taking it back...

I've missed writing because I've been super busy and felt like hiding away. So here is a long, truly scary confession post for me with *gasp* a photo with MAKE UP ON. 

Triggers here. Fyi.

I don't wear make up pretty much ever. If I do, it's basic mascara and some pink blush used as eyeshadow. Nondescript. Barely there. Fiance is cool with it - "You're naturally beautiful.  Women really are. I wish you - all of you - could see it too." Love him, right? Anyway. We did engagement photos a week ago, and so I did the thing you do and put on my face - and though I look very Jane Austen? I about had a panic attack walking out of the bookstore restroom to go meet up with our photographer.

Fiance immediately asked what was wrong - and I almost cried off my face as I told him I hate wearing make up. "People look at me more. They see me. Men see me. I want to be left alone. I don't want them to look at me." He was confused. And as I thought about it from his perspective - I found myself analyzing why I think this way.

Guy from high school who locked me in his car and threatened to rape me? He wouldn't let me wear make up. Or cute clothes. "I don't want other men to look at you. You're mine." Checking my phone, playing mind games, making me change outfits before dates if I looked "too hot." Don't be seen.

Supervisor who locked me in the janitor's closet with him. He let me go when I stared too hard at him, wide-eyed and more confused than scared. "Close your eyes, girl. What the hell you doin' with those?" Don't be seen.

Ex who repeatedly abused me for two years - "You attract so much attention just because of your face. Especially your eyes. Stop looking at me. Look down." "Take off the eyeliner, you look stupid." "Did you see that guy checking you out? Don't wear that shirt when we go places anymore." Don't be seen.

I've always been shy. Awkward. Looking at the ground. But to have a panic attack because I put on make up? Unable to breathe because my eyes shine? Afraid to show fiance my face when I put this stuff on because he might see something he's suddenly afraid of or made angry by and tell me to disappear? He wouldn't. He won't. But my crazy brain says he might - it's ridiculous.

So guess what? This cleansing confession post now has a DARE. A BIG ONE.

Be seen. With or without make up on. With or without a nice outfit. I'll Be Seen. I'll see others. I'll smile and laugh and walk with my head held high.

I'm taking back my face.

blocked...

I've always found it silly and cliche to call myself a writer.

"Hi, I'm Sarah Anne -- a 20-something volunteer addict who checks out more books from the library than she can read in a month, stresses over everything you can possibly imagine and more, owns a dog, is engaged, and has a bunch of other things she should be doing but is probably watching Netflix instead.

Oh, and I'm also a writer."

It's always an afterthought. Almost a confession, like it's embarrassing to admit because I, like some others, hear people say, "I'm a writer" and immediately do a silent eye-roll while smiling enthusiastically, "Oh, are you ? That's great!" Never asking their genre or subject or storyline. Never offering help or the tidbit about being a 5-star writing tutor for over a year in college. Just the internal eye-roll and the smile.

Let's just say I've helped with far too many terrible writing projects of which the author was over-proud and overzealous.

So now that I have this confession -- I'm a bit embarrassed.

I. Am. A writer.

Like many self-conscious and conflicted students of words, I keep it to myself. Mostly. And, I go through long periods of inactivity. Days and weeks and months of time pass without setting a pen to paper or fingers to keys, because writing? Writing really well?

It's exhausting.

And the thing about writing and writing well is that when you know how to do it, and you've seen all of the ways people go wrong. . .well. You get even more blocked than you did before. You edit as you go -- instead of word vomiting all over the page and saying, "Hell yeah, that's a plot hole -- Ima fix it on the next round. Deal with it." You get paraylzed by the need for just the right word; just the perfect way of expressing all that stuff swirling around inside your head.

Justice is served with the perfect word.

Falling short. Because it's an injustice to the story and the feeling and the experience if the words aren't just right. That's the main thing for me. I can't find the perfect word, the just-right piecing together of the dictionary's tenants into a party that screams THIS IS IT! THIS IS THE ONE!

The sentence of the year. The story of the decade.

It's not that I want people to think that the story is perfect. It's that I want how I feel and think to be expressed perfectly -- for myself. So I can represent all of the twisting mess of feeling and strangeness taking place inside my head.

Why else would I be awake at 3am every night? Unable to sleep because images that need description plow through my mind with reckless speed. Yet, I can't find the words. "Play on!" says Shakespeare, "Play on!" Like an old VHS recording on fast forward, my static-filled mind joins with him -- play on!

But there is Hamlet, standing with his now iconic skull, posed as the Boy in Black. "To sleep -- perchance to dream."

Dreaming isn't the problem. It's sleeping that makes no sense to me.

Because words, words, words are the real issue. Which one to use, which to strike from existence, weighing the options of this one and that one. Literally keeping me up at night. Even the placement is cause for grief. Put it there? Or over there? A comma? A colon? I use that form of punctuation (the colon) and think of cancer every time. Probably because someone I know died of it a few months ago.

What I'd write about?

I'd write about dad's cancer.

I'd write about our cancer jokes.

I'd write about how when I make cancer jokes in public, few and far between people get offended, saying angrily "You shouldn't talk like that, it's offensive!" and I shrug and say, "Well, seeing as my dad is terminal, it's kind of how we deal with it"; and then they just sit there, quiet, like dad is dead instead of dying.

I'd write about my own kind of cancer, the flashbacks and post-traumatic stress disorder episodes; silent killers that come out of nowhere like a poisonous viper and strike when the sun is out and you're in love and then WHAM. The snake bites your ankle while you stare at it wondering why you didn't see the thing lying on the pavement.

Plenty of colons and commas and heres and theres to satisfy even the pickiest of word readers -- unless of course you're including me in the bunch.

Reading is easy. Writing, and those who can accomplish it -- now, that deserves all of the glory.

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!

back to school...

This is a whiny post.

Basically I really, really, really, really, really do not want to go back to school. I don't want to go to class. I don't want to sit in those ridiculous little desks. I don't want to take notes. I don't want to do homework. I don't want to have my life controlled by assignments and busy work. I don't want the anxiety and the stress.

Man, I'm pathetic. I don't want to go so much that I'm crying.

Don't get me wrong, I like to learn. I enjoy discovering new things and expanding my view of the world. What I don't like is the absolute utter exhaustion and anxiety that comes from the way our education system works. I don't like being a grade point average -- I don't like having my future rest on some stupid letters that stand for how well I did at something.

I'll get it done. I always do. I guess this last semester has kind of killed any love for college that I may have possessed. And I'll tell you a little secret -- with the exception of Economics 110, I got straight A's. I knew I wouldn't do super well in Econ, and I only needed a C -- I got a B- and was excited because it was way better than I thought I would do. What bothered me is this: this was absolutely the worst semester of my life, and I felt that I slacked off completely. I didn't feel that I deserved any of the A's that I got -- and I almost feel angry that my lack of effort was given straight A grades.

My half effort was rewarded as excellent. I procrastinated every assignment because the depression was so intense that I could barely function. I skimmed reading assignments and left classes feeling more confused than I was when I went in. I studied like crazy for exams, but never felt confident. I felt that everything I did was pointless and pathetic, and I expected that to be reflected in my GPA.

So what does that make those A's, anyway? Somewhat worthless, if I'm honest. Maybe I'm being ungrateful (actually, I know I'm being ungrateful), but I really do feel like those grades are total lies.

I was mediocre. My papers were excellent, and my professors want me to publish. But the work I put in? It wasn't excellent. It was rushed, last-minute, pathetic.

That's why I don't want to go back to school. I don't want to do the work, especially because I know that even when I don't do as good a job as I should, I'll get outstanding grades anyway. It's like lying.

What I should do is put in more effort and be proactive in my education. I, however, would rather watch Chuck on Netflix, go take photographs of beautiful things, write poetry and articles on things I'm interested in, spend time with the people I care about, sing and dance and play, learn the piano again, read real books, sleep when I can and for as long as I need, and work at a job that actually does something worthwhile (like the one I have).

I suppose this is why there is a thing called retirement. Although...that may quickly become a myth.

i don't get it...

Often when discussing personal problems, I get told, "Just be grateful for what you have and then life will be happier for you."

It's always seemed like great advice, and so I've taken it multiple times. Given the numerous stories and testimonies shared on the subject, it seems like it should work great.

Wrong.

Maybe it's that I'm naturally pessimistic (or as one professor called me, a true nihilist -- I still resent that), or maybe it's because my world seems incredibly dark right now. Or maybe I'm trying too hard?

For some reason, counting my blessings instead of sheep not only keeps me up at night, but it also triggers high levels of anxiety and ever more frequent feelings of emptiness. As counting sheep merely bores me, I've started preferring that to listing good things that happened during the day or ticking off the things I've been given -- boredom feels better than emptiness.

Saying that it's simply listing good things isn't the process, mind you. You've got to sincerely foster an appreciation for the things, people, and opportunities placed in your life. And I've tried that. I've tried looking around at my life and truly appreciating what I have -- sometimes I even find myself thinking, "Wow. Look at you -- you're one lucky girl." And I believe it.

Then, right after that, the pain starts again, the emptiness becomes a choking cord around my throat, and the dark closes in, heavy and cold.

Somehow, being grateful for good things brings horrible, devastating guilt. It's as though by attempting to feel happiness, the sadness deepens. Light and joy seem far above my head, and either the floor beneath my feet is dropping at a rapid pace, or my arms are shrinking: either way, I can't reach what I desire. Instead of feeling my chin lift hopefully, I feel a weight increase until I can barely stand, arms wrapped tight around me as I hold myself together on the floor.

Why? I don't understand it. I don't understand how searching for happiness -- maybe not even happiness, but just some relief -- and doing all of the good things I can do only makes things feel worse.

I don't get it.

pretending is really tiring...

I woke up this morning and said to myself, "Self? Today, you are going to be happy. Even if it kills you, you will smile, laugh, talk to lots of people, and walk with a spring in your step. You will not cry. You will not frown. You will not worry. You will be witty and funny and hug everyone. Because you are not going to hurt anymore. You won't be sad. You have a good life -- live it good."

16 hours later, I've learned that all of that stuff is a lot easier said than done. I already knew it was harder to do than to say. I've just learned again how much harder it can be.

Honestly, I'm exhausted. I'm sick, I'm hurt, I'm angry, and I'm scared. I feel totally alone, even though I know that I'm not. And I feel guilty! I feel guilty for all of these feelings, because my life really is good. I have great work, great friends, great family, great classes, great professors, great opportunities. And yet I wake up every day and it's an absolute battle to get out of bed.

What's strange to me is a comment that someone made whilst talking with me in the courtyard at school. She looked at me and said, "You know, you always look happy. I see you every single day at least twice in passing, and you just always look happy. I don't know how you do it."

As I started to scoff, she said, "I'm trying to be more like you."

She emotionally floored me. I don't feel happy. I know for a fact that I often don't look happy, either. Dad tells me I'll have worry wrinkles by the time I'm 25 (whereas my money is on 23). So for her to say she wants to be like me?

I'm trying to change. I'm trying to be that girl who smiles and laughs and helps everyone else.

But I'm not that girl. I'm the quiet one, the one who looks at her feet, the one who worries about the well-being of people who have used her and taken advantage of her, the one who tries to be everything.

Tomorrow is another day. Another day to practice.

the me I was...

After a couple of hours spent trying to sleep, I've given up for the moment.

I keep thinking about who I used to be a few years (or even months) ago. In a lot of ways, I'm haunted by the image of the old me and wish desperately to go back to who that girl is. And at the same time, I'm just as disturbed by the pain I feel when I see all of the changes in my life.

The changes have been for good. I no longer starve myself. I no longer do a lot of things that were really quite bad for me. Yet I'm dissatisfied.

I look at myself in the mirror with contempt. I despise what I see -- the thickened waistline, the fuller hips and breasts, the presence of more me everywhere. I hate that.

I feel like I've completely lost control -- I can't go without eating anymore. I get so sick when I don't, most likely because of the years I spent keeping myself to under 1,000 calories per day, if I made it even close to that. I see pictures of myself from just last year and compare them to how I look now, and I want to cry.

I want to cry because I'm "not skinny."

How stupid is that? How ridiculous is it that I berate myself for every thing I put inside my mouth? Even as my brain says that I need to eat, and that eating is good for me, my brain also screams to stop because I'm FAT.

My diet isn't bad. I eat a lot of good foods, and I go for walks several times a day. That's about all I can do right now, as my body still gets worn out very quickly. I'm not complaining -- there have been times when all I could do was lie in bed and pray that the pain would go away. Walking is a joy. The pain I experience after a long walk is worth it, because I'm walking. And not a slow stroll walk either, but actually walking to have some sort of activity in my life.

Despite it all, my pants still get tighter. My shirts aren't baggy. There is more of me than there has been in years, and I have to force myself out of a panic when I feel myself starting to get hungry (also a new development -- in the past five years, I forgot how to feel hungry). I have to make myself be calm and remind my brain that if I don't eat, I'll get sicker.

I miss the old me. I know it's stupid. I know it's wrong. I know that weight isn't the important thing.

But I don't believe it. And I wish that I could go back.

a little thing called trust...

There are few things I hate more than being lied to. Finding out that someone has been taking advantage of your kindness, time, and resources for over a year is like a stab in the back.

Sure, there are the little white lies that people tell. Those don't bother me so much.

It's the "cry wolf" kind of lies. The ones that I have been stupid enough to fall for over and over again. The kind of lies where you think someone is truly in trouble, but the only trouble is this: that I have been stupid enough to listen and believe every time, to the point that I've stuck up for this person.

And to think it took another person calling the cops, and the cops finding out that everything has been a lie.

Hard not to believe that, isn't it?

Despite that, I don't know what to believe. Though I do know that this person needs some serious help. Honestly, I don't think she even knows what is real and what is not. However, I don't think I can  help anymore, because I can't tell what the truth is.

I don't trust this person anymore. How can I?

Wow, it's been a rough couple of weeks. I'm going to make some cookie dough. Egg-less. Because I can just eat it.

peace in the storm...

I hate you.

That's been running through my mind a lot today. Vicious and cruel, broken and empty -- there have been various tones of the sentiment.

All day, though, I've seen evidences of how much I am loved. I saw it a lot last night as well. Today I really felt it.

Though I've had my world turned upside down again and my heart wrenched from my chest, I'm okay. Life goes on. Not only does it go on, but it goes on happily, joyfully, with people who love and are in their turn lovable.

I've made serious mistakes. I've lost a lot, including the one person who meant the most to me in the entire world. But I have not lost my faith. Nor have I lost my Heavenly Father. If anything, I feel closer to him than I've felt in a long time. All day I've been comforted and sheltered from the turmoil raging inside my heart. There have been tears, yes. Tears, however, can often be as healing as a good laugh. At least they are for me.

I'm still angry. I'm still heart broken. I'm still confused and sad and scared.

But I'm not alone.

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.

road block...

Common relationship advice includes this as the number one important thing to do: communicate. Communicate openly, honestly, and often, about how you feel, think, and what you want.

To that I pose a question.

How do you have an open chain of communication in a relationship when one person cannot voice thoughts and feelings? Ever?

You're probably guessing which person I'm talking about. Yes. That would be me.

I can't talk. By that I mean I cannot for the life of me find words that express how I feel or think, about anything. On top of that, I'm terrified of saying what I want, and have always been that way. I'm afraid I'll be classified as bossy or selfish -- I always do what others want to do, and make every effort to have no opinion of my own. 

There are times when I want to talk, where I desperately wish to say what I think and how I feel. When the opportunity arises, though, I often find myself forgetting what I wanted to say. It's as though by someone asking what's wrong or what I'm thinking about, there's suddenly nothing there. There's no problem to discuss, even if there was one the second before. There's no thought to share, even if I'd been super excited a minute earlier about telling a story or idea. 

I can't find words. I can't remember things I want to say. I can't do it. 

Or, I can do it -- but only with certain people (three, to be precise), and only very late at night when I'm in a sobbing panic, or one on one during a long, painful event of the other person waiting for me to find the words and urging me to spill things out.

Speaking about myself -- thoughts, feelings, desires -- has always been a struggle. However, it hasn't been this difficult in years. I can't make decisions, I can't tell the truth about how I feel (half of the time that's because I really cannot remember what I wanted to say). And it gets worse every day.

What's blocking me, I wonder. Fear, perhaps? Of rejection, of hurting someone else. Pride, maybe? Or a sudden onset of goldfish syndrome?

worried...

It's one of those days.

Cold, wet, dreary. A day where I would rather be home in bed, wearing sweats and curled up with a Captain America comic book, hot chocolate, and Kala.

There are so many things on my mind. So many worries and concerns. So much to do and so much to think about.

Last night was hard. It was really hard. Though it was late, I broke down and called a friend, desperate for whatever advice and comfort he could give. Desperate to not be alone.

I've been thinking a lot about what was said last night. What I need to do, and how to go about doing those things. I've been thinking about being brave, about being strong, about not giving up.

I don't feel brave. Nor do I feel very strong. I feel tired, and scared. I feel weak, inside and outside, in all areas of my life.

i may be a bit depressed...

Rather than sit at my desk and beat myself up for feeling depressed (because that always helps), I am now an objective observer.

Okay.

My stomach is in knots and I constantly fight throwing up. I think I'm nervous about something, that something being something I have yet to discover (or perhaps I haven't let myself examine in detail?).

Headaches are again a common occurrence, as is a sort of painful fatigue in the limbs, joints, and muscles of my body. The only routine change I can think of is adding yoga back into my life (never thought I'd miss that, but I do), but last semester it always made me feel better. I still feel better after completing a session.

Honestly, I'm always close to tears. I have to be super careful about not letting things set me off (like a song on the radio, a joking remark from a friend, coworker, family member, etc., a low score, among other things).

When I sleep, I have nightmares. When I don't sleep, well. That's no good for anyone.

This self-exam is leading to evaluating what I'm thinking about, or evaluating what I'm not letting myself admit that I'm thinking about. And so. I will now put it in writing and make it legitimate.

1. I am, without a doubt, absolutely terrified of getting married. Don't get me wrong, I. Love. Adam. So. Much. And I want to be with him forever. All of our talk, though, and the continual progression towards marriage is scaring me to death. Not all of the time, but more often than I let myself admit.
2. Spending money on a ring...ugh. That is probably the thing I worry about the most.
3. Neck and neck with that is planning a wedding without causing serious conflict between family members. Shoot me now. But at least my family likes Adam. That's one less thing to worry about.
4. Finals are in two weeks for me -- my classes don't have finals like the rest of the university does. I'm so behind, and this has been the hardest, worst semester academics-wise for me in my entire life.
5. Finding a place to live is going to be a nightmare -- and that's after going through the difficulty of moving back home in June when the House owners come back.

Huh. No wonder I feel sick -- never have I faced such huge changes in my life.

Boo. I don't like feeling sad and worried and sick. And I really, really don't like crying. Nor do I have the time to do so.

all wrapped up...

Adam (yes -- he does have a name) and I had quite the adventure on Saturday. We visited the Mummies of the World exhibit at the Leonardo Museum in Salt Lake City. While it was educational and interesting, I felt that the exhibit designers had leaned a bit on the theatrical side of presentation, rather than focusing on the informational and historical elements of the collection.

I'm very grateful that I've found someone who will allow me to muse about the moral and ethical dilemmas that I find when I visit museums and explore the exhibitions (seeing as it is what I intend to study when I go to graduate school). There is a large debate on the proper handling and displaying of human remains. As I walked through and observed the Mummies of the World exhibition, I was concerned at the way the exhibit designers emphasized the dramatics and mystery of studying mummies. The dim lighting is understandable, as certain light frequencies can damage the delicate remains. What I noticed was the combination of the lighting, the music, and the use of shroud-like fabric to separate the segments of the collection.

It was quite tomb-like. There was a certain creepiness to the atmosphere -- starting with the narration of the introductory video all the way through the end. Yes, there is mystery to mummies, and a certain morbid curiosity which I admittedly possess. But the emphasis on it was too much for me. 

Some of the mummies they showed were also quite iffy to me -- particularly the mummies of the human fetuses. I felt that some of the mummies were displayed less for educational purposes and more for spectacle or shock factor. A couple of times I found myself wondering how the person who inhabited the body on display feels about the handling and exhibition. I believe in post-mortal existence, as I am a member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. It concerned me that the manner of display was not respectful enough, that it was all for show and dramatics, rather than in the interest of preserving the life and peoples of the past.

I was also frustrated with some of the language of the exhibit, which stated absolutes and information that we supposedly "know" and can derive completely, questions we can answer with certainty. Sometimes the language was not prescriptive; there were instances when the language was ambiguous, phrases like "this may have" and "it is possible." Those are perfect -- it is what museums in general strive for. What is not perfect is stating a fact about something that we cannot possibly know. We cannot presume to interpret meanings from things we really have no idea about. Interpretation is not the focus of current academia. 

There are multiple debates going on regarding these issues, including the Native American tribes and the display of those remains and interpretation of artifacts. The same debates are occurring with mummies and other things.

Poor, dear boy -- I think he's getting a better taste of what he's headed in to. But after Saturday, he still seems to love me quite a bit. A bit more than I realized, I think. 

I love that man. So very much. How could I not, when he takes me to museums on his free days, treats me to the Cheesecake Factory for lunch, lets me wax philosophical about the moral concerns in my field of study, harmonizes at the table while holding my hands and looking into my eyes, lets me wear his awesome leather jacket, puts up with my outbursts of silliness and OCD-ness at Pixel PlayLand, holds me close to him during church, sits with me when the pain becomes too much, and invites my family to dinner with us so he can get to know them better?

He was very involved in the circuitry boards -- he likes the kind of stuff. 

How can I not love him? I submit that it is quite impossible.

pardon my French...

Okay, I'm going to be straight up honest in sharing these thoughts. Forgive me, but I'm freaking out.

What the hell am I doing?

Seriously. What am I doing? I cannot afford to get involved with a guy again. I cannot afford any more male "best friends" who turn out to be painful lessons that take months (or in some cases, years and therapy) to get over (abuse sucks, just saying).

I like him. I like him. But I keep seeing these little red flags that are bred from a frightened mind remembering the past, and I can't get away from them. Memories and moments crop up out of nowhere -- I duck or flinch or, when feeling most vulnerable, cry "Don't touch me!" and proceed to pass out the second I stand up.

Yes. That did happen.

I catch myself thinking "he's just like everyone else," "all men are the same," "it'll never be different." I keep expecting something awful to happen. I keep waiting to be hurt.

He isn't like that. He is not the past. He is not those other guys. He's good and kind and honest and sweet. And as Chelsea said, "If you set him up for failure, he'll fail from the start, no matter what he does."

Every day, I keep trying. Keep being friends, keep saying hello, keep playing and hugging. And yes, let him hold me when there's a chance for it -- I like it. Because he's different. He is not the past, and neither am I.

Still I ask myself, over and over again, what am I doing?

holding my tongue...

Have you ever felt so angry that you wanted to break something? Smash something, demolish things into little tiny pieces. Make lots of noise, scream, curse, and shout at the top of your lungs. Let out all of the hurt and anger and sadness. Big and mean and scary -- bigger than ever.

Unfortunately, that's not an option. It's not healthy, and it's stupid.

What I wouldn't give to be able to tell the truth to someone. Especially the people who need to hear it. I wish I could just loose control -- give people a piece of my mind. Make them understand how awful I feel inside. I wish I could let it all go, loudly and irrationally.

Is it weird to want to be unkind? To say everything that's on your mind with no restraint or thought for another person's feelings?

Honestly. I have and always will try my hardest not to do that. It's immature and selfish. And it doesn't help anything, either. At all. 

I hate feeling so angry. I hate keeping so much secret, having no one to tell things to because there are things I can't say and shouldn't say. You know? Because if you can't say something nice, you shouldn't say anything at all. And what I want to say shouldn't be said. Ever. Not fair. Not kind. Not okay.

More sleep would be a good thing. More sleep, more fun, and more focus on the good things in life. Because there are a lot of good things in life. Many, many good things.

Proof, once again, that I am far from perfect, and that I have much to learn. Exciting thought, in some ways, that there is always something better ahead and that personal change is always an option, if you're willing to work at it.

dirty is just dirt with a "y" on the end...

Yesterday my family and I began the four hour drive to my grandparents' house in northeastern Utah, the majestic Flaming Gorge. No, they don't actually live at the reservoir, but they live a few miles away, in a little (tiny) community called Flaming Gorge Pines. They're about an hour north of Vernal, if that helps you orient yourself. Not very many people know about the Pines.

Due to an unhappy accident, the people who we asked to take care of the dogs at my parents' house didn't get a house key that works. And so, 2 hours after we'd arrived in the Pines, my dad and I volunteered to make the four hour trip back down to Orem to save the puppies.

While we were driving home, I mentioned some things that have been on my mind in an off-hand, nonchalant sort of way -- mostly about that one guy we call Aries and all of the trouble I've been having. Dad didn't say much, just told me that I shouldn't worry about another guy being like that because I learned and I won't let anyone treat me badly again. Then we got on the subject of other people's problems again, and I stopped talking, listening for the next two hours.

This morning on our way back up to the Pines (which only took 3 hours and 15 minutes this time), dad brought Aries up. Just out of nowhere, he started talking about the whole thing and then told me that maybe the only way I can get over it is by talking about it, "from start to finish, talk it through."

I nodded and went back to looking out the window. Dad touched my shoulder and said, "You can talk right now, if you'd like."

My whole self shut down. Really, I was overcome with a feeling of utter shame and embarrassment. All thoughts flew from my brain and I had no words. I almost felt like I was five-years-old again, caught covered from head to toe in black, sticky mud -- a dirty little child. But mud is fun, until you get in trouble. Aries wasn't fun. And even though things weren't entirely my fault, and nothing really bad happened, being asked about it by my dad was horrible.

I don't know why. Usually I can tell my dad everything, and it doesn't matter. Maybe because lately most people tell me not to talk about it, and I've gotten so used to just pretending that it doesn't bother me.

I don't know what to say. I don't know how to talk about this -- I don't even want to go through it from "start to finish."

Once again, as soon as someone asks me to tell them things, is willing to let me just talk, I have nothing to say. After this morning, I almost never want to discuss it again.

I don't like feeling so bad. Especially when things weren't completely my fault.

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.

can you keep a secret...

You may be asking yourself why I'm putting a secret on the Internet. Well, most of the things I put on the Internet are my secrets. They're different kinds of secrets -- they're not the ones you really can keep wholly to yourself. But they're the things that you wouldn't say to certain people, or the quiet thoughts that people can see on your face, but have no words for because you don't share.

I have a secret. It's a secret a lot of people know about me, which is that I have a lot of white traits in my personality, and my reaction to change or difficulty is often to pull away. I avoid conversation or interaction, mostly because I want to be alone and people won't let me when I ask or tell them I'm busy. Or, if there's conflict, or if I feel afraid, I intentionally isolate myself. That's one of my secrets.

How can it be a secret if people know about it, you ask? In a nut shell, it's a secret because though people see the behavior, they don't know why I do it. The secret isn't the action -- it's the motivation.

I'm not a great communicator. I could be if I forced myself out of my comfort zone, but I get so afraid of offending someone that I end up just agreeing to whatever the person says and go back to door mat status. Or I know that I'm right, but I don't know how to express it. If I were able to argue with someone by writing a paper about it directed at the problem, I'd win every time. Talking about problems, on the other hand? The other person always gets their way, even if it's completely wrong of them, because I get so confused and so flustered that I often can't remember what the original reason for the conversation was in the first place.

And so I shut up. Literally, I shut my mouth and I shut my bedroom door. I turn off my phone, I clean my house from top to bottom, I get ahead in my studies, and I go to bed early. 

Granted, it's not okay to say, "this is just the way that I am -- deal with it." I know that this isn't exactly the best way to handle stuff. Believe me, I'm working on it. Sometimes I just need a break for awhile -- I need to be alone. I need to be away from people. I need to be able to choose when I talk, who I talk to, what I talk about, where I go and who I go with -- being truthful, I get sick of being a door mat after awhile. 

So. There you have it. Another secret courtesy of Georgie. And because you're going to be kind enough to keep it (at least, I assume that you will), I'll even tell you a joke:

A British man and a Swiss man were sitting together in a cafe. The British man, who was preparing to go to Switzerland, asked the Swiss man, "What is the best thing about your country?"

The Swiss man thought about it for a few moments, then replied, "Well, the flag is a big plus."

Pardon me while I snicker to death over here in the corner.

Wah, wah. Peace out, girl scout.