What it means to be an atheist

People have a lot to say about Atheists. We get branded as godless, immoral sinners who have no chance at redemption. Oftentimes, these conclusions are drawn without any real evidence.

Do you know someone who's an atheist? If so, would you describe that person as immoral?

Well, I am an atheist and I'm about as moral as they come. Being a good person is important to me. I work hard to respect others and follow societal rules and guidelines. I am not a heretic or a troublemaker, nor am I trying to rid the world of religion. Just because I stopped believing in something doesn't mean I expect everyone else to also.

In fact, what I choose to believe isn't anyone's business, but as you can image religion comes up all the time. People talk about their faiths and their church activities, while I remain silent, stilted, in fear of being judged for not believing in what everyone else seems to believe. And I used to believe.

My mom raised me as a Christian, and I grew up believing that God existed. I prayed, went to Sunday school and read the bible as often as I could. Even then, I tried really hard to be a good person because it's important to me. Just because you stop believing in God, doesn't mean that you lose your morals. It also doesn't mean that you change who you are, well for me it did, but I changed for the better. You see, I used to be a bit obsessive about always doing the right thing. To the point where I would punish myself, condemn myself for behavior I deemed inappropriate.

It's hard to image that there is someone, up above, watching and judging your every move. It wasn't good for my psyche, and since I've let go of religion, I've found myself being less judgmental of myself and others. I no longer punish myself over thoughts or feelings that are beyond my control.

So what made me give up on God?

Well, I don't see it as giving up on a belief in God, but rather taking on a new invested belief in myself and my own abilities. I've always been interested in religion, sociology in general; how people think, why we believe certain things and behave in certain ways. So naturally I was drawn to classes on religion and Greek mythology in college. Everything we studied show me what I feared most: That my belief in God was just that, merely a belief. There was no concrete evidence to support any religious stories, but despite all the information in front of me, I still chose to believe.

It wasn't until I graduated college, got my fist job and lots of awful things started happening. I was shortly laid off and my mental illness started to rear it's ugly head. I sought God; constantly praying, seeking his help and guidance. I waited years and never received any, and at a certain point I stopped waiting, stopped caring about this eternal being that had planned out my whole life for me. I decided to take matters into my own hands. Instead of praying for a desire outcome, I made my own
outcome. And I have never felt more empowered in my life.

So judge me all you want. I'm perfectly happy just the way I am.

Love,
Kris

The Support of a Mentor

If you follow this blog regularly, it should be no surprise to you that I've had a hard life. I've been beaten, broken, abused and poor so how was I able to carry on? What ever made me think that I was capable of anything when the world was constantly telling me that I was worthless?

The support of a mentor is what gave me my strength and the belief I have in myself. Without someone taking the time to say, 'you can do this', I might never have tried. And that is why I owe everything I will ever have to Conrad Fink.

Every once and a while someone enters our life who supports us, encourages us, and wants too see us succeed because they believe we have what it takes. I met Conrad Fink during the fall of 2010 and the courage he showed me will last a lifetime.

You may be thinking, what could a Hispanic, college-aged girl from a rough neighborhood ever have in common with a white, 80-year-old former vice president of the Associated Press? Well nothing. I can honestly say that Conrad Fink and I probably had very little in common besides our love of writing and the thirst for democracy and social justice.

The first time I took a class with Conrad Fink, I was more than nervous. His classrooms are set up around a round-table, where everyone is expected to participate, and where everyone is vulnerable to his criticism, which hits like a nun with a ruler.

Rumor was that Conrad Fink was a grouchy old tyrant, who thought he knew everything about journalism and writing. There were some who even refused to take his classes because of the level of effort he expected from his students. Being the perfectionist that I am, I thought I was up for the challenge. And so my goal for the semester was to work hard and impress Conrad Fink.

Hours were spent, perfecting opinion pieces and coming up with ideas for future editorials.

"You've got good ideas, Villarreal." He said to me once after class. "I've been in this business for a long time, and I can tell you're different." He said. "You take the time to think about the world around you, something your other classmates don't do. Take that, and run with it." He told me and goddammit I did. That was one of the best moments of my life because a legend was telling me I had something special. I couldn't let him down.

When I went home that night, I was determined to write a new column that was going to blow him and the rest of the class away. I wrote about something controversial, but extremely timely. There was a young girl who'd been gang raped and the boys who allegedly committed the act had documented it with their cellphones and were putting up all over social media. This way my story. My chance to be heard. My chance to voice my concerns about sexual violence and social media. I showed the story to my editor and she wanted to run it the very next day. "Wait," I said. "Let me show it to Fink first."

Since the semester started, I'd made a habit of doing my homework on the floor outside Fink's office, waiting for him to be done teaching so I could badger him in to helping me with my writing. He never complained about me taking up all his office hours, in fact I think he was impressed that I wanted his opinion so often. He noticed everything. Even how I carried a notepad with me everywhere, something I'd been doing since fifth grade.

But when I showed Fink my story that day, after waiting for him for a few hours, he was furious.
"Did you watch the video?" he asked.

"No of course not," I replied. "It's child pornography. It's illegal."

"It doesn't matter," he shouted. "You don't write an article about a football game without having seen it. You don't do this Villarreal!"

"Fine," I shouted. "I'll take that part out, but it's going to run tomorrow."

Fink balled up the story and threw it. "No one should ever read this." he shouted. He accused me of not knowing the basic rules of reporting and he was right.

Conrad Fink (Associated Press)

"Okay," I said, picking up the story. "I won't let it run." I said trying not to cry. I grabbed my things and left, feeling awful for missing something so big and for letting Fink down.

When I got home that evening, I sent him an email, apologizing and attached a news article that had gotten attention a while back, hoping to gain his trust back. The next day he gave me a signed copy of one of his books, saying that he knew I was going to have a great career. He believed in me and it was because I didn't crack when things got tough, because I was still willing to try again even though I had failed the first time.

Fink knew that I wouldn't quit and for a long time after his death, I felt guilty. I wanted him to see me publish my first book, to prove that all his effort was not wasted, but he died before that could happen. For those of us who don't believe in the afterlife, I have to push everything that Fink taught me to others. That's how his legacy will live.

Love,
Kris

The Narrowest Standard of Beauty

This short film is a horrifyingly, beautiful and accurate depiction of Western beauty standards.

Supervenus by Federic Doazan showcases the trauma and harm that a certain aesthetic does to a woman's body. The film is quite gory, as a real woman is nipped and tucked. We often forget that real women are engaging in this drastic behavior everyday to prove their worth and value to a society that holds them to such a narrow standard of beauty.

The amount of women who seek out plastic surgery gradually increases every year, telling an awful tale of how we view women's bodies and how women are taught to view themselves. We often regard women's bodies as products, something to be constantly improved upon and re-constructed at all times, as our bodies are suited for the male gaze and nothing else.

Check out the film and reflect for a moment on the harm this has on a woman's self esteem and how she regards herself in society. This is something we all need to talk about. When we put so much brain power towards our outward appearance, we often forget about making strides for women in politics and in the workplace.

Love,
Kris

Six things I've learned as a struggling writer

Deciding to be a writer is just about one of the dumbest things you could ever do. There are no guarantees with anything. You could write the best damn book in the world and if you can't get it in the hands of the right people, it means nothing.

The writing process is filled with sleep deprivation, heartache, and the struggle to learn what is good writing. I've had my fair share of rejections, setbacks, and manuscript rewrites.
So here are a few of the things I've learned that may help you on your journey:

1. Don't just start writing a novel. Start by teaching yourself the elements of a book, and learn how to write well first. Write short stories before attempting a novel. Teaching your self the basics beforehand will save a lot of time during the editing process.

2. Editing is harder than writing. You've completed your manuscript and you're super proud of yourself, and you should be. But don't start celebrating yet because the hard work has just begun. Edit, then edit again, and then edit just a bit more. Get rid of those cliches. Round out those characters. Make that small town feel real. It takes work, but once you get it right, it's worth it. 

3. Read and write everyday. Now I know what you're thinking, if I'm writing and editing all the time how could I possibly have time to read? Well you better find the time, because without reading you won't have the tools to know what makes good writing. Read across genres and read books on writing, like The Elements of Style and Writing Tools by Roy Peter Clark. And you know to write everyday because that's how you get better, it's how you hone your craft. You won't get better if you don't practice. And if you think your writing's already good enough, it's probably shit. 

4. Share your writing with fellow writers. If you write in a vacuum, you won't get better. You can't see everything that's wrong with your writing, and close friends and family can't either. Meet other writers through workshops or by joining a critique group. It might be uncomfortable at first, but it will teach you to handle criticism. Everyone has room for improvement.

5. There will be rejection. Get used to that idea. Let that sink in, and know that there will be many people who don't like what you've written, or who would have done it differently. Fuck those people. This is where belief in yourself becomes crucial. If someone offers some constructive criticism, then by all means listen, but if they're just saying that what you've written isn't right for them or they simply don't like it, then cry for a bit, and move on. Get over it as quickly as possible because there's more work to be done and lots more rejection to be had. 

6. Never give up. This is your dream, and even though it's a stupid, completely unrealistic dream, there exists something in you that wants to write. Don't deny that part of yourself, feed it as often as you can and just keep hoping for the best. That big publishing contract isn't out there for everyone, but that doesn't mean it isn't out there for you. Work hard and it could happen. You just have to keep trying.

Love,

Kris

The Black in Me

I am a mixed chick, and because of that racial identity has always been something I've struggled with.

Who am I? What category of people do I fit in to?

If we didn't have phrases like, 'acting white' or 'acting black', I'm sure it wouldn't matter much to me, but as our society is so focused on race and how it relates to our personalities and our lives, racial identity is often tied to our core.

I would like to say that race always matters, and it does if you're a person of color. When you're white, you have the privilege of not being burdened with thoughts about race. You are who you are, and your race is often invisible to others. You can be whatever you want. You can go pretty much anywhere, and feel like you belong, but for many of us that isn't the case.

For me, since I am a writer, I'm not just a writer. I'm a multicultural writer, meaning that I choose to write about more than just the white experience, and I do that because I know little to nothing about what it means to be white.

Of course the majority of books, TV, and film depict the white experience, so I know some in that sense. But my identity for much of my existence has more or less been tied to the black experience, and yes, I realize that I'm not black, but I really don't think that matters because as people of color, we should all be focused on the social hierarchy that exists in this country and that often places black lives at the bottom.

My grandfather was black, my mother is mixed. I grew up in south Atlanta, in a predominately black neighborhood. I experienced racism, poverty, and ill treatment firsthand because I was treated as someone who was black, and I saw myself as black, even though I am not.

And here is where it gets tricky, once I left my hometown for college and was confronted with the whiteness of the collegiate system, I came across many people; students, professors, who did not expect me to be black.

They wanted me to be something else.

They told me that acting like I was black would put me at a certain disadvantage my entire life, and that by claiming to be something else, anything else, I would be better off. That's pretty fucked up. And it was pretty hard for an 18-year-old to understand, but I did because I experienced it everyday.

I noticed the way white folks would look at me, judging me, asking me where I'm from. And if I were to say south Atlanta, I'd get the cold shoulder from most people I came in contact with, so I started saying California instead. I started telling people that I was mixed, and I would omit the fact that my grandfather was black, and you know where it got me? Absolutely nowhere, because people still saw me as different, as the 'other', not a whole person, not a complete person because I wasn't white.

But around that time, I was ashamed of the black in me because I let so many people's opinions dictate how I felt about myself. And it's hard because people will tell you that you're skin's too dark, or they'll say things like "you only got that scholarship because you're Latina," or they'll wonder why you're so articulate and they'll question your intelligence because someone who looks like me couldn't possibly be smart or hardworking.

I'm ashamed of the fact that I didn't own my blackness and that I was afraid of offending white people by mentioning it. I'm ashamed that I ever thought to omit a part of who I am, and in light of the intense amount of racial injustice taking place in parts all over this country, I just want to say that I'm proud of the black in me. I'm proud to be a person of color, despite the disadvantage that it puts me in.

Love,
Kris

Don't call me skinny, that's an insult

Any woman, entering in to any public space can expect to have her body judged by both men and women alike. We have so many ways to describe women's bodies, so many different criteria that we are constantly judged against:

How small are her breasts?
How big is her ass?
How broad are her shoulders?
How slender is her waist?

We describe women as curvy, thick, fat, skinny, slender, voluptuous, petite, athletic. While we often describe men in three ways: fat, skinny, muscular. It's no secret that women are held to a stricter standard when it comes to their appearance, and that's often because we're taught that a women's appearance equals her worth.

A fat woman, is an invisible woman, an ugly woman is someone to be ignored because when you're a woman, you must be attractive to prove your value to men and often to other women.

For a long time I bought in to this ideal. I didn't wanted to be stared at, judged, or worse, completely ignored because I couldn't manage to keep my appearance together. I developed an eating disorder, starving myself, working out excessively all to prove my value to society. And that's why I think as women, we need to stop congratulating one another for being thin or skinny.

It's not an accomplishment by any means, and calling someone skinny isn't a compliment, it's a body type. Some women look like that because of genetics without being healthy or exercising at all, meanwhile other women, not unlike myself, go to extreme measures to meet a certain ideal.

We continue to value one another based on weight, and it needs to stop. The body shaming needs to stop. The small, critical comments about each other's arms and legs has to stop.

And now there seems to be this influx of women's bodies that are sculpted, ripped, and muscular.

I will be the first to admit that I regularly lift weights at the gym, heavy weights, and I do it because I like the way it feels. Not because I'm trying to meet some new, trendy ideal of what's sexy. This new ideal is passed off as being about health, fitness, and loving yourself, and I just have to say that is complete and total bullshit.

If I have to hear, "your health is your wealth," one more fucking time I'm going to gauge my eyes out.

It's not about health, it's about vanity and you fucking know it. It's about shaming other women, who you deem as unhealthy, and you fucking know it.

There are overweight people who are healthy, so if it was really about health we would not praise some bodies while shaming others. It's a specific body, a look, that we deem as healthy and for most of us that look is completely unrealistic.

So I'm done trying to meet some fantasy ideal of what a woman should look like. This is who I am. This is what my body looks like, cellulite and all, and I don't give a fuck if it doesn't turn you on.

Keep your arousal to yourself.

My body isn't perfect, but it's mine so shut the fuck up. No one asked you anyway.

Love,
Kris

Because I AM the maniac: Living with mental illness

Times get tough. Folks get sad. Most days, it's easy to push through, to hold on until the next day and the next. And then there are those times when something just snaps deep inside. Can't think straight. Can't calm down. Can't get my mind to stop racing. I'm moving so slow, better move faster to keep up with the urges, the goals, but it's impossible. I can't keep up. Too much anger, so pissed, so frustrated.

Scream, yell, punch the walls but the pain won't go away. I can't get the feeling to stop, the itch to subside. So I hit the gym, work out for three hours straight, praying for a sense of relief, but there isn't one. Just want to calm down, want to slow down but can't.

The feeling persists. I don't want anyone to know. I don't understand the harmful thoughts and feelings. And if I can't understand them how can I ever tell anyone else about them.

Things get worse. It's time for sleep, but you don't sleep, nope, not anymore. Most nights just lay awake, thinking, replaying, can't sit still, can't calm down. I'm euphoric, on top of the fucking world, but I hate everyone. They're all too slow, moving like sloths. I can't deal. Need to separate. Need to get out. Need to do things that no one knows about. Hurting myself, hurting others. I  can't stop. I'm not in control, the other bitch is, she's confident, she calls the shots and I let her because I'm too weak. I'm lost inside myself.

Two years ago, right before Christmas I lost my shit. And I didn't even know I had lost it. I went something like two weeks without eating or sleeping, and I just remember feeling like my heart was going to beat out of my chest. I wasn't hungry, my stomach didn't growl. I wasn't sleepy, I  wouldn't yawn.

For a long time I just thought I was a superhero ( I actually believed this). I thought that I had some amazing super power that allowed me to work harder without sleeping or eating. And I ignored the itches and the urges, worked through the deep depressions that followed my manic states. So that only those close to me could tell that something was wrong, something just wasn't right with Crystal.

I once wrote an entire novel in two weeks, then turned around and wrote another in three.

I thought I was the shit. No one could touch me. Turns out I'm fucking crazy, and I did all of those things while in a manic state.

They diagnosed me with bipolar disorder and I had another stint in a mental hospital. It made no sense, but it made the most sense. I knew what I was doing wasn't normal, but I'm not in control when I'm manic. And then when I would come down from a manic state the guilt I felt would make me want to cut my skin off with a dull razor blade. But that was then.

Things are far from perfect, but with psychiatric help, medication, and therapy, I've managed to keep a hold on things most days. Stress is a trigger for me. I have to watch for the signs of mania, pay attention to my moods everyday. I have an alarm for sleeping, an alarm for waking up. Too much sleep and I could trigger a depression, too little and the next thing you know I'm bouncing off the fucking walls.

I just need balance and to appreciate myself despite my flaws, despite my illness. We all have obstacles to overcome, some of us have more than others and that's okay. You just have to keep fighting. Get help, because you can't do it on your own, and it's okay to lean on other people sometimes. You don't always have to be strong, you can be vulnerable and people will still love you. I promise.

Things are going to be okay because I am not my mental illness. I will have a life.

Love,
Kris