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.