Time

Time has a way of continuing on.. even when it feels like it shouldn't. When all that you've poured yourself into is gone.. and you're faced with a brand new reality, you feel like you need a lot of time. I remember feeling like there were too many hours in the day. So much pain and overwhelming brokenness that I couldn't stand it. Every hour was like a lifetime long. And every day I woke with puffy eyes.. unsure that I'd even make it til night time. And today, I can't believe it's been almost four months already. It still feels like the day he died... and yet it feels like he's been gone for so very long.. all at the same time. Time is tricky. It's harsh. It doesn't care what's happened or how you feel. It just moves forward. And so does everyone else. And so do I.. because what choice do I have? It's one day at a time for me, still. And it's not getting any easier. I wake every morning, alone and I stare at my blank wall and it's empty.. quiet. There's nothing. I feel all that there isn't. Sometimes when I'd come home from a long day at work, he would take my shoes and socks off and wash my feet and put lotion on them for me.. making me laugh the whole time. I run my fingers over the tops of my feet and close my eyes.. trying to remember what his skin felt like on mine. My god, I loved that man. I never dreamed I could love somebody like I loved my Vic. He drove me crazy. And he could make me madder than anybody else in the world. But my heart just never felt right when we were apart. Sometimes memories flood my mind and I ache to share them.. but they never seem to come out right and it drives me crazy that no one ever appreciates them like I do. The funny things never seem to be as funny to other people, and the sweet things never seem to matter enough. I had to realize that I won't ever make anyone understand what Vic and I shared. And I realized that.. Vic wouldn't want them to anyway. He never liked to share things much. He liked to share with me.. and that was about it. He liked it that people didn't know much about us. And I didn't understand why. But I think I get it now. He used to tell me that it was because he loved me so much, and I meant so much to him that he didn't want to share me with anyone. He used to say, "It's just me and you, babe.. me and you against the world." I see now. Now that he's gone. I see how precious all those moments were.. the ones where his eyes would light up about things and he'd drag me into the bathroom to listen to all his plans for life while he took forever long showers. All his silly ideas for odd jobs to make money and businesses to start. His attempts to surprise me and then how he'd end up telling me everything before the surprise. The deep brown color of his eyes and the way he always splashed water on his face when he came home. The way he left the house when he left in a panic because he was late to wherever he was going (which was always :). Half frozen juice in the sink, justice league still on the tv, and wheat thins on the coffee table. I need it to all still be there. I griped about how he would start clothes in the washer and forget to move them over because the laundry room would smell like old wet clothes and I'd have to wash them all again. Oh.. the wasted laundry soap. But what I wouldn't give to come home to all of that again. I'd waste all the laundry soap in the world to have him here with me again. In fact, there's nothing I wouldn't do to have him here with me.

I read this quote today and thought of how I struggled so in Vic and I's relationship. I struggled from the beginning to explain things away.. like I continue to struggle to do and not do. The way we chose to do things was much different from what I had always pictured.. and much different from what everyone who had watched me grow up had in mind. And just for the record, I'm not talking about color. Vic was color blind. And I'm convinced that I am too. In fact, I've always been crazy about the colors of our hands intertwined. No, I'm referring to something much much more visceral. I had a hard time living in the moment.. not "trying to prove that making islands of myself was the truest form of courage." I needed everyone to know that even though it looked different than what everyone had expected... it was good! It was sweet and precious. And my heart was burning with love for a man I never dreamed would change my view of life so much. I was stubborn and sure of myself. I never dreamed ANYONE could change my view of life. As I look back on so many of our arguments on this subject I realize one thing about my heart then.. I was so busy trying to paint a picture for everyone else that would make them feel comfortable and OK about our relationship, that I was missing it. I was missing the sweetness. I was so worried about what everyone else was thinking about us together that I was missing the "together" part. Vic never cared what people thought of us.. in that sense anyway. We shared what we shared. And he was fine with it just like that. He didn't need to post pictures of us and all the fun things we were doing. He didn't care if anyone knew where he took me to dinner on friday night or what I got him for christmas. He was brave and full. He was all in. All there. Just like he said. He went through patches in our relationship where he worried about what the people who were close to me thought of him.. and he would try to reach out and let them know that he took care of me and he loved me. But it was never worth it. All it ever ended up being was "all this time, all this effort wasted." I see now. I see so much more now than I did then. I was foolish and silly. Why did I care so much? I filled my heart so with worry and stress about what everyone else thought that I didn't have room to feel what I really felt for a tall brown-eyed man who absolutely adored me in a way I never understood. I never met another person like Vic. He was his own breed. And there's still so much I'm sure he never shared with me.. but oh how I drank up what he did choose to show me of his amazing heart. He was a dreamer. He had enough ambitions for a whole football team of men. And he never once doubted that he would reach them all. He lived in the moment, every moment. He lived each day with passion and joy. He chose to see the sweetness of life and found adventure where I couldn't. And he had that same passion and bravery in his relationship with me. He found something I never could find; the courage to look me in the eye and say those four words.. "I belong to you." And he did. He belonged to me and I to him. But he was much better at belonging than me. 

Today we celebrated thanksgiving at my parents house. And I can't help but hear the echo of his voice here in this home. It filled this room last year. He participated in our family traditions because they meant so much to me. He even put the star on top of the christmas tree. And now I'm holding his stocking in my hands.. the one with his name on it that hung next to mine last year at my parents house. My parents filled it with little candies and cologne and chap stick and things. He slept on the couch on christmas eve to wake up and have christmas morning with me at my parents house like I always did growing up. When we hung the stockings today my sister asked me what I wanted to do with his this year? Did I want to take it home with me? Or did I want to hang it up with mine? And I felt that hole in my chest again. The one that's always there.. but I sometimes manage to stuff it with cotton, long enough to forget how empty I am. "And it'll just be empty?" I said. I don't know how to do this. And considering my life.. and my story so far.. I really should have the hang of it by now. But I don't. I don't have a clue how to move forward. I know Vic would want me to. He always made me talk with him about morbid things like who would I pick for him if I died.. and who he'd pick for me if he died. I'd always start crying like a big dork and tell him I didn't want anybody else. And he'd assure me that was silly and that he wouldn't want me to be lonely. But lonely is an understatement. Sometimes it hits me hard and I'm overwhelmed by the reality of it all. So much so that I truly can't believe it. I can't wrap my head around the fact that he is gone forever. I won't get a text or call from him again. He won't ever hide in the kitchen to wait for me to come around the corner and scare the hell out of me.. then roll around the tile laughing like a big jerk. :) He won't ever teach me kickboxing again or call me just to tell me he loves me. He won't ever be there when I get home.. with a movie in the dvd player waiting for me with popcorn.. already asleep. I won't ever fall asleep on his chest again, with his arms around me, playing with his ear lobe. He won't ever pin me down and lick my entire face to completely infuriate me while he laughs harder than I've ever seen him laugh. And I want to scream. I want to dig my nails deep into something.. pull my hair out and throw things. I can't stand it. Empty stockings and empty beds. I whisper, "I miss you" and it echoes in the silence. So much silence. I think I'm losing it. People say to me that they don't know how I do it.. and I want to say, "I don't either." In fact, I don't know that I AM doing it. I'm just... here. And I'm mad. I'm mad that this is my story. I'm sick that he was so good and such an amazing man and he'll never get to be all the things he wanted to be. I'm mad at myself for not being brave like he was. I'm mad at myself for being so caught up in so much that never mattered. I'm mad that I didn't make the most of my time with him. I'm mad at time, because there wasn't enough.. and now there's too much. I'm mad at everyone else who made me feel like I needed to explain things away. Everyone who I was afraid I would lose if they didn't see Vic for who he was and how he loved me. And I'm most mad that so so many never got to. And now they never will. It just feels like a crap life. And I'm just slithering through each day.. hoping I can find maybe just one reason to smile. 

Today I'm remembering a set of fingers in between mine.. and how the colors of each finger next to the other made my heart flutter a little more than normal. The feeling of those same fingers in my hair or thumbs on my cheeks. The feeling of running my hands across his head just after he'd had a haircut and the way he shaved his face and left that little tuft of hair on his chin. His favorite dark blue button up and how he always held his arms out for me to roll the sleeves for him. The way his eyes disappeared when he laughed really hard at something.. and how he'd throw his head back and cover his mouth. Short shorts. :) And his obsession with paradigm apparel. The way he watched cartoons on saturdays and ate poptarts literally like a child. And the way he looked at me when he was telling me how much he loved me. The way my skin smelled like him when I'd drive home late from Stillwater when we first started dating.. and how I couldn't stop sniffing my own arms and hands all the way. Details. The way he was dressed on our first date and where he took me and what we ate. Him carrying me up the stairs on his back in the cold. And all our late night chik-fil-a runs to try and catch them just before they closed. The bonfire he made me last winter when it was snowing.. and the way he laid out blankets and pillows for us to lay together and look at the stars. He's my other half, I'm sure of it now. I can't believe he's gone. And I can't believe I have a whole life ahead of me without him. I don't know what tomorrow will feel like, but I know what today feels like. And today, I am still his and he is still mine. I think of the last time I laid eyes on him and touched his face and hands and kissed his lips.. it's not right.  It's awful. It's so many broken pieces of my heart in so many places. It's cold and stiff and empty. But it's real. I used to love real things. I used to say it all the time. But today.. I don't love real things. I can't handle real anymore. I'm out of words. And even after all this typing it still feels painfully short of explaining how shattered I feel today. And again.. I don't know what comes after this, but I ache to believe that he and I will be together again. Until then.. one day at a time, I guess.

Butterflies

 I’ve been thinking about ebb and flow. The ebb and flow of life. The highs and lows, ups and downs. I’m trying really hard to question myself and expand my own thoughts on things. I don’t want to adopt a new set of rules and beliefs and yet again miss myself completely. I would much rather look to someone else to tell me how to feel than to feel something for myself.

Why are sadnesses so easy for me to feel right now, but happy is so hard? When I think of Jace and his lifeless body, I can feel all for myself. Anger, brokenness, lack of breath in my own lungs to match his. And my spiritual body has done much like what his physical body did, over the past six years. I’ve lost the pink in my lips and the olive in my skin. My toes have gone blue and my heart has come to a stop. I was good at pretending there for a while. I was a good at the echo of “God is still goods,” and “I know he’s in a better places.” But I couldn’t keep the bullshit up for too long. Little did I know my body was dying, and with it my ability to see hope in the corners of life and feel joy the way it should truly be felt. 

As I read Mandy’s words in her book "Thrashing About with God" and the way she has come through to the other side and learned to deal with life’s bitter and sweet and take things as they come, I’m jealous. I myself have made a habit of cursing the ebb and flow. And I feel more ebb these days than flow. In fact, I’m not sure if I believe there is any flow left for me. 

I think of little girls who have lost their mommys, and the way they chase butterflies still with giggles in their bellies. I envy them. They don’t know. The ebb is everywhere in their lives but they don’t see it. They see the happy and they feel the joy, despite the rotten scoop on their plate. They eat what they’re given with thankful hearts, all the while keeping a sharp eye on those silly, beautiful butterflies. How do they do it? And how can I cover them with my protective bubble so they’ll never have to know about this yucky life? So they’ll never lose sight of the butterflies? I watch old men die in their beds. Ones that I took care of every day for the past 6 months. And I wonder if they feel like they had their life to the full. I wonder if they feel like this is fair. I wonder if all they’ve lived through was worth it to them, and if this pain they feel at the end doesn’t make them want to rear back and throw a right hook at whatever or whoever is waiting for them at the other side of all this. I wonder if anything is worth it. This silence in my home. And days off of work spent crying and stressing over money. This life of bliss that little Bethany dreamed of.. well this can’t be it.

 I think of the woman with four children whose husband tried to commit suicide. And I wonder if she thinks it’s worth it. Does she see the butterflies, still? Is there anyone to stand by her side and scream for justice? Or the little Cambodian girl who lives in the AIDS orphanage. The one who is confined to a bed in 100 degree weather, because she can’t control her body anymore and her family cannot afford to take care of her. I see myself there by her side, shooing the flies from her face and asking God, why? Are there butterflies there? Are there butterflies down that dark hallway to the room where I would find a breathless baby boy? And what about that Bethany? The one who stood in the dark with her hand on his back for so long because she knew that it couldn’t be real. The one who picked up a trash sac full of guilt and shame and so very much more that night and has never put it down.  I promise you, she has lost sight of the butterflies. In fact I don’t know if she even believes in butterflies anymore. Talk of them makes her roll her eyes. “You might as well be chasing fairies,” she laughs sarcastically. 

But you know, I think maybe there is still hope for even her. A new nickname from a little girl with blonde hair and blue eyes and braces on her feet just may have been a few drops in the cracks of her dried up heart. Drops of what exactly? I don’t know, but I don’t believe she cares. She heals little by little, day by day. Text messages that remind her that she is someone’s sunshine. Drip. Little hands on her face that come with tiny sounding “I love yous.” Drop. Arms that hold her at the end of the day, even after she has been mean and grumpy. Drip. Drop. 

I think she could learn to see the hope again. I don’t know that she believed she could. But maybe.. just the idea that she could is that little bit of hope itself.

All Of Them

I think of how homemade bread and fresh coffee make me breath again. I can see myself kneading the dough. My hands need to create. It's good for my soul. And I feel like an outsider looking in sometimes. I can wipe the fog off the window and stand on my tip toes to see her. The way she works. The way she stays busy. They way she remembers when she stops for even a second. The tears that come and won't stop. She works to forget. She works to please. She works to cover up. She works to figure out. She works works works. And at night she lies down and closes her eyes.. Sleep comes.. But there's no rest. Because somehow in her slumber she still finds herself working. What is she so desperate for? So much emotion that comes out with her words.. And sometimes no words. Just faces. Expressions. Anger. Bitterness. Grief. Sorrow. And bits and pieces of happiness. Joy finds her in the most unthinkable of places. And I feel like she's so unsure. But at the same time she knows. She doubts everything. But yet she continues on with confidence. I think she thinks she weak. But if only I could show her. How brave she is. She can't see herself. She thinks her hair is too brown. She thinks it's too straight. An d sometimes I think it's not real. I think we pretend that we love for others.. But it's really for ourselves. It's really just selfish. And I hate Christianity the most. I hate people who brag about their great righteousness. How helpful and selfless they are. I hate when people pretend to be affected by the tragedies of others' lives. How their hearts are broken. How blessed others less fortunate than them are to have them in their lives. They hand out gifts with a pat on the head. And they brag about how proud they are of the church coming together to "be Jesus" to those in need. I want to scream. Like I did when I was a little girl in my Sunday church dress. The way I despised the abundance of fake smiles. I want to push people and yell that it's not real! You're doing this for the wrong reasons! And I've done it again. I've lost her. The part of me who keeps it together. The one who is sane and strong. The one who swallows the lump in her throat instead of letting it out so vigorously that she sobs and rocks back and forth. I can't find her. Why does she leave me when I need her the most? It's like I'm watching myself ruin everything. I get upset and I throw fits. I raise my voice and I pull my hair. And I push people away from me. The ones that love me. I'm so afraid of being left alone, but I'm doing the pushing. I’m not being fair. Why can't I just be thankful? Why must I pick things apart? Why am I so insecure? Where is my brave confident self? She is much more fun. She is much more full. I want to be her. I don't want to be this thin papery self. I want to stand tall and have it together. I want to stay. I want to be by his side supporting and encouraging instead of strangling. And I want that for myself too. I wish I could get rid of this version of myself. I don't see what's good about her. She only causes trouble. I don't want her around anymore.







And then that day comes every year. The red, white and blue one. And the memories that I've stuffed away come rushing to the forefront of my mind, forcing the ache in my heart to once again swell and pulse. I'm not where I thought I'd be. In any way. And I joke.. But my number one lesson learned about life is that it sucks. It hurts. And nothing turns out the way you thought it would.. which may sound negative.. but it’s really not. Some things are better. And if not better, just different. The challenge is learning to let your expectations go and be OK. That's not to say that there aren't moments of sweet and happy. Laughter and overwhelming joy. Yes, things like love and happiness are feelings.. but more importantly they are choices. I won't pretend that I'm not a big disappointment to many people that knew me 5 years ago. They could all name things that they're proud of me for and things that they are not so proud of me for. To this day in fact. But I also won't pretend that the event that took place 5 years ago was the one that made me who I am today. The one that caused me to "run from god" as I've heard it said. No, this started long ago, with a little 5 year old girl in her favorite little shirt and skirt with cherries all over it. The one who played with baby dolls and pretended to be their momma. The one who loved nail polish and makeup. It started in her little heart. A wound. A message. A lie that she believed to be true from that moment on. I won't make excuses for my choices. And I'm ridiculously exhausted of feeling sorry for myself. This is a sad story, yes. But the truth is, everyone has one. I'm not the only one struggling to find the sweet in all this bitter. I'm not the only one who cries in her sleep from nightmares that I'd do anything to forget. I'm not the only girl who grew up tormented by a lie that was never ever true. I miss Jace. Those three words are almost funny because they don't even begin to paint the right picture of the weepy wound I've had since he left my life. Time does not heal all wounds. I'm convinced that this is a wound that will never go away. It's is a pain that I have learned to live with along with so many other pains. That is part of life. And it wouldn't be real if it wasn't. My cry last night and this morning was how I wish this wasn't real. I can remember the day and not being able to wrap my head around the reality of it all. The harsh reality. To this day I wake up sometimes and the breath is gone and I still cannot believe this is real.







And I still see her. That cherry covered little girl. Her hair pulled up in a ponytail with a red bow on top of her head and little white sandals. And I want to scream. I want to say "No. Not anymore. She's worth more than this. She's worth fighting for." And if no one will fight for her, then I will. I will fight for all of them. The 13 year old girl with her short spikey hair and awkward shaped body. The one who thought she was gross. Or the cute highschool girl in her team t shirt with face paint ready for the football game. The one who knew of days without worry. The one who couldn't understand why no one wanted her. I'm done being quiet. I won't stand by and let her be pushed around anymore. I won't let people tell her who she's supposed to be or how she should or shouldn't feel. I will fight for her. And I'm not weak. I'm strong. In my own way. In the way that counts for me. I'm so tired of pouring myself out and seeing the puddles on the floor. Wasted. Puddles of me. And if no one cares about what I have to offer, then I will. I want it. I want you. You're not gross. You're perfect. You're not a baby. You're strong. You're brave. You're the bravest girl I know and you're damn worth it. And I won't stand by any longer. I won't lay in the puddles anymore.

Little Wanderer

 Sitting here staring at my blank screen.. I never thought I would be at such a loss for words. I know that I have things inside. Things to say. But I can't seem to make them come out. I've misplaced my motivation. You know when you lose something and you set out to find it? You start out looking so hard in every place you can think of. Sitting down and think think thinking like Pooh Bear. But after awhile, so much searching and no finding can tend to leave you.. unmotivated. If you begin to question something that you were once sure of.. were you ever really sure in the first place? If you put all that you are into some thing and come out on the other end feeling like you got nothing back.. was it worth it? And what is worth it? The term? Worth it. What does it mean? By whose standards? Do I get to say what's worth it to me?

I've been working in a nursing home, taking care of the oldies.. feeding, bathing, assisting them. And surprisingly, I like it. There is one lady that I look forward to talking with every day. I have worked there for a week and, already, I could write for an hour about the things she has told me.  The other day she began like this, "You know, sometimes I wake up here and I can't figure out where I'm at. Some mornings I think it's my senior year in high school. Other mornings I think it's the morning of my wedding day. My husband passed on 13 years ago.. but some days I still think he's going to walk straight through that door and fix things up for me like he always used to. If he'd walk in right now, I'd know everything would be all right. He was such a responsible, respectable, hard working man. I had a wonderful life and it was because of him." She went on to tell me about saving money. That she hoped I would learn the importance of setting money aside for surprise expenses that life would assuredly bring. But that, at the same time, she wanted me to live my life and spend money.. life is too short to stress about things that don't matter. Last night something I said reminded her of a John Donne poem called "Undone." In the poem he is talking to God about how he is undone. He is not ready to go on to be with Him because he is not done doing the things he was put here to do. He is undone. She sat there for a minute and then, with her face in her hands, said "this last year I've felt pretty done. But I guess I'm not.. I guess He still has things for me to do. I guess I'm undone." As I was leaving her room she apologized for rambling and said that she was sorry if she left me with the feeling that life is just one obstacle after the next, but.. it kind of is. She said she hoped and prayed that I would always have people in my life to turn to for support. People to help me up out of my chair like I help her up out of hers. She said she knows she can do it herself, because she's done it before, but sometimes just having my hand on her back helps her find her strength.. other times, just knowing that I am in the building does the trick. I stand there and wait for her to get the courage to get to her feet and straighten out her legs and back, bones ginding together. She talks to herself, "Come on, you can do this. Hands out like this, both feet flat on the floor, nose over toes, and just do it. You did it this morning! Come on now."

I can see myself in her. Her exhaustion. The way she doubts herself. The way she knows she is capable of doing things.. but sometimes she just needs a hand on her back.. a presence that brings back her confidence. The way she talks to herself. Reminding herself of what she's capable of, how far she's come. I think I forgot to do that. I think she reminded me. I think sometimes when shes talking to herself like that.. maybe she's talking to me. Helping me more than I am helping her. Could it be true that in my attempt to help someone else.. they ended up helping me? I didn't even know I needed help. I guess I have longed for a place where I can take off my worries with my clothes. A place where fingertips on my back soothe me to sleep. But not just sleep. Rest. Not just surviving. Living. Not just sitting. Going. And I'm still searching searching searching. But maybe I haven't been think think thinking like Pooh Bear beacuse it's not that I misplaced something.. it's that I never had hold of it to begin with. Me. My patchy heart. The parts of me that are too much. The parts that are not enough. The parts that are selfish. The parts that are needy. The parts that are weak. The parts that are stubborn, strong, determined. The parts that bring hope and fear all at the same time. I am a wanderer. And I am learning that being on a journey like the one mine is turning out to be can be scary and dark. But the mornings bring new light and new things to discover. The possibilities are endless. Like looking out at the lake. It's depth and seemingly endlessness.

I've found myself lately like the beginning of this post. A blank screen. No words coming to mind. And I miss words. I've been holding on to my little old lady's words. Like water, I've been drinking them in. Looking for hope in all the corners of the places I've been dwelling. And hope doesn't fail me. Not always. I'm still angry. More angry than I realized. Memories of darker days and moments peck at me. The air knocked out of me and the disappointment of things I poured myself into seeming to abandon me. "It's not true," they say, "He never left you," they say, "He did answer you," they say, "Just not in the way you asked," they say. My hearts cries are sometimes unbearable for even me to hear. As if they were velcro on my chest, I try to rip them off and stuff them away. I don't want to hear myself. I don't want to continue on like this with the wind knocked out of me, one deep breath after the next, trying ot fill my lungs with good clean air. You left me. You didn't answer me. You let me hope. You let me believe. You let me find him like that. You let me see those things. You let me fall in love with something that you knew would be taken from me. You stood by. You did nothing. You let me pray. You let me hold on so long. You let me dream. You let me sing of promises. You didn't do what you said You were gonna do, I don't care what they say... You didn't. You failed me. You left me. You left me. You left me. I hate you. I miss you.

I'm not the same. I'm not the girl I once was. And I know that there are many who miss me. Sometimes I guess I miss little things too. But yet I still wouldn't change. I'm not sorry for who I've become. And I'd like to say that I, in fact,  have not yet become at all. I am still becomming. And, you know, I think I hope I stay that way. So much anger built up inside a person can bring numbness and hardening. I can't say I am free of those things. But I wake up every day and I try to find the joy. And I think that maybe joy is supposed to find me. I think she is not what everyone makes her out to be. I think joy can be found with her hair blowing wild in the sea-salty wind, with her toes in the sand and her heart in her hands.. wide open. I think the waiting for joy to find you can be dark and lonely. I think the path to joy is more like a snowstorm, or a dirt road to travel with broken bottles and no shoes. But she is worth it. Boy, is she worth it. She helps find words when your heart is so exhausted all it can bring about is a blank screen. She and I, we have a back and forth thing going on. I think she talks to me like my little old lady.. "Come on Beth, you've got this. Let go. Soak me in." And sometimes I'm mad at her. Because it seems like it's been so long and my feet are stinging and bleeding. But once she arrives.. the tears stream down my face and I can feel her hand on my back.. her presence in the room and I remember that "I did it this morning. I can do it. I've got this."

And I find my strength. And I hold on to joy. I hold on to the fingers in my hair. The goodnight text messages. The "I miss yous." The "we're in this togethers." The hand in mine when he knows I need it the most. The last .10 of my evening run where I give it my all and wait for the fullness to fill my chest. I hold on to the smiles at work. The "bless yous." The "thank yous." I hold on to the places that make me feel at home. I hold on to peace. I hold on to the glimpses of long lost passion. I hold on to memories.. even the hideous ones. I hold on to whispers in my ear.. ones that I wish would come more often. I hold on to things that I should probably let go of.. but we'll let those find their place in my journey. I hold on to the dreams and the promises. Though I feel my trust in promises slipping away. I hold tight to them anyway. Because I have to hold onto something. Don't I? And I remember that I don't have to look to someone else to tell me what to hold on to or not hold on to. And so there. I hold onto freedom. And I'm thankful for it. I hold on to wandering. I hold it so tight I can feel it bubbling in between each finger.

"Good luck, little wanderer, good luck. How I wish you didn't need it." -Stephanie Meyer The Host

Chapter

I find myself again with the apple core. Alone. Empty walls. Empty little apartment.

Sweet memories, even in this tiny place. Here I had many nights by myself. Many nights where I made myself ramen or chicken and rice, scooted my sofa up next to my two-hour-log fire, and read my kindle until I couldn't keep my eyes open. Many nights where I'd cry and wonder why it all had to be so hard.. why 1 + 1 couldn't just = 2. Why life had to be more like one of those long complicated word problems. Why I had to work so many hours, so hard and still come up so short. Many nights where my only comfort was my clumsy puppy and cuddly kitty.

I'd come home every day to a mess to clean up courtesy of my Iris. And a meowing Booster begging for food and attention. In my tiredness and frustration I'd wonder why I had either of them at all. But it seemed to be the nights that reminded me that I needed them more than they needed me. I did a lot of searching here in this little place. A lot of growing and sharing. But mostly searching. "Aren't you tired of the searching?" they say. I'm tired in general. But I'd rather be searching than pretend that I know.

It's been a lump in my throat. It's been mascara smeared. It's been watching my efforts, my heart and all that I have to give being drained. Puddles on the floor. No one will fight for me. Not even me. When did I forget to fight for myself? And actually.. did I ever know how? Have I ever blocked a strike? You know.. I think someone forgot to teach me how to hold my arms in front of my face. Or maybe I wasn't paying attention when they demonstrated that part. Come to think of it.. I'm pretty sure I always let the other player win. Like a forfeit, from the beginning. I never fought at all. For fear that my victory would become a disappointment for someone else. Fear of losing.. for anyone but me. But I've grown to realize that I am part of this. If I don't fight, who will fight for me? If I'm not blocking and striking with all that I have, why am I in the ring? I have to fight. I have to fight or step out. No more holding back for fear of others' disappointment. No more hands tied behind my back for fear of what they might do. No more forfeiting. I will fight. For me.

And every chapter comes to an end. "Home is now behind you, the world is ahead." Home has lost its definition for me. I've made a new one. (I've been doing a lot of that lately.) Home is not a place. It's not a person. It's not a feeling. It's within myself. It's a choice. It's peace. Which some say is a feeling. But I say it's home. Some of my darkest days have been here. Times where I felt no hope. Moments where crying didn't seem to help, but I couldn't think of anything better to do. Nights where the darkness of my bedroom wasn't dark enough. And the silence was too loud. I know what they'll say, "she sounds depressed." I say depression has also lost it's definition. I'm giving it a new one. Depression is not a sickness that needs medicine. At least not the kind that I walked through. Depression is an overflow of disappointment and unanswered questions. It's a nose-full-of-water, trying to stay afloat. It's a whole bottle of sunscreen on a blistery body. No, it's not a sickness. It's a step. It belongs too. And as I close this chapter, I think I'll let the butterflies flutter in my tummy about the next one. 

I don't think I have what it takes for everyone's regular plan. And I like it this way. 

Loved

Rock-a-by. The sound of her muffled voice straight from her chest to my ear. "You Are My Sunshine." A little red mole. How I loved to touch her face and her skin.. and the way it seemed to be softer than I remembered every time. Her laugh. Sitting up and the way she'd bounce me on her knees singing songs and telling silly riddles. Her hair. Her hands. Her nose. I knew her. I had memorized every detail of her in those quiet, close-together moments. Once upon a time she was all I had. Who knew that moments of being so close would gradually and all at once become only a thought.. a vivid memory tinged with a sweet ache.

I have nothing to show for myself, yet I feel like I could explode with all that I have built up inside me. It's like this... I'm angry, but I forgive you. I'm so confused, but I understand. I'm happy, but I grieve for you. I'm sure, but I sometimes glance over my shoulder. I'm okay without you, but I miss you. I'm hungry, but I'm full. My legs are sore and tired, but I need to run. My wings are withered, but I am flying. I'm tethered to you, but we are detached. I long for a little box of you, one that has your smell. your skin. your voice. your hands. your lips. your pride in me. your acceptance. your love. So that I can have you. Because I need you. 

I want to explain it all to each of them. But I can't even explain it to myself. There are so many mes. And I've only begun to see glimpses of them each. There are new ones every day and I don't want to stuff them down anymore. I don't want to walk on the sidewalk. I want to risk running in the street. I want to feel the grass between my toes. I want to wander. I want to wonder. Why do I have to be sure? Why can't it be okay that I  just am where I am? I feel like I'm on my way.. doesn't that count for something? I don't want to stay the same. I want to always change. I want to learn. I want to sing. I want to play. I want to fly. I want time time time. And theres only so much. Why am I not trusted with my own time? One life is all I have. One life is all I need. And I can't take steps forward if you keep pulling me back. I am brave. And I am strong. When I look back at the places I've walked, I can't believe how much I've survived.. and thrived. And yet all the way I criticized myself. Making rules on top of rules on top of rules. I picked myself apart, and I let everyone else pick me apart too. I believed in the me that everyone said that I was. I looked to others to tell me who I was. I apologized for things I never did. I shriveled up and I hid under the table. Because it was safe there. They were proud there. The boat didn't rock. I didn't have anything to explain away. I wasn't lonely. I wasn't scared. I didn't have to be ashamed. I didn't need to worry.  I folded my hands in my lap. I brushed my hair. I manicured my nails. And all was well. But I couldn't stay there. I came out from under the table and began to wander. And here I am. Messy hair, polish chipped, and I didn't know that I could use my hands to create things. And I want more of what I've tasted. I can't believe that I went so long without tasting. Just eating and not tasting. And I wont keep surviving. I won't go on not standing up for me. The real me. And I won't keep pouring myself out into a nothingness hole. I can't go on giving and giving and getting nothing back. I'm worth more than that. And again with the tears. And small things break me and I can't hold myself together. I'm fighting to hold onto the bravery and the boldness. Fighting to hold in the tears. Don't let them see that you're weak. Don't let them see that you cry. Don't let them see how much you wish they would stay. Celebrate with you. Walk with you. And all the things I dreamed of begin to one by one slip away. Arms locked as I walk the walk in white. Her on the front row. Them by my side. No matter what. And they won't. And the dream has to be let go. Silly dream I guess. Maybe in another life.. another time I will matter. 

"..and yet she felt a rebellion against this good self which was too often called upon, was too often invited, to the detriment of other selves who were now like numerous wallflowers! The girl who wanted to laugh, to be carefree, to have a love all of her own, an integrated life, a rest from troubles. Secretly she had often dreamed of her other selves, the wild, the free, the natural, the capricious, the whimsical, the mischievous ones. But the constant demand for the good one was atrophying the others. But there are invitations which are like commands. She did not know how this good self had attained such prominence. She did not know how it had come to be born at all, for she considered it thrust upon her, not adopted by her. She felt much less good than she was expected to be. It gave her a feeling of treachery of deception. But they repeated obsessionally: You must be good. You must keep your dress clean. You must be kind, thank the lady, hide your pain if you fall, do not reach for anything you want, do not attract attention to yourself, do not be vain about the ribbon in your hair, efface yourself, be silent and modest, give up to your brothers the games that they want, curb your temper, do not talk too much, do not invent stories about things which never happened, be good or else you will not be loved. And when she was accused of any of these offenses, they turned away from her and she was denied the good-night or good-morning kiss which was essential to her happiness." -Anais Nin "The Four-Chambered Heart"

Be good or else you will not be loved. 

Angel Baby

I woke in the night with fresh memories on my mind. I could have sworn there was an ambulance outside, because the red and blue lights were so real.. filling my room and reflecting off the white walls. It's true that as time goes by the distance between aches gets longer and longer.. but it's always there. I think of that angel boy every day. His smiley face is in my bathroom. I see him when I first see myself in the morning. And yet the picture of him in my dreams last night.. the one that lingered in my mind for hours after I woke.. it made me ache to my core. And the memories flood in without warning.. and there is no controlling them. "Tell me about the happy memories," but thinking of them just makes me ache more.. for a boy that used to me mine. The day he was born. The day they brought him home. The day he first showed us that sweet smile. The day I held him while he slept.. all sweaty:). The days I lotioned and dressed him.. and oh how he hated lotion. The way his big sissy adored him. His chubby neck from the back:). His goofy giggle that lasted for such a short time. Why do the sweet memories hurt too? I see him sweet and bitter. I see him in all the ways.. I carry him with me. That baby boy I saw for the first time. The one that my sister, my best friend, shared with me. The baby boy that I fell in love with. The first boy that stole my heart in ways I would have never imagined. The way I couldn't wait to get to him and get him in my arms. How hard it was to leave him.. always. I'd linger at the door and make plans for my next visit. That baby boy that I found. The one that was never the same. The one hooked up to all the machines. The one fighting. The way it tore me up and left me undone. And I'm on my knees.. broken. And it hits me once again. And I can't believe that it's real. The pain is part of me. And so many times I've pretended that it's velcro on my chest.. that I can remove it when I please. I've pushed it away. I've ignored it. I soaked it up. I've hidden it. I've hidden IN it. I've lived it. And you know.. I'm not sure I know what to do with it. Some days I wish it would go away. But mostly I'm glad for it. I'm glad that it's there to remind me of him. To remind me of what he meant to me. Of what his life taught me. Life is precious. It's beautiful. And ugly. It's simple. It's hard. It's real. There are no answers. The only comfort for the dark hard parts of life are just the sweet soft whispers. The arms around me. The whispers to remember the sweet instead of the bitter. "It's okays" "I love yous" "Don't crys" Fingers and lips soaking up tears. And the promise that I'm never alone. Even when I feel like I am. I miss that boy. I long for him. I dream of him so often. More times nightmares than sweet dreams.. but I'll take what I can get. There is this place in my heart.. A hole in the shape of my angel baby. And oh how I long to kiss those soft lips.. touch that curly red hair.. smell that skin.. hear that giggle. The throbbing comes and then fades.. but it lingers. I love you Jace Richard. Aunt Bethy misses you with all my heart.