coffee with a shot of tears, roasted. . .

Someone tried to break into my apartment today.

Yesterday I got notified that someone went on a shopping spree with my bank info at the mall in Chicago.

The day before, I found out that my brain is full of veins that are "wonky," with no further explanation or plan or anything except instructions to take a medication I'm allergic to.

Exhausted and dreaming all of these dead dreams and sitting on my floor in the apartment with tears streaming down my face and the dogs sitting next to me and me not even realizing why or what for I'm crying. Watching tears fall into my coffee cup and ripple outwards to the edges. Salty salted caramel. Literally drinking tears. Roasted.

I hate feeling sorry for myself. I hate feeling like this. I hate that it has. . .hit. Me. I'm a fly on the wall. Swat. Hello, emptiness. Hello, emotional pain. Hello, distress. Hello, those feelings that demand to be felt but are so far away that it's like looking through an empty paper tube at something so small and so distant that I need a microscope to really analyze them. Yet as I analyze and dissect, I have no idea what I'm looking at.

Coffee with tears in it. Salted. Roasted.

Swat.

living with depression and all that comes with it...

Things that go bump in the night go bump in the day;

the difference so little that time slips away

-- exhaustion.

i feel lost...

I never understood why people get so emotional about graduating. In the past, I've listened to coworkers, classmates, and friends express everything from anger to paralyzing fear about leaving the undergraduate realm. Honestly, I can't tell you how many times I've been the shoulder-to-cry-on or the assistant job seeker for people.

When I say I never understood, I mean that I never felt the way they did. People would say things, "I'm just not ready to leave," "I've got nowhere to go now," "I'm so scared that nothing is going to work out," and the like. Out loud, I was supportive, and I could both logically and empathetically see where they were coming from. It's a big step, leaving the campus and people that have become so familiar. Life once again becomes uncertain. On the other hand, I internally wondered why they weren't jumping up and down for joy at the chance for freedom -- for real adulthood -- for graduate school or job opportunities -- for bigger and better things -- CARPE DIEM!! Get me OUT of here!!

With my own graduation ceremony looming less than 72 hours away, I suddenly feel a rash of emotions and sentiments that previous students have expressed. While walking across campus today, I couldn't help but utter a noise of disgust and say, "I hate this place." Surveying the grounds and the pretty pink tulips, I thought, "Well, it's not so bad. But still -- I can't wait to be finished with all of this." Then, as I received my cap and gown, I trudged slowly across campus in tears, thinking, "They're kicking me out. All I did was what they asked, and now they're sending me away to who knows where doing who knows what with who knows who! How could they do this to me?!"

It's quite the rollercoaster. I don't recommend it.

Lately, I've been having nightmares. I mean, I usually do, but these are different. Often when I sleep, I dream of a void: me suspended in empty, crushing darkness. There is no up or down, no point with which to orient myself and determine where I am, or even who I am. Nothing is familiar, and I am alone. I've had these kinds of dreams before, but never with this intensity or such lingering effects.

Waking from these dreams leaves me in a fog of uncertainty. I go throughout the day as though still stuck in that dark, cold emptiness. I felt it again as I unwrapped my wrinkled, too long, navy blue graduation gown and untangled the gold tassle strands. Running my fingers through the tassle strands, it suddenly hit me -- the dreams and lingering feelings come from my feeling of placelessness. It exists so strongly in me that it manifests itself in my dreams. I truly feel lost, along with a decent amount of panic.

As I've thought more about this, I've concluded that this sort of anxiety speaks to feelings of displacement based on my changing position in the world. Though I do have places that are important to me, none of them are permanent. Everything in my life is transitory right now: graduation this week and finishing school in June; leaving the university I've grown to know well; acceptance to graduate programs that I'll never actually go to because they're online; leaving a student job and needing to find other employment; even my housing situation is in flux. My present places are quickly becoming my past places, and future places are presenting themselves -- though some are not really places; more like virtual experiences.

It's an unknown -- it's a feeling of anxiety that occurs even before losing an important place. Facing graduation, loss of employment, and an almost place-less form of virtual graduate schooling creates that anxiety in me.

Of course, changes like these aren't a bad thing. They're actually very good things; things I've worked for and looked forward to for a very, very long time. The emotional effects, though, are incredibly real. Being displaced from the undergraduate experience, employment, and people is a lot to handle all at once. It's kind of like when someone is forced into homelessness or made into an exile through war or foreclosure. I don't mean to minimize these events by comparing them to my current transition; losing a home or a familiar place because of such traumatic events is without a doubt much worse. I use that comparison because it's the only one that makes sense to me, that I can understand.

Graduating is turning me into a school-less (and somewhat reluctant) migrant student -- an exile from everything I have known for the last three years. While my exile is partially by choice, and the graduate program I've chosen to attend does provide a new place to go, I'm still being displaced. I have met the requirements for graduation, and my diploma becomes both a celebration and a pink slip.

I don't like change. I don't like losing the places and the people I have come to know and appreciate. However, I am human, and so my body must move. It must change and move and go new places, do new things. I of all people understand this now: after spending nearly a month in bed recovering from a surgical procedure, I've learned that staying in a room too long really can make a person go crazy. I wanted out! I wanted to move and change and go to other places. And I could not.

It was hugely frustrating.

None of us is meant to be stationary; movement of some sort is necessary. Still, the emotional distress that occurs from losing place is real. I'm feeling it in a big way now. I feel a mixed bag of loss, excitement, anger, sorrow, anxiety, betrayal, anticipation. These places have been critical in forming who I am and where I will go in the future. It's probably universal: places affect us and shape us. Perhaps the fact that places are key formative elements is what makes the displaced feeling distressing. We know we must move on from certain things, but letting go is difficult due to the ties to the place we grew and changed in.

For me, my feelings of loss over my current state and place are helping to spur me on to the next experience. I mourn the loss of familiarity and worry over the new places I must find, yet these familiar places help me realize that I can't stay. Current places have shaped what I do, who I am, and where I will go. My experience as an undergrad student, while coming to a seemingly abrupt and frightening end, has created that desire to move to a new place because of the experiences I've had in the place I now leave.

It's a strange, almost cyclical phenomenon: loss of place creating sadness and anxiety over the loss, while silmultaneously pushing us to find new places, which also creates uncertainty and grief. This constant shuffling of place is what makes us grow and change. Memories of old places shape our interactions with the new. Both types of places directly influence who we are, how we think, what we will become, and where we will go in the future.

Thinking about it in this way is helping to turn my feelings of terror (yes -- terror) about the coming changes into excitement. I won't lie. The fear is still very real, as is the deep loss I can't quite understand and never expected would occur. However, it's being tempered with curiosity and excitement for the experiences and places that lie ahead of me.

Though don't expect me to be all hopeful all of the time -- I'm desperately hanging on to any happy thoughts to keep myself from falling apart!

too fragile for my own good...

I have a sensitive personality by nature. Commercials about homeless animals, photos of orphaned children, and the occasional man standing on the corner with a sign trigger tears. I feel for people, and animals, and sometimes I feel trapped because what little help I can give personally is less than a drop in the bucket.

That kind of sensitivity is a good thing in some ways. While it can be problematic at times, it's something I've learned to work with, instead of let it control my life. Recently, though, I've been sensitive in ways less compassionate -- meaning I find myself getting hurt a lot.

I don't know what it is, but stupid little things hurt. Comments from family members and friends or things I read keep reminding me of mistakes I've made or the goals I'm so far from reaching. It's like thinking you're moving forward, a step at a time, until you turn a corner and there's that wall again, smirking and saying, "Hey, remember me? Your old pal? You keep trying to forget me and move on -- I don't like that. Good luck walking away from me, kid."

There are reminders everywhere. Reminders of times I've failed and stupid mistakes I've made. Honestly, I feel like I'm worthless. I'm starting to think I don't deserve happiness. Which is wrong -- both of the previous lines are wrong. The thinking is wrong -- I know that. Knowing that doesn't seem to make it hurt any less, though. It's quite frustrating.

It's frustrating that no matter how many good, right things we do, the bad things creep up out of nowhere to knock us down. That no matter how hard we try to be happy, and to take care of ourselves and others, it's still ridiculously difficult to get out of bed in the mornings and face another day.

ugh...

I can't figure out why I'm so angry.

I'm just angry.

i feel...

Some of my friends know that I often struggle expressing how I feel. I learned a way of dealing with this last semester -- and that is to make lists.

I really am a list person. It's how I keep my life in order. It's how I remember things I don't want to forget. It's how I brainstorm. It's how I do things.

Here is my expression list.

i feel...

...ignored.
...selfish.
...cold.
...angry.
...sad.
...shaky.
...busy.
...overwhelmed.
...tired.
...used.

And then, once I've listed it out, I understand it better.

It makes sense in my head.

when I went for a run because I could...

Some storms begin with a small drop of water falling from the sky -- a slow sparkling crystal descending from the clouds to land with a slight splattering spread on the pavement. A storm that appears gradually, misting the earth and blocking the sun with its fog.

But this storm began without shining crystals or pavement drops bleeding into one another to create a single shining slate of asphalt. This storm began in her heart.

She felt it before she heard it. A cold, hard stinging inside her chest; a sharp, tight pulsing in her brain.

It's going to rain.

Down from the sky-- barrage of hammers on the rooftop --
down from the clouds -- volley of bullets against the walls!

Down,
down,
down
down!

Out, out, out -- out into the rain.

Running...running. Bare feet against the pavement.
Running...running. Hair plastered to her cheeks.
Running...running. Clothes clinging as though naked.
Running...running. Skin screaming with the sting.

Run. Run. Run. Run. Repeating
in her mind, racing through the storm. Racing through the storm running from the rain through the rain to the rain
the rain the rain the rain

The rain.

Cold, biting, stinging rain -- rain that is alive.
Cold, biting, stinging rain.
Cold. Biting. Stinging.
Cold. Biting.
Cold.

Cold.


Cold.

She can feel it. Feel. the cold. the bite. the sting.

the life.

Time -- what time? No time -- running. running. raining.

Hair streaming, hands shaking, feet bleeding, lips speaking
words she cannot hear. Stumbling, tumbling, crumbling on the porch
wet
wet
wet
with rain.

The rain.

All she wants is rain.

iHurt...

Most of my posts have been quite depressing of late. And for that, I apologize.

I don't apologize for needing to write things down, though. For some reason this is the only medium I've found where I can truly confess how I feel and what I think. I have journals, loads of them -- and they're all blank. Writing in those is terrifying. I'm not really sure why. I think it might be because I really want the thoughts and feelings I have to be read by someone. Anyone. Because goodness knows it's hard enough for me to order a  hamburger, let alone say my feelings have been hurt.

iHurt.

I feel like that's my life anymore. Physically, emotionally, mentally, spiritually -- every time I get close to finding peace and reassurance, something else goes wrong. Painfully wrong. A constant iHurt application.

Heartbreakingly wrong.

I'm so tired. I'm so tired of not knowing, of not having answers, of trying to move forward and being set back -- school, work, relationships -- and I'm tired of people thinking they know what I need. It's understandable, in a way. I never say what I need. Heck -- I don't even know what I need. But I do know that what people think I need is very different from what I think I need.

That's what I've been doing today. Evaluating my needs. Evaluating my desires. Which makes me feel incredibly selfish, and also powerful. And terrified.

My  heart hurts so much today. My body hurts.

want...

There is nothing I want more than to put on comfy sweats, eat half (or more) of a carton of chocolate ice cream, and sing with Katy Perry as loud as I possibly can. Because days like these I want to drive away, just pack my bags and watch all of those shadows fade.

I'm so tired -- and I don't have any chocolate ice cream because I exercised self-control at the grocery store and only bought the things that I really need.

Not sure what's wrong with me today. It's like being really hungry, so hungry you're empty inside and your stomach is tied up in knots.

Although I'm not physically hungry -- I found these preservative free granola bars at the grocery store which I keep in my pockets and eat between classes. I don't get a break at all on MWF, so I snag a snack when I can. Let me tell you, those granola bars are yummy, yummy. Especially the chocolate-dipped coconut bars. And the peanut butter chip bars. Yummy.

2 hours until I can go home. Cannot wait.

worst shift ever...

I do not exaggerate when I say that I had my three worst ever tutorials yesterday. All right in a row.

The first one was awful because a student came in who had a huge statistical analysis research paper due the next day at 5 p.m. She spoke nothing of the writing in the paper, and wanted me to evaluate the observational study she wanted to do that afternoon. I have a little bit of statistical knowledge, but nothing like what she wanted. Stats 121 was the bane of my existence last semester. I didn't know what to do, and I tried to help her as best I could. Plus, she was an international student from China, and she barely understood half of what I tried to explain. 

She was super stressed out about the paper, and kept saying she didn't get what I meant and that I wasn't understanding her assignment. Huh. Imagine that. I'm a writing tutor, not a stats TA! We didn't read any of her paper, and she wanted me to give her all of the answers for writing her thesis, saying "Write what you would say for me." No. Do you want me to lose my job? Because I don't want to.

Tutorial number two was only awful because of the subject material. The guy was great. He's a Women Studies minor, which surprised me so much that I actually stared at him, thinking it was a joke (there are a lot of good guys at BYU, but I find that many of them have a 'women are second class' mentality, even if they don't come right out and say it -- it's a subconscious cultural thing here). But he was serious. I was excited to work with him, until I read his thesis. It was an analysis of the impact that popular literature has on girls' perceptions of the ideal relationship, using the Twilight novels as the basis for his observations. 

I had to hold back tears the whole time, because I kept seeing myself in the paper. After what happened on Monday night -- I've been a bit of a nervous wreck (as my coworkers and room mate can attest to). His paper was really great because it did an excellent job of pointing out instances of abuse, male dominance, and how victims come to behave. But it was really hard to read -- he noticed and asked if I was okay. I sort of shrugged it off and just said that it all sounded familiar. The look on his face was so kind and compassionate. Worst tutorial ever -- not because of him, but because I could barely hold myself together. Mom said I should have given him my number -- yeah, right. Although he was really cute.

Third the worst. I kid you not, it was the worst tutorial ever. The lady who came in for help was probably in her mid-sixties, and she was the rudest, meanest person I have ever met at BYU. She brought in a 59 page paper and wanted me to do all of the citations for her, in Chicago format. I've never used Chicago before, and no one else in the Center uses it. We all use MLA or APA. When I told her that, she got so upset at me, and started bossing me around and telling me that I was unhelpful. "You don't know this format? Well, are you a writing tutor, or aren't you?" Um...yes. And last time I checked, you aren't, madam. 

After spending ten minutes trying to help with handouts, the Internet, and a manual, she handed me her 59 pages and told me to read it. I'm not supposed to read students' papers without them -- they read them aloud and I follow along. We're also not supposed to read all of long papers -- especially when we have a three hour wait (yep). When I told her those things, she snatched her paper from me and said, very loudly, "So you can't help me." I was so shocked that I just sat there, stuttering that yes, I could help, but that I had to follow the rules. Then she snorted and said, "So. You won't help me."

I was absolutely stunned. Of course I would help her, but I have to follow the policies and procedures of the Center. I even tried to explain to her that I had to be available to help other students, and I pointed at the line out the door. She just glared at me and said, "Will you help me or not?" I didn't know what to do at that point, and because she was older, I couldn't tell her off like I can a student. And so, for 60 minutes, I sat with her while she read her paper, criticizing me for all of my comments and telling me that I didn't get it. Duh, I didn't get it. She wouldn't tell me about the paper, shushing me when I asked her what the assignment was and saying, "I am reading." She wouldn't listen to anything I said, and if I so much as moved in my chair, she'd stop and glare at me, "You're not paying attention. Listen."

Dana and Chloe saved me. They were watching, and I saw out of the corner of my eye that they were just as stunned and unsure as I was. Eventually, Chloe came over and stopped the tutorial, pointing to the line of students needing help. I was so relieved; I'd been trying not to cry the whole time.

Chloe, Dana, and I have now developed a system of signaling each other if something like that ever happens again. Chloe taught us the ASL signs for "help me" and "do you need help." I'm going to memorize that for future semesters.

Good thing today is not yesterday. Just a bit nervous...the lady is coming back today. I swear, if it's my turn to tutor, I'll fake sick or slip Chloe a note to pull the fire alarm at 20 minutes into the tutorial. Not that we'd ever pull the fire alarm. But it is often a muttered sentiment as one of us leaves the table to help particularly infamous writing students. 

i'm so...

I don't even know.

Sad?
Tired?
Excited?
Stressed?
Angry?
Bored?
Silly?
Lonely?
Annoyed?
Anxious?
Hyper?

It's as though the second I start to get worked up about something (whether in an upset or an excited way), it all just stops mid-work up and my self goes, "Shhhh. You're not [insert emotion]. You're fine. And don't bother trying to talk about anything -- after all, you know that you have nothing to say."

I can't cry.
I can't sleep.
I can't eat.
I can't talk.
I can't think.

Like not being able to feel anything.

might explode...

Why is it so freaking hard for people to just take care of themselves? Why is it so FREAKING hard? If a doctor gives you a medication, TAKE IT (no one can call me out on this one because I have not missed a day in over two months, and even though it's NOT working, I'm STILL taking it because the doctor told me to). If you're hungry, EAT SOMETHING. If you hurt yourself, TAKE CARE OF IT THEN, not when it gets worse. If what you're doing is going to get you into trouble, STOP DOING IT.

In short, don't be stupid. Stupidity is bad for you, and it's bad for everyone else in your life. I mean, you do have a brain. So use the dang thing.

I guess if this was just a one time thing, I wouldn't be so upset. But EVERY TIME I turn around, different people in my life have done something they shouldn't have or not done something they should have done, and it screws life up for them and everyone involved. I mean, come ON, people. How hard is it to think? And not just about how what you do effects yourself, but about how what you do effects others.

Think. Think before you act, or don't act -- contrary to popular belief, life isn't "all about me." Each of us must first do our BEST, and I mean VERY best, to meet our personal needs. It is not fair to expect other people to just drop everything and be there because we have something in our lives that we don't want to take care of.

Friends can only go so far. There comes a point where people can do no more.

That's just the way it is.

Phew. Got that out. Now I can go back to being normal (whatever that is).

what I just realized...

dear Friend,

I told you last night that I don't want to go home.

"Why?"

"Everything in my life is back there. School. Work. Responsibility. People I'm scared of. I don't want to go back to all of it."

You reassured me about it all -- I appreciate that a lot.

I didn't tell you everything though.

Driving down the country lanes, stopping at random to take pictures of the sunset, taking turns choosing which direction to go at crossroads, telling stories about past adventures, dreaming about the future -- being together like that made me realize something.

"Home is where your heart is."

I've always brushed that aside as a silly cliche, one overused like "the grass is always greener." But you know something?

As cliche as these little sayings may be, they can be horribly true.

Which is also funny, because you said that this morning. When we said good-bye.

Perhaps I shouldn't say it. Perhaps I shouldn't think it. I wouldn't do those things if I could help it -- the thought came unbidden, unexpected -- they're random thoughts and you just happen to be in them.

And then, as usual, you're the one who voices the thoughts I don't say. Like we're on the same brain wave or something.

It's a little scary. And at the same time, it's not. It's comforting.

You still have my heart. Try as I might, I can't get it back. Because if you asked for it, I wouldn't hesitate in giving it to you forever.

I don't want to go home because you're not there.

At least I got to see you for a few days. You really don't know how much that meant to me.

all my love,
GKB

dumb kid...

Sometimes it hits me how much I don't know and don't understand about the world, about people, about myself.

Especially about myself.

Here I sit at a table in a kitchen-in-progress, staring out the window at the trees being slapped around by the gusts of wind, and I ask myself, "How do you feel?"

It's a perplexing question, one that confuses me about as much as it confused Spock in Star Trek IV: The Voyage Home. The question comes again and again, a tinny computer voice asking "How do you feel? How do you feel? How do you feel?"

Well, computer voice -- I don't know how to answer that question.

Parker would say, "That's not an answer." To which I would respond, "But I don't have an answer. I can't figure one out."

"So talk."

I don't like talking about things that I can't make sense of.

"How do you feel?"

sad.
empty.
listless.
scared.
tired.
apathetic.
weak.
confused.
lost.
useless.
vulnerable.
childish.

In a lot of ways, I feel out of control. I feel sick inside, because I don't know what's going on in my heart. I don't know what I want. I don't even care half the time anymore.

I don't want to go home. I don't want to go back to everything that's there.

But I don't want to stay.

trying so hard...

Two of my least favorite feelings are

1. the feeling of being let down
2. the feeling that I'll never measure up

I'm trying hard not to feel either of those things.

Not an easy thing when it's 12:30am (so late, I know) and you're aware of how alone (as in physical relation to someone else) you are.

you've got (no) mail...

One of the most important rules in my life has always been this: never watch a "girl movie" alone. Up until two weeks ago, that was an easy rule to keep. Sure, I watch movies alone all the time. They're more along the lines of Mulan and Captain America and Megamind. Last week I had a sudden desire to watch Leap Year. I'm guessing that part of the reason was because it had been a bit of a revealing weekend (revealing as in I learned a lot about the way I feel about certain things) and I just wanted to watch someone's love story fall into place. Not to mention Leap Year makes me laugh. I wanted to laugh.

Pretty soon other movies crept their way off the library shelves and into my book bag. Juno, Sydney White, When in Rome, The Prince & Me -- those were last week's films that I watched during my evenings at home alone on the couch. I had only seen When in Rome, so the others were an adventure. Adventures that didn't go as I had planned.

I'll admit it. I teared up a little bit and felt alternately giddy and depressed. I decided that watching those movies had been a horrible idea and that it was back to the rules again: no chick flicks by myself.

Then...well. After a spontaneous girl date with Hannah to The Chocolate and indulging in decadent, delicious, delightful sweeties (hers a large slab [yes, slab, not piece] of dark chocolate cake with inch thick frosting and mine a luscious lemon bar with powdered sugar), I had a hankering for one of my favorite movies of all time: You've Got Mail. Kathleen Kelly is one of my favorite characters in film (not to mention I adore her wardrobe) and I love to hate and then fall in love with Joe Fox (every time).

Now, I often hear girls use the phrase, "Oh my goodness, I bawled during that movie!" I have never been able to apply that to me in regards to a chick flick. I've teared up (as I mentioned before), but the only times I've ever bawled during a movie were when I saw The Fellowship of the Ring for the first time and realized Boromir was going to die, and probably when Pinocchio got swallowed by the whale -- but that was out of fear, which is an entirely different emotion (I got very scared by many movies when I was younger). Tonight, though, I was crying throughout the ENTIRE. MOVIE.

I cried when Kathleen wrote about wanting her mom back. I cried about writing to the void and saying good-night to no one. I cried when Kathleen said, "There's no one else. There's only a dream of someone else." I cried when Joe apologized to Kathleen in the email as himself, and I cried even harder when he said, "Talk to me. I'm here." I cried when the store closed and when Joe visited Kathleen when she was sick. I cried when Joe confessed his wish to Kathleen and she left. And then I sobbed at the end -- and it's not even a sad ending! I literally took a pillow off of the couch and smacked myself in the face with it while screaming in frustration, and then sobbed during all of the credits.

Stupid. Right? So incredibly stupid. I don't cry during movies, especially not during chick flicks. Heck, I don't even cry very much during anything, not even when I really want to.

What is WRONG with me?! First, I confessed all of these dark worries and fears and issues to a friend yesterday. Then I poured my heart out to Hannah at the dessert cafe and told her things I've never told anyone but the air and my journal -- more things that I have wished that I could say to someone but have never dared to. Now I spent two hours bawling my eyes out during one of my favorite happy movies, curled up on the couch holding onto a pillow for dear life.

I'm thinking that a second feature of While You Were Sleeping is a very bad idea. Confessions of a Shopaholic can't be much better. Maybe I'll borrow dad's copy of Silverado or something -- guns, horses, fist fights, saloons, cowboys -- sounds like a better idea to me.

do as in don't...

I find it rather ironic that this was shared by my mom on her Facebook page.

Please know that I'm not blaming the way that I am on my past and current relationship with my mom. I just find it interesting that so many of these strike a chord with how things were in my home in regards to both of my parents. By no means was I (or am I now) a 100% all-around awesome kid, either. No person is perfect, and therefore no person is a perfect parent or child.

Sometimes it is so hard to forgive -- I'm 20 years old and I'm still afraid to be friends with my mom. One of my biggest problems is that I have a very good long term memory. My short term memory frequently gets lost in the static of the past.

All I can do is keep trying.

lesson Two...

God understands your tears just as well as He understands  your words. After all, He gave you both.

If you have read anything that I have ever written, or talked in person or on the phone with me, you will know that it is rare that I am ever at a loss for words. Yes, I'm actually a shy person, but once you get to know me and the walls come down, the flood gates open and out come thoughts, dreams, jokes, laughs, and more.

There are times, though, when I can find no words to express the thoughts and feelings inside my head and heart. There are times when I find myself cradling broken fragments of memories in my fingers -- snippets of conversations replaying in my ears, flashes of faces in my mind, scenes of love and loss stuttering like an old film in front of my eyes -- those broken fragments are often hard to hold. A forgotten moment can have an edge sharper than a knife when it is brought again to light. Even with the times of joy mixed in, the bite of shattered hopes lingers longer than the reminisces of happiness. Finding words can be as difficult as finding peace.

I am a person who must express what I'm feeling and thinking in some way or another. My first choice is through words, be they written or spoken. I have to get things out. Not doing so results in sleepless nights or nightmares, and withdrawal from others, among other not so healthy coping methods. And so the times when I can't find words, when I can't express how I feel...those times are very hard.

Today has been a day of no words. It hasn't been a bad day by any means, but there were things festering inside of me that I was too afraid to look at, because I knew that if I looked, it would hurt. I pushed those things aside -- I've probably been pushing them aside for a few days. But those things will not stay buried for long. Soon I got too tired, and almost too curious, to not look. And I did.

It was one of those moments when I saw much of my life -- where I've been, where I am, where I'm going -- and it seemed as though I was nothing. No matter what, I'm not good enough. Yes, I've accomplished things, but I'm not good enough to be really worth something in others' lives.

I thought of the older man at my sisters' workplace who was fired shortly after he began working there because he couldn't do the work well enough -- he'd needed a job so badly.

I thought of the friend whose parents are upset at her for things she couldn't control -- she would have kept her word if her car hadn't broken down, and if she'd had the money to fix it.

I thought of all of the people who have lost homes in the fires, all of their belongings and possibly pets -- they couldn't forsee that the places they lived in would be in the path of a monstrous wildfire.

I thought of the girl who has become a good friend in a short amount of time, who got in some trouble with a boy and when she told him she was pregnant, he left her, and when she lost the baby he came back and told her it was all her fault -- she deserves so much better than that.

And then the thought came to my mind -- 'you are not enough. Your writing center job, your associate's degree, your high honors, your house, your life -- YOU -- are not enough to help any of those people.'

My heart aches for these people, and it aches more that I can do nothing to help them. It is a literal ache, one that hit me so hard that I doubled over and did the only thing I could do: I began to cry. I leaned against the wall for what seemed like a lifetime, crying and crying because of the pain I felt in my heart for these people and my inability to help them. And another thought came: how could I believe in a God who let things like this happen to people, especially to those who don't deserve it? And why will He not make me enough, when I have constantly tried to give everything to Him?

I then began to berate myself for worrying about things I can't control and for questioning the Lord. I remembered that everything happens for a reason, and it makes people stronger if they will learn from it. You shouldn't doubt, and anyway, you should be praying rather than crying, a not-so-kind voice said in my head. Mid-sob, though, I was hit by something that I'd never thought of before. I was so surprised that I stopped crying. And another voice answered saying, The Lord understands tears. He hears those just as He hears your words.

I was stunned. How had I never thought of that before? All of those times I'd avoided talking to the Lord because I knew that I would have no words to say and I would merely cry -- He gets that. He understands that there are times when I will be unable to speak, to voice the things that are inside of me. And it isn't just when I'm sad, either. He understands the tears of joy just as well as the tears of sorrow.

Tonight the pain I felt has not been assuaged very much. My doubts are not as prevalent, because I'm trying to step back and remember the "big picture principles." I still ache inside for these strangers and friends, and I will not lie and say that the tears have ceased completely. However, I do know that it is not weak to show the Lord my tears. He understands them -- He gave them to me as a gift, a way to express feelings when I cannot explain them through words.

God understands your tears just as well as He understands your words. After all, He gave you both.

uncomfortable...

In my personal opinion, one of the most uncomfortable and unsettling feelings in the world is the one that has been described as "butterflies in your stomach." This feeling is often paired with words like love, twitterpation, infatuation, crush, and others of the like. I, unlike many, disagree with these pairings. It's laced with too much fear and uncertainty. That and the image of little gem stone creatures flying inside me is quite horrible, particularly because their delicate, beautiful wings are probably being ruined by each tickling brush against my stomach walls, the fluttering flickers frantic -- trapped.

Trapped inside me like I myself am trapped by this feeling.

There is nothing lovely about this feeling. For me, it's a feeling of nervous energy, of anxiety. It lodges itself in the pit of my stomach and the center of my heart, causing tiny, continual disconcerting twists and turns. It's this weird combination, one that feels like warm water running through my body and dropping 100 feet on a roller coaster. But the water never turns off and the drop never ends. My whole self is stuck in this uncomfortably warm free-fall, and rather than my mind racing along, it's often blank.

An incredible sense of awareness comes from this. Awareness of the usual things I observe (almost everything) is replaced with awareness of what my body is doing -- awareness that my heart is beating, that my lungs are breathing, that blood is moving through me -- I'm aware of it because things aren't normal. They're irregular and strange and warm and jittery. Clumsy, too. Or clumsier. Extremely absent minded. Unable to speak clearly or think quickly. My mind is slowed down while the rest of me races, unchecked by thought of proper sequencing.

so...rumor has it...

You are all probably aware how easily obsessed I get with things. Take Adele. No I'm not obsessed with her as a person/artist, but some of her songs have become a bit of an obsession. Like "Rumor Has It." O-em-gee seriously much.

I like music that speaks. The rhythm, the beat, the vocals, the instruments -- I like pieces that have a voice. I know that a lot of people don't like Adele's work, and there are some songs that I don't particularly like. Others though...they're the kind of songs that call for near speaker blow out with the car windows rolled down, or for singing your heart out alone in your bedroom.

I like music that makes me feel. Be it happiness or sadness or frustration or giddiness or heartbreak, I like songs that channel emotion and thought, whether through the lyrics or the musicality or both. Sometimes I wish I were as brave as music helps me to be...sometimes I wish I could take the thoughts and feelings aroused by a song and hold onto them for awhile...to carry those feelings over into "20 seconds of courage"...to act.

"Rumor Has It" is one of those songs that does it for me right now. Blasting it in my room, dancing around the piles of organized disaster on the floor, singing as loud as I can, feeling and thinking and being the girl I wish I was brave enough to be when people are watching. It's a song you can feel -- I like that.