The day I stopped writing: About how I write hard things
I don’t see very many writers who even try to write about the hard things, so the fact that I do it at all seems to set me apart somewhat. The writers that do, do it incredibly, and I learn from them regularly.
But that’s something I often hear as feedback: You write so raw, your words are vulnerable. Some people ask, even, “How do you write so candidly?”
The answer is that I stopped writing for you.
I put the words out there for you, but I write them for myself to read. There are whole folders of word documents and journals (literally, journals – plural and full) that will never reach your eyes. They don’t need to. I was the only one who needed to read them.
Almost exactly three years ago now, I was out of college and had been for a year. School was starting up again as we made our way into fall, and I was nostalgic for that “I’m about to learn new things” time right at the beginning when classes are fresh and assignments are only on syllabi not in your calendar yet.
I bought a book of memoir writing prompts called “Old Friend From Far Away,” and I resolved to work my way diligently through the book to keep me writing — a year out of college had gotten me out of practice.
I bought a new journal and pen, and started in on the book’s prompts, working for the suggested “write on _____ for 10 minutes,” and good stuff was starting to come forth on the first couple prompts.
Then, about two weeks later I was at the eleventh prompt, and some of the prompts, like that one, have a chapter that goes with it to help you learn and become a better writer as well.
The prompt was to write about what you don’t remember. I read the chapter and knew that I had many dark parts of life that I’d rather not remember, so I wrote about all of them except the big one, the darkest one, the secret one that I thought I’d carry to my grave.
I wrote things like “I don’t remember Julie before she was tired and angry. I don’t remember the smell of the hospital or the way the doctor looked… I don’t remember the day after the day after the worst day… I don’t remember what —— looked like the last day I saw her. It was the day of high school graduation and she had a black eye from her dad, and her mom wanted her to move in with her boyfriend…”
I was just grasping for straws that sounded true and vulnerable while I danced around the real thing I didn’t want to remember.
I swallowed my own B.S. for one day and went on to the next prompt and wrote about it. But when I went back the day after that, I couldn’t swallow it anymore. The chapter on “I don’t remember” said this:
“Worry later about your fears — what your mother, brother, partner, co-workers, father, priest, even your angel will think. For now get it out on the page. Discover what you are so fiercely hiding and not remembering or blanking out on…
If what you write is frightening to you, tear it up, burn it, after you are done.
Then write it again. Destroy it.
Then write it again. And chew it up and swallow.
Build a tolerance for what you cannot bear.
This is the beginning: to let out what you have held hidden. Otherwise you will always be writing around your secrets, like the elephant no one notices in the living room. Get it out and down on the page. If you don’t, you’ll keep tripping over it.”
Those words haunted me and I knew they were right. One day of pretending they weren’t was too much. But I also felt like the risk was too great. I couldn’t write it even if I burned it. And if I didn’t write it, I’d keep tripping over it.
So that was the day I stopped writing.
It was four months later that my secret was exposed. In the midst of the shock and trauma, in a quiet moment, the thought came to me like a fatal silver lining — “Well, I guess I can write again, because now I can write about it.”
I didn’t write about it publicly for a year. Even then it was in very vague terms so that people who knew would know what I was talking about, and people who didn’t know my story could just know that I’d gone through severe life altering events and knew the struggle of starting over.
It was over two years when I started to tell that story for real this spring. But in the meantime, I’ve been writing about it for myself with the candor that my previous life never afforded me. And as I’ve practiced being honest with myself, I find myself sometimes reading a piece I’ve written and thinking, this might have value to share with the world. They can have this one.
That’s how I write so candidly about the ugly, hard stuff of life. I’m not writing for you. I’m practicing being honest with myself, and sometimes I let the world peak in.
There’s a Hemingway quote I found last year that I hold close to my chest and my desk: “Write hard and clear about what hurts.”
If it hurts, I write hard and clear. Sometimes I still have to burn it. Then I write it again. I’m practicing putting my pain on the page. For me, and sometimes for you, too.
If you’d like to support the Story Project (to cover travel expenses, costs of Stories for those who can’t afford it, etc.) you can do so below or contact me at storyofjoblog@gmail.com if you’d like to send a check. Thank you for your support!
To Donate to Stories By Jo: The Story Project click below
Jo O’Hanlon is an adventurer and storyteller. She tries to be honest about the ugly and hard parts of life, and the beautiful parts too. This blog is one of the places she shares her thoughts and stories.
Other places are
instagram: @jrolicious twitter: @jrohanlon storyofjoblog@gmail.com
Jo’s 27 Before 27 List of Goals
A quick story: I was out disk golfing (courtesy of my Jo’s 26 before 26 list I’m now a regular disk golfer). We came up to a pin and there was something in the pin.
“What is that?” I asked my friend Brian who was closer to it.
“It’s a crabapple.”
As I came closer I inspected it. “Ohh. That’s what a crabapple looks like. I’ve never seen one before.”
“You’ve never tasted one?” he asked seeming incredulous.
“No,” I said, surprised. “They’re edible? What do they taste like?”
“I don’t know… They’re pretty good.”
I retrieved my disk and we walked toward the next hole in silence for a minute until he looked at me with a smirk on his face. “They’re not edible, just so you know. Don’t go eat one.”
“What!? It’s good you told me!”
“I know. I realized, you’d bake a crabapple pie one day and I’d be like, “why on earth would you do that?” and you’d say, “I don’t know. I didn’t know what they tasted like so I put it on my Jo’s 26 before 26 list. I’m trying to get the most out of life.” “
“Yeah. I would do that,” I conceded, content.
I may be somewhat gullible. But at least I do try to get the most out of life. Hopefully I won’t die eating crabapple pie. But if I do, it’d be alright. There are worse ways to go.
And with that, I give you this years new goals:
Jo’s 27 before 27 List:
- Play a disk golf game w/ 4 holes at par
- Buy a house
- Walk a marathon distance
- Be able to do 3 pull ups
- Make 30 pitches for articles to be published
- Smoke a cigar
- Leave the country again (so far age 24 is the only age since I was 17 during which I haven’t left the country.)
- Go to a new state
- Go to a professional football game
- Learn to play tennis
- Run through or picnic in a field of sunflowers
- Do Lumosity for 30 days
- Take a pottery class
- Ride a camel or elephant
- Watch all of Seinfeld
- Finish watching Lost
- Watch the Matrix Trilogy
- Read another Steinbeck book
- Read Harry Potter Book 1
- Read 3 memoirs
- Read Catch 22
- Go on a backpacking trip
- Do “morning minutes” every day for 21 days (where you write for 10 minutes straight first thing upon waking)
- Try fruitcake
- Complete level 1 of Rosetta Stone for Italian
- Try Gin
- Learn to play poker
If you’d like to support the Story Project (to cover travel expenses, costs of Stories for those who can’t afford it, etc.) you can do so below or contact me at storyofjoblog@gmail.com if you’d like to send a check. Thank you for your support!
To Donate to Stories By Jo: The Story Project click below
Jo O’Hanlon is an adventurer and storyteller. She tries to be honest about the ugly and hard parts of life, and the beautiful parts too. This blog is one of the places she shares her thoughts and stories.
Other places are
instagram: @jrolicious twitter: @jrohanlon storyofjoblog@gmail.com
12 Poems — Part of Jo’s 26 Before 26 List
Note: These are just in the order I wrote them. I’m including all 12 for posterity, but 1, 4, 5, 10, and 12 are my favorites.
#1 10.26.14 Fear of Fragile
All of us are dying,
that’s the crux of life
Life weights you down
like a child on your knee
ticking off the beat of time.
The living are the breathing
and with our breaths
we cry “too few.”
Too few are the breaths and the minutes
and the life that’s spent with you.
For when your breaths are done —
done permanent and final —
we are left with the real
test of grief’s bereft confinement.
Too small will be our breaths
our lungs suddenly too shallow
to take in air to fill our chests
because death hurts our vitals.
Fragile is the life of men
where bones break
and flesh is scraped
and hearts stop
in one quick moment.
I fear the life that breaks us
the news that knocks on doors,
“Ma’am, your son is dead,”
“Sir, the cancer’s spread,” or the
“I just don’t love you anymore.”
I fear the things that shatters worlds
in one swift-kick moment.
It’s hard to live not knowing
how to handle it.
The grief that comes and straps you down
like a straight jacket in an asylum.
It holds you, molds you,
then leaves you stripped and done.
This fragility is an assault on our senses.
To watch the life leave a body
is to see the flower wither in the sun
to see the short transition
from life to death is so heavy
like watching your own eulogy.
Where does the life go? It just fades?
Does it wither or run away?
Does it just cease? How can we know?
How can we ease ourselves
away from this fear of being mortal?
Does it ever hurt less, to have
worlds shatter in an instant?
#2 12.11.14 Dear Death
(Written after reading an update on my old college chaplain’s wife’s cancer. She passed away soon after.)
Death, go away.
You’ve got the wrong doors.
Death, pack your bags.
You take what isn’t yours.
Death, leave us be.
What are you looking for?
Death, you bastard.
You rape us, leave us bleeding.
You take us, no retreating.
You beat us despite our pleading.
What are you looking for?
Death, you merciless villain.
You invade common places like the kitchen.
You flip the switch in the prison.
You take the shooter to classrooms with children.
What are you looking for?
Death, leave us be.
You strip our joy and bend our knee.
You knock us down, make us scream.
You leave a hole where wholeness should be.
What are you looking for?
Death, please, go away.
#3 May 4, 2015 Again Alone Written in flight to start a month of travel for the story project
Another airport
another city
another day of traveling alone.
Wandering, wading deeper into the unknown
where I am unknown, without a home.
My heart is a vagabond, a knapsack
to hold its pain, tied to a stick of hope
slung over my shoulder as I trail along.
I am adrift, tossed in the waves,
propelled by the wind, weathered by
the raging sun. And I am searching
for the shores of a home,
but the best I find are islands.
And it’s just not enough.
So I set sail again,
I wash away again,
and I tell myself maybe this will be the time
I’ll find what I’m searching for.
Maybe this time I’ll run aground.
Maybe this will be the time I am found.
Maybe this time I’ll find myself,
and find myself being known.
Maybe my feet will find fertile ground
and roots will shoot down
from the soles of my feet
planting me firmly in a new
somewhere.
But until then, it’s another airport.
Another road.
Another city where I will get
to hear the stories of the people.
And I’ll move on,
again alone.
#4 JessicaWritten for my sweet, unassuming friend who asked me to make one of my 12 poems about her and who would never normally ask for such a thing, but thought that I would appreciate the bold request. She was right.
She is the silliness of a four year old
housed in an aging soul.
Her beauty is pure, not boastful
her blue eyes shine like gold.
Her heart — oh her heart! —
Her heart is where she lives.
She’s made a home in that
space in her chest.
She invites you to come in.
Her life says, “Come sit,
feel for a while,
Your pain can come in with you.
I’ll yell with your anger
I’ll shout with your joy
your sadness is welcome here, too.
Tell me, is the temperature ok in this room?”
Her friendship is lunar,
always present, even in distance.
Always beautiful, even in darkness.
She participates in life like an event.
Everything is to be remembered,
even this very moment.
Her words are soft,
her squeals are loud.
Her life is loving.
Her parents are proud.
She is a well of life
smiling at the world from behind sweet freckles.
#5 Let me hurt. (written after hearing Abandon Kansas’ Jeremy Spring describe their new album saying “I’m just gonna let it hurt for a while”)
Just let me hurt for a while.
Don’t choke me out
trying to tie a bow around it.
It’s a wound,
not a present.
I’m broken,
not wrapped.
I’m bleeding out and you
used a ribbon as a tourniquet.
Don’t do it.
Please, let me hurt for a while —
it’s all that I have left.
F*cks, hells, and shits
punctuate my language.
Pain leaks
into my sentences.
Because when I’m honest, sometimes
my brokenness still feels fresh.
I didn’t know grief could be
so violent without death.
Don’t demand a positive spin.
A silver lining won’t fix it.
So please, let me hurt for a while —
it’s all that I have left.
I wonder how long it will be
before I can breathe through the memory.
Because right now, to remember
still feels like drowning.
Because right now, in my hometown
I still feel like an enemy.
Someday there will be more, but
for now this is my story.
So just let me hurt for a while — I’m sorry.
It’s all that I have left.
I’ve barely started
to trust again.
But I’m afraid of myself
in the end.
I don’t totally know
how to get around this bend.
I don’t totally know
if I’m good at being a friend.
When I tell the truth,
I’m afraid I will offend.
I want vulnerability.
I want to mend.
But just let me hurt for a while —
it’s all that I have left.
#6 Close
Don’t get too close.
Don’t hold me tight.
My fear will lead me
straight to flight.
I’ll stay right here,
you stay right there,
or you’ll look for me and
I’ll disappear into thin air.
If you approach, do it slow.
Don’t try to take control.
If you do,
I’ll up and go.
But if you find your way,
If you become near, you see,
know that you’re dear to me.
If you ebb and flow
slowly gaining ground
don’t say it too loud.
It scares me when people know
that they are in my heart
it’s a power that could tear me apart.
#7 I Lie To Me
“I can’t do this”
I’ve breathed too many times.
I am quick to admit defeat to me,
But outwardly I claw and gnaw
at the challenge threatening to stop me.
I lie to myself
but it feels like the truth.
My words battle my will —
with each failure admission
I take a breath and try again.
“I can’t do this” is the mantra
on the way to my success.
Somehow my stubborn will
ignores my cries and tries and tries
until it is finished.
I am always surprised at
myself in the end.
Why do I still believe
I cannot do this?
Maybe some day I’ll believe in myself
the way my spirit does again.
#8 As It Happens (written upon moving to Wichita, June, 2015)
By happenstance I met a band,
their name: Abandon Kansas.
Once upon a time
they stopped through where I lived.
By happenstance I saw a band photo,
after many years had passed.
Facebook let us
become friends fast.
By happenstance I went on a road trip
and I stopped where the band lives.
I wandered downtown,
saw where the river splits.
By happenstance I fell in love
with the town on the plains and
I thought — “This feels like
what a hometown is.”
Two years later, on purpose,
I actually live in Kansas.
#9 — Our Father Who Art In Heaven
Our Father
Our. The peoples of the earth,
of all shapes and sizes
Our. The people from the dirt,
our colors pre-decided.
Our. Those around the town
neighbors to one another.
Our. Those spread apart who
don’t care about each other.
Our. The slave and the owner.
Our. The president and the lawn mower.
Our. The world that God so loved.
Who is
Is. Is there in our brokenness and weakness.
Is. Is Immanuel — God with us.
Is. Is familiar with our pain.
Is. Is the love that will not stain.
Is. Is the heart that won’t grow cold.
In heaven
Heaven. Where there’s no more pain.
Heaven. Where the racist is forced to change.
Heaven. Where the lightness reigns.
Heaven. Where death is illegal.
Heaven. Where we’re all equal people.
Heaven. Where brokenness is made whole.
Heaven. Where we are all loved and known.
Heaven. Here now when we bring love home.
#10 Break and Fall (written because it was the last day and I needed more poems)
Day break
When my heart breaks when I wake
I know thats a day break.
The day I break,
A day that acts
Just like you.
And heart break,
What does that mean?
My heart burns
But this isn’t heart burn
It’s heart break,
Like an earth quake,
It makes my chest shake,
But I’m from California,
I’ve done this before.
These walls are too thick
To let your pain score,
They won’t crack,
I’ll just be sore.
I know the drill,
Even if I don’t live there anymore.
Night fall.
When I fall into bed at
The end of the day
I know that I’ve failed again,
Fallen again into that trap
of routine where my days start
with breaking, end with falling
and its just you in between.
Grief, you dirty bastard,
you won’t ruin me.
#11 Just a day
Early morning dew rises and gives way
to the heat of the day.
The grass dries,
my eyelids rise,
my heart is full.
Coffee cup is emptied with the dawn long gone,
the day draws on.
My hunger paces,
my mind races,
my fingers type away.
Afternoon slinks in without warning
of the exit of the morning.
My thoughts slow,
heart rate low,
creativity’s around the corner.
Three o’clock comes and I don’t mind the sitting
now that it’s productivity city.
Here we go.
Here we go.
My brain chants silently.
Happy hour is just an hour
when happiness is a regular prowler.
The dusk dawns,
fireflies turn on,
I walk down by the river.
Evening brings the close of a day
normal in most ways.
I worked away,
played in spades,
and my heart is still full.
#12 “26.” (written on the back porch in the eve of my last day of being 25)
Tomorrow marks the anniversary
of 26 years spent here.
26 years since that August morning
that I came home gift baring,
as my eyes held newborn tears.
A slip and slide was my peace offering
to the boy and the girl — my siblings.
That’s the story I’ve been told.
26 years is long enough to hold enough pain,
and not nearly enough life.
My appetite for life is voracious,
so hand me my fork and my knife.
When I get to the end of it all,
I want to still hunger,
content, but not satisfied.
For as long as I live,
there’s always more that I want out of life.
If you’d like to support the Story Project (to cover travel expenses, costs of Stories for those who can’t afford it, etc.) you can do so below or contact me at storyofjoblog@gmail.com if you’d like to send a check. Thank you for your support!
To Donate to Stories By Jo: The Story Project click below
Jo O’Hanlon is an adventurer and storyteller. She tries to be honest about the ugly and hard parts of life, and the beautiful parts too. This blog is one of the places she shares her thoughts and stories.
Other places are
instagram: @jrolicious twitter: @jrohanlon storyofjoblog@gmail.com
25 and Free: Reflections before my birthday
I am in my last days of being a 25-year-old. Friday I will turn 26.
Since my last birthday I have moved twice, to two different states. I have been to 5 foreign countries (two of them for the first time). I have visited and been visited by friends from around the country and around the world.
It’s been a full, full year. I have laughed too loudly, cried too many tears, and written too many words.
I have eaten too many waffles at Waffle House and too many packets of Top Ramen as I remembered that deliciously addictive 10 cent snack. I drank too much whiskey and too much coffee. (I drank the appropriate amount of both tea and champagne, though, because I’m a classy lady.)
I have had too many adventures and too many swims in cold bodies of water. I have learned too much about cannabis (thanks to Colorado) and not enough about the Italian language.
I have watched too many Friends episodes and too many movies in the theater by myself (which I love to do). I have read an appropriate amount of books, I have made an appropriate amount of artwork (as compared to my average of 3 pieces per week last year).
I have had too many tear-jerking conversations about how hard life is and can be. I have entered and left too many churches. I’ve had too many doubts. And I’ve had too much faith to let me leave altogether.
Of all years, this year has been the fullest of all in terms of life lived, adventures had, and stories gained.
But what I’ll remember most about this year won’t be the date I went on at a 16th century palace in Italy with a handsome influential foreigner. It won’t be climbing another 14,000-foot mountain or learning to slack line. It won’t even be the start of the Story Project — something that has given me purpose and energy again. I’ll remember these, but not as much as this:
I’ll remember 25 as being the year that I first started to tell my story.
I’ll remember the nausea and anxiety and pain of telling it at the beginning. I’ll remember the simultaneous heart-break and meaning that I found when hearing from others who read it and shared their similar stories. I’ll remember finding that in telling my story, I owned it, and it no longer owned me. I’ll remember it being the path that led me to a place where I felt young, where I found the adolescence that I never really got, where for the first time ever both my insides and my outside matched, and all of me felt exactly the age I was: 25.
Upon moving to Wichita, in the first week I found myself in a living room full of women who had invited me over to get to know me. Soon, the conversation led there and I was telling my raw story again. One of them, with tears in her eyes looked at me, reached for my hand, and said, “I can’t believe you’re able to tell your story so soon. You are so free.”
And you know what? She was right.
I am 25 and I am so free. And that’s the best thing I’ve been in a long, long, long time.
By the end of the week, I plan to be 26 and still free. I believe I will find that 25 was only the beginning of a grand new story — a story of being young and free and fully alive again.
If you’d like to support the Story Project (to cover travel expenses, costs of Stories for those who can’t afford it, etc.) you can do so below or contact me at storyofjoblog@gmail.com if you’d like to send a check. Thank you for your support!
To Donate to Stories By Jo: The Story Project click below
Jo O’Hanlon is an adventurer and storyteller. She tries to be honest about the ugly and hard parts of life, and the beautiful parts too. This blog is one of the places she shares her thoughts and stories.
Other places are
instagram: @jrolicious twitter: @jrohanlon storyofjoblog@gmail.com
Why Would I Write About That?
This is why I write about the things that are uncomfortable.
As I’ve started to share my story in less vague terms in writing, I’ve encountered opposition, which I expected. What I didn’t expect was that the opposition would come, often, in the form of a question: Why would you want to write that?
I expected more just disagreement with my sharing the details of my church scandal, of my processing, of my grief, and of my doubts and qualms with the church. But some people have asked me, and I know that others have at least asked rhetorically — Why would I write about this stuff? The stuff that pains people. The stuff that makes people uncomfortable. The stuff that I won’t just let lie under the rug like most people would.
I’d like to say I have to. Because truly I feel compelled to share my story and my wrestling.
But you’re right, I don’t have to. No one, and no force is making me do it.
I’d like to say I need to. I mean, I do. That’s true. I got to a point where, as the open and authentic person that I used to be and desired to be again, and as the story teller that I still am, I needed to tell my story to move forward in my healing.
But there are plenty of things I need to do that I don’t do. So it’s not just that.
I’d like to say I want to. That I know for a fact now (I had only a hunch before, but now it’s been confirmed multiple times) that sharing my story will make others know they are not alone.
But the reality is, as big of a reason as that is, I still don’t want to. It still makes me want to throw up and go hide in a cave.
I’d like to say this is God’s plan for me. That I had to go through this life-altering, heart-crushing, soul-wounding chapter of life so that I could speak into those places where people feel trapped and abused.
But I do not believe God wanted any of that for my life. See my post Why Everything Doesn’t Happen For A Reason.
I write because I choose to. I choose to, like people choose to go into battle. Because they know that there is much at stake. Because they know that doing so may make a difference in others’ lives, possibly for generations to come. Because they know that not everyone can or should go into battle, but they can, and so they will, so that others don’t have to. They don’t have to. They don’t want to. It wasn’t the plan for their life. But here they are, on the front lines, prepared in a way many others aren’t prepared, and so they choose to, knowing it may cost them everything.
As I first put out my story about my involvement in a relationship that greatly harmed me and greatly harmed my trust of men and the church, I knew I would potentially dredge up some pain for people I care about, some even though they are no longer in my life. I knew that I would probably burn more bridges to my hometown that I still love. I knew that it would probably alienate me from many who hadn’t known yet that this was part of my story. But, I thought — if there is a girl like me out there, who thinks that she is the worst human alive, who thinks that she has entered into a realm that is so bad, and so far gone that nobody else has ever been there, and if she reads my story and realizes she is not alone, that is a battle I am willing to enter.
I did not expect my choice to open such a wide door as it simultaneously burned some of those bridges though.
I have heard from not just one, but many who have shared that they share parts of my story. I have heard not just from young girls involved in bad relationships with power plays in and out of the church, but from men and women who have been hurt by the church, left by the church, judged by the church. Men and women who have struggled with forgiveness. Men and women who are under the weight of grief and loss. Men and women who feel brokenness or inadequacies in ways they couldn’t articulate until I wrote about it.
And that is why I continue to choose to write. To write about the things that other people are not willing to write about with candor. To write about my own story in ways that would humiliate me, except that I’ve accepted it. To write about the truth.
That’s it. That’s the truth. That’s why I write about those things. I write because I choose to. I will continue to choose to write honestly about the hard, ugly, irreverent, embarrassing, private, inappropriate, uncomfortable things of life as long as I see a need.
I don’t take the cost lightly. But I’m here on a battlefield of sorts, and I’m more prepared than many others, so I’m choosing to use my voice and pay the price so that others don’t have to. And maybe that choice will serve others. Maybe even for generations.
To those who read and respond regularly — Thank you. You have helped me believe my choice is worth it. You continue to help me find my voice and use it.
If you’d like to support the Story Project (to cover travel expenses, costs of Stories for those who can’t afford it, etc.) you can do so below or contact me at storyofjoblog@gmail.com if you’d like to send a check. Thank you for your support!
To Donate to Stories By Jo: The Story Project click below
Jo O’Hanlon is an adventurer and storyteller. She tries to be honest about the ugly and hard parts of life, and the beautiful parts too. This blog is one of the places she shares her thoughts and stories.
Other places are
instagram: @jrolicious twitter: @jrohanlon storyofjoblog@gmail.com
“But Does He Love Jesus?” A Satire – 22 better questions to ask
I’m not dating anyone right now. But I can guarantee you one thing: if I were, about 50% or more of the people in my life, upon me saying I was dating someone, would ask two questions:
- What’s his name?
- Does he love Jesus?/Is he following the Lord?/ Is he a christian?
Growing up in the church, it was clear to me that a potential partner (i.e. anyone I’d date, because why, for the love of pete, would you date anyone that you weren’t “probably going to marry”? —I have thoughts on that for another day) needed to go to church and be a Christian. Which, by the way, is the real question lurking behind the guise of the trite question “does he love Jesus” for at least 50% of those 50+% that ask.
Being a christian (read: church culture participation) was the most important thing. So much so that the people who know a guy or gal marginally enough to ask whether the person they’re dating loves Jesus often stop asking about the person after that question is answered.
My parents have been delicate in this with me, which I appreciate, but I didn’t know exactly what I thought about it until a couple years ago when I started to date someone who didn’t know how he felt about God and was not involved in the church. “American Christian/agnostic” was probably a good description of where he was at.
While we’re weren’t in a relationship, just going on dates getting to know one another, I found myself one afternoon in a car with my mom when she brought it up. I could tell she’d been thinking about it a while. It wasn’t her first or second question about him. But it still came to that question, or rather that concern (which, for the record, I think is fine. Parents, I hope you hope for what you believe to be best for your children. Christ, christian culture, church, whatever included.)
“I am a little concerned about the whole belief in God thing, Jo,” she said sensitively. I knew she brought it up because she cared.
My response, though it did not feel defensive, felt heavy, and my words surprised me and educated me on how I felt as they left my lips.
“He treats me well. He’s kind to me. He respects me as a human being. I’m sorry mom, but those are things that are more important to me right now than him believing in God. I’ve been hurt and disrespected by men who believe in God before. I’d rather date a kind, respectful man who doesn’t know what he believes, or knows that he doesn’t believe in God, than the opposite.”
I still stand by that. Because when it comes down to it, loving Jesus is a matter of the heart, and it changes you. I have known, and known of, far too many “christian men” who act in ways toward others I would never desire. I will choose a man with a loving, kind heart like Jesus’ heart (whether he thinks Jesus is a falsity or not) first and foremost, every time.
Ideally, I think life is often easier when couple’s belief systems line up. Ideally, I’d like that for my own life in the long run. Heck, ideally, I’d like to figure out what my belief system is for myself at some point. But when it comes down to it, when I’m dating someone, I will have far more questions that are more important to me than what his name is, and does he “love Jesus.”
Here are some good questions that should be answered about the man/woman you date or those you care deeply for are dating:
- What is his name?
- What do you like about him?
- Does he have a history of violent crime? (Yes, it’s still a crime if he wasn’t caught.)
- Does he batter women? (Yes, you count in that. Yes, every other woman counts in that.)
- Does he deal drugs? (This can endanger you. Have you seen breaking bad?)
- Has he ever made you feel less valuable? (Chances are you are not “crazy” even if he says you are.)
- Does he participate in illegal dog fights? (Please tell me you’re not dating Michael Vick.)
- How does he treat the waiter when you’re at a restaurant? (Waiters are people too.)
- How does he treat poorer people? (Poorer people are people too.)
- Does he care about the earth? (We all should, but at least make sure you’re compatible.)
- Does he cheat on you constantly? (No, I’m not going to define “cheat” for you.)
- Does he cheat on you occasionally? (No, I’m not going to define “occasionally” for you.)
- Will you have to compromise your dreams, ambitions, or personality traits to be with him? (that’s right, sh*t just got real.)
- Is he part of the CIA and thus might have to lie a lot and probably get your house shot up at least once? (I know you loved the show Alias, but I’ve heard rumors that real life might be different than TV.)
- Is his main form of income acting in pornos? (Again, if you’re OK with this, fine, if not, it maaayyy be a red flag.)
- Is he racist, homophobic, or otherwise scared or hateful toward any people group? (No jokes here. 100% Legitimate question.)
- Does he ask you to have sex with others in exchange for money? (Unless you realize he is your pimp and you are ok with this. If that is not the case, this is not love, honey.)
- Does he require you to perform degrading acts in the bedroom that you do not consent to? (You have a woman-born right to get the hell out of that relationship.)
- Does he stone you for not wearing your burka? (Probably not a great guy.)
- Does he drown kittens for fun? (I mean, as long as he loves Jesus this one is probably ok.)
- Does he love to burn things to the ground and ask you to wait at home? (This is called arson and could leave you lonely while he is in prison.)
- Does he ask you to drive getaway cars when he robs banks? (This is participation in a felony — Orange probably isn’t really the new black. Just food for thought.)
But hey, pretty much all of these are fine if he goes to church. You know that, right? You didn’t? Oh, good, now you guys are set.
*Note. This is satire. If you didn’t catch that. Just wanted to be sure.
If you’d like to support the Story Project (to cover travel expenses, costs of Stories for those who can’t afford it, etc.) you can do so below or contact me at storyofjoblog@gmail.com if you’d like to send a check. Thank you for your support!
To Donate to Stories By Jo: The Story Project click below
Jo O’Hanlon is an adventurer and storyteller. She tries to be honest about the ugly and hard parts of life, and the beautiful parts too. This blog is one of the places she shares her thoughts and stories.
Other places are
instagram: @jrolicious twitter: @jrohanlon storyofjoblog@gmail.com
The Art of Falling: What slack lining taught me about life
photo credit: Aug. 2013 – 3251 via photopin (license)
It’s a weekend afternoon and I’m sitting out in the front yard, looking at my slack line slung between two trees while I write this.
I was just on it a moment ago. And again several moments before that. And again several moments before that. That’s how slack lining goes for me. I do several attempts to cross its length: Sometimes I make it, sometimes I fall after a step or four or ten. After several rounds of this my balance starts to suffer as my muscles and focus fatigue, so I go sit down and take a short break, and then I go back to it, and so on.
That’s the thing that slack lining has taught me. I put it on my birthday goals list this year to try slack lining before I turned 26. In between writing it down as “try slack lining” and getting the opportunity to try it at my neighbor’s in Denver several months later, I misremembered my goal as “learn how to slack line.”
Before I had ever tried the activity, I thought of those as being pretty much the same goal. Then I thought, like many things, it may just come easily and naturally to me. When I was young we didn’t have much money and I had friends who did gymnastics. I always wanted to do it, too, but we couldn’t afford it. So my dad made a “balance beam” for us kids to do our own gymnastics on. It was a 1×4 board nailed to a base. I learned how to balance really well by the time I ever got to visit the gymnastics gym for a birthday party and walk across their real balance beam. Turns out if you learn to balance on a 1” wide board, you can balance on the 5” balance beam without problems.
But fast forward 20 years and I stepped onto the 1” wide slack line and everything on my body, and the line itself began to shake uncontrollably. I fell off as soon as I let go before I could even take one step. But in my mis-remembrance of my goal, I committed to learning how to do this.
The biggest lesson was learning how to fall. The only time I got slightly injured while slack lining was near the beginning of my learning time, and it was because when I started to fall, I tried to prevent the fall by taking another step. My second foot caught on the wobbling line and I fell body first to the ground, no feet free to land with. I hit hard hurting my tail bone and my hip.
To fall well while slacklining, you have to be aware of yourself. Aware of your balance. Aware of your core muscles and your hands lifted high for balance. You have to be able to assess if you could try to salvage your balance or, if it’s time, to just give in to the fall.
Now that I’ve been doing it for a few months, I’m still not good at slack lining, but I’m great at falling. Each fall is an act of acceptance. Falling is part of it. I step into it now, feeling the fall starting, I just step down into a walking landing. I use my momentum of those exiting steps to direct me back to the end of the line, so that I can hop up and start trying again.
When I first started trying to learn, I would thud down heavy with each fall. Sometimes it would hurt my feet. Sometimes I’d try to stay on the line longer while I fell, not ready to accept defeat for that try. It is with the acceptance of loss, the acceptance of failure that I’ve begun to make headway and begun to spend more time on the line than off of it.
It’s a dance. On the line, falling, salvage it, falling again, I accept it, I take the step off while walking to the beginning and then I’m up, at it again.
It’s become clear to me that success at this activity, and in life, has less to do with how often you fail and fall, and more to do with whether you fall well and continue to head right back to try again.
I’m 25, and after knowing the gut-wrenching ache of loss of the big things in life, I’ve begun to notice that when littler things go wrong, I hold everything very loosely. As my muscles get stronger and I get more focus, I can sometimes salvage the fall, I can sometimes correct in time to stay on the line, I can also see when it’s worth it to just give in to the fall and use the momentum to keep moving forward to try again.
I thought I was learning the art of slack lining, but I’ve learned that failing and falling and persistence are the art.
Success and slack lining are what come as a result of doing the other three well.
If you’d like to support the Story Project (to cover travel expenses, costs of Stories for those who can’t afford it, etc.) you can do so below or contact me at storyofjoblog@gmail.com if you’d like to send a check. Thank you for your support!
To Donate to Stories By Jo: The Story Project click below
Jo O’Hanlon is an adventurer and storyteller. She tries to be honest about the ugly and hard parts of life, and the beautiful parts too. This blog is one of the places she shares her thoughts and stories.
Other places are
instagram: @jrolicious twitter: @jrohanlon storyofjoblog@gmail.com
Climbing Mountains Alone | A story about inner strength
I wanted to climb another 14er. And I wanted to climb it alone.
Colorado calls mountains above 14,000 feet in elevation “14ers” and they have many of them in the state.
The previous fall I had climbed my first — Mt. Bierstadt, 14,060’ at the summit, 2840’ elevation gain from the trailhead, and a 7-ish mile trail. I say “ish” because Kate and I climbed it in the first weekend of Nov. 2013, and snow covered the entire mountain. There were many times where we had no idea where the trail was, let alone if we were near it.
A mountain that normally has thousands of hikers ascending and descending at a time in its summer days sat solitary and snow covered. We saw 6 other hikers on the mountain the entire day.
But we made it to the top, and back down again, despite very serious thoughts from Kate on how I was going to have to cut her frostbitten toes off. And despite the fact that my lips were literally blue by the time we got back to the car, and took about an hour of full-blast heat to get them to purple. All in all though, the trail was manageable for us (because we were in good shape to prepare for it), but the snow had made it difficult.
It had been a year since then and I’d wanted to hike another 14er, but had been told I shouldn’t go by myself. So I’d waited and tried to find times when Kate or someone else could go with me when there wasn’t snow on the roads and wasn’t too much snow on the mountains. But the season winded down and I still hadn’t gone, so I decided I wanted to go it alone.
I’d read “Wild” (which I would highly recommend, both the book and the movie) where she hikes the Pacific Crest Trail alone and it’s a soul journey for her as she works through her grief, through her brokkenness, and does hard things with her body as she processes the hard things of her heart. I’d thought about it and I really wanted that physical hardness to accompany the hard stuff I was wrestling through.
So I decided to climb Quandary Peak, 14,265’ summit, 3450’ elevation gain, and 6.75 mile trail. I thought, OK this mountain looks like it doesn’t have too much snow on it right now (which it didn’t for much of the trail, thankfully), and it looks like a similar kind of climb to Bierstadt, so I should be fine.
I knew I wasn’t in as great of shape as I had been. I’d been running much less since arriving in Colorado and I knew my lungs had still not really adjusted to exercising at the higher altitudes. But I had to have acclimated somewhat, right? And I’m a generally fit person. So I decided one night the next day was it. I packed myself some snacks, some warm clothes (which I didn’t need), and I went.
The parking lot had one other car in it, as it was again, one of, if not the last week of the season. That car had 2 hikers in it that I passed back and forth, leap frogging one another for the first mile or so, and then I said, “I’m gonna sit and take a break,” and they went on ahead. I wanted to be alone.
I saw one other hiker, a woman photographer who I passed about 2/3 of the way up the trail. She was distracted and hanging out photographing these beautiful mountain goats that were right there next to her. She stayed there the entire time it took me to summit and come back down.
Which was a long time. The last mile or so was extremely difficult. The trail up until that point had been fine, I’d even say easy. But the last mile is where you gain the majority of that elevation. Steep rocky step after steep rocky step led to me having to stop for breath every 15 or 20 steps. The last half mile was downright suffocating. That last bit felt like I was just going straight up. At that point I was stopping every 3-5 steps to bend over briefly trying to catch my breath. I hadn’t eaten since leaving the car and my plan was to eat my lunch at the summit, and then eat a snack on the way down.
This part being as difficult as it was, was taxing me though. Thoughts of “I don’t know if I can do this,” started to crawl into my brain as my throat began to feel swollen from all the wheezing I was doing. Soon I began to cough, and my throat went raw. Each breathe was laborious and painful. I finally compromised, I’d stop there where I was, near to the top, and I would eat my lunch there, take a bit of a break, and allow myself to get some energy to get the rest of the way up.
But when I opened my backpack and started rummaging around, I realized there was not a single ounce of food to be found. Before I had left the car I had taken my bag of food out to remove some of the excess warm layers I’d stored in the bag underneath the food. I knew I wouldn’t need those layers, but somehow I’d managed to accidentally not put the food back in.
I was most of the way up a mountain, exhausted, wheezing, starting to shake from hunger and low oxygen, and I didn’t have any food. And like I had set out to be — I was alone. No one was there to offer a part of a power bar or a stick of sugar-filled gum.
Despair and a bit of panic started to rise in my hurting throat. My raw, red nose ran as I was now in the snowy part of the mountain, and my head pounded from the cold. A single tear rolled down my cheek as I thought, “OK. I guess I’m not going to do this.”
I took a couple minutes sitting there on a snowy rock, watching a couple of mountain goats on a ridge farther down, and decided I’d at least take in the view before admitting defeat and beginning my shaky decent.
But somewhere in those moments, I started to think of the hard life journey I’d been on over the past 2 years. About the nights where breathing under the weight of grief was harder even than it was now. When I was alone for days on end, feeling shaky. Feeling dizzy. Feeling defeated. And I thought about the long, hard, arduous task of pulling myself out of the hole of brokenness and starting to rebuild. And how much of that — most of that — I had had to do alone.
And I looked up at the rest of that mountain, all the way to the summit, and I said out loud, “I have done harder things alone than this. I can handle a little mountain.”
Which was probably not wise. Emotionally, it was true. I had handled harder. But I may have been a little more driven than I ought to have been.
Either way though, I found a piece of sugarless gum and hoped maybe it would trick my mind into thinking that it was some sort of food and have it summon some energy. I took one treacherous step after another. By the end of the ascent I was taking a short pause after every single step to breathe. And then All of the sudden, I was there. At the top of the mountain. It was done.
It was also freezing, and my body was still wanting to shut down, so I only stayed a few moments. There was nowhere un-snowed-on to sit, so I crouched for a minute by the summit placard, I looked around at the 360 degree view, and let my breath finally, finally catch up with me, and then I did what you have to do in life — I got up, took another deep breath (as deep as I could) and I put one shaking step after another and started walking again.
The way down the mountain was much easier, but still not easy. I ended up rolling my ankle on a large rock and spraining it pretty badly about a half a mile down. That slowed me quite a bit.
By the time I had gotten back to the car, I was down at a warmer elevation and had been moving briskly enough that I was hot. I got to the car and stripped down to nothing and just sat there for a second. No one else was nearby and the one other car in the parking from earlier had left already. I took a drink of water. I ate a bite of salami. And then I redressed in fresh clothes I had brought along.
I was still shaking, but I felt good. My body had caught up to my heart, and together, they had proved that I somehow, deep down in the places you don’t want to have to summon strength, I have the strength to do hard things alone.
People may pass you or leap frog with you on the journey. They may even walk with you for a while. But there are some paths in life that you are forced to walk alone. It is those paths that reveal our deep guttural reserves of strength and resilience.
Should I have climbed that mountain alone? Maybe not. Was I in good enough shape and prepared for it? Definitely not.
Physically, nothing had changed, other than my throat being sore and having to cough often for a few days after. I walked with a slight limp for about a week. But it got my heart and my body back on the same, resilient page. It changed me. It reminded me that when I have to, I can climb the hard mountains of life, even if I have to do it alone.
If you’d like to support the Story Project (to cover travel expenses, costs of Stories for those who can’t afford it, etc.) you can do so below or contact me at storyofjoblog@gmail.com if you’d like to send a check. Thank you for your support!
To Donate to Stories By Jo: The Story Project click below
Jo O’Hanlon is an adventurer and storyteller. She tries to be honest about the ugly and hard parts of life, and the beautiful parts too. This blog is one of the places she shares her thoughts and stories.
Other places are
instagram: @jrolicious twitter: @jrohanlon storyofjoblog@gmail.com
Thou shall not flippantly call your opinions or actions “christian”
This is not an opinion on the passing of the marriage equality law.
This is not an opinion on homosexuality.
This is an opinion about people who call themselves christians. And the heavy weight that entails.
photo credit: New Ulm, Minnesota via photopin (license)
In my blog post a few weeks back, I wrote, “even with all my qualms, and doubts, and wounds from the church, I would still call myself a christian.”
It physically made my chest cavity hurt to write that sentence. Because as I have found myself on the outskirts of the church — sometimes by my own choosing, sometimes not — I have begun to see more clearly what the church looks like to the rest of the world. What christians look like to the rest of the world. And I have found myself relating more to those on the outside of the church — especially those who used to belong to the church and got hurt or disillusioned and left — than I relate to those inside.
The christianese language sounds foreign and fake to me though it once spilled out of my mouth with fluidity.
Similarly the ways the church talks about and approaches problems and hardships in life feels not just unnatural, but fake as well. Though I have lost touch with the church culture, I have not lost touch with the personality of God and his son. And I’m seeing more and more and more how much of a disparity there is between mainstream American christian and church culture and the personality of God.
And then there’s this: there’s a commandment — one of those ten big rules to live by in the Christian and Jewish life — You shall not use the name of the Lord in vain.
I grew up with that being explained as why we don’t say “Oh my God” or “Jesus Christ” as an exclamation.
For a long time I would notice each and every time someone around me said either of those. I didn’t mind it if they weren’t a christian, because I understood that those that do not follow a belief system should not be held up to the specific standards of said belief system. But I still noticed it.
Then, a few years back, I was working for a church in San Diego in youth ministry and I came upon this study about the 10 commandments. When it came to the “do not take the name of the Lord in vain” command, I was blown away by the authors’ interpretation.
He said that the commandment is about misrepresenting God, not saying “Oh my God.”
And what had once been the most trivial of the commandments became one of, if not the most important commandment to me.
When you do things in the name of God that have no business with God, you are breaking this command. When you spread hate in God’s name, you are misrepresenting the character and name of God. When you are vicious to the world that God so loves, you are dragging his name through the mud. When apartheids and slavery and crusades and protests at funerals and wishing ill on a people group and refusing to acknowledge someone’s humanity and refusing to forgive and standing up for a cause that is against people not for people all take place in the name of God — that name is sullied — for some people beyond repair.
The world is full of people who think they have been hurt by God, simply because the “people of God” hurt them using His name.
And this fills my throat with hot bile and my eyes with hot tears. Because that is not who God is. And if you are in the business of misrepresenting God to the world, you are not an agent of God. You are worse than the merchants at the temple gates charging too much for sacrificial animals — the people whose actions Jesus so detested that he threw their tables and scattered their goods. The peaceful Jesus, the Son of Peace, is also a son of Justice, and when people’s actions under the guise of being “from God” keep people away from God, he will not stand for it. He will make a scene. Because as far as I can tell, there is nothing that angers God more than people hurting people and doing it in His name.
The repercussions are biblically harsh for people who lead others away from God, either by misinformation (i.e. the Prosperity gospel which doesn’t pan out anywhere where pain or hardship spring up) or by harm (like hateful words or actions).
It pained me to say I was a christian — which pained me then further to have that realization — because one, I want to make severely sure that if I call myself by the name of God that I am not misrepresenting Him. And two, because the label “christian” is so saturated by those who misrepresent the God who by his own definition is Love.
I don’t have an ending to this. It’s something I needed to air and get off my chest and challenge you with as I am challenged by it as well. The next time you speak or act in God’s name, please take into consideration that this is a huge command. If you have an opinion that you are not sure aligns with God’s, call it your own, not a “christian opinion.” It’s time we all stopped using God’s word, God’s will, and God’s name as an umbrella excuse to act and spout what we will without room for challenge.
We shall not misrepresent God. We shall not hate or harm in the name of God. We shall not keep people away from God.
I’m practicing this in my own life as well. It takes some guts to say what I think, not what I think God says. My hope is that what I think will align with God thinks often, but if it doesn’t, I’ve not marred His name or his reputation in the process. It’s up to me to own my own thoughts and actions. The higher power I believe in is not an excuse for any of my attitudes or behaviors. And I will not label them as such. God is love. If I am less than that, it is because of me, not Him.
To those who have been hurt by myself or another “christian” misrepresenting God: I’m so, so sorry.
To those that are gay, black, female, poor, of a different religion, or anyone who the church (including me) has outcast, ignored, or persecuted — I am sorry. My heart is changing. I am praying for the heart of the church to change. But I am certain that the heart of God has not changed — He loves you. I’m sorry if you’ve been fed a message that is different than that. It’s a lie.
He loves you. He loves you. He loves you. And He tells us, the hypocritical christians, to love you and one another as well. Not only in our hearts, but in our actions, in our lives.
If you’d like to support the Story Project (to cover travel expenses, costs of Stories for those who can’t afford it, etc.) you can do so below or contact me at storyofjoblog@gmail.com if you’d like to send a check. Thank you for your support!
To Donate to Stories By Jo: The Story Project click below
Jo O’Hanlon is an adventurer and storyteller. She tries to be honest about the ugly and hard parts of life, and the beautiful parts too. This blog is one of the places she shares her thoughts and stories.
Other places are
instagram: @jrolicious twitter: @jrohanlon storyofjoblog@gmail.com
A Dead Cat & Vomit: A story about friendship
I convinced her to do the hike with me.
It’s called the Devil’s Punch Bowl. Some of the reviews and bloggers were surprisingly dramatic about how hard of a hike it is and how much water you need to bring with you. (One blogger suggested something like 5 gallons per person. Which I still stand by the fact that that’s ridiculous.)
Reading a bit further on the matter, though, I found plenty of people who had said the hike itself is easy-moderate, it’s just hot and unshaded. Perfect, I thought. Work on my San Diego tan while we hike. Win win.
I asked Lizz if she was down for it, and she expressed concerns about having heard similarly scary reports of how hard it was. But I told her what I’ve just told you and she agreed to try it.
You hike three miles downhill in desert areas outside of San Diego, get to the Devil’s Punchbowl, hangout in the shade and/or water, then you go three miles back uphill in the sun. In the summer it averages around 115 degrees. But in March, when we were going, it was only 85 or 90. Totally doable.
We laughed and made jokes about the huge signs at the trailhead that say in big, capital block letters: “CAUTION. HEAT STROKE KILLS!”
“Hey Lizz, I don’t know if you’re heard, but you should really be cautious. There’s this thing called heat stroke, and it’ll kill ya dead.” We have a very dry, sarcastic humor with one another. For some reason we find it hilarious to just repeat obvious things in dumb voices. At least we entertain each other.
We hiked down with ease, though Lizz was starting to get really hot. Which probably should’ve been a tip-off. We were trying to conserve our water, though, so she drank little on the way down. When we got to the water, we stayed for a good 30 or 40 minutes, just trying to get her back to feeling OK. We still made jokes about how she was dying from heat stroke. But of course, she didn’t have heat stroke, she was just hot from hiking in the hot sun. She was fine. It did take her a long time to feel like she got her temp back down though.
When she finally did, we began the hike back up. About 2/3 of the way she was really struggling and started to talk about feeling light headed, nauseas and having a throbbing headache. Having worked at summer camps for many years, I know that means dehydrated, so we made steady slow effort up the trail and I kept having her drink more. More. More.
Here, drink my second water bottle. Here drink the rest of my last water bottle. With no cell service I was starting to get concerned, but near the end she said she was feeling a little better, so I went on ahead to get to the trail head and get myself some water, and bring some back for her if she had to stop.
But I didn’t have to go back for her, she was close enough behind me. She got to the trailhead, drank an entire liter of water, and then went and laid in the shade until she cooled off.
Sorry I almost killed you with heat stroke I apologized, still snarky.
She cooled down, we got in the car and headed for our next item for the day. On the drive I got cell service back and received a text message my mom had sent earlier that morning: “Hi Jo. Give me a call when you have a chance.”
As I was driving and Lizz was all heat-strokey, I decided I would call her once we arrived somewhere. I had a feeling in my gut that she was going to tell me my childhood cat had died. He was old, I knew he’d been potentially nearing the end for a while now, but if it was that, I didn’t want to know just yet.
We got into the next town and were almost to our destination when Lizz said, Pull over. Pull over right now I’m gonna throw up.
I pulled into a parking lot and she couldn’t get the door quite all the way open before she puked in the most projectile way of “projectile vomit” I’ve ever seen. Some of it hit part of the door, splashing back on her, and the rest drenched the hot asphalt.
All of the water I’d made her drink shot out like a water cannon. It was really quite impressive if it weren’t so sad.
After she seemed to have finished, she sat up, I handed her a napkin, she wiped her mouth and the door, and said I think I just need to sit here for a bit.
I decided I might as well call my mom and face the sad news if thats what it was while I waited.
Hi Jo, she started. It’s about your cat.
My tear ducts got ready.
Is he dead? I asked.
He went missing yesterday, and Dad went out to look for him today because we hadn’t seen him, and I’m sorry Jo but he found him in the pool. He drowned.
Tears. Falling. Throat. Catching.
He drowned??? I balked.
I’m so sorry Jo…
I cut her off. I felt the grief assaulting me. Ok, I’m sorry. I have to go. Bye.
I hit the “end call” button with a messy punch of my thumb before my hand just dropped the phone and I cried ugly, loud sobs while strangling the steering wheel. And then I wailed. The sounds guttural. Moans of distraught youth. Cries of old, old life officially gone.
Because he hadn’t died of old age he had drowned.
Because he’s the only pet* that’s ever been mine.
Because we only got him because me and my now dead older sister begged for him on our knees on the sidewalk outside of the froze yogurt place when we saw the lady with the box of free kittens. And while Julie would typically be far too proud to do anything like that, she’d done it with me.
Because he was just like me — he was independent and feisty and wanted to be loved, but only on his terms. He didn’t want you to hold him all night, he just wanted to touch base and come and go as he pleased. Unless you didn’t want him near you, then he’d work his way into your lap and your heart.
Because he had been a constant when everything else in life seemed to change. Not just once, but twice.
Because it was still with a child’s heart that I loved him.
After my loud cries and then silent sobs subsided, Lizz projected more vomit out the door while I blew my nose and wiped my eyes. She wiped her mouth again and we looked at each other.
Well, we’re a sad pair, she said.
And we laughed.
I’m really sorry about your cat, she said.
I’m really sorry I made you hike and throw up, I said.
And we laughed again.
That’s officially the ugliest crying session of mine that anyone has ever witnessed. And again I reiterate that I’ve never seen such quintessential “projectile vomit” ever before in real life.
But we didn’t judge each other. We laughed at ourselves. And we were there. In the ugliest parts of life, that’s the most I could ever ask for in a friend, I think. No judgement, some laughter, and just being there. That’s the majority of what true friendship is. Not grand gestures and bff bracelets, but being someone who can sit in the ugliness of life and call it what it is.
Also, be cautious, heat stroke kills.
*I had a desert tortoise when I was young that my dad had found as a kid, and his mom had kept after he was grown, and she had given the tortoise to me when I was a kid, but then Pickles ran away one day. So one, Pickles was not just mine. And two, she ran away. And three, she was a tortoise, and it’s hard to connect with a tortoise. Just saying.
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Jo O’Hanlon is an adventurer and storyteller. She tries to be honest about the ugly and hard parts of life, and the beautiful parts too. This blog is one of the places she shares her thoughts and stories.
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instagram: @jrolicious twitter: @jrohanlon storyofjoblog@gmail.com