Good advice is good advice. Bad advice is common. 09/13

I explained and I considered and I evaluated and I analyzed until I couldn’t have possibly analyzed any more. We sat in silence for what seemed like forever and, gradually, I began to stare off into space. Finally, she began.

"God is good all the time, and all the time, God is good! I know you’re hurt, and I hate to point this out, but you knew something like this would happen eventually. What goes around comes around. You can’t tell me you honestly thought you’d get away with it, did you? He might not know what you did this summer but I know and you know, and most importantly, God knows. I know you’re angry. You have every right to be. Aside from a well-deserved backhand from karma, you knew better. You knew exactly what you were getting yourself into. Everyone tried to warn you. They tried to tell you he didn’t like you for you, but you’ve always been so optimistic. Don’t get me wrong! I love that quality about you, but sometimes your brightness and confidence in others clouds your judgment. You ‘made him happy’ whether you ‘were next to him or not,’ but that was easier believed while you were actually next to him. After all, it only took him, what, two weeks to move on and find someone new? Did you honestly believe he’d wait for you? Ha! Put on life through his glasses. An hour is closer than eight hours and twenty minutes is even closer than an hour. I don’t care what anyone says; location is key. But look on the bright side, kid! You’re young. You’ve got your entire life ahead of you. You can’t hold all of that against him. He could have been honest, sure, but you could have been honest, too. You could have vocalized that after all that time and all those fights and all your so-called ‘logic’ you were only inches away from taking the giant leap of faith he’d urged you to take only weeks earlier. He had no idea. He had no idea that if he had just picked up the phone you would have eagerly blurted out, ‘I’m ready!’ You didn’t mean to fall so hard; no one ever does. And now you’re back at square one, again, wondering where to go. Wondering who you can trust. It’s okay to be angry. You were wronged--you were thoroughly blind-sighted--but as Christians, we know that all things work together for good! Right now, you don’t understand why all these seemingly terrible things happen to you, but ultimately, there is a reason. Pick yourself up and dust yourself off. Again. We all know you can do it because, well, you’ve done it before. He’s not the first friend who’s ever let you down. He’s not even the first best friend who’s ever let you down. He’s not the first boy to trade you in for a better looking brand, either, and unfortunately, he probably won’t be the last. Don’t be afraid. Don’t cower in the corner. Get up anyway."

The succeeding silence indicated that it was time for me to tune back into reality. Turn back on. I replaced my blank stare with a respectful smile. I thanked her for her time politely but after all was said and done, only one solitary thought stuck out in my mind: maybe I shouldn’t transfer after all. Maybe I should stay right here, locked safely inside my conservative jail cell, 516.1 miles away from you and the friend you really turned out to be.

Through the wind and the rain, she stands hard as a stone in a world that she can't rise above

But her dreams give her wings and she flies to a place where she's loved

Concrete angel

Stream-of-consciousness as of three o'clock this morning.

: the conscious experience of an individual regarded as a continuous, flowing series of images and ideas running through the mind.

And then it was silent on the opposite end and anything that could have been was lost--or at least postponed until it was time to skin the potatoes and prep the giant turkey. No one really knows what they want. Or they have a solid idea or two and they continually mold them and readjust their dreams until they crumble in their hands. That's the part no one wants to talk about. That's the part distorted on the silver screen, unless producers choose to play off the second-guessing crisis as a much-needed plot element ultimately leading to some sort of happy ending. The problem with happy endings is that they don't apply to each character. Typically, only the protagonist and company are spotlighted. But what about the villain who made a mistake? What about the bad guy? Doesn't he deserve to be happy, too, in spite of his faults and errors and shortcomings? People make mistakes. Does that mean they should suffer until karma makes her rounds and they're finally off the hook? What happens when the television is turned off? What happens when the movie ends? Does the happy ending spill over into reality? "Why can't anything in life be simple?" a notably flustered customer asked me weeks back. Without putting much thought into it, I matter-of-factly stated that if life were easy, we would never learn anything valuable. The only thing I'm learning is nothing lasts forever and not every single minuscule event occurs for a purpose. Sometimes, things just happen. Better yet, things happen because people make them happen. Remember? Jon. Tiffany. Fanny. Joy. Tony. Sarah. You? The problem has got to be me. When will it stop? I destroy great things before they have the chance to destroy me. Again. I'm waiting for my happy ending--just like the rest of the planet--but the inner cynic lurking in the back of my mind taunts me with every failure and all the if only, if onlys and all the what ifs. Remember the curly-haired boy with freckles and braces who built robots for fun? The seven yellow carnations, symbolizing a secret admirer, creatively spelling out J-E-S-S-I-C-A? Remember? Did you forget that you made him fall for you--"She's the coolest girl I know, but I have a girlfriend now..."--and then you walked away without so much an explanation, let alone a good-bye? "Yeah, hmm. I've actually been living in fear of relationships and commitment and emotion since I turned fourteen and my dad...." That would have gone over well. You haven't changed much in the years cementing the memories together. Same pattern. Different boy. Different excuse. Same root. Same fear. Remember the older football player every girl at school was crazy about? Remember when he left his long-time girlfriend to fall down at your feet, but it wasn't enough, and you chose to walk away despite his sacrifice? Walking away. The only thing you've ever truly excelled at. (The voice in the back of my mind knows me better than I know myself.) Don't forget Davey. Remember how he could have been perfect for you? Remember how he vowed to treat you like a princess, and you weren't interested until it was too late (and there was no chance of getting involved and therefore getting hurt?) Remember when you cried and cried and all your tears were in vain because it was always your fault for running away? Jon was in from the get-go (the voice in my head reminds me.) Remember how he made you feel? Nothing more breathtaking and nothing more weepingly devastating. Who said that it's better to have loved and lost? I wish that I had never loved at all. Remember when you were never good enough (but your best friend was ideal) for his blameless family, and eventually, he quit fighting for you? Remember how you tormented yourself for weeks upon months approaching a year and you lived in an empty place where no one could touch you? Unreachable. Remember crying yourself to sleep because your revealing prom dress and rotten attitude totaled the best thing that ever happened to you? Remember how he walked away? I know you didn't forget. I know you can't forget. Remember longing for those mere five seconds after waking up before you remembered that your dreams had shattered and that you were completely alone? And then sobbing so hard you couldn't breathe and consequently staying in bed all morning and missing school? Remember pretending? Remember smiling because it felt like the entire town was watching and awaiting your breaking point? (It was all my fault.) (All my fault) (I was to blame.) (I brought this upon myself.) Remember how Tony wanted to give you the world (beginning with the moon) but you were hollow and he wasn't Jon? Remember all the chances you wasted? I know you remember Alex. Remember deciding to give him a chance, and then backing out last minute because your fear of being hurt tremendously outweighed your fear of being alone? Remember how you lost your chance because you were too afraid? Fear is the mind killer. All the truths I try to live without and all the memories I try to erase are powerless against the petite portion of my mind not living in a state of complete and utter denial. What exactly am I trying to prove? And who am I trying to prove it to? Why? For God so loved the world that He gave His only begotten Son...but I know He would have done it just for me. Jesus Christ shed His blood for me, so what could I possibly have left to prove? (That I'm good enough for somebody?) "Think enough of yourself. Think enough of yourself..." I sat in the front row and played the perfect student and took notes and nodded at appropriate occasions. Think enough of yourself. Obviously, I don't, but I never did get those four words out of my mind, nor was I able to shake the emotion quivering in the voice of one of the few people I respected in my life. And now I'm stuck and I'm suffocating beneath the increasing pressure of all the blame and all the guilt and the memories and the mistakes and the laughter and the expectations. Where am I supposed to go from here? How long can a person float, looking at an empty horizon? How long do you drift before you call it quits?

I want to run, but only far enough to make you miss me.

We sit at this table with our hands in our laps and we have a few drinks and we share a few laughs, but now those days have passed and they're not coming back. It's a shame, 'cause that's all that I had.

Nothing occurs based merely on coincidence. Incidents do not unfold because of luck or perchance or by draw. Although I trust we have the ability to control our destiny to a certain extent, I don’t believe "fate" is ever a factor. Events take place because people make them happen. Customers take for granted the fresh milk made available to them daily at the local grocery store, but it’s a rare occasion that someone stops to consider the employee wearing thick gloves and an even thicker sweatshirt smack-dab in the middle of July shelving the milk. Situations don’t just happen; they happen because people make them happen.

Seeking God's will for your life doesn't mean a thing in the world if you don't follow it. Stick to His plan! Similar to protagonist Beverly Donofrio in Riding in Cars with Boys, I "did everything wrong, but got everything right." I don't deserve God's mercy, yet it extends itself further and further every day to cover my multiple, irresponsible shortcomings.

That morning felt like a rollercoaster ride in slow motion. It was too early for my eyes to be open, but that wasn't substantial. Nothing could have ceased the heated argument growing louder every second in the next room. The scene wouldn't have been complete if he hadn't slammed the front door on his way out, naturally, which I took as my cue to relocate myself from the couch to curled up next to you in your Eeyore-infested bed where he should have been. I couldn't understand how the blue-eyed baby slept through the storm. He came back later. My moderate nature causes me to run away from hostility inwardly, so I tried my unskilled hand at mediating. I sat down boldly next to him on the couch, watched him roll another one and inquired about his plans. What kind of activities do you have arranged for today? "Nothing. Fight with my wife all day." The term "wife" still sounded new. Too fast. Too young. I paused and considered my subsequent statement. "But," I began, "the good times are worth the bad ones, right?" His faraway stare and zipped lips told me everything I needed to know. I sat back, bewildered and speechless.

I swear that every word I say, I mean until my dying day. It’s a shame. When I wake, I can’t recall a thing.

This is it. This is your life. Letting men older than your grandfather watch you dance provocatively to pay for the apartment you can’t seem to keep holes out of and basking in the (de)light of your most recent mistake. Life. You gave it away. (You threw your life away.) You’re wasting your life. You’re wasting your life. I love you more than the air that I breathe, but you’re wasting your life.

Fast forward seven days. I sat uncomfortably in a house which previously felt like home, surrounded by colorful, adjective-inscribed balloons and making small talk with a stranger who previously felt like family. You crawled into bed, noticed the tension and tried to undertake damage control, but it was too late. You were too late. "I can't complete with this. I can't compete with her." The damage was done. It's revolting, how much one person can change within the brief time period of three obscure weeks. I was finally eighteen, an adult by most standards. (http://jequalscrack.blogspot.com/2009/01/it-rains-when-youre-here-and-it-rains.html)

Am I at fault for walking away, or should the fingers remain pointed at you for not coming after me? Are we equally wrong? Do you care? Does it matter? I hurt people before they have the chance to leave an imprint on my heart. It’s an ugly inclination. I cause others to fall for me and then I walk away unintentionally because I loved someone once and he walked away. And everyone I’ve ever cared about followed him—literally. I abandon love because love abandoned me. Am I chasing the ghost of a good thing, or is this the real deal? I can't tell the difference anymore. Am I too late? Rather than being stuck between a rock and a hard place, I find myself cushioned amid friends who view me as nothing more significant than a back-up plan and others who would rather wake up next to an empty bottle than me.

Maybe someday I’ll accept my fair share of the blame, but if I’m honest with myself, it probably won’t happen tonight.

I’ve got some problems, but we've got ten dollars. (That’s enough to get us wasted before the night is over.) These past five days I’ve been completely sober, but tonight I’m getting ripped wide open.

P.S. If love really is the bottom line, we’ve all been cheated and fooled.

This essay assignment introduced me to the significance of details.

Elongated days and warm weather would soon come to an abrupt end. Chelsea and I decided to take advantage of this seemingly perfect day and ride my brand new, bright orange all terrain vehicle around the many acres of land of which my backyard was composed. In all the days of my life, I found nothing more exhilarating than feeling the fresh breeze blow quickly across my face while laughing hysterically with my best friend. As we approached my favorite land ramp, I sped up faster than a fireman rushing to a burning building. But I must have been driving too fast because I lost control of the machine, and the 4-wheeler betrayed my trust and flipped us ruthlessly into the lake. The extreme weight of the 4-wheeler caused me to sink immediately. Chelsea tried to help me escape, but I was stuck between the 4-wheeler and the coffee-colored mud on the bottom of the lake. I started to panic. It became very obvious to me that I might not be able to escape the deadly combination of the 4-wheeler that kept pushing me further down into the earth and the dirty water which would soon fill my lungs. I was dizzy. I needed air, and the grainy mud swirling around me was starting to burn my eyes. "Please help me!" I silently prayed. That was the last thing I remember, thus beginning my long lucid dream that medical experts refer to as a coma. I woke up four weeks later. Doctors in long white coats patiently explained to me that I had been underwater between ten to fifteen minutes, but I didn't understand. I recognized my mother in the room with me, and there were a lot of teenagers with her. I didn't know any of them, but they seemed to know who I was. Two days later, my body began battling against me. I suffered an intensive stroke that left me completely brain dead. My parents made the executive decision that day to kill the machines pumping life into my body. My name is Emily Downey, and I died thirty-four days after I drowned in the lake behind my house on that seemingly perfect day.

Hard days made me. Hard nights shaped me. I don't know; they somehow saved me.

I didn't have time to finish the assignment. I forgot. Fido ate my homework. My flash drive couldn't open my finished paper. My locker wouldn't open! My brother colored all over the worksheet. I brought my French book home, instead. It was stolen by the homework fairy. My assignment is being held ransom and I refuse to pay for it. The librarian thought it was an overdue library book and took it. The printer broke. And then ran out of ink. And then my kitchen caught fire. And then my Uncle Joe died. And then...

Irresponsibility is an ugly implement. Foolish behavior like that indicates immaturity, ignorance and a basic lack of sense, not to mention it insults the intelligence of those you embellish to. Excuses are my biggest pet peeve personally. I don't care how legitimate they are. Maybe the printer really did break, but try these on for size: I should have had a back-up plan. I should have been more prepared. I shouldn't have procrastinated. Instead of waiting until the last minute to print my paper, it should have been ready days ago. It's my fault; it's my bad. Apologies also tend to work well. I'm sorry. It won't happen again.

I hate excuses, but unnecessary blame is a more scandalous crime. And, sure, credit is limited and blame is endless and the grass always seems to be greener on the other side, but you know what? It's not my fault. Sometimes, that needs to be said. More importantly, it needs to be heard. It's not my fault.

I made my dad a mixed tape for "Valentine's Day" in tenth grade. In reality, I just wanted him to know how deeply he hurt me. He carried himself in such a "can't-tell-me-nothin" manner that I compiled a playlist describing how I felt exactly in twenty-five songs or less. (I ran across those songs by mistake tonight. Oops.) (I should have labeled the tape.) I remember so clearly the guilt I felt after delivering the music. He misconstrued my angry flag as a heartfelt gesture, bless his heart. He thought I made him the tape with love, that it would consist of a balanced combination of both of our favorite bands and songs and beats. Wrong. He took his girlfriend out to a movie that night to celebrate the so-called "holiday" while I watched some romantic, non-relatable television marathon with my mother. Laura--what kind of name is that, anyway?--picked him up at the end of the street, which annoyed and insulted me because we all knew exactly what was going on. I hesitate to say my family didn't care. (Obviously, I cared enough to make him a mixed tape.) We were just immobilized and uncurious. Disgustingly apathetic. A week later, we discovered the two-hundred-dollar coat Laura bought Dad in the backseat of the car on the way to church. Mom ran it over--twice--and left it tattered and torn in the snow-covered street. It's kind of funny, the memories we choose to hold onto.

It wasn't my fault then, and it's not my fault now.

"I followed you, Daddy. You told me that you weren't leavin'! You lied to me, Dad, and now you make Mommy sad. And I bought you this coin; it says 'Number One Dad.' That's all I wanted. I just wanted to give you this coin. I get the point--fine! Me and Mommy are goin'!"
But, baby, wait!
"It's too late, Dad. You made the choice. Now go out there and show 'em that you love 'em more than us."

I play my part and you play your game. You give love a bad name!

____,

You are ridiculous! Any defense would be considered as nothing more than fuel to your flourishing, infuriating fire. I would just like to take this moment to remind you that you have a girlfriend. What is it, ten months today? Congratulations. You lie to most of the surrounding and convince yourself she's your "world" and your "lifelong partner," but I think if those statements were anywhere near the Equator of truth, you wouldn't continually seek more. Ideally, your Juliet would be more than sufficient, and she's obviously not, so who are you trying to kid? Not to mention the imminent fact that she's my FRIEND. Everyone's caught onto everything you do. Everyone's caught onto... You've made your way through the company, leaving substantial footprints on the hearts of any girl foolish enough to believe she was valuable to you. Even for a moment. Even for just one night. Who's next? The new cashier? She just turned sixteen, you know. No matter how much I try to analyze what occurs inside your head, I cannot put my finger on what is so wrong with you that the one you (claim to) love isn't enough. "I care about you so much as a person." "I wish that I could make you happy." "Will you be mine, too?" "I don't care what she says--I love talking to you, and I'd really love to see you tonight." Who do you think you are? Leave the invitations to England Dan and John Ford Coley. You're nothing but a smooth talker, and the worst kind at that. Speaking is a game, and you're the best player I know. Words are a puzzle. You're the only one who can put them where they belong, as far as she's concerned. Transparent altercations. Insincere apologies. Flattery you know by heart. Juliet believes you every solitary time. "What would you do if I kissed you?" "She'll never find out." "I won't be with her tonight. Let's talk." Remember the letter you wrote me? "I have a girlfriend. It's not right." You've always been such a jest, or at least an unintentional speaker because you obviously never meant it. I refuse to take the backseat to any girl and your GIRLFRIEND shouldn't have to, either. How dare you make me out to be the villain! Yes, I have feelings for someone other than you. Yes, he isn't already in a "committed" relationship. Worse things have occured. You need to grow up. Yeah, something's got to give.

All the best,
(You're going to need it,)

(When your girlfriend finds out what you've done,)
(Again,)

Jessica

P.S. Who says the heart of a cheater is empty and hollow? Oh, that's right. Everybody does.

What hurts the most was being so close and having so much to say and watching you walk away.

I'm trying to get up but I can't move a muscle because your frigid words are echoing in my head so loudly I can't hear myself think and I'm remembering our special trip to Brown County when I was in the fourth grade and I felt like I was on top of the world which is funny because now I'm lying on my bedroom floor trying to get up and I'm struggling to breathe and I just need to stop. And take a deep breath.

Grow up or get out.

This must be what good-bye feels like.

Was it worth it? Was she worth this?

(This altered focus is my feeble attempt at convincing myself you are the biggest problem I'm facing right now. Don't flatter yourself--you're really not.)

"I love pretending." "It's how we get by, no?"

It's been one year now since we gathered agreeably on your family's deck to celebrate your nineteenth year. I refused watermelon and tried not to cry, and after I'd left, you shed tears and expressed the sadness I couldn't. "She knows what you said about her. Someone told her what you really think of her."

That Saturday marked the end of what I consider our last "good" week. It seemed like everything went downhill from there, beginning with blame, anger and tears and ending with heartache and many good-byes.

You said "Move on!" Where do I go?

Several months later, you finally did what I was unable to do. I tried to sever the ties, but I loved you. I couldn't say good-bye permanently. I loved you. I tried to tailor God's plan for our lives because I wanted you by my side forever. We held on by a thread for five more painful weeks.

It was Sunday afternoon and I was trying to muddle through an Emily Dickinson poem analysis. As I got ready for church, I pleaded and prayed and begged. Who was I to ask God to change His mind? I picked out an ugly top I would be okay never wearing again because I knew I had to do an ugly thing. I sobbed and I sobbed and I sobbed. My only comfort at the time was Jeremy Camp's "I Still Believe;" I had the song on repeat. You picked me up for church and saw that I was crying. Naturally, you inquired about what had upset me. I just shook my head, unable to speak. You knew. We rode to church in complete silence, other than my occasional sniffle. We arrived. You parked. I did it. I cried some more. We walked into church and smiled at everyone like nothing was wrong; we played the perfect role of happy, plastic people. Some questioned the roll of toilet paper I had inside my purse; others knew better. I left the service early and paced around the gym as many times as it took until the final "Amen!" was exclaimed. You drove me home; we held hands for the last time. You walked me to my door. "Thank you for loving me enough to do this." Kiss. "That might have been our last kiss forever." I started crying again. You hugged me for what felt like forever and eventually drove yourself home.

Should have never started. Ain't that the way it always ends?

Love isn't laced with butterflies and rainbows all the time, but despite what Pat Benatar may believe, love isn't always a battlefield, either. Love is just a game. Certain people are better at playing it than others; meanwhile, some are just lucky. Some people play to win. Some people play to play. Some don't bother playing at all.

I have spent so much time pointing fingers and assigning blame that thankfulness slipped my mind. (I'm taking a deep breath of fresh air, but here it goes:) Thank you. Thank you for showing me what it's like to truly love someone and be loved in return. Thank you for putting my heart back together again--forget the fact that you shattered it later. That's not important today. Today, I feel grateful for the carefree times and the man you used to be. Thank you for your loyalty, even though it didn't last forever. Few things in this life do. It was always sufficient and thank you for your honesty and your friendship and for making me laugh all of the time. Thank you for the cotton candy Blizzard and the collage you made me for Christmas and driving just to my house just to remind me in person how much you loved me. Thank you for letting me cry on your shoulder late at night. Thank you for making me feel beautiful without make-up and while sporting sweat pants; I learned to love myself again because of the example you set. It mattered. Your thoughtfulness never went unnoticed. Thank you for loving me the best you knew how.

Happy birthday.

It's been one year now and I'm re-evaluating who I really am.

Who am I?

I'm joyful. I'm genuine. I struggle with compassion, but I'm trying and improving. I thrive off creativity. I feel like the majority of my life has been one unwise decision after another. I'm arrogant (and therefore a hypocrite,) but I would choose a giant ego over a low self-esteem any day. I'm recently brave and typically bold. Dynamic. Energetic. Optimistic. I know what I want. I know Who I'm living for. I'm finally realizing I'm so much better without you. And I don't mean that in an unkind or spiteful way. It's more like a following-God's-plan-creates-joy-and-peacefulness-in-my-heart kind of way.

The only place I can go is into Your arms
Where I throw to You my feeble prayers
In brokenness, I can see that this was Your will for me
Help me to know that You are near

I still believe in Your faithfulness
I still believe in Your truth
I still believe in Your Holy Word
Even when I don't see, I still believe

I'll say she never hurt me and look at it as learning and laugh about the good and the bad.

Is she spoiled?
No. I don't know how to explain this. She could be spoiled, but materialistic things have never interested her very much. She's deeper than that. She works very hard for everything she has. She doesn't expect anything to be handed to her, although it very well could be. She's not spoiled.

Is she smart?
Yes. She's one of the smartest people I've ever met. I wouldn't say she's "gifted." It's not like she's one of those students who can earn straight As without putting much effort forth. She studies and she studies and she studies. She doesn't blindly memorize information; instead, she makes sure she really comprehends what's going on. She's very ambitious. In fact, she wants to be a doctor someday.

From comparisons you have made, it seems like your friend has changed a lot. How does that make you feel?
I'm sad that she's changed in a nostalgic sense, but I've changed, too. I'm not who I was. I don't know her well enough to determine whether or not she's happy with where life has taken her, but I think she's at least content. She's safe and sound with the love of her life--what more could anyone want? And, sure, there are times when I wish things would go back to the infamous way they were. But if I hadn't lost my best friend(s), I think I would be less of a person today. I feel stronger as a Christian and as a person for the losses I have suffered.

Do you still love her?
Absolutely--and in a perfect world, love would be enough.

Written 05/19/07.

When did it start? When will it end?
Will it ever end? Are you going to be there every time I turn around?
I hope not.
Was it always about tangible things, or did it begin with the lies?
The broken promises? Nothing but self-loathing and jealousy?
Will this feeling ever stop?
Those song lyrics were never written about us.
I knew it all along. Did you always know, too?
Who did we think we were kidding?
My heart quit beating for you the moment you chose something that you wanted over my safety.
You promised me.
And I'm the selfish one? No. No, I don't think that's ever been the case.
That was back in October. Did you love me then?
Why don't you care that you've lost me? Why aren't you fighting for me?
Why do I expect you to?
Just when I thought you couldn't hurt me anymore, you proved me wrong.
You didn't stab me in the back. You stabbed me in the heart.
And you twisted the knife all around. And then you did it again.
I'm not a "fake," and I'm not unoriginal. I know that.
There is a huge difference between "borrowing ideas" and being "fake."
Everything that exists exists because of borrowed ideas.
Is it really over now, for good? Am I finally free?
Or will this be something that haunts me until my dying day?
Did I make the wrong decision? Did you?
Did we ever make the right decision?
No.
I would have done anything for you. I took the biggest fall of my life for you.
I'm still suffering consequences from that.
I gave up so much for you. I gave up my best friend for you.
And she's not coming back. I wish like hell she was here, but she's not.
I was always there for you when you needed me.
Always.
Will you still call me late at night? Will you still be there to hold my hand?
No.
You made everything my fault.
I tried so hard to make you the happiest person alive, but I was never good enough.
I'm still not good enough.
I did it all for you. I didn't live my life for anyone but you.
I don't know how I feel.
Maybe I'm relieved. Maybe I'm hurt. Maybe I'm scared. Maybe I'm not even affected at all.
Or maybe I've been so far gone all for of these years that even I can't tell the difference anymore.
I can't feel a thing at all.

Stupid boys and their stupid charm--or lack thereof.

Your chilly words lead me to wonder what you have become. Who are you? Your birth certificate proves that you're legally an adult now; however, you're acting more and more like a toddler restricted from playing with his favorite toy. I don't know what you expect me to say--I'm sorry? That’s where I get stuck. I'm sorry you feel hurt and disappointed. I'm sorry I'm the one who made you feel that way. But I refuse to apologize for speaking my mind and telling the truth. I will never feel sorry for the way my heart feels. (It has a mind of its own.) Save the simple for the simple-minded. I prefer heavy baggage and multiple layers. Jiminy Cricket harped over and over again that this would ruin our friendship, but I silenced him, convincing myself you were my best friend and you would remain by my side though thick and thin. I was wrong. If that’s the kind of love you'd give me, I'd rather be alone, believe me. It’s not the way you're supposed to treat me. I'd rather walk away.

Tell me about your last relationship.
The good times were worth the bad times. Essentially, I lost the people I cared about the most, my two best friends, but I learned a lot. I'm finally okay. I think that's an important part of the story.

I said from the start that you could take it or leave it­­­­--I prefer that you keep it--don't let it go. Don't let it go. I feel something. I feel something real. I feel something dangerous and exciting and new and spontaneous--I feel something I'm not used to feeling. I'm trying my hardest to stifle those feelings and keep them out of my heart's hasty reach. I spy danger ahead. I'm moving in three months. I can't feel this way. I shouldn't. You convince me to give it a try and my rebuttal is always the same: “I know better than to mix business with pleasure.” “Business and pleasure work well together when business doesn't have a girlfriend.” This is the best thing that I've ever had for real. We've both been shattered in the past by people we thought we loved and burned by our closest friends and we've been terrified of the future but we've triumphed anyway. We've been hurt. But we have also glued ourselves back together again. The odds are against us. You're this way. I'm that way. I believe this. You don't believe anything. I make all these lists and all these charts and I reason with myself but then you gaze at me with those deep, distinctive eyes and I forget why I ever questioned us in the first place. We don't have to be perfect to be right. You smoked the demons, gave me back my feelings; now, I am good to go!

Don't be a liar--don't say that everything's working when everything's broken! I shouldn't have to sleep with all the car keys in the house under my pillow. "You don't know this yet, but life isn't supposed to be like this." I'm tired of fighting and screaming and crying and having nowhere to go. I'm tired of excuses and irresponsibility and anger and blame. I'm tired of being backed into a corner, being pushed up against a wall, being stuck between a rock, a hard place and the nearest gas station. "It's not supposed to be this hard." Grow up or get out.

We're not who we were.

I wish you could see me now

I wish I could show you how

I'm not who I was

I used to be mad at you
A little on the hurt side, too

But I'm not who I was

I found my way around

To forgiving you

Some time ago

But I never got to tell you

I found us in a photograph

I saw me and I had to laugh

You know, I'm not who I was
You were there, you were right above me

And I wonder if you ever loved me

Just for who I was

When the pain came back again

Like a bitter friend

It was all that I could do

To keep myself from blaming you

I wish you could see me now

I wish I could show you how

I'm not who I was

You were Romeo; I was a scarlet letter. Your daddy said, "Stay away from Juliet!"

I endeavor to savor my last few days of pure clarity and unadulterated sanity.
Ladies and gentlemen, I have reached the final countdown.

"Fear not, for I am with you. Be not dismayed, for I am your God. I will strengthen you; I will help you; I will uphold you with my righteous right hand. Behold, all who are incensed against you shall be put to shame and confounded. Those who strive against you shall be as nothing and shall perish. You shall seek those who contend with you, but you shall not find them. Those who war against you shall be as nothing at all for I, the Lord your God, hold your right hand (Isaiah 40:10-14.)"

P.S. I only have six days of high school left forever.
P.P.S. I don't think you're incapable of smiling--I just think you're incapable of feeling happy.

"You know what your problem is? I'll tell you what your problem is!"

Well, not if I can beat you to it. (In no particular order,)

1. I house too much logic all the while relying too little on faith.
2. I care too much what others think about me and too little about what my God thinks of me.
3. I have no idea how to be a friend. I only know how to need one.
4. I expect too much from those around me. My social standards are seemingly high and typically too much to ask for (loyalty, honestly, etc.)
5. I accept the love I think--or don't think--I deserve.
6. I overanalyze my past. I don't focus enough on what God has planned for my future.
7. I do, in fact, believe in love at first site.
8. I'm too independent, but at the same time, I tend to exhibit a lack of vital dependence on God.
9. I don't make time to spend alone in God's word.
10. I'm naive in that I genuinely feel love should be enough.
11. I don't have a universal self. I have a school persona, a work persona, a church persona, etc.
12. I expect my heartache to mystically dissolve when I move to South Carolina. I'm terrified of coming home for the holidays and feeling like nothing has changed.
13. I'm fluent in sarcasm, but I stumble and stutter when it comes to empathy and compassion.
14. I don't think very highly of most people in my life--myself included.
15. I could move on, and I could let go. I just don't want to.

These are my withstanding issues and this is who I claim to be. I'm flawed. Welcome to the jungle--I think it's safe to say I've got my work cut out for me.

A few weeks ago, I was lying on the cold, concrete ground surrounded by people who love me. Gazing at the twinkling stars, it hit me: there's more out there. Duh, okay. But there are opportunities somewhere with my name scribbled all over them. Somewhere out there, love and friendship and happiness exist. And, somewhere, maybe those things are authentic. Somewhere out there, somewhere around the world even, someone is laughing. I realized my life doesn't have to be defined by the thick pain throbbing constantly in my heart anymore. I can aspire higher because, despite what I may believe, I matter to God. God placed me here for a reason. I have faith that He knows what He's doing. And all of this hit me while looking at the stars.

Life has swept me off of my feet. Unexpectedly, out of nowhere, I have fallen head-over-heels in love with loving others again.

My heart's not breaking because I'm not feeling anything at all.

I've come to realize that a huge portion of human existence is based soley upon the fact that we are all meant to be bridges and nothing more, linking friends to others and linking past experiences to the eventual future. I've acted as a bridge--to say I've been meaningless would be a lie, as my bridge-based purpose has clearly been fulfilled--to many and used many for that exact purpose. We were never meant to be best friends forever. Just for a predetermined time, until I introduced you to him. Them. All of them. And then I was rendered useless from your point of view. But to say I'm completely guilt free myself would be a lie. I've used others, and although I'm not proud of my actions, I don't regret what I've done. You have been the link from my desolate past to my hopeful future--nothing more. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry.

What does it take to inflict that upon oneself? Is it desperation? Or a perverse courage?

Just then, a puzzled look clouded her previously eager face. She pursed her lips together and, with a slight tilt of the head, questioned my reasoning. I needed to justify my explanation. Perhaps an analogy will simplify my thinking. Bad habits and self-destroying addictions are worse than crammed closets. I went on to describe a girl who led an overwhelmingly busy life. Jane Doe was so busy, in fact, that she had little time to dedicate to simple household chores such as doing the laundry, washing the dishes or even vacuuming the living room floor. One day after work, Jane, in a desperate attempt to purify her environment, hastily snatched up her dirty clothing and began cramming it into the unmethodical compartment known as her closet. Jane never had the time to dedicate to proper cleaning, even though deep down she firmly believed God equipped the days with twenty-four hours ad hoc. So she hid all her dirty clothes next to her even dirtier secrets and abominable habits inside her closet. Even skeletons deserve a companionable assembly. After all, misery does love its company. It's been said that the first step one must take in solving a problem is admitting and embracing its very presence. Unless humans are willing to seek serious help for their drug addictions, self-mutilating habits, sinful lifestyles, etc., they aren't going to get it. Self-reliance won't cut it. It's not enough to make promises to yourself because there's a lack of accountability present. No matter how hard Jane tried to keep her closet doors tightly shut, they always found a way to crack themselves open and that's because she didn't take care of the problem correctly. People today are not strong enough to tackle these issues on their own, and luckily, they don't have to. They need to be rescued from their sin. They need to experience God's grace and forgiveness before they will ever be able to move on to things greater and nobler. Jane didn't know any better. I couldn't help her. I just watched her make the same mistakes again. Bad habits are worse than crammed closets. Do you understand? A line of silent but perceptive nods began in near-perfect unison around the table. I grinned. I conclusively succeeded in making my point perfectly clear.

I tried to be perfect--it just wasn't worth it.

How do you feel?

Like the shell of someone who was meant to be really great.

Alienating others is my favorite thing to do.

The running faucet illuminates the idea that something more superficial yet less beneficial than counting tiles on the shower wall is going on. Paralyzed.

I envision all these words forming behind my eyes but I don't feel like the person illustrating them; I lack certain qualifications. Frozen.

I should be crying. Shouldn't I? I should be moving, but I can't. Breathing? I don't want to. I have no interest in coping.

I turn the faucet off and feel the steam gently burn my hand. I've manipulated the outside into allowing me an extended time to sit there and just be. Exist.

I've also earned more minutes to dedicate to the further admiration of the shower tiles. The furthest I've gotten thus far is 32. The phone keeps ringing. Ringing, ringing.

How am I supposed to concentrate on the shower tiles if the phone won't stop ringing?

I'm letting go of all my downer thoughts. In no time, there'll be one less sad robot.

I sat on the edge of my bed for nearly ten minutes contemplating whether I wanted to write or whether I wanted to sleep. I made a compromise with myself and am now skillfully attempting both. I'm lying in bed, curled up safely in a fetal position, sucking my left thumb and writing this with my free hand. It's a win-win.

You are unkind and mean spirited for doing this to me. If it was your intention to hurt me and make me feel like less of a person--congratulations. You've succeeded summa cum laude.

I wish so badly wish I would tell you all of this personally; a face-to-face affair would be ideal. It's not that I fear honesty or even confrontation. I'm happy to embrace either if the encounter leads to a reasonable solution for both parties. Our relationship is delicately crafted, more so than any connection I've ever witnessed (let alone had) in my entire life. As much as I would love to clear the air and send the elephant lingering around our empty conversations scampering elsewhere, the cost is simply too high. I'm not willing to engage in another three-month long "he said" "she said" festival. I value what little sanity I have left too much and I won't carelessly let it be decided by any of you ever again.

Enough should have been enough, yet here I am.

The university in which I am five months from attending prohibits any public Internet postings that contain "whining," "complaining," and other expressions of such likeness. I seldom find myself doing either. I talk (or in this case, write.) I talk and I talk and I talk. Late at night, there's a portion of me that wishes I was still oblivious to how dishonest my friends turned out to be because at least then at least I'd have a listening ear. I refuse to explain and re-examine my entire life story every time I feel like talking because that becomes emotionally exhausting after awhile. That's the lone fault in speaking to well-meaning strangers. People don't understand the weight of recent events without knowing the entire story. It's so much deeper than her recent blow--this cold war has been raging much longer than that. Even then, I highly doubt anyone could empathize with my innermost feelings, despite their best intentions. Luckily pour moi, my notebook is already familiar with the beat of my heart and the repercussion of my past.

My eyes are beginning to feel heavy. My physical body is nearly limp (excluding my writing hand) yet I feel like there's a second version of myself screaming so loudly her voice becomes raspy and she's ripping her hair out because she can't find another escape. She's the part of me who coldly stares at the shower tiles until she's able to feel the wages of what she's done.

P.S. Thanks for twisting the knife around a little more--I found an extraordinary linear topic.

P.P.S. I bought a picture frame exhibiting the famous opening lines of Elizabeth Barrett Browning's "How Do I Love Thee?" sonnet and it totally made my week. How nerdy am I?

I love writing. I write all the time. Why can't I think of a topic for my line paper?

(I'm not trying to clear any guilty feelings I may have obtained by recent behaviors nor can I honestly admit to benefiting from any underlying motives. God has led me to fix a handful of broken relationships in my life, and where He leads me, I will follow. I am continuing to free myself of this disgusting bitterness that has been destroying me. Although my worst critics assume too much has been said and done, my God believes otherwise and I'll take His Word over theirs any day. Please understand my intentions are as clean and innocent as the snow that gracefully falls from the sky (nearly) every December like clockwork. Let me back in. Give me another chance! All you need to do is unlock the back door and I'll find my way in. It's not too late!)

I always turn the car around.

In a way, I need a change from this burnout scene
Another time, another town, another everything
But it's always back to you

As for the hurt--it's still there, but it finally feels distant. The pain which had previously haunted my every move seems like nothing but a long-lost echo. Memories are finally becoming what they were always meant to be--memories--after all this time. And all I ever wanted was this blinding opportunity that has always been sitting right next to me. I don't know what compelled me to let it all out ("get it all out, rip it out, remove it, etc. Don't be alarmed when the wound begins to bleed") and although it wasn't easy, I'm so glad I chose to tell you how I felt.

Stumble out in the night from the pouring rain
Made the block, sat and thought, "There's more I need"
It's always back to you

And here I am because enough was enough. I'm caught inside this whirlwind of overwhelming emotions ranging from understated contentment to a freeing independence from this burden I've been bearing to complete peace and satisfying elation. I'm okay. I'm really okay. These spontaneous leaps of faith are really working out in my favor. My chains are gone. I'm finally free.

But I'm good without ya
Yeah, I'm good without you

This message changed my life.

Feelings and forgiveness have nothing to do with each other.
Forgiveness is an act of the will.
If we respond in unforgiveness, a root of bitterness is going to take place and out of that is going to spring anger, resentment, bitterness and hostility
You may keep it submerged for awhile but I'm here to tell you it's either going to trickle out little by little or one of these days it's going to blow like a volcano and it's going to spill out on everybody that knows you and everybody that lives around you.

If you have been deeply hurt in the past and you are still struggling with the ability to forgive the person who wronged you, God can set you free. He can liberate you from the awesome sense of the weight of an unforgiving spirit.

At no place in the Bible does it say we can justify an unforgiving spirit.

Every aspect of life is affected by an unforgiving spirit.

Maybe there's something that happened weeks or months or even a few years ago and you've buried it down there and you've forgotten it (you think.) That unforgiving spirit has been eating away at you and destroying your emotional base.

The mature response is choosing to forgive the moment we've been wronged.

If you unwisely choose not to be forgiving to those who wrong you, you have two other choices: you can blast or you can bury. You can blast back those who have wronged you and tell them what you really think or you can bury it deep down inside. If you choose the unwise reaction, choose the wiser of the two unwise positions. Blast it--get it out of your system. Don't let it rot inside of you.

The consequences of an unforgiving spirit--it saturates your attitudes, actions, emotions, relationships, etc.

You cannot say Jesus Christ is Lord of your life and have an unforgiving spirit. You can't say that He is living through you if you're living with an unforgiving spirit towards someone.

Let's look at Joseph. Remember his hurts. Rejected by his father. His brothers hated him and despised him and were going to kill him. Betrayed and lied about. Sent to prison. Forgotten. His life was a life of hurt and despair and pain and suffering. Every time he was hurt, he was deeply hurt. He struggled with what they did to him. He struggled because he was misunderstood and vilely treated. But he knew how to deal with an unforgiving spirit--He allowed God to heal him quickly. That's why people were drawn to him and that's why people loved him. That's why God honored him. Joseph responded the right way.

The steps you go through in dealing with an unforgiving spirit:
1. Wronged--you have been wronged.
2. Difficulty--you're unable to deal with it when you've been wronged because of who did it or or what they did.
3. Detour--you just want to forget it!
4. Dig a hole--emotionally, you just want to bury the whole idea. You don't want to think about it.
5. Deny--you deny that the pain is there.
6. Defeat--you're defeated by this unforgiveness.
7. Defile--unforgiveness defiles your relationships, conversations, physical body, etc.
8. Discouraged--you feel things aren't going to work out. On the inside there is no contentment, joy or happiness. Why can't you love others? Why can't you sense others' love?
9. Desperation--you get desperate because you don't know how to deal with it (destruction.)
10. Discover--ask someone to help you find out what's wrong. You'll discover that root that you've denied and repressed for all this time.
11. Deal--deal with it. Open your heart to someone and lay your life bare.
12. Deliverance--you get delivered from the very spirit of unforgiveness that was destroying your life!!

God, I don't feel it, but I choose by an act of will to forgive them for wronging me. I'm releasing them for what they have done to me.The moment you say, "I CHOOSE to forgive!" the healing process finally begins.

A God who is all good does not work in the life of His children with an evil purpose.If God has allowed you to be seriously, deeply, weepingly hurt over the years, a GOOD GOD with a GOOD purpose who is going to work out a GOOD cause and a GOOD end result allowed that in your life!!

Get your eyes off of your offender and get them on your God!

I miss screaming and fighting and kissing in the rain.

I woke up with the biggest grin on my face this morning. The temperature in my room was anything but pleasant; I was sweating like nobody's business, but come to think of it, that might have been due to the fact that I just saw you. My heart was beating at an uncomfortably fast rate, but I was happy. Happy. And then I realized it was just a dream.

The choir was singing. It seems like it was a special holiday service, perhaps the annual Cantata or something of the sort. I was sitting on the second row on the left (Pastor's right,) all the way by the wall. And you were sitting next to me, so close that I could feel the heat from your leg. I could feel you tapping your foot like you always did. We talked for a long time, simple small talk about how each other was doing and what was new. Nothing spectacular. Later on (it seemed to go on forever, but I'm not complaining) we were sitting outside, under a tree. Still, we were talking. And I was thrilled to talk to someone who really knew me. I found out you had a girlfriend and the mood changed--her name was Judith or something ugly like that. But it wasn't weird. It was okay. I wasn't upset because we were just two old friends catching up and there was nothing there. It was okay to talk about love interests because we were Jon and Jessica, just two old friends. Two old friends. It came time to for us to separate and I remember so clearly telling you this: "This has been nice. I've missed talking to you so much, not as my boyfriend, but as my best friend. I would love to keep in touch--talk maybe once, twice a month?" (Not to be confused with reality, in which I made a similar request but was laughed at, ignored and forgotten.) The sun was shining and before I knew it we were back at church, sitting so close to each other. After the service ended, your family was angry because you spoke to me and began fighting with you just like old times. And then I woke up, sweaty and out of breathe because I saw just you.

Call me crazy, but it was nice catching up. We'll have to do it again sometime. I don't know where you are and I don't know what you're doing nor do I have any clue where we stand, but whatever the case, I hope you're happy and getting as much out of life as you possibly can because nothing would give me a greater sense of peace.

I feel so ugly for doing this to you.

Not to my surprise, sleeping for six hours tonight didn't make the sinking feeling in my stomach disappear. I have no idea what to do. I have no idea what I want. I'm stalling--stuck somewhere in between a safe bet and something real. Something passionate. Something new and exciting. I don't know. I don't know. I don't know. Life has backed me into a corner, but it's not all bad. Being up against the wall allows me to lift my voice to the sky in search of help and rescue. God, I am not my own; I am Yours. My life is Yours and it's my prayer tonight that you do with it what You already know is best because I'm tired of deciding. I can't do it--but You can.

Probably.

It’s 1:00 in the morning and I can hear the rain tapping on my window. I should be sleeping, of course, but I am choosing to write instead.

I realize it’s possible I may have overreacted just a tad in my previous entry—realistically, I probably can overcome this. Let’s make a quick, very important pit stop: “this” encircles so many different trials, things I have been struggling with for up to seven years. I want to be clear that “this” is not limited to any specific events that may have evolved within the last twelve (longest) months of my life. I am not shallow; the stream flows much deeper and much wider than that.

I refuse to say with absolute certainty that I’ll face up to all of "this." I have no idea what the future holds. Proverbs 27:1 reminds Christians not to boast of tomorrow, because none of us have any idea what a “day may bring forth.” I do not have faith in myself, but I sure do have faith in the God I serve. That’s where probably comes from. And I don’t mean to imply that God will drop the ball—quite the opposite, really. Instead, I’m wondering if I’ll be able to hold up my end of the bargain and give God my future and everything else He deserves. I’m the flawed one. I’m the only thing keeping myself from conquering “this.”

Bitterness is destroying (my relationship with God) (my relationship with others) (my sense of humor) (any internal motivation) (my happiness) (my sleep schedule) (good memories) my life. Bitter feelings don’t just cause me to lie awake late at night. No. They are, without question, eating me alive.

But I feel optimistic tonight, more open than most nights. It could be that I dislike myself less than I did yesterday, or maybe it’s the fact that I earned an A+ on my Modernism exam. Or perhaps it’s plainly the weather. Whatever the case, I’m taking advantage of this rare pellucidity and letting my pencil say all the things I cannot.

It’s never been my honest intention to put a damper on anyone’s day nor has it been to place an extra burden on the shoulders of those I love. I write because it frees me from everything rattling inside this weathered box I refer to as my head. People my age think I’m crazy and wonder why “this” is taking me so long. I’m not shown empathy or compassion, but I don’t know why I expected either. Adults smile at me. They recite to me that time heals all wounds and say they have faith that I’ll be just fine someday, but their melancholy smiles sing a different song. How do I know they’re not lying, too? How do I know they’re really okay? It’s been said that fearless is not the absence of fear; it’s living in spite of those things that scare us half to death. And God knows I’m terrified. I could blame the world for lying to me or I could blame myself for listening and believing. Most days, I blame myself. After all, I should know better, right? I pollute my mind with tabloids and television commercials and I wonder why my thought process develops the way it does. I suppose how much truth I find in the media relates in some way to my lack of certainty. (Duh.)

I’m just so scared. I don’t want to live my life saying all the right things and making all the right choices and impressing all the right people and still end up with an obituary that blandly states, “Jessica Kane did the best she could, but it was never enough. She never reached her goal. Kane wasted an entire lifetime preparing for her happy ending, but he never came back. What a shame.”

This world is an ugly place, but sometimes when I look close enough I’m grateful to find traces of beauty in the strangest of places. Sir Winston Churchill once said, “If you’re going through hell, keep going.” And so I’ll continue pushing through the pain in hopes that one day someone will be able to penetrate through this ice box in my chest. Then maybe we'll all hurt a little less. I will strive and seek and find and will not yield because after all, I probably can defeat “this.” The odds are in my favor at this point.

I will now close my notebook (and my eyes) and attempt to silence the taunting, yet otherwise chipper, 60s music buzzing around in my head. "Wouldn’t it be nice to live together in the kind of world where we belong?" Yeah, it would have been. And it probably should have been. But it’s not and it probably never will be.

The chains of yesterday surround me.

All over again. All over again. All over again. I'm forced to watch every step and catch every word because I am only one step away from disappointing everyone all over again. Despite the infinite amount of energy this so-called life has taken from me, I don't think it would be possible for me to knowingly fall short (again.) I did something today that was so hard to do but needed to be done. I took a leap of faith. I made a gesture. I fell. Hard. Flat on my face. Never again. Never again. Never again. I don't know which is worse--wasting a lifetime feeling hopeless when there was, in fact, a light at the end of the tunnel or having faith that one day things will turn around and eventually realizing they never will. Waking up from a pleasant dream and knowing it couldn't possibly come true or screaming because of a nightmare that very well could happen tomorrow. I don't know. I don't know. I don't know. Wisdom always chooses these black eyes and these bruises over the heartache that they say never completely goes away. Time heals? No. Time waters feelings down, and time causes (some) memories to fade but time doesn't heal. I have yet to wake up on a bright and sunny morning only to discover that I'm finally okay. I'm not okay. It still hurts. It still hurts. It still hurts. I'm falling and I'm not perfect and I don't have all the answers. I want this to stop. It never existed and that never happened. You weren't there. I need you to not be there. I need to close my eyes at night in search of peace and rest and not see the outline your perfect face. I can't do it. Every day. All the time. Never ceasing, never starting. Out of sight, out of mind. Right? Wrong. Go away. Get out of my head. You were all so stupid to believe in me, to have faith that I could overcome this because I can't. I can't. I can't.

I feel like I have been around the world and back in only the short time period of four days.

On the bus ride back to Indianapolis, everyone was asked to fill out a visitor's survey for the school. One of the questions inquired about my reasons for considering Bob Jones University. My first thought was, "Well, it's just where I want to go. It's exactly what I want!" And then I thought about how I really feel this is where God wants me, too. The mixture of those ideas made me realize how amazing it can be when what we want coincides with what the Lord wants for us. For so long, I told myself I could never attend a school as strict and conservative as Bob Jones. I love(d) my basic freedoms too much. However, it became so evident and so clear that whether I liked it or not, that was the college God wanted me to attend. It's all part of His plan for my life! (It's so exciting!) I surrendered to God's will, and with that surrender came the joy of living inside of God's plan. Psalms 37:4 reminds us that if we delight ourselves in the Lord, He will give us the desires of our heart. I never able to truly experience what that verse meant until now. (And it's awesome!)

The night before I left, one of my roommates, Hope, looked at me and said, "Out of all the guests we've had stay with us, you are definitely our favorite. You're so much fun to be around, and you really seem to fit in here." That meant so much to me. I don't fit in at school. I don't fit in at church (anymore.) I really don't fit in at work. And sometimes, I don't even fit in with my own family. But I fit in at Bob Jones. I was apart of something that was important to me, something that really mattered. I wasn't on the outside looking in.

I can't wait to be exactly where I belong.

We were all in love and we all got hurt.

I seem to come up with the most philosophical, expansive ideas at the most inconvenient times. I’m either falling asleep, washing my hair or in such a place that requires me to slather my ideas on a dirty napkin or on my Snapple receipt.

Yet here I am.

I’m beginning to realize that the mutual memories shared between two human beings are not guaranteed to be universal. I look at you and I see so many different things. Picture this…


I look at you and it’s like a movie begins to play. I see the time I got that awful haircut, and you were my best friend anyway. I see us sitting alone at lunch but being unaware that we were alone because all we ever needed was each other. I see us hosting movie nights in your living room and eating so much junk food we thought we’d explode. I can picture the first time I ever saw you, sitting at your study hall desk with lyrics to Fat Lip scribbled all over your lime-green pencil bag. I remember talking to you for hours upon hours about nothing at all. All the Super Bowl parties. All the family functions and birthdays. All the school projects. All the prank calls and all the practical jokes. I envision the time I managed to turn all of our friends against me, yet you stood by me and remained loyal. I remember going to McDonalds every Friday night, ordering two vanilla cones and blasting The Bee Gees from the parking lot. I remember when Houston Calls and Queen were your favorite bands and you loved Alice in Wonderland. Your favorite movie was Fever Pitch (I don’t know, maybe it still is.) I remember sitting on your bed while you folded laundry. We ordered Chinese food and watched the entire series of The O.C. I remember the day you got your license and I remember the day you came with me to get my nose pierced. Back and forth, back and forth. I remember how often you would show me various dances on YouTube before you learned every step to them. I was never much interested by dancing, but I paid attention because it was important to you and you were important to me. I remember my video camera—the prank calls to my dad’s ex-girlfriend that were so funny we had them memorized in two days, the crazy dancing in your living room, curling each other’s hair, playing Twister with Alie and Fanny and the “Shimmy!” gasp. I remember when your style was defined by skinny jeans and flats, and Delia’s was your favorite store. I remember laughing across the room in Mrs. Owens’ class when she wasn’t paying any attention and going “limp” in Mrs. Johnson’s class. I remember going to Speedway on our bikes in the rain just to purchase sour gummy worms. I remember the first time you were allowed to legally drive people around—you drove me to Rock the Earth on May 19. I remember the first time you ever came to my house and you ran around with a hanger around your neck and put on all of my bracelets. I remember going sledding with your family on Valentine’s Day because school was cancelled. I remember you crowd surfing at Relient K and I remember Tibby and the playground and the pogo stick. I remember chasing the ice cream truck and playing in the pool. I remember riding home from Goodwill with Kacie and Katie and how ironic it was at the time. I remember walking to your house in the deepest of snow because I was so angry at my dad I couldn’t even look at him and I remember your dad yelling at us because we were having too much fun to remember to unplug the crock pot. I remember when we got into a fight and your mom called me and reminded me how rare friendships like ours were, how hard a true best friend was to find. I remember staying up late and working on English homework together and I remember driving those reckless golf carts. I remember when we thought it would be a great idea to date brothers. (How were we supposed to know any better?)

I look away. The movie stops playing.

I wonder what you see when you look at me. I wonder if you see the same things I do, or if you, instead, see all the things I’ve done to wreck this relationship. I wonder if you see all the times that I never appreciated what a gift your friendship was, or all the times I clearly took you for granted. I wonder if you see all the times I would pick fights with you for no reason in particular, and then apologize without truly feeling sorry. (If I was sorry, I would have learned from my mistakes the first time around. It’s too late now.) I wonder if you see all the fights from last summer revolving around the boys we loved. I was wrong to side with him. You were my best friend. You deserved better than that from me (every time.) (I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.)

I know better than to tango with nostalgia because it’s a dangerous, bumpy road often leading to pain, anxiety, agony and tears. Yet here I am. When I declared that I was a fan of the deafening silence and the awkward, meaningless conversations, I was lying. I focused on all the bad (judgmental) (hypocritical) thoughts I could muster about you because I was seeking any justification I could find for our failed friendship. I’m detached externally because that’s so much easier than facing the fact that you don’t love me anymore. Things have been said and actions have been done and lines have been drawn but the truth is I miss you so much and I’ve never stopped loving you.

"Every little bump in the road I tried to swerve. People are people and sometimes it doesn’t work out. Nothing we say is gonna save us from the fall out. And we know it’s never simple, never easy... never a clean break, no one here to save me."

outside looking in

Now it's all too late, so you see, you could've helped if you had wanted to

But no one notices until it's too late to do anything

"It's never too late."

Uh, yeah. Except for when it is.

It rains when you're here and it rains when you're gone.

There are two sides to every story. Allow me to explain.

I was on the computer, and I was instant messaging Blake Wood. It was three days after I got into some legal trouble for "borrowing" a car with a friend and driving it around with expired plates. You didn't know this, but I had been watching her fingers glide across the number pad for nearly a month. Eventually, I figured out it was her daughter's birthday. How old is she now? Nine? Wow. Anyway, I read them. I read them all. I put my right hand over my mouth and my back instinctively hunched over. I tried to scream. No sound escaped. Blake knew. You went outside to smoke. A million thoughts were racing through my mind at that moment, but the one I stuck to was running to my room and hiding. I didn't sleep that night. I was still considered "grounded" for my little grand theft auto incident. I lost myself in the first season of The OC and attempted to draw my feelings with colored pencils. I'm pretty sure I still have that drawing, somewhere. I decided 7 a.m. was early enough to break the news. I couldn't wait any longer. I felt sick. I told (or showed, rather) her. It's funny; her first instinct was to place her right hand over her mouth, too (anger > grief.) She left. I heard something slam, and I heard muffled yelling. She ushered you outside, and I didn't hear anything after that for about two hours (bringing our timeline approximately to 9 a.m.) You came inside. You blamed me. "Are you happy now?" I must have fallen asleep sometime after that. Remember when she tried to call and my aunt intercepted the call? "And on top of all that, you have completely destroyed a fourteen-year old girl..."

You exaggerated. A lot. The story seemed a little far-fetched to me, and when I found evidence to support the truth, I told your boyfriend. Big mistake. When I got out of bed the next day, I realized my inbox was full of hate mail. The things you said to me were cruel and inexcusable, but more than that, they absolutely shattered my spirit. I wasn't in the wrong. I shouldn't have been blamed. More than any of this, I shouldn't have broken. I didn't have to take that. I wasn't a doormat. I called you; you didn't answer. The only thing I kept thinking was, "This can't be happening to me again. I cannot believe this is happening to me again. Why is this happening again?" To this day, I don't think you've apologized but I'm still crazy about you. I had just turned fifteen.

Fast-forward ten months. I asked you not to say anything. It was so important to me that you keep it between us, but I found out that night at your house that you did just the opposite. You were so upset and you were so intent on blaming him for letting me find out, but I know you were secretly upset with yourself because you knew you had let me down. I went to the bathroom and I tried to make myself throw up. I dug my nails into scalp and I'm pretty sure I tried to pull out some of my hair. I really trusted you, you know? I laid down in your bed while you continued yelled at him for not playing it cool. Looking back, you earned most of that trust back--at least for awhile. The next morning, I had my ride pick me up the moment I woke up because I couldn't look at you. You hurt me. I was almost sixteen.

I was really trying to kill two birds with one stone, but you have disappointed me so many times that it's hard to describe just one occurrence because none of them stick out specifically. It wasn't out of the normal for you to hurt me or let me down. Does that surprise you? But you, you might have assumed your thoughts were unimportant to me, but I always read every word you wrote. I wasn't trying to pick a fight. I was so inspired by your faith and your love for Christ and that's really what drew me in. Up until that point, I suppose I always knew how you really felt but seeing it in writing had a tendency to make things seem more like reality. I tried to talk to you. You were unable to offer me any comfort. I'm not sure what I was expecting. I think I just wanted to hear that it was a mistake or that I had interpreted it wrong. I remember entering my room and falling to my knees and crying hysterically and punching the floor and trying to rip the carpet up. A common phrase rolling off my tongue was, "Not you, too. Not you, too. You were different. Not you, too." But you weren't different. No. In fact, you ended up exactly the same as everyone else. Another frequently asked question that night was, "Why?" By this point, I was seventeen.

I was sitting at the dinner table...
Still, I was just seventeen.

It's no secret that I'm skeptical of commitment and promises and so-called good intentions. Do you blame me? But the real problem lies in that because of all this, my head knowledge of God and my heart knowledge of God don't match up. My brain has been taught time and time again that "He will never leave me, nor forsake me," but my heart is distantly warning, "Are you sure about that?" I'm doing everything in my power to get my unconscious train of thoughts on board with what I really, truly believe... but sometimes, it's not up to me.

(The general public requested a sequel, so here goes nothing: You're in way over your head. You're a hypocrite. I wish that I could stop feeling so bitter towards you. Honestly, I feel so weighed down and so heavy by all these terrible memories. But as much as I would like that to stop happening, I don't see how it possibly can. I can pretend I'm not bitter or hurt or upset but that's just about as easy as pretending pancakes are my favorite food when I'm more of a cereal-kinda-gal or trying to convince myself I don't love somebody when I know in my heart I couldn't love him more. Letting go of an old grudge isn't something I can fake, but I want you to know I'm ready to let go and let God. I don't know where to begin--you have actually rendered me speechless. I'm sure a subtle congratulations is in order. If we were as close as we were always supposed to be, I would tell you that I love you no matter what you do. You're crying out for help, but the people you've chosen to surround yourself with don't see your recent actions as a sign of despair. They see it as a normal, every day thing. Who knows? Maybe for them, it is. But I know you, and I know better. This behavior isn't you. Who are you? And, by the by, I find it ironic that the people who insist crying is healthy are often the same people who seldom shed tears. Coming from a girl who's been crying since June, I beg to differ. Crying doesn't make me feel better. It just reinforces the idea that there's something wrong with me.)

I'm (almost) ready to talk. You ain't seen nothin' yet.