In the following pictures, those words were penned from my head yesterday while writing a letter to a friend.
Many years ago I stopped calling myself a Christian, for I never knew what the hearer’s preconceived definition was of what a Christian is. There are so many false, skewed definitions of “christian” out there. Most of them are wrong.
Identity is such a major focus in our society today. And, according to one of my daughters, it’s because people struggle to know who they are, and a label is a faster way to get there.
A wedding ring is an identifier. I visited an anabaptist church in Amish country once where no one wore wedding rings. We asked a man how everyone knew he was married if he didn’t wear a ring? He smiled, “If they knew an ounce about me, then they’d know I was married.”
Though I haven’t advertised it to the world much, I don’t think it’s a secret that I considered confirmation in the Roman Catholic church. It’s a long story, but the short of it is that I’ve been to two Masses a week for most of the last 2.3 years as the parish pianist. Up until recently, I considered myself Protestant. But I shed that label quickly once I truly realized what it fully entails. Now I say I was raised and spent most of my adult life under Protestant teachings, but I don’t wear the identification of it.
I.Love.The.Mass.
And I’ll say this clearly… I WANT to be a Catholic. My flesh desires that club membership. I WANT to confirm. Why? I have my reasons, but it’s primarily because I WANT the Eucharist soooooooo much! I’ve tasted it twice in the Lutheran church, and the experience was supernatural (a story for a different post).
Every Mass, I gaze upon it and yet denied. It’s painful to be so filled with Christ (and many would say I’m more “Catholic” than a Cradle Catholic) and be deprived of His communion only because I’m not initiated into the denomination. But I also fully respect and admire why the RCC does it this way.
[*sigh* Not many things can make me cry. But when I think about the desire to partake in the Eucharist, I can feel the emotions.]
I adore my Catholic family. I adore my Baptist family. I adore my Presbyterian family! And my Non-Denominational family, too! (that’s a denomination, btw)
Worship Jesus where Jesus is worshipped.
But I just CAN’T wear a label- an identity. For ME to be a ________ would be a sin. [I’m speaking only for myself]. I could site two scripture references to support my conviction, but I’ll leave it to you to look those up if you truly want to know.
Much to my disappointment, my confirmation will never end up under the Christmas tree. For God will not allow it. But I am sooooo grateful God does not give me everything I want. Because I know He cares for me.
I’m almost 50, and short-term memories are disappearing. But my long-term memory is exceptionally good, though losing their color a bit. I’m going to start jotting them down as they come to mind.
I’m in an older vehicle right now that still has manual rolling windows and small cup holders. I stuck my giant iced coffee in the cup holder, and it barely fits. But then I had a flashback memory, from the smell, and the dust, and the drips on the console, which made me remember sitting in the car with my dad all through my childhood. I see cold mornings in the winter in Upstate New York, the fog of our breath, the rustle of our coats, and the smell of old sweat on our cheap, knitted winter hats. We’d go to a Stewart’s near our house and he’d get a coffee.
A few words to describe what a panic disorder felt like to me.
Around April 2013
Internal jolting The soul seizures Shaking, pressing, squirming through the neck and shoulders Mind-numbing, the face flushes Dripping, reeling, fading into pitch black nowhere Coughing up clay, swallowing hard And yet the grass dances The leaves giggle And the mountains, in all their splendor, stare at me with penetrating eyes They have something that I don’t have
Interested in more of my poetry and accompanying interpretations, look for my book! (coming soon)
This poem is rough. I use some strong language. I won’t go into details about the context at the time (I’ll save that for my book), but you should know I had my first psychotic break (ever) the very next day and was hospitalized the following week.
April 11, 2020
Violation is my name Give it up, because people don’t listen This conscience, what is it? Behind my face and in my gut It’s for others to trample on.
Violations of my conscience Invalidate my voice, why don’t you? Motherfucker. Tell me I’m wrong again.
Why CAN’T my story be a tragedy In spite of all this pageantry? Give me the right to fail. Allow me to come out of my closet of hopelessness.
Casualty is my name. Talent and skill, wasted Throw it on the ground Quarantine killed the extrovert But at least it saved a life
Fuck.
Interested in more of my poetry and accompanying interpretations, look for my book! (coming soon)
I’m a dancing Christmas tree at our town parade tonight. As I was piecing my costume together, I had YouTube on in the background. THIS VIDEO came up in the queue, and I just had to stop and make a comment.
Below, you will read my unedited* comments. Good luck.
“No. Bad advice hun. Forget the parents. Be realistic- look the problem in the face. By the time students show up in kindergarten, they’re already educationally and behaviorally comparable to a shelter dog. Parents got a puppy (novelty of having a baby), it exhausted them (first four years are tough), so they tied them up outside most the time (devices, educational neglect) and forgot about them. A couple years later the dog is surrendered to the shelter (public school) where they have to be put in individual kennels (because they’re wild, pooping and peeing, fighting with each other, jumping up on teachers… aka arguing) because that’s all they knew from puppy days- neglect. The new owner doesn’t go back to the previous owner to correct them or encourage them. We don’t call them. We don’t bother. Because they failed at their (educational) job. The new owner must do the hard work of reprogramming that dog. And that’s the part I think teachers are blindsided by. I can’t blame them!
Young adults have been sold a bag of marketing lies. “Come to our college and become a teacher! We desperately need your $80,000.” And the professors (who were educated in the old way), guided by all the research and curriculum and state standards that are also completely void of the realities in the classroom, do the most fantastic job of cramming the most well-researched techniques, progressions, and philosophies to pass licensing tests and propel teachers into the workforce.
New hires already know there are problems after the first couple of days of orientation. You’re not going to stand in front of a class “teaching.” You’re going to stand in front of a delinquent doggy daycare. And most of your jobs will be laundering urine soaked linens, scrubbing poop kennels, and sweeping up spilled kibble. You will be covered in slobber and scratches. And if you try to initiate behavior training, the dogs will pull your arm off on the leash, or worse, bolt. All you can do is toss them treats (recess, accommodations, positive reinforcement, parties, incentives), and they’ll only establish a chemical dependence on dopamine. Nothing intrinsic. The obedient dogs, surrendered because their parents died, will be neglected because their kennels are tidy and they don’t bark (get your attention). They just sit there and (educationally) rot.
The solution is not a better curriculum or a better app. The solution is to wipe the DOE clean. Better yet, shut them down and let the teachers develop their own system. Admin is for overseeing, not imposing. I firmly believe the teachers are more than capable of figuring the mess out, if only they were free to do so.
Furthermore, educational expectations need drastic revision. It’s the Google/AI Era. No one needs to memorize ANYTHING. Even the doctors pull out their cell phones during visits because they can’t remember the less common treatments!! We don’t even memorize a phone number anymore!!
The new generation needs to know how to read, write, and work with numbers on the absolutely most BASIC level in elementary school. And I mean BASIC!! Write a sentence, but don’t teach grammar or sentence structure vocabulary. Teach kids how to talk properly, then write what they just said, with basic punctuation. Teach them how to wash laundry, cook basic foods, and the basics on how to not die (put monkey bars over concrete, bring back merry-go-rounds, and teach them how to swim for God’s sake!). Teach them first aid for when they fall off the equipment. Most of the early years, in place of memorizing useless facts (the war of 1812… I don’t even know what that is, and I’m almost 50!… Hold on, let me Google it… 12 seconds later… ok, got it) kids should be developing hobbies that will assist them in keeping sane as adults.
Middle school shouldn’t be much different. High school is a great time to teach how to manage our societal system- like medical paperwork and navigation, DMV, taxes, civic duty, how to navigate the justice system, mental health (group therapy), dealing with the older generation that youre dealing with today (thats scary), getting along with others, driving, how to be an employee, hygiene, how to rent an apartment. Leave the specialized academics to those who are interested, like math, science, language, and the arts.
Yes, they should have a general education class that touches on these things. But not big assignments about cell structure, Greek mythology, or probability and statistics. Damn, who needs that crap in everyday life except those who actually WANT to use them in their careers? ….. end rant.
P.S. Why don’t teachers nod to admin and parent, “Yes, Ma’am” and then just ignore the bull crap and do whatever they want? Are you afraid of getting fired? How is that worse than quitting? Besides, if the teachers would rally together, the schools CAN’T fire them all because they’d then have no teachers. Pool your money and get lawyers for the class action youll have to deal with. A media frenzy could be your best friend.
Come on, guys! Quit complaining and start changing! Where is your self-respect!?
Want to be a teacher? Get a business degree with a minor in education, then open your own non-profit school. Crowd the public system out.
*I lied. I used AI to edit all my grammar mistakes quickly. It took less than 90 seconds. I rest my case.
My costume project that got neglected for this post
I’m angry right now, because I’m frustrated, because I’m feeling out of control of the situation, because the school* is controlling our family, the school is controlled by the State and Federal governments, the State and Federal controls the education system [abolish the USDE!!] with their money, that they aquire by controlling our productivity (taxes), so we’re all ultimately controlled by money, of which the love of is the root of all evil 1 Tim. 6:10, which controls by sin, which came from Mankind in the garden, controlled by Lucifer’s rebellion against God, which is the first commandment that was broken- Love the Lord your God with all your heart… and that’s why something as simple as a teenage’s stuffy nose and sore throat turns into his mother’s fit of rage. Even though I kept telling him I’m not mad about his illness, I told him I’m mad about his prior decisions to skip school early in the year that brought us to this point. But he’s also being controlled. (See above).
We are such sheeple. Just like scripture says. And we’re so blind, because we go and celebrate “Let Freedom Ring!” when we’re not really free at all.
*We were adamant homeschoolers for many years, but the control of the government that told us we HAD to do this and that, and HAD to have the paperwork, made it impossible for me, with my temperament, to be successful. I used to blame myself for being a failure. But the controlling government set the system against me.
It’s hard being weird. I am often misunderstood and find out later that my words were hurtful to someone. The consequence of these discoveries over time has resulted in a deeply rooted sense of paranoia.
I remember the words my mother always said when I was feeling shaky about my identity, “Honey, you’re not alone.” I have the best mom. But those words often didn’t soothe my perspective of a situation, and I felt very much alone.
Back in those days, in the mid-90’s, psychology and the internet weren’t a thing. It took late night conversations in the dark with your best friend to finally have the nerve to open up about our secret pain.
As an adult, I never wanted people to feel alone like I did, so I took on a habit of being an open book for the sake of others. It gets me in trouble, A LOT. Even why trying to be vague, sometimes I share too much about others. Sometimes I lack discretion.
Sometimes my descriptive words become offensive. For example, when I tried to describe contemporary evangelical worship in one word: polyester. I was in grad school, explaining the contrast with othervstyles of worship. My classmate took offense because she was in the praise production that I was referring to (and she was wearing polyester). When all I really was trying to convey was that I prefer a quieter, more reverent liturgy. Without lights, cameras, makeup, and dress up clothes.
The contemporary singer from the night (Charity Gayle) didn’t fit into the fancy stage production that was “Worship” that night. She wasn’t wearing make-up, and she looked like she walked on stage after shopping at the thrift store.
I was a 40-something grad student, surrounded by young, beautiful, talented students untouched from the troubles that I’ve lived through thus far. I felt extremely alone and underrepresented. I was paranoid. But Charity was the only time I felt represented. She gives her life for Christ, but she doesn’t fit in. Just like me. My classmate didn’t catch my drift. And I was embarrassed.
I’ve been feeling ashamed of myself since my post on 11/11. I since deleted it. I was poetically processing my journey to a mother of adult children, and it came out all wrong. I am convinced someone was deeply wounded.
This poem was written in 2010, when I finally recognized my inner crazy wasn’t the result of my own failure, but of messed up hormones and lies I was believing about myself. How I was able to find a glimmer of hope in that season of my life only solidifies the testimony of the Holy Spirit’s presence in my life.
The Depressed Christian by Angela Sundaramurthy 10/18/10
Breathe in, breathe out, what is the point? Breath sustains life, but why live?
I am valuable but I sell myself cheap. I give myself daily to a demon, a thief. He tells me I’m nothing, am spent and defiled Greedily I accept the abuse and revile
I live day-to-day analyzing my moods Did I sleep? Take my meds? Did I eat the right foods? Plastic army men in my brain, like a rattle, Are tossed to and fro, too distracted for battle
My life is a camp on the edge of a field Waiting for the last battle’s wounds to be healed The Commander yells “Charge!” I’m too ill to get started. Instead, I retreat to my tent, broken hearted
My face is buried in the spread of my cot The whole point of my service is to say that I fought How can I fight when I’m tucked down in my tent? My passion and strength seems entirely spent.
A rustling is heard at the edge of my bed Silhouettes of the enemy are cast o’er in red He whispers a message in the thick of my wail, “Injured soldiers,” he taunts, “Can do nothing but fail.”
“You’re so weak and invalid, what sorry a sight. Don’t shame yourself trying to fight ‘gainst my might. Here is my weapon, you know what to do. Don’t burden your King to take care of you!”
He places his sword in my hand and I think, If I go away now not one comrade would wink. I sat up in my bed and thought for a bit Then said to Satan, “This is bull shit!”
“You’re in MY tent, in MY camp, in MY land! You think that you’ve got me in the palm of your hand? I was hand-picked by the Commander himself. He knows of my wounds and has nursed me to health.”
I threw down the sword and fell to my knees I cried out to God to rescue me please In the flash of no time, with an earthquake and fire Jesus stood in my tent and stared down at the liar
The enemy’s eyes grew wide with panic He screamed like a girl, he just couldn’t stand it! He ran from my tent ’cause he hadn’t a chance With tail between legs, looking back- not one glance
“My dear child,” said God, “You need not to strive.” I died for your sins. Look now, I’m alive! The enemy thought he had rights to you, I dare say you thought what he thought must be true. But it is a lie, as you will now see. You do not have to fight. This fight is on Me. Submit to the Lord is all I ask you to do.”
Resist the devil and he will flee from you!
I picked up the sword that the evil one gave me. His intent to destroy was considered so aptly I handed the weapon of evil to Jesus He took it and used it for the purpose to free us.
I’m still in my tent on the road to recovery But now I have witnessed an age-old discovery What is the point of living and breathing? To glorify God and enjoy Him in everything.
Recovery is more important to me Than my next breath, or next meal, or next revelry When hurts, habits, and hang-ups are a thing of the past I will walk in God’s glory, that forever will last.
Watch out, O you enemies, when I’m once again well When the Commander yells “Charge!” You’ll head straight to Hell
Interested in more of my poetry and accompanying interpretations, look for my book! (coming soon)
She was the most incredible dream But then I woke up Now she’s a memory A gift box, tied up
Warm, pink cheeks, she looked at me When I spoke, she looked at me Peculiar I’ve known her all her life Yet I don’t know her at all
As they were stuffing my guts back in My flesh and blood stared at me
She’s known me all her life Yet she doesn’t know me at all
I know her hiccups and heels, and knees Swiping and rolling “Practice breaths” up and down No one knows her like I do Yet I know nothing at all
I feel like I need to put her baby memory in a little box Tie it up with a bow, put it on a shelf Like she was an incredible dream I once had But then I woke up
-Angela Sundaramurthy
Check out my poetry book for backstory and interpretation.
God gave us the wildflowers They bloom in the Spring We don’t always want them (interruptions, they bring) They speckle our lawns That we want to stay green They’re hardy as heck No poison can seem… To kill them… To kill them… To kill them.
God gave us the wildflowers They’re here all year long We don’t always want them They do not belong They speckle our lives That we want to stay fine Won’t leave us alone, And so we’re inclined… To kill them… To kill them… To kill them.
God gave us the wildflowers The flowers don’t know Why he made them so different From the ones people sow The two are both lovely With colors arrayed One tilled by wind And the other by spade Wildflowers are strong But they’re tender inside If you’re one of those “weeds” Raise your voice to the sky… “Don’t kill them! Don’t kill them! Don’t kill them!”
-Angela Sundaramurthy
Check out my poetry book* for backstory and interpretation.
This Weird Girl 