Stairs to Dreams

                                 You should go and live your dreams.

                              Yes, every single one of them,

                          From the most lofty, to the

                        Humblest, because, we 

                     Are young, and that’s
                  What youth does:

                Explore.

            But

         I hope 

      That maybe, 

   Just maybe, you’ll 

Take me with you...

Connections.

Connections are incredible.

Have you ever just looked across the room and seen a stranger and simply known—known that you were going to be friends, or even that you would love that person forever?

Or maybe, you’re a long way from home, and it’s been weeks since anyone has even hugged you, and a new friend touches you gently on the shoulder, and it means so much to you that you go and sit in the car and cry for the next few minutes because it was just what you needed.

And perhaps, you feel like you’ll never experience a deep, soul-kind of connection with anyone ever again, and you've almost resigned yourself to a lifetime of mediocre “’How are you today?’ ‘I’m fine, thank you’” conversations—when suddenly, you find yourself talking throughout the night with someone who just gets you.

Connections.

How does this happen? How is it that you can feel so strongly linked to certain people, yet not to others? Is it chemistry? God-ordained meetings? Both? I don’t know. But what I do know is that these people are special. You don’t have these kinds of bonds with everyone you meet.

For example, I know a girl who is the nicest person on the planet. We used to do a lot of stuff together because we lived close, traveled in the same circles, carpooled together, and were often thought to be like twins because we were so similar in every way. Yet, there was always just something missing.

And even in the past, I've gone out on dates with some of the most pleasant guys, yet, the conversation dragged and in the end, we just didn't click. There was no spark, no magic, no great burning desire to know everything and anything about each other. Before long, those kinds of relationships were reduced to cookie-cutter conversations that never amounted to more than “’How was your day?’ ‘Lovely. How was yours?’” And no amount of trying or digging for deeper questions can fix that. That connection just isn't there.

But when it is there, it’s wonderful, always catching me off-guard in its wonderfulness. Just when you feel like life might be a little dull, and you may never feel those deep connections again: BAM! You happen upon someone who understands you. These are your best friends. These are people who will take up permanent corners in your heart. Those are the people who will treasure your soul and bring out the best in you.

Connections.

The Girl I Am Tonight

I've lived so many lives, 

Each one of them vastly different. 

I've been innocence,

I been evil,

I've been love,

I've been hate. 

I've known joy 

And I've known loss. 

I've been cherished,

And I've been scorned,

Cast aside and crushed. 

But even so, 

Life has been beautiful 

And still holds grand touches of magic.

Beneath it all, 

With all the people I've been 

And the lives I've lived, 

I want you to know one thing:

No matter how I change 

Or who I become,

There will always be a part of me

Who is still the girl I am tonight. 

So please, when I'm old,

And my curls unravel 

And my cheeks aren't so rosy 

Remember me. 

Remember the person I am right now. 

Remember my smile,

(That it was all for you)

And cherish me

As you cherished that girl on that evening so long ago--

Just to remember, 

That she will forever live on in me.  

Only When I'm Breathing

“You know, these last two years have been the hardest ones of my entire life,” I said. “If I took all of the bad, tragic things that have ever happened to me, about 90% of them happened between 2013 and 2014.”

“I know,” my mother answered on the end of the other line. “It’s true. It’s been that way for us too."

***

I was coming home from work last night, a little later than usual, and I saw a guy jogging. At first I thought it was Hot Shirtless Jogging Dude, but as he got closer, I saw that it was actually Matt. Our eyes met and locked. I hadn't seen him all year. He lives in my neighborhood, yet we almost never cross paths. He passed by, and I shamelessly watched him as he jogged away.

I had felt cute all day. I’d walk by guys at work and smile, because I thought my hair and my clothes looked good. But when Matt looked at me, I didn't feel cute anymore. I felt drab. My clothes were boring colors and not as flattering as I had thought. My hair was childish and frizzy. The moment I looked into his eyes, I saw myself through his, and I was old, dull, and countrified—as if I had never left the cornfields I grew up in.

And then it hit me. The guys I've dated since him never really mattered. Sure, they were a lovely distraction for a while, and maybe I even learned a few things along the way. But I never really loved them—not in the way I loved Matt. And when we broke up, I was sad for a little while over them, but within a month, or even in one case, just a few days, I discovered that it wasn't these most recent guys who I missed. It was Matt. It had always been Matt.

A friend had once asked, “Do you miss him?” To which I answered, “Only when I’m breathing.”

It’s been a year and a half, slowly creeping into 2 years, and I still miss him with that same kind of regularity. I have a friend who recently lost her boyfriend of 4 years. I want to tell her that it’s going to be alright, that the pain goes away in time. I want to pat her hand and smile as I offer words of encouragement. But I can’t, because I don’t even have that kind assurance for myself. So instead, I just tell her, “I’m sorry. I am so sorry.”

***

These have been a hard two years. But oddly enough, I wouldn't undo them. I wouldn't ask for Mom Mom and Carvey and Anita to come back, because they’re better off. They don’t suffer anymore.

I wouldn't wish that I had never met Matt, because with him, I learned I can love and be loved as I never realized was possible. I really wouldn't change any of these things, or even the unmentioned ones that I don’t talk about here, because out of these dead hopes and dreams and empty spaces in my heart, grew some things that are even heartier than what I lost.

God talks to me now. You know, back home, I was safe and un-rattled by life. I didn't need comforting, so God didn't have to comfort me. But now, some days, he’s the only one here, and I need him. God knows I need him. So he talks. Sometimes I hear him, sometimes he sends words through friends, sometimes he sends me physical, tangible messages. And you don’t know joy or amazement until you've heard God speak.

And my friendships are deeper. Yes, I had wonderful friends when I lived back home. I have a very strong support system in my little circle of girlfriends, but I never knew how strong until I moved away. It’s one thing to be friends when you live close by and can visit whenever you wish, but it’s another thing when the people you love make the long drive, spend money on the hotel room, and come to see you simply because they miss you, or because they want to surprise you at your very first play in a new theatre. I didn't know how strong my friendships back home were until I moved away, and I wouldn't replace that for anything.

***

So it’s hard, but I’m breathing. I miss those who are gone; I miss those who moved on without me. But I’m breathing. Missing them, but I’m breathing. 

A Diamond for a Lonely Woman

I

Started

Off alone.

Then you came

Along and you took my

Hand. Suddenly we were two

And it was the most wonderful thing.

Then you left and my world got

Narrow. I was alone again.

Now I’ll never

Be us. Just

Me. 

Caught off Guard

I had a quick thought today of the Peake Players—the theatre group that I used to work with back home. I can’t even remember the exact thought, but it made me think of Anita, the director of group. I had a brief moment of, “I should message her and tell her…” and then the thought stopped there. Then I remembered:

I can’t message her. 

I can’t talk to her. 

I can’t send her a card or give her a call.

And my brain just sort of tripped out for a moment. That’s never happened to me before. In the past, when I missed someone I always had the option to contact them in some way. And even if I didn't end up talking to them, it was still a comfort to know that I could if I wanted to.

This is the first time I've thought of someone and not been able to reach them in some way. And it freaks me out. I've never had this feeling before. It’s weird and I don’t understand it. You’d think that after living for a quarter of a century that you've had all the “feels” (as the kids are saying these days) that you’re ever going to have. But that’s not true. There are still so many more things to feel, to experience—still so many things that are going to hurt you.

I guess I was caught off guard.

5 Things I Learned About Being an Adult

1. Adulthood is about always being tired. Seriously, I think I’m more tired now than I was when I was a student. In college, I kept weird hours. I had classes scattered throughout the day, interrupted by some hours of shift work, so my schedule was always changing. If I was tired, I could go home and crash after a class or a shift, catch up on my zzzzzz’s, and then be fresh for the rest of the day. When you work a regular 8-5, you just go home tired every day. There is no “catching a nap” anymore.

Adults have to deal. Growing up, I rarely saw adults crying or showing grief. Recently, after my great grandmother passed away, I watched my family. So few people seemed absolutely distressed. But, after talking to some of them and hearing about some of their quieter moments, I realized that they all were heartbroken and grieving. Appearances are deceiving. Everyone was suffering. They just carried on, dealing with it quietly and in their own ways. I admire that kind of strength.

Adulthood is painful. I know I was lucky, but I had an idyllic childhood. Nothing bad really happened. My parents protected me and my siblings from a lot of hardships, and I spent most of my days running and playing in the woods and farm fields. It was magical. But then adulthood hit, and I've come to find that it’s full of death, broken relationships, disappointment, and heartbreak. Now, that’s not to say that I don’t have a great life, because I do. But it’s a different sort of wonderful than my childhood was. While my adolescent years blurred together as one big hazy time of play and joy, my adulthood has been marked with significant times of pain and loss.

 Adulthood is about pretending you know what’s going on. I think few people actually feel like an adult. Often when you ask someone how old they feel, or how old they think they behave, the person will say, “I feel 18,” or “I act like I’m 12.” Adulthood kind of creeps up on you, and down deep, I think we all still feel unsure about our lives, where we are going, what we are doing. Few people (if anyone) have their lives figured out. As a kid you think that adults know what’s going on, that they fully have a grasp on taxes, politics, or how the world works. But in reality, we just pretend that we understand all those “grown-up” things so that we can get by, so that children feel safe. As adults, sometimes we just pretend to comprehend what we think everyone else expects us to know.

 Adulthood is about learning. It’s a journey. As a kid, you think that when you've reached adulthood (first it’s 18, later it’s 21, and later than that you realize it’s probably never), that you’ll have everything figured out. You’ll think that you've “arrived,” that you fully know what you believe, your stance on politics, religion, etc. But in truth, the learning never stops. It shouldn't stop. How we see the world, what we know about the world is always changing as we grown and learn. And that’s a beautiful thing…even if it is frustrating at times.

Talk to Me

Talk to me about work:

About the letters due at the end of the week.

Talk to me about the weather.

“It’s been rainy as of late.”

Talk to me about your dog,

Your new love,

Your car.

Talk to me about anything,

Just…

Don’t ask how I am,

Or how I've been.

Don’t make me say,

“I’m alright. I’m okay.”

I know it's what you expect,
But I just can't answer today.

Everyone's Got Them

Everyone’s got them.

There are days where you just want to curl up and die. Literally. Death just seems like a good idea. This isn't a suicidal cry for help, it’s just the plain truth. Some days it’s hard to just keep breathing. Maybe you pray to be allowed to die. Maybe you think about how cozy the idea of death sounds, how comforting, how quick.

But then, you get a reminder of why you’re still here, still living. I had a few of those reminders yesterday. The depression was especially heavy, and I wasn't getting out of bed. I slept or lay in bed nearly all day. I didn't even really want food. As I was sleeping, my roommate knocked on my door.

I groggily told her to come in. She was carrying a HUGE bouquet of brightly colored flowers.

“Some redheaded guy brought them to the door. He didn't know I wasn't you, so I guess he was just delivering them. Who are they from?” she asked.

I unfolded the card; my eyes still not clear because I had fallen asleep in my contacts. “It’s from my best friend!” I said. Sure enough, she had sent me flowers and a card. And that was when it hit me. There are so many things to live for. Even when you lose one loved one, lose one friend, there are still so many strong relationships, so many people who are still there for you.

Later that evening I was praying for God to send me a sign that he was there, that he was close. I was begging to feel his presence, craving his nearness. I finished praying, and about a minute later, I received a text message from a dear friend. The text said, “God is close.”

I think I got my answer.

I guess what I’m trying to say is that I’m thankful for the people in my life who care, who check on me, who send flowers, bring food (thank you for the Panera soup and the company!!), give a gift, spend time with me when I’m down. Those are things that they don’t have to do, yet they do them anyway.

And I know my situation wasn't that dire, but I think sometimes that those little acts of kindness, those little moments of showing that you care actually are what saves lives, or at least rescue a person from falling deeper into depression.

So, I’m going to remember this, pass it along, and maybe someday, someone will tell me, “Hey, you saved me that one time…I just wanted you to know.”

I'm Crying for Myself

I was so afraid that I wouldn't cry. I didn't cry at first when Carvey died. I think I may have damaged my soul a little when that happened, because deep inside, I could feel it crying.

When he passed, I had no previous experience with death. His was the first. I didn't know how to grieve. But then my beloved teacher and friend passed away, and I cried like a baby. I let out all the grief I had been feeling and everything came out in tears over my birthday weekend.

And now today. Last night I had the biggest fight I think I've ever had with anyone. It was with one of my best friends, and the night ended in silence. And even though we didn't even say goodbye as I got out of the car, I felt like it might be goodbye forever.

I feel like hell, and early this morning, my mom called to tell me that my great grandmother passed away last night.

I can’t stop crying. I didn't think I was going to even be able to grieve, but I think with all the loss that I've experienced in the last two months, maybe I was prepared to grieve for her.

And I know that there really isn't any need to cry for Mom Mom. As the cliché goes, “she’s in a better place.” Honestly, she’s where I want to be. Now I don’t mean that in a morbid, suicide way. But, this world is hard, and it hurts. I want to be where God is, where Mom Mom is.

I have no real reason to cry. My tears aren't because I’m sorry for Mom Mom. She’s no longer confined to her little bedroom, no longer ill. She’s better off. She lived a full, almost 94 years, and now she gets to be with God for a well-deserved rest.

Selfishly, my tears are for myself.

I keep hearing an old John Denver song. It’s a song about separation, not death, but some of the verses keep playing in my head:

It’s cold here in the city. It always seems that way. I've been thinking about you, almost every day. Thinking about the good times. Thinking about the rain. Thinking about how bad it feels alone again.

And the one verse that keeps coming up the most is that one that seems to sum up how I feel:

More than anything else, I’m sorry for myself, for living without you.

 And that’s just it. She’s not here anymore, where she’s been for all of my 25 years. Now I have to live the rest of my life without her. I know that I’m incredibly lucky that I got to spend a quarter of a century with my great grandmother, but that doesn't mean that I don’t still want her.

So, more than anything else, I’m crying for myself, because the only grandmother who I really had a chance to get to know, the only one who was really there for me all the days of my life, is gone. And God, I knows I miss her.

This Old Car

“When are you going to get a new car?”

I hear this just about every time a friend sees my old car. Usually these words are accompanied by a good-natured chuckle.

“Betsy,” my car, is old, about 18 years, in fact. She was a gift from my great grandmother, when I turned 16. I say “gift,” because she was a gift to me, even though I think my parents paid a small sum for her. She was old when I got her, but she was mine.

Betsy is beautiful—white (when I actually wash her), with a blue interior, the most comfortable cloth seats ever, and all the bells and whistles you could possibly buy in 1996. This car does things that newer cars today can’t even do. Despite her age, I’m very proud of her. Every time I've taken her to a mechanic, they've informed me that she’s in impeccable condition, with low mileage, and that I've taken excellent care of her engine and workings.  

I. Love. This. Car.

When I moved to Virginia, she was there with me, taking me safely to my new destination, and bringing me swiftly back when I needed to be home again. I was alone, so I became even more attached to my car here than ever. She’s trust-worthy, stable, reliable, and represented freedom: always my escape route if things got too tough.

But she’s come to represent more than that. Because she used to be owned by my great grandmother, Mom Mom, I feel this tie to her, through this old car. I didn't even really realize how much Betsy had come to sort of represent Mom Mom until the other day when her bumper was hit and cracked. I've owned the car for 9 years, but last week was the first time anything had ever happened to her.

On the same day, I went to visit Mom Mom. Now, all my life, in my eyes, Mom Mom has never aged. She’s always been the same white-haired beauty. But this past weekend, I saw her for the first time in 6 months, also for the first time since her husband had passed away.

She was so old. She looked as if her body and appearance had finally caught up to her 93 years. She was frail and thin, with oxygen tubes attached to her. She was in excellent spirits and talked to me just like always, but it scared me. It was almost as if the crack in Betsy’s bumper represented the sudden change of health that I had seen in my great grandma.

And that’s why I cling to my car so much. It’s something I can have some sort of control over. You see, I can fix that bumper. I can replace it. It’ll cost money, but it’s easily done in a day. Betsy will be as good as new. I can keep replacing parts over and over, buying new engines and transmissions for decades. But Mom Mom is frailer than that. There is nothing I can do to restore her back to former health.

And I don’t like that.

So, you can keep on asking why I keep this poor old car, so out of date and fashion. You can keep telling me she’s unreliable. But at the end of the day, she probably runs better than your 2000-and-something car, and I probably know more about what happens under her engine than you do about your BMW. But more than that, she’s something that I can still put back together, fix her up and keep her in good health. Maybe that’s a stupid reason. Maybe I’m just grasping at straws, trying to control at least one element in my life. And maybe you’d be right. But maybe that’s what I need. 

Dear Anita

Grief is great tonight. 

My soul hangs heavy with sorrow, like a cloud drooping low with rain. 

I wasn't prepared. But who ever really is prepared for death? Were you, in your last hours? A peace deep within me tells me you were. 

But even that peace doesn't nullify the sickness in my soul. They sent me home early from work yesterday because I was crying. It was hours before I even stopped--only to start again. You were taken too soon, too young to go. I don't understand. 

You know, there were times when I didn't really like you. When I was 17 you caught me talking to someone during class. You asked me if I had anything to share. I was humiliated, but deserved it. Sometimes I didn't like class or grades. Sometimes I didn't like your direction. 

And yet, we worked together for years. First as teacher an pupil, later as director and actor. Even later, when I was older, sometimes I'd come to your classes and you'd ask me to teach the new kids how to play the improv games. 

I don't know when it happened, but over time, you slipped your way into my heart. You weren't just a teacher anymore, but a friend. Later, you were more like family, a motherly figure. 

And that's the funny thing about relationships. Often we can't put a finger on the moment they develop or become more important. They just open up slowly, like the bloom of a flower. Before I knew it, you had become one of the most important people in my life. I knew that even when you left for Texas. It broke my heart to see you go.

Now, I'm no good at this grieving thing. I don't get it. I don't know how it's done. But Anita, you've left such a hole in my heart. I don't know how to fill it. When I'm not crying, my soul is. 

I guess the bottom line is this: I don't know what to do without you. And I hope that I said it to you when I had the chance, but, I love you, Anita. 

I Suck at This

My great grandfather passed away two weeks ago.

I’m twenty-five years old and this was the first death that has ever really happened in my life. Sure, I remember the passing of some great aunts and uncles, and as a child, a few acquaintances/friends passed, but they were always people I hadn’t really known, people I wasn’t really close to. So I pretty much have zero experience with death, even when it comes to comforting people who are dealing with loss in their own lives, which in no way actually touches me.

Over the summer, my best friend lost one of his great grandparents. I did the best I could to comfort him, but he was living in another state, and I have to own up to this, I totally blew it at being there for him. He knows it, too.

I don’t know what it is, but death makes me want to shy away, to ignore it, to deny it even has happened. I never thought I’d be that person, but I am. I just couldn’t do it. I didn’t know how to comfort him, so I kind of pulled out of that situation as much as possible.

I’m ashamed of that. But I’m only human, and this is something I’m failing at right now.

I didn’t go home for Carvey’s (my great grandfather) funeral. I had planned to. I even set aside a bereavement day with work so that I could travel. But when I thought about making the drive, spending 4 hours alone in the car, seeing my weeping relatives, especially my great grandmother, I felt nauseous and cloisterphobic. I thought it was the drive I was afraid of.

I didn’t go. Instead, I decided to have a ceremony of my own, where I would toss flower petals into the ocean at night and say goodbye to him on my own that way. But the evening came, and my head was dizzy and my body felt as if it was going to collapse. So instead, I went home.

Every night, I’d talk to Mom on the phone, like usual. But all she wanted to talk about was Carvey, the funeral, his family, how Mom Mom was doing. And all I wanted to do was talk about anything else. So, I didn’t call every day anymore, and when I did call, I tried to steer the conversation away from Carvey. Mom commented on how she hadn’t heard much from me lately. I told her I was busy.

I never knew my mother’s father. He was a drunk and I met him once. I believe it was on one of the very few sober days of his entire life. And I do remember my father’s parents. I grew up around them until I was 12. After that I didn’t see them again until two weeks ago. In fact, I was reunited with those grandparents on the same day that I lost Carvey. So in a very real sense, Carvey was the only grandfather I’ve ever really known.

And the funny part is: he and I have no blood relation. He and Mom Mom married when I was two. Apparently I was at the wedding, but I don’t remember. Yet, he’s my grandfather. He’s family, even more so to me than some of the blood family. I can’t even tell you how touched I was when I saw my mother call him her grandfather one day. She had never said that before. He didn’t come into her life until she was into her late 20’s, yet, he was still really the only grandfather she ever knew too.

So, I guess I’ve been fine. These past couple of weeks have been relatively normal. And that’s the odd thing. Life just seems to go on, even when a very important cog is now missing. But I’ve been tired, oh so tired. I get off of work and my chest is heavy, and my feet drag, and my head hurts every night. One night, my chest felt especially…different.

Have you ever felt your soul move? Or do something? I don’t think that we think about our souls very much or that they are our actual selves. I remember once feeling my soul pray. My mother was choking on a piece of candy, and without thinking or knowing what I was even doing, I ran over and gave her the Heimlich maneuver. I had never had any training, but it worked. Yet, in those brief seconds when my mind wasn’t even functioning enough to realize what the rest of me was doing, there was only one thing I was aware of. My soul was praying. I felt it. It reached out to God, and prayed.

And last week, I felt my soul cry. I didn’t know souls could cry, but I was walking down the hall at work, and I felt this bitter weeping inside of me. I hadn’t even been able to cry on my own, but my soul could. I had never experienced that before.

And I’ve just been going on. I did eventually cry once, just briefly, after talking on the phone to Mom Mom, but that was it. I hadn’t mourned. I don’t know how. I literally don’t know how.

And then, there was tonight. I went to see a movie with some friends, and it was a tear jerker, but that wasn’t what got to me. The grandfather in the story was perfect and warm and loving, and his relationship with his granddaughter got me right in the “feels.” I cried in the theatre. I cried at the kitchen table after I got home.

I usually try to give my blog posts nice tidy endings, but I don’t have one this time. I’ve reached the part of my life now where I’m going to start losing people, and the scares the hell out of me. I don’t want to face it, and I don’t even know how.

I suck at this.

I'm Sorry, I Left My Denim Jumper at Home...

In a lot of ways, I’m a girl with some old-fashioned values. I treasure my relationship with God, I enjoy my church life, and I was raised in a loving, Christian home. I’m also classically trained in ballet; I love a good cup of tea, cooking, and a marathon of The Golden Girls. This is a part of who I am. I enjoy staying home sometimes on a Friday night and curling up in my pajamas to watch Pride and Prejudice. Lace and frilly things are my delight.

But do you know what else I like? I like skateboarding and denim vests with the sleeves cut out. I take pride in the fact that I have a great job and I’m able to support myself and live on my own, even far away from my family. I take good care of my car, and I have a working knowledge of what goes on under the hood. I go places on my own and I’m not afraid. I’m independent and fully capable of taking care of myself.

When dating, I don’t look for a guy who’s got money, a fancy car, or a nice place, because those aren't priorities to me. I’m not looking to be taken care of. What I do look for in a guy is his spiritual well-being, where he is in his relationship with God, what his values are, whether or not he wears socks with sandals—you know, the important things.

But lately, what I've noticed is that the guys who are into God and their church are the same guys who are not looking for an independent woman.  These guys all seem to be devoting their attention to the Little House on the Prairie, denim-jumper-wearing, Suzy homemaker types.

Now, there is nothing wrong with that at all. If that’s who these women are, then they should be who they want to be. But what I don’t get is why do I seem to find a string of guys who expect me to be that kind of girl? Is it too much to ask to meet a guy who loves the Lord but is also is okay if his girlfriend can take care of herself? Since when did Christian men start feeling like they had to prove their masculinity by dating girls who they could keep under their thumb?

You know, someday I too might be a stay-at-home mom, but that’s not who I am right now. God placed me in the job I’m at, in the city where I currently live. It’s just me and God these days, so of course I look out for myself and I take care of things on my own. But just because I can check my own oil and tire pressure shouldn't mean that I’m completely overlooked by the guys in the church. What happened to all of the men who could date an educated and independent woman without feeling inferior?

Step up the game, guys. We are all equals here.

"I Care for Myself"

The first time I read Charlotte Bronte’s novel, Jane Eyre, I was greatly moved by it. It was many years ago now, but at the time I had felt greatly betrayed by someone in my life, so when I read about how Jane had also been lied to by someone close to her, I felt a great connection with her.

That book honestly got me through a rough patch. And there was a certain line that I remember underlining with my pencil, because it struck a chord with me.

Recently I've taken the book up again, and I have to say, reading this book through totally different eyes has entirely changed my perspective. I still enjoy the book very much, but things that meant a lot to me in the past don’t mean much to me now, and I relate to Jane in a totally different way than I did several years ago.

But that one line still struck me the same as it did back then.

There is a scene where Jane (spoilers!) has just found out that although Mr. Rochester was intending on marrying her, he keeps his mad wife locked up in his attic. In the scene he is begging and imploring Jane to stay with him, to marry him anyway. His argument is that his wife is crazy, beast-like, and is no wife to him. He merely keeps her out of obligation and because he doesn't want the public to know about his disgrace.

He tries to coax Jane into staying with him by saying, “You have neither relatives nor acquaintances whom you need fear to offend by living with me.”

Jane thinks about it and considers that this is true. She’s an orphan. No one would ever know that she’s committing technical bigamy. And in her head, she says to herself, “Who in the world cares for you? Or who would be injured by what you do?”

And then came the line that has stuck with me my entire adulthood: Jane says, “I care for myself.”

Well, I care for myself too, Jane. No matter what happens in my life, at the end of the day, I am the only person responsible for my actions. I may not always have relatives close by to care about what I do or what I say. But I care. I might not have anyone to answer to. But I answer to myself. And there may be no one around to care about my morals or my choices. But at the end of the day, I care.

So in this world of agendas and political correctness, where the concept of feminism has been so misconstrued and blown out of proportion, a woman named Charlotte said in 1847 that it was okay for a woman to care for herself. She showed the world that it was okay for a woman to pick herself up, make her own choices, and live her own life—even when it meant losing everything, just so long as at the end of the day she kept her self-respect.

And for me, that means a lot.

And That Makes Me Mad.

“There never was a love like ours,” we used to say to each other. It was a whirlwind romance that ended as quickly as it began, and for him, was extinguished as painlessly as blowing out the short flame of a candle. But for me, the extinguishing still goes on as I try desperately to pour water on the embers of a love I thought would last for the rest of my life.

After it ended, I scoffed at the line we used to say to each other, remembering how important it had made us feel, as if we were in some sort of Shakespearean romance, you know, a good one, not one ending in mass death. It seemed so silly to think back on, to imagine in our deluded minds (or at least, in my deluded mind) that we had anything special, that our love was in any way distinct or better than any one that had ever come before us.

But I had to admit, at the time, it sure felt like it. It was unlike anything I had ever experienced before, or anything I've experienced since.

Lately, I've come to realize that we were right. There never was a love like ours, and there never will be again. No two loves are the same. No one ever experiences the same thoughts, feelings, yearnings, sacrifices, dedication, attention, devotion that anyone else ever does. Every relationship is different, and you’ll never have the same love twice.

I’ll never feel that way again. It’ll be good again. It’ll be different. But it won’t be the same.

And that makes me mad.

What Do You Want to be When You Grow Up?

Recently, a girl a few years younger than me asked me, “What do you want to be when you grow up?” She was being partially facetious, and partly serious, mostly asking what I wanted to do with my life.

The question caught me off guard. I guess it wasn't something I had really thought about in a while, so I stopped and I thought…

•  As a child I wanted to be a ballerina. My parents paid thousands of dollars for years to put me in ballet at one of the best local schools. I even reached the point where I did point work. When I got older, I started paying for my own classes, I've been in some ballet productions, and even just a couple of weeks ago I performed onstage at my most recent ballet recital.
•  When I was a pre-teen my mother carted me around to chorus and acting lessons, giving me a taste of theatrical performing. And when I was seventeen, Mom took me to my very first audition. After that show, I was constantly in theatre for years. Even now, on my own, I’m back on the stage. The love has never left me.
•   As a young teenager I decided that I wanted to be a writer. I wrote six full-length novels (we are talking around or over 300 pages apiece here) between the ages of thirteen and eighteen. Now, I’m not saying they were good or well-written, but they were good practice. Now here I am, years later, with a Creative Writing degree under my belt, and a wonderful job in that same field, writing magazine articles with many of my own works published.

…And I answered my friend and said, “I've already become everything I ever wanted to be.”

Prejudice: What My Mother Never Taught Me

Living on your own for the first couple of years really opens your eyes to what you did and didn't learn as a child. For example, I've come to realize that I never really saw prejudice growing up.

I remember a few years back, before I moved, I heard someone use a racial slur for Jews. I had to ask what the word meant, because I had never heard it before. A good friend of mine told me how glad he was that I had been unexposed to it.

I had grown up being taught that the Jewish people are an important group, that in Biblical times they were chosen by God to be His people (See Deuteronomy 7:6-8). So I had never heard any slurs directed against them, and I never had a negative thought about them.

That was just one example. But the type of prejudice that I was really unaware of was religious. Now, I’m not talking about Christian against Buddhism or Islam, or anything like that. I’m talking about prejudice within Christianity, against other Christians only.

When I first moved to the area and started attending a Christian college, I was amazed at how there was a church on every corner. On Sundays there are always cops outside several of the larger churches to direct traffic because so many people attend these places of worship. I would go to Panera Bread in the mornings and see people reading their Bible, or I’d hear people praying. I was amazed! What a wonderful, God-loving place this is!

But then I began to hear it: snide remarks meant as jokes, “Oh, well, he’s a Presbyterian, so you know what that means.” 

No. Really, I don’t. What does it mean? 

Or, people might say, “So, you believe in _____­­­____? You must be one of those Calvinists then.” Once my friends here found out that I had attended a Baptist church for a short period of time with my family, it spread like wildfire that I was “one of those ‘Baptists.’” Which of course must mean that I don’t dance, that I like to sit quietly in the back row of the church and say “amen” at appropriate times, must never raise my hands in the service, and that I really like to eat potluck dinners.

I. Hate. This.

I grew up in non-denominational churches (save for a short time at the Baptist one). These were Bible-believing churches where you were saved if you believed that Christ died for your sins and arose again. We take the Bible as God’s word to us, something to live by and believe. And that’s about it. No back-biting, no bickering, no running down denominations.

My mother had always told me that denominations are simply because people have different comfort levels of how to worship. You pick your comfort level. If you like a quieter, more conservative service, you might choose Presbyterian or Methodist. If you like more singing and dancing, you might be closer to something Pentecostal. Granted, some of these had bigger differences, but still, it really comes down to the worship style.

But here, but now, I find myself surrounded by Christians hating other Christians. Usually they play off their prejudices as jokes. But these jokes aren't funny. How are we ever going to spread the Gospel to those who haven’t heard it if we can’t stop fighting amongst ourselves and pointing out our differences? It leaves me with a nasty taste in my mouth and disappointment of those who are supposed to be showing the love of Christ to others.

And every time I think about this, all I can think to say is, “You know, there won’t be denominations in heaven.”

Sadly, All Women...

There has been a lot in the media lately about the #YesAllWomen campaign, where women are coming out about the fact that not all men may take advantage of women, but all women have at some time in their life, been taken advantage of in some way.

I wasn't really paying much attention to it before until a friend of mine posted an article on Facebook about the campaign. The author of the article talked about defense mechanisms that women sometimes use to get out of sticky situations with men. And one of them was hugging. Men take it as affection, and women use it as a way to keep track of where the man’s hands are and to buy time. It’s a way to gain a little bit of control over the situation.

Well, you have no idea how much better this made me feel.

When I was twenty, I had a friend who held Bible studies at his house, filled in for the pastor at church on Sundays sometimes, and would hang out with me at school. I trusted him and esteemed him as a really great guy with noble intentions.

Well, one night he asked me to come to a baseball game. We had always just been friends, so I didn't see it as a date. The Orioles were playing in their home stadium and he had free box seat tickets that his boss had given him. It was wonderful. He was a perfect gentleman all throughout the evening as we mingled with famous retired players, ate shrimp from the catered spread before us, and watched the game from the balcony, or the 8 big screen TVs that were in the box.

Needless to say, I had a blast. Well, we went home and that was when the trouble started. During the drive, it was all I could do to keep his hand out of my skirt. By the end of the drive, I was sitting against the truck door, hoping that I was out of his reach. I wasn't.

When we got back to his place where I had left my car, I opened the door, put my things inside and turned around to say goodnight. He promptly moved me out of the way of the door, closed it, and then leaned against it. That was when I knew I was in trouble. He was forcibly standing between me and my way of escape. And of course, his house would be in the woods in the middle of nowhere, down an empty street where no one would hear me scream.

Well, before I knew it, his 2 hands had turned into what seemed like 8, and I was being “caressed” and frisked like he was searching for weapons. I didn't know what to do. I had never been in such a situation before. I knew that there was no one around to help me, and he was, or at least I had thought he was, my friend. Plus, he was bigger than me, stronger, and already I could feel that he was forcible, from the way he was holding me down when he touched me all over.

I was scared.

So, I then did the only thing that I could think to do. I hugged him. Suddenly his 8 hands turned back into 2 and they were on my back, where I could keep track of them, and for a moment, I had a little bit of control of the situation.

Eventually my car actually saved the day, when he leaned up against the keypad on my door, pressing all the buttons at once, causing my car to make a loud noise that scared him away from the door. I took the opportunity and got inside, and the night was over.

I was violated. I knew that night that I had escaped rape, and I was so thankful. But I was also so scared. He had been someone I had trusted, someone I had gotten to know for a long time, yet there I was, only moments from being fully taken advantage of.

But do you know what the predominant feeling was that I left with? Guilt. Why guilt, you ask? Because I felt bad that I hadn't done more to take control of the situation. And I felt really bad that I had hugged him. I told people about the experience later, and no one really thought much of it, because let’s face it: pretty much every woman has had a similar situation at one point in their life. Because I hadn't been raped, my story wasn't really worth listening to.

I did tell another close guy friend about it, and he was sympathetic, but said, “Beware of expensive dates. Guys will expect stuff after.” And that’s when it hit me. Despite the fact that this guy hadn't paid a dime for that night, he had taken me out to an event that if he had paid, would have been a very pricey affair. At the end of the night, he felt like I owed him something.

Well I didn't. And needless to say, I never saw him again. But the guilt that I hadn't done more to defend myself in that situation has always stuck with me, until today. I’m really glad that this new campaign has come up, because I now know that what I did to defend myself is actually something that a lot of scared women use to placate men until they can safely get away. And at the end of the day, I know that I did the very best that I could. I saved myself, and that’s all that matters.

So, I’m not saying that all men are like this. I know MANY incredible guys who would be disgusted with men like my “friend.” But, nearly every woman has a story like mine. 

Home Is Where the Heart(break) Is

“You said, ‘love wrecks everything

And none of us survive,’

So I got over you last night,

And I am still alive.”

Those are lyrics from a Josh Groban song called, “My Heart Was Home Again.” It’s a song about loneliness, the feeling of watching taxis go by, seeing faces at a distance, empty window panes, and the memories of things that used to be. And then the song ends with the words,

“Then I saw your face across the street,

And my heart was home again.”

It wasn't until my adulthood that I realized that home is more than a building where you sleep at night. Sometimes home can be a person, or a state of mind. My heart came home once, and it’s been looking for a place to call home ever since.

After a while, your heart gets tired of wandering. It wants a safe place to land. Have you ever felt that way?

The older I get, the more I find myself wanting a companion, someone who’s close by, who shares in all my joys and sorrows, and stupid little things—someone who will get excited with me when I get excited over how far I rode my skateboard today, or that I buckled and finally bought that set of Tangled figurines from the Disney store. In recent years, I've found myself wanting someone to depend on. It’s not that I need someone to look out for me. I do a perfectly fine job of that myself. But, I want someone around to just…well…be there for me.

But how do you find that? How do you know who to trust, who will stay, who will be there for long term? And when you do think that you've found the right person, how can you place your trust, your heart, in their hands? My heart wants a safe place to call home, someone to call home. Yet, at the same time, running away and putting up walls seems like a much safer plan.

Who knows, maybe those walls I put up are just my heart’s way of trying to build a home for itself.

The Monster Who Wanted a Fight

The idea of unconditional love freaks me out. I mean, think about it. Someone out there loves you for exactly who you are. You don’t have to do anything to earn that love. There are no tasks to complete, no hoops to jump through. No matter what you do, you cannot change that love.

My inner perfectionist has a problem with this, because I always feel like anything I get, I have to earn. And if something is freely given to me, I feel bad because I know I don't deserve it. And that’s where the problem is.

I have a bad habit of arguing with the people I love the most. Having someone get close is scary enough, because you open yourself up to getting hurt, and anyone who has ever been rejected knows what kind of searing pain that is. But my argument habit goes deeper than that. It goes to this idea of unconditional love.

As a child, I fought a lot with my mother. I think most of times I was testing the boundaries of our relationship. I didn't feel like I deserved her love, so I fought it. There were times where I felt like I had gone too far, only to find out once again that her love for me goes so much deeper than anything I could do to make her angry or upset.

And sometimes I think I have even done that with God. I've rebelled against Him, because I think I was testing His unconditional love—not a test I recommend, by the way. But time and time again, He has proven His faithfulness to me.

When I met my best girlfriend, I remember feeling this same way. Early in our friendship, we were going to take a trip to DC to see the art museums. I decided to stay home to work on the mountains of homework that I had, but I freaked out because I was afraid that letting her down this one time was going to hurt my friendship with her. But do you know what she told me? Even though she and I hadn't been friends for very long yet, she said that nothing could change our friendship or the bond between us. And that was the last time I ever worried about that.

In recent years, it’s been with guys I've started to fall for. Each time a guy gets too close, I freak out. I start picking fights over the stupidest things. Seriously. If I told you what I get mad at, you would not believe it. Even an hour or so after the fight, I look back at what we were fighting over, and I feel bad, because I know I’m in the wrong.

But why do I do that?

I think the answer lies in my self-worth. I don’t hate myself exactly, but when it comes to relationships, there is a sense of self-loathing inside. Let’s face it. I’m a perfectionist, and I don’t measure up to my own standards. I never will, and in a way, I hate that about myself. And because I don’t have that unconditional love for myself, and I only feel good about myself when I’m doing everything right (which is next to never), I don’t feel like anyone else should love me unconditionally either.

So I throw fits; I pick fights. I do anything I can to push people away, because if they don’t get too close, then I won’t have to wonder how anyone could love me in spite of my faults. I can just stay in the shadows and keep my friends at arm’s length, because you know, from there, they can’t tell just how messed up I am. And that’s easier.

But do you know what? I don't want to be like this. Down deep, all I really want is for someone to stay, to not be scared off by my fights—to see beyond that and move past my defenses.

But how do I tame this monster who just wants to fight?

Cuz You Gotta Have the Faith, the Faith, the Faith...

I struggle with faith. I’m not necessarily talking about my faith in God, because I trust that God exists. But my faith in other areas of my life is weak and wavering.

Last year my mantra was “Just have faith.” I wrote it everywhere. There was even a time when I discovered the words “have faith,” written on a tiny slip of paper that had gotten jammed up inside of my phone’s charging socket. There was absolutely no way that I or anyone else that I knew could have put it there. I honestly have no idea where it came from, but it definitely helped to bolster my faith, even in tiny miracles.

And for Christmas, my mother bought me a tiny silver ring that simply has the word “FAITH” written across the band. I wore it so often that the letters wore away and I had to buy a new one. These days, I refuse to stop wearing it, because I need that daily reminder to have faith. I need to look down at my finger each day and see the word and be reminded to just trust God and His plan for my life.

Some days I have so little faith that my life will work out in a good way. I talked last night with one of my best friends, and we talked about relationships, love, and where our lives are headed. We were both alarmed by how cynical life had made us in later years, and scared because we don’t want to go through life alone. I even told her that I no-longer believe in soul mates. I feel like a little girl who grew up to realize that happily ever afters aren't like they’re portrayed in Disney films.

I’m scared, which is a lack of faith. I’m not scared for my well-being. Oddly enough I've never really been scared of that. God takes care of me, physically. I always feel His beautiful presence watching over me. Yet, I’m scared for my heart. And that’s the kicker. I trust God with my bodily safety, yet, I don’t with my heart. What’s up with that?

Recently, I've started to let my guard down a bit, and let’s just say that I fell into a mess of feelings. And do you know what? It scares the hell out of me. I’m terrified of letting anyone get too close, because in my experience, anytime you let anyone inside and learn to love again (in any sort of relationship), you give that person a chance to hurt you. Usually they do so unintentionally, but it still hurts just the same.

A dear friend recently told me that “faith is a muscle. You have to exercise it, use it, in order to strengthen it.” But sometimes I don’t want to strengthen it! It’s so much easier to just curl up into my shell and use my favorite defense mechanism to just deny that I even have feelings of any sort. Believe it or not, but that’s been the main way I've gotten through life thus far. I like denial! Denial is my friend!

But even I know that it doesn't last forever…and sooner or later I’m forced to tell the truth to myself. So this time around, I’m going to try faith. I’m going to keep trying faith. I’m attending the Faith Gym, and I’m working those faith muscles. And I’m going to keep telling myself that it’s going to be alright. And I’m going to keep putting my life in God’s hands.

And maybe someday I won’t need to wear my faith on my hand.

The Unborn Tale

I've got a story inside of me.

It’s something that’s been building up for quite a while—more than ten years, actually. I was thirteen when it began. I thought it had ended in my teens. But it didn't. I thought it had ended when I moved away from home. But it hasn't.

It’s my favorite story, something that I hold so close to my heart that I don’t let it out very often. It’s my little pick-me-up piece of candy that I pull out of my pocket and enjoy on a bad day. In order for me to tell it to you, you have to be very, very close to me. I don’t want to ruin it by spreading it around too much. I might break a very delicate, magical spell.

But someday I’ll tell it. I’ll tell it to everyone. I've tried dozens of times. You have no idea how often I've put my fingers on the keyboard, poised to write it all down. There have been so many times when I've started a draft, determined to put it all down on paper. But I never make it very far. It’s like the story doesn't want to come out yet.

I mentioned this to a friend recently who I've told the story to before, and she said something that I had never really thought about before. She said, “It’s not done yet. You won’t be able to write it until it’s done.” I like that, and I think she’s right.

So someday, I’ll be ready to write my story. Someday, when I know that the story is ready, it will be born, and it will be beautiful. But until then, I’ll just dream and enjoy it while it lasts. And then someday, I’ll share it with the world.

The Fat Girl Who Lives in My Head...

You know, when I moved to the beach a year and a half ago, no one knew me here. No one. Not a soul. There was no one who had watched me grow up, who knew my parents, who had seen my past relationships, who had seen my high school fat pictures.

That’s right. Fat pictures. Let’s face it. Most people have some, usually from that middle to high school time of life. As a teenager I was overweight by roughly 40lbs. I’m a tiny girl, only 5’ 4” with a very small frame. I remember falling onto the couch one time and being in an odd position, I was not able to get up.

Yeah. I try not to think about those days.

But I lost the weight, all 40lbs. And do you know how I did it? I exercised. I ate right. I worked my butt off (literally). I denied myself chocolate (and nearly every other sweet) for 5 years straight. I sacrificed. And it was hard, one of the hardest things I've ever had to do. But it was worth it.

Now today, I weigh right at my target weight, give or take a couple pounds. And I know that I’m thin, however, let me tell you something: the fat girl who lives in my brain is never going to go away. I’m conscious of every spoonful of food that goes in my mouth. I cringe at the way I look in my spandex ballet leotard. I still sometimes sit with a pillow over my stomach because I’m self-conscious of any rolls that might be there.

I get made fun of for these little quirks more often than you might think. My friends who make comments about my self-consciousness mean well. I think in a way they are trying to make me feel better or point out that I’m at a healthy weight. But do you know how they actually make me feel?

Bad. Just bad.

Most of the people who make comments are friends who didn't know me in my fat days. They've never seen me with extra weight on. When they look at me, they don’t know that I’m a girl who fights every day of her life to keep the weight off. They don’t know about the hundreds of sit-ups that I do daily to fight off the bulge. All they see is a skinny girl, who has always been skinny and can eat whatever she wants.

And although you might mean well, just like you wouldn't make fun of someone for being overweight, don’t tease someone who being skinny either, saying things like “Look at you! You could eat whatever you want!” because you automatically downgrade that person’s experience, that person’s struggles.

And if you too find yourself to be struggling with weight, I understand. I know where you are coming from. I’ve been there. You can make it through this. You can lose the weight. But just remember, you aren't the only one with this struggle, so please don’t put down other people because you think that they don’t understand what you’re going through. Chances are that that skinny girl on the beach has been right where you are at some point in her life.  

What I Learned (or didn't learn) From 90's Pop

Growing up on 90’s (and early 00’s) pop can mess with your head a little. Not convinced? Take a look at what a few of the more popular songs of the time had to say about dating:

Christina Aguilera: Genie in a Bottle:

If you wanna be with me

Baby there's a price to pay

I'm a genie in a bottle

You gotta rub me the right way

And how about this little gem?

The Spice Girls: Wannabe:

If you wanna be my lover, you gotta get with my friends,(gottagetwithmyfriends!)

Did anyone ever find out what a “zigazig ah” is? Or is it right up there with the mysteries of the world, like where is Waldo REALLY? And what the heck is a “hollaback girl?” These are the unsolved mysteries, my friend.

Oh! And let’s not forget my personal favorite:

The Backstreet Boys: As Long as You Love Me:

I don't care who you are

Where you're from

What you did

As long as you love me

Well, first of all. I am not a genie in a bottle. Please do not “rub me.” I find that highly disturbing. And contrary to popular 90’s belief, if you want to be with me, please do not “get with” my friends. That will just end badly. And I hate to disagree with all the wisdom of the almighty Backstreet Boys (all hail!), but I do care who you are and where you are from because I’m not into this whole “wow, we just met and I know nothing about you, but let’s get together!” stuff.

You know, I've tried the “instant dating” thing before, where I met someone randomly, gave him my number, and then within a short period of time, we were together. And do you know what? I got my heart broken repeatedly, because I didn't really know who he was. And when issues started to come out, we fell apart, because we were never really friends to begin with, so we had nothing to fall back on once the initial romance was over.

I've learned from that. I know better. So can we rewrite some of these songs? How about this?

I do care who you are,

Where you’re from,

What you did,

Because I’m not okay with a prison record.

Or how about:

If you wanna be my lover, you gotta get to know me for a little while

Just so I can make sure you’re not crazy...

And I’m not even going to attempt Genie in a Bottle. Let's just not go there...