment before she started running back the way she came, she recognized him as a man from her church who hadn't missed a service in years and who was respected by all who met him.
Instantly a comforting feeling of quietness and security wrapped round her, she felt as though someone was walking with her. When she reached the end of the alley, she walked right past the man but she never arrived home safely.
The following day, the other girls who were at that party read in the newspaper that a young girl was missing. It could have been them who had been abducted by a stranger from out of town, but they had prayed the whole way home. When questioned gently, two sisters remember walking by the man from church and getting a weird vibe. When they can't back up that vibe with any evidence, they are treated like criminals until they retract their statement. They are pushed to say that the man they saw was a stranger. By the time they leave, they are convinced that it must have been a stranger they saw the night before. Christian men don't do bad things to Christian girls.
I doubt this version will be circulated by the Christians who loved the other version. Prayer is no longer a silver bullet and the rapist doesn't fit the un-Godly rapist stereotype. For many people the fantasy presented in the first version is the one they choose to believe because it isn't as unsettling as my version. "
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Jessieh's Response to Marcella:
The next chain letter subject line will probably go something like this:
"Christian girl raped repeatedly in blanktownof, blankstate-I guess she just didn't pray hard enough"
Ha. What a joke! I find this theory sickening. I am a Christian. I find the first chain letter extremely disturbing. God doesn't choose to protect people based on whether or not they ask Him to. In the midst of rape, I prayed. God didn't combat down out of heaven to lift the rapist off of me, as presented in the first chain mail. He didn't wrap his warm and secure arms around me, in fact it was quite different at the time I remember just calling out for God, and afterward wondering why He hadn't helped me. I'd like to know who all has received the chain mail so I can mail them your version of the story. It's more accurate. Christians are no less prone to rape than non-Christians. Rape knows no religious boundaries. For anyone to believe that prayer prevents rape is ignorant and to believe that God is sitting around in Heaven waiting on someone to be raped or pray and only has those two options is disgusting. That is not who God is. I wouldn't serve a god like the one portrayed in the first chain letter. And that's just my two cents.
With much respect, jessieh
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Pictures of Gianoelle and I
the end.
love, jessieh
6.04.2007
Mississippi Mission
Last week in Mississippi:
The devastation from Katrina was still very evident and powerful. The town of Bay St. Louis was flooded with PTSD. The children were poster-children of the storm, without shoes, without concern. The people were kind. The group I went with was full of amazing people. I met several amazing people. It was a lot of work, but also a lot of fun and encouragement. I'd like to intern there possibly in the social work field next Summer.
A little video:
love, jessieh
The devastation from Katrina was still very evident and powerful. The town of Bay St. Louis was flooded with PTSD. The children were poster-children of the storm, without shoes, without concern. The people were kind. The group I went with was full of amazing people. I met several amazing people. It was a lot of work, but also a lot of fun and encouragement. I'd like to intern there possibly in the social work field next Summer.
A little video:
love, jessieh
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