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.