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.