British Curse Words

Sometimes when you have OCD you worry about saying weird things out loud.

And sometimes when you have OCD, because you worry about it, you do say those weird things out loud. At the sensitive age of 10 years old, I was in the kitchen with my mom talking about a class project. My class project was on fertilizer. (Don’t ask me why, I probably picked the topic and was for some reason interested in the dangers of eating chemicals).

Now – before I go any further with this story, I need to explain my family’s idea of open communication. When kissing came up on a movie, my parents would say “Close your eyes!”

My dad’s idea of talking about the birds and the bees was to covertly ask me, “Soo. Do you believe that Mary was a virgin?”

,

"Yees"

 “Do you know what that means?”

"Yees."

And that was the end of that.

Well, except that from them on I assiduously avoided any topics that might feel as intensely awkward as that did.

Ok, back to the kitchen when I was ten. I was talking to my mom about my project and practicing it in front of her. When it came time for me to say “fertilizer,” I said “testicles.”

No other context or reason other than my OCD brain made exactly what I was afraid of come true.

My mom:

“Do you know what that means?”

Me: 

I think the subconscious thought process in my mind was something along the lines of this:

“Ok I’m talking about fertilizer……roosters fertilize eggs….how does that work?…..testicles….That would be SO awkward if you said that out loud.”

And then the word came out of my mouth like a gymnast sticking a perfect landing on the mat. Loud and proud for all the world to see. Unmovable and unmistakable.

I considered trying to pretend that I had said another word similar to that. Festival, cubicle, anything but what had so very horribly come out of my mouth. I quickly realized there was no recourse and said something like, “IIIIIII have to go arrange my American Girl dolls now.”

14 years later, I was on the phone with someone from Great Britain. I used one of the exclamations that I like. Something like “man alive” or “jeezy petes.” That started a conversation about what exclamations Brits use. There was a girl from England in my ward and she would always say “bollocks” when she missed the ball during volleyball. She seemed like a nice, normal girl, so I didn't think the word would have any bad connotations. I brought up this word to my friend and he lost it on the phone. At that moment, I knew I had made a tragic mistake. How grave a mistake, I wasn’t sure, but definitely a mistake.

He composed himself, explained what it meant, and I realized that my old "fertilizer" friend had come back to afflict my life. Except this time the word was wearing a Union Jack. Loud and proud for all the world to see.

Julia Vincent Hetherton

Julia vs. Stuff

I am an anti-hoarder. I love to throw things away. It's like a high for me. I get a trip out of tossing something triumphantly into the trash. "You don't have any hold on me you transient worldly dross!"
It's freeing. I try to convert people all the time, but humans are surprisingly attached to their stuff.

Secretly, I would LOVE to be a professional de-clutterer. Getting to throw people's crap away would be exhilarating. This is how I feel when I chuck something into the trash:

But like I said, people are attached to their stuff and the chances of me getting seriously maimed would go way up.

"You don't need this ratty sweatshirt from high school."

"But I like it."

"But you don't neeeeed it."

*Tosses it smugly into the trash*

*Gets beat up*

The only sentimental thing that I keep is notes from people. If you write me something even just mildly personal and kind, I will keep it.

On the flip side, I am also a tightwad. So the things I do keep, I use sparingly. My mind has decided that there is some special occasion coming up in the future that I need to save my nice things for. What that special occasion is, my mind has yet to inform me. Usually this applies to perfume and nice shoes, things that will either run out or get worn out if I use them too frequently.

When there is a special occasion that I might use my nice things for, I usually forget to use them. I buy perfume and because I worry about it running out, I don't use it. So it's essentially like I don't have perfume. WHICH IS THE PROBLEM THAT I'M TRYING TO AVOID IN THE FIRST PLACE. Sometimes I really don't think that I raised my brain.

Even though we live in a world of scarcity (thank you Econ 110 and Dr. Kearl) I am trying to live abundantly. Not wastefully, but abundantly.

I've realized that each moment can be a special occasion because "this very moment is the only one you know you have for sure" - Oprah Winfrey

Cheesy, but true.

So my advice is this: use the dang perfume and then throw the bottle away.

And here's more Soul Train because there are few things greater in this world. The last one is my personal favorite.

"Their Eyes Were Watching God" - thoughts

For those who are familiar with my blog, you will quickly realize that this is not one of my typical posts. This is not a story about something that happened in my life. Instead it is my thoughts on a book that I read. Since I didn't have anyone to discuss it with, I wanted to discuss it with myself. So if you fancy that, read on.

I'm a sucker for literary titles. I have to admit, that is one of the reasons I was drawn to read this book by Zora Neale Hurston. I didn't know much about it except that the title seems to contain a whole world in one sentence. "Their Eyes Were Watching God." It tells the reader almost nothing, but ignites questions. "Who are they?" "Why are they watching God?" It implies some sort of struggle. It implies humans interactions with a force greater than themselves.

So with this curiosity, I started to read.

I found that this book was exactly about struggle and forces greater than us. And yet, it is not a sad story. It contains, among other things, sadness and even worse than sadness, apathy, but I closed the cover feeling enlightened, wiser and with a desire to live my life with more purpose. As Janie Crawford, the main character, says "You got tuh go there tuh know there." I want to go "there" now. I want to have experiences and live and not be afraid of the struggle.

Janie's experiences at first stifle her thoughts and her voice. Then, partly because she meets Tea Cake, her third husband and the man that propels her forward towards her horizon, she rediscovers herself. One great symbol of this is when she lets down her hair from the constricting hair wrap that her second husband forces her to wear.

I love how Janie learns to put what people think of her into perspective. She wants to be true to herself, rather than be true others. This is illustrated poignantly at Tea Cake's funeral. " No expensive veils and robes for Janie this time. She went on in her overalls. She was too busy feeling grief to dress like grief."

As an INFJ, I frequently feel that my actions conform depending on who I am around. Janie encounters this too. With her grandmother and her three husbands she changes how she behaves and how she loves. She compares love to the changeable sea. "Love ain’t somethin’ lak uh grindstone dat’s de same thing everywhere and do de same thing tuh everything it touch. Love is lak de sea. It’s uh movin’ thing...it takes its shape from de shore it meets, and it’s different with every shore.”

Each marriage that she has is a shore. Most importantly, at the end of the book, she arrives at her own shore and is able to love herself and her voice.

To put it in the words of Peoby, Janie's best friend,  “Ah done growed ten feet higher from jus’ listenin’ tuh you, Janie.

The Lisp

"What are you majoring in?"

"Oh, I want to be a Thpeech Therapitht" I joke, emphasizing my lisp.

Most people don't really notice that I have a lisp. However, I don't spend my time surrounded by most people. I spend my time surrounded by people who have been trained for 4+ years to hear incorrect articulation. It's hard to fly under the auditory radar around them.

I'm going to indulge myself for a second and tell you about the three types of lisps.

1.The Emma Stone. Also known as a dentalized lisp (the kind that I have).

2. The Kahmunrah. Also known as an interdental lisp. This is the one that sounds like a straight up /th/ sound. 

3. The Sid the Sloth. Also known as a lateral lisp. 

There's a lot more spit involved with that type of lisp. Ironically, I actually physically cannot produce a lateral lisp. Believe me, I've tried. A lot. 

When I first told my mom that I was changing my major to speech therapy, there was a pause on the end of the line and then, "Are you sure that's what you want to go into?"

I got flustered and said "I know you think I do, but I don't have a LITHP!"

When I get mad, nervous or loud, it gets worse.

Luckily, I'm stubborn and I felt that this is what I was meant to go into, so I stuck with it. Two years passed and I would practice my /s/ sound anytime I was out walking. Walking to class, walking my dog, walking into things, just walking. I improved it a little with help from my mom.

This term, my first term in grad school to become a speech language pathologist, I felt compelled to ask one of my professors to help me with my lisp.

Humbling. That is how I would describe that conversation. Humbling and oddly reassuring.  My professor reacted with kindness and honesty.  I walked out of her office a little overwhelmed with the task of changing a habit of 21 years. I also walked out carrying a workbook that is designed for children.

I have to admit, the way I speak is a part of my identity. Getting rid of my lisp is like asking me to dye my hair blonde or asking me to find the NBA interesting. I like that I have a lisp. I like the slightly higher pitched sound that I make. Do I lose some of my Julianess if I lose my lisp? Can I be a speech therapist with a speech impediment?

I once had an eye doctor with the laziest lazy eye that you've ever seen. In my naive 14 year old mind this seemed absurd to me. "Really? out of allllll the professions, you chose EYE doctor??"

I've since noticed that people are sometimes attracted to the very thing that they struggle with. For example, I recently read a book about a psychologist with manic depressive disorder. I know of social workers that grew up in abusive homes and teachers that hated school.

Never having struggled with something can be a struggle in and of itself. Weakness is not necessarily a bad thing. Struggle gives us passion and passion makes us good at what we do.

Achilles could have made a great podiatrist. Who knows.

Now, I'm not saying that you can't be a civil engineer if you've never had a bridge collapse underneath you. What I am saying is we all need empathy and a reason. A drive.

So when a client comes up to me and says "this thtinks." I can say "I know kid, I know."

Julia Vincent Hetherton

My Therapist's Name

The first time going to therapy is terrifying. "I have to admit to someone that I have FLAWS? And I'm probably going to have to make eye contact while admitting my flaws??" At least, that is my idea of terrifying.

For my first appointment, I arrived early as per usual and paced in the hallway about 6 times. I was trying to decide if this was actually a good idea. Whenever someone would walk by, I would stop and feign all-encompassing interest in a picture of some lady with beady eyes and spectacles. Peering over my shoulder, I would set to work pacing again as soon as I saw that they were gone.

When I was on my 7th rotation, I braced my feet to the ground, set my jaw and wobbled forward to the door. Advice: don't be early to your first therapy session. Be running a little late so you don't have time to question whether you are going to go through with it or not. Just bulldoze through the door with your head held high.

Once inside the lobby, I bee lined for the receptionist and whispered to her, because everyone whispers in the therapy office. If someone could explain that to me, I would greatly appreciate it. Maybe a long time ago someone had a cold and had to whisper and then everyone started to whisper and now no one wants to be the person that talks LOUD, which is actually just a normal level. Hmm. Spreading meekness instead of germs. Interesting.

Anyway, I succumbed to passive aggressive peer pressure and whispered "Hi, I have an appointment with um....Lisa."I whispered "Lisa" even quieter in case she had a reputation for taking on really difficult clients.

"Juuuust so everybody's clear, I need help but I don't need that much help, OK? OK."

Dumb. I realize that that is dumb now.

Once I was in Lisa's personal office and sitting in her purple recliner it wasn't so bad. A few sessions of reality checks and a diagnosis of anxiety and OCD and I was feeling muuuuch better. It's funny how realizing that you are, in fact, crazy makes you feel less crazy.  In short, therapy made me feel really happy and when I feel happy about something, I tell EVERYONE.

That personality trait has worked out for me thus far in my life because usually I'm happy about a book or a movie or a cool fact that I learned. Those things are safe to talk about.

After experiencing the wonders of therapy, I would be talking to someone and think of some great insight that I had learned from my therapist. I would open my mouth and widen my eyes to share it and then abruptly clamp my mouth shut and pout in a conflicted way.

It was like "psychologist" was some taboo word that I couldn't say. Eventually, I got tired of not talking about therapy and now I talk about it whenever I feel like it's relevant and helpful.

I've visited three therapists at different times in my life. The first two were named Lisa and Glen. In my opinion those are perfect therapist names. Lisa. Glen. Say them out loud to yourself. Lisaa Gleenn. Don't you just feel calmer saying them? Liiissaaaa Gleeeeennn.

After my mission when I wanted to see a therapist again, I was expecting to get someone named Alan or Joel or Susan or something like that. Equally soothing names.

When I came to the front desk for my appointment, the receptionist (Named Sherrie.....fairly good therapist name but not as good as Glen or Lisa, which is probably why she was just at the front desk) smiled politely and said "Tyler will see you in a moment."

Tyler?!? What kind of a name is that? Not a therapist name! I had some serious doubts about this guy's credentials. Tyler is the name for someone that skateboards or that you have lots of fun with or that makes movies about an old Black woman. Probably the closest Tyler to being a therapist is Tyler Joseph. He sings about depression and stuff. He's allowed to be named Tyler because he's a pop star.

If I followed my own theory, I should have been a librarian. But a speech therapist is close enough.

Skeptically, I walked into Tyler's office and cautiously assessed his competence from behind folded arms and squinted eyes. Turns out Tylers make pretty good therapists too. I have since changed my namist ways.

So if your name is Archibald and you want to be a social media specialist, go for it!

And don't be afraid to talk about what you want to talk about. Like the fact that your name is Archibald and you had to go to therapy for that. No shame! When you share your story, it helps other people to share theirs.

The Hug

Some people are naturally good huggers. I love those people. I am not one of those people. 

I could blame it on the fact that my immediate family and both sides of my extended family consider physical contact to be bordering cruel and unusual punishment, but let's all be honest. I'm just not a good hugger.

It's inevitable that when I hug someone, I will hurt them. 

Shoulder to the jugular, foot on the foot, glasses to the nose, fist to the wrist. I never know what limb will cause harm, but one of them manages to get in the way. 

"Oh it can't be that bad!" People tell me. Was it that bad when I accidentally punched an 81 year old woman? Yes, it was that bad. 

I have made a conscious effort to focus while I hug people. I plan my movements in advance. 

"Ok, arms out, clear the shoulders as you come in, don't move too fast, watch out for their face"

OOF. I shove my toe into their foot. 

Tall people are especially difficult to hug. There's more square footage to potentially damage. Also, for some reason, I always feel that my arms need to be on top. I'm not sure if this is a control thing or what....either way it makes things awkward. 

I have a soon-to-be cousin-in-law that I adore. Despite the fact that it takes 6 words and 4 hyphens to describe how I'm related to her. 

The first night I met her, it came time for goodbye hugs. She's 6'0.  I wanted to make a good impression. I determined to focus all my mental energy on coordinating my limbs. I moved slowly. I navigated carefully. Success! We hugged, it was normal! It was great! In my euphoric relief, I exclaimed "I hugged someone without hurting them!" I swung out my arms out in celebration and promptly clocked my 5 year old cousin in the face. 

Is there any hope for me? 

I can only keep believing that there is. 

I can only keep believing.