Natalie Weiss

I’m not sure how my mental health has been lately.

I’m not sure how I have been lately.

On the one hand, I’ve had a lot of moments of joy. I’ve had some new experiences. I’ve talked to people I haven’t talked to in years. My cat likes to cuddle with me.

But I have to be honest. There’s another hand. And on that hand, I’ve had a lot of time to myself. I haven’t run as often as I wish I would. I don’t eat as healthy as I wish I would. I lose motivation easily these days. I feel tired. I feel like I am just waiting for something to happen. I beat myself up for not being the person I told myself I was going to be when I made some significant changes to my work schedule a few months ago. And I get bummed out, wondering if I will always be like this, if life will always look like this. Because I feel like I am waiting for more to happen.

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In 2016, I was also waiting for more to happen.

I know I am going to graduate in December, finally, with my bachelor’s in business, and I figure this is it. One more year. One year until I am grown up. One year until I get my big girl job. One year until life begins.

I don’t remember much from 2016. I probably have more crushes on more straight girls. I probably work at the grocery store. I probably focus on school.

As 2016 wraps up, my sights are set on 2017. I end up landing another internship in Indianapolis, this time with the baseball team. It is a marketing specific internship, and it feels like this is the key to the rest of my career.

But something familiar happens. I feel lost. I don’t want to be ungrateful for the opportunity I have in this internship, and I know that in part my dissatisfaction is because apparently I don’t love baseball enough to work in baseball, but it is rough. Once the season starts, I am working 80+ hour weeks. Our home stands are usually Monday through Sunday. I get to the office at 8 or 9 am, and I don’t get home until 11 pm on the weekdays. Then on Saturday, I have a community event in the morning and a game in the evening. On Sundays, I have to get to the stadium at 10, then I’m lucky to get home by 5. And then I work 9 to 5 Monday through Friday the next week, sometimes coming in early or staying late to remove or put the tarp on the field.

I definitely don’t love baseball enough for that.

The season takes its toll on me. I feel disconnected from most of my fellow interns and most of the front office staff. I question if I belong in sports, if most people who work in sports are like those I am surrounded by. I miss writing. I have been writing for years, working on various drafts of novels on the side. It just has never felt like a viable career option. Nobody pays me to sit down at my computer and type these words. At least not until the words are already typed, and revised, and hours upon hours have been spent. And even then, nothing is guaranteed.

There are little moments during the internship that I know I will remember fondly. And there are a few people that, if I saw them again today, I’d be happy to see. But overall, 2017 is a year that feels wasted. I know it isn’t. I know it is a year that teaches me lessons about what I want and what I don’t want. It is a year that reminds me of what I am actually passionate about. And it is a year that sets me on the path to where I am now.

I return home in mid-September 2017. I am exhausted. Absolutely burnt out. I am a person that will absolutely work for my money, but 2017 turns me cynical and gives me a dose of reality. Yes, I have a college degree. Yes, I feel like I am intelligent and a hard worker. But, no, that doesn’t translate into a living wage. No, that doesn’t mean that I can work 40 hours a week and live comfortably.

My worldview is changing.

My political views are changing.

And all of a sudden, I have more questions about the ideology I was raised with than just how my sexuality fits into my religion.

To be fair, this has been happening for a while. 2015 was a year that changed my mind about a lot of things, and I did not vote for the same candidate that my family voted for in the 2016 presidential election. But 2017 solidifies my new perspective.

My religious views have changed as well.

I am still a Christian, but the word Christian has a negative connotation. It feels better to say “Christ follower” or “Jesus follower.” To separate myself from the conservative evangelicals that seem to be the image most people conjure up when they hear the word “Christian.”

I am unsure of what I believe about the Bible as well. I had always been taught that it is the word of God, breathed into life by Him. But I do start to wonder: how have these words survived thousands of years, transcription, translation, the hands of countless humans, and not been perverted? How has bias not been written into them?

If I believe God is all-powerful, then, yes, it is not all that difficult to believe that these words have survived without bias or perversion, because He would have guided them into the hands of the right people.

But my doubt runs deeper than that. I look at those who profess to be Christians, and I can’t see it. A new command I give you: Love one another. As I have loved you, so you must love one another. By this everyone will know that you are my disciples, if you love one another (John 13:34-35 NIV).

I can’t see it.

“Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and will all your mind.” This is the first and greatest commandment. And the second is like it: “Love your neighbor as yourself.” All the Law and the Prophets hang on these two commandments (Matthew 22:37-40 NIV).

These are words the Gospels proclaim that Jesus said.

And they are what I cling to in my own faith.

When a choice comes, I choose the one more steeped in love. I choose the one more steeped in us, rather than me. At least, I try to. I still struggle with my own selfishness, and I always will. But this is how I reconcile my faith with my sexuality. I am not a “traditional” Christian. But I believe in Christ. And I believe in love.

At the end of 2017, my mental health nosedives again. I end up back in therapy. This time, with the intent to continue for as long as necessary. In 2015, I received some free sessions from my employer, and when they were up, I stopped going. But this time, I have things to work on. I have to be more honest.

I am not honest. It takes far too long to tell my therapist what is actually going on: I am gay, and I am not out to my family. I am living a double life.

But much like how early 2015 was a catalyst for change in my life, the struggles I endured in 2017 catalyze a revival in me in 2018.

The year starts with an overhaul of my diet. What was ballpark food day in and day out becomes Whole30 – whole, unprocessed foods for 30 days. And I maintain that style of diet well into the year. I lose weight. I am running, and faster.

I am writing a new draft of a novel. And it is finally honest. While earlier drafts saw me writing from the perspective of a male protagonist who wanted to get the girl and wanted more from life, I finally make the switch to writing from the perspective of a female protagonist. A girl who likes girls. A girl who is figuring out what that means for her. And for her family. And for her faith. It is the story that parallels mine, even as I live it.

I am back working at the grocery store. I am not thrilled about it, but it is money, and I will work for my money.

And there is this: there’s a girl working there now that I’ve never met before. She’s cute. And, well, I think she’s not straight. I think she’s the first not straight girl that I’ve ever had a crush on. I haven’t exactly figured out what to do about this. We really don’t talk. I mean, hardly ever. I’ll see her in the backroom sometimes. Or I’ll eavesdrop on her conversations with coworkers and customers as I fix displays. But I can barely get myself to say hi.

2018 still has its rough patches. My grandma passes away at the end of May. It is the first significant loss I endure in my life outside of pets. I am 25, and it is good that I have lived so much life before loss. But that doesn’t change the fact that grief is still miserable.

We have her memorial service on June 23^rd, and it is a strange day. Emotions are everywhere. I endure the service with my family, and we mingle with friends, and we go to dinner with relatives, and we go home, and we are alone.

I go to Dairy Queen by myself. I sit in my car in the parking lot and eat ice cream and think about my grandma and think about life. I think about the brevity of life. I think about the numbered days we each have. And I think about what I want my life to look like and whether or not I believe my grandma would have wanted me to be happy, whatever that means.

I think about the girl at work. I pull up her Facebook profile. And I confirm that she is interested in women.

Over the coming weeks, I hatch a plan to ask her out. At this point though, it’s really just a fantasy. I still can barely say hi. I still go back and forth on whether or not I should actually do this.

And even though I came out to my best friend in 2015, and I even came out to another friend earlier in 2018, I don’t talk about these things at all with anyone. It’s not that my friends were not supportive, and it’s not that I believe that they won’t be supportive if I talk about a girl I like, but – I don’t know. I guess I just don’t want to flaunt it in their faces. Hey! Remember that I’m gay? I’m so gay that I even have a crush on this girl right now! If we talk about it, I want them to bring it up. But they don’t know to.

And so it’s on me again. If I really want to ask this work girl out, I’m going to need some support. I’m going to need another opinion about whether or not she likes me too.

I’m going to have to be brave – again – and bring it up.

I like a girl. And I want to ask her out.