I finally have something to write about and expand upon. I can't find the right words. For once, I just don't know what to say.

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.