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