The Time We Got Holes Punched Through Our Heads, and Other Adventures

I have kind of an unconventional idea about soul mates.

Like most people who believe in the concept, I used to think your soul mate was the person you marry. I still think that can be true, if you’re lucky enough. However, as I've gotten older, I've come to realize that it isn't always like that. In fact, I don’t think it’s always romantic.

I believe that you can have more than one. Throughout your life, you might meet two or three people, even, who just get you. You know those people I am talking about. You probably have someone in your mind right now. It usually happens like this:

There you were, just meandering through life, minding your own business, when one day you meet this person who you find yourself laughing with and having long conversations about everything and nothing. You don’t really think much about it at first, except that this person really understand you like no one else ever has before. You can tell this person everything, and not only will they not judge you, but they get it. They just get it. And before you know it, you just know that their soul understands yours.

I've been lucky. I have met some of mine already. In fact, I believe that my boyfriend is one of mine. But the first one, the one who has been there with me for years, is Mel. She just gets me. From the first time I met her, and we laughed and talked together over boyfriends, crushes, homeschooling, Justin Timberlake, and made way too much noise in the library—and I just knew that I had never known anyone else like her. No one else will ever understand the bond we have, so I’m not even going to try to explain it.

Instead, I will just give you one recent example. Last month, Mel and I decided to commemorate our friendship in a very permanent way. With white knuckles as we held each other’s hands, we went to a tattoo parlor and had our ears pierced together, like the badasses that we are (upper ear cartilage, folks. Not for sissies.). Not only did we feel like the baddest rebels in the world (let us have our moment here), but it was also a pact. It’s a pact to always be best friends. It’s a sign of all we've gone through and made it through together. It’s a testimony to our sisterhood, our friendship, our bond.

There is no one else I’d get a hole punched through my head for.

Happy birthday, Mary Ellen. I love you!

She Doesn't LOOK Like a Ballerina...

A photographer friend of mine has been asking me to do a ballet photo shoot with him for a while. I was ecstatic when we both finally got the chance to work together. Any chance I get to wear my pointe shoes is a good day in my book!

I LOVED how the photos turned out. He did an excellent job with the lighting and all that photography stuff that I don’t understand. And even I was so extremely pleased with how I looked in them. I felt like the ballerina that I am. And I felt skinny and pretty.

Then it began.

“She doesn't look like a ballerina… Aren't ballerinas supposed to be thinner?”

 I guess that if you have a photo shoot done, you should brace yourself for critics. And, that’s something that I didn't do. In my mind, I’m not fat anymore, and I’m also not anorexic anymore. I didn't see anything wrong with the pictures, so I never expected anyone else to either.

I was never fully anorexic, but in my teens, right after I lost all my extra weight (which was a lot), I was quite thin—almost to an unhealthy level. I went through a time where I just didn't eat. Period. Talk to my friends who were practically trying to force-feed me at school during lunch time. Talk to my mom who begged me to “just take a couple of bites.”

I got out of that. I've reached a safe and healthy weight and I’m happy with it. I even love the way I look in a Victoria’s bikini. But since the photos were done, people keep making the same comments about my size.  

And it hurts.

No seriously, it hurts. I try to keep smiling and laugh it off, pretending that it doesn't bother me, but it bothers the hell out of me. It’s as if they’re saying, “What is she doing? She’s clearly not built like a ballerina. Why should she even try? She doesn't belong there.” I mean, I know I’m curvy. I've always been large-chested, but my measurements are proportionate. I have a narrow waist. But even so, I’m not stick-straight. I’m sooooo many sizes larger than your ballerina A-cup.

  
                And it makes me feel like that fat kid again. It makes me want to throw away the bagel that I was going to have for breakfast, and the slice of pizza that I was going to have for lunch. It makes me want to starve myself all over again.

And I know that I can’t really blame it on what people say, because that isn't supposed to matter to me, right? I’m in charge of how I react to things. And I agree with that. But even I have to admit…even though I'm generally very confident about my physical appearance, this is a weak spot for me. I don’t even weigh myself anymore because that has the ability to push me over the edge back into drastic weight loss and insecurity. It’s a delicate balance.

And even more than all of this, the last “she doesn't look like a ballerina” comment came from the family member of someone I really love. And to make matters worse, I was compared to a friend who is “ballerina-size,” and I think that hurts all the more.

I guess that it kind of made me stop and think, because even though the person who related these comments to me wasn't the one who made them, and he defended me, I couldn't help but wonder, is this how he thinks this of me too? Is this how I am viewed by everyone? Is the “she’s not skinny enough” opinion the general impression of people who see me?

I don’t know. But does anyone want these bagels? I don’t want them to go to waste...

"Some Positive Effect."

 “It means a lot to know that I had some positive effect,” he said, regarding a student who informed him of the impact he had on her life as her teacher.

“Some positive effect.”

If only he knew how much of a positive effect he had on so many young lives at that tiny little college. I had seen it, the entire campus knew it. Hundreds, if not thousands of students’ lives had changed from his teachings, both inside and outside of the classroom.

But somehow, he couldn't fully see the impact he had made. I wish that for people like this instructor, that there was a way for them to see just how far their impact reached, be able to view at once, all the lives they've changed for the better.

It’s so easy to think that our jobs don’t mean much. We go about the daily grind, just performing the tasks we've always done. But somewhere, in these day-to-day exercises, words are spoken, conversations happen, choices are made, comfort is given, lives are forever altered. Most people don’t even realize it’s happened until well after.

It’s those small moments that we look back upon and say, “A wise man once told me…” and realize that it was then that we made a choice, or learned something vital. This is how we grow up and mature. And usually, we don’t realize it in time to thank the people who were responsible for those life lessons.

So, don’t ever think that you don’t mean anything. Don’t ever feel like your life is worth nothing. And please, don’t ever forget that you've changed lives. Because of you, someone didn't jump. Because of you, someone was able to stop the tears, make a decision, take another step.

Thanks, Professor. 

A Glance Across the Room

I have fallen in love with your words.

I clutched at them with grasping hands,

And hung on their every syllable,

Like honey about to drip from a spoon.

I then saw your face,

And felt your eyes looking into mine.

Your love penetrated my heart

And I knew that I had never really been loved before.

You spoke the words out loud,

And I heard them the first time from your very lips.

A little part of my soul cried,

For it had never been touched like this.

And now I wait for your arms to encircle me

As I count the days away until the distance between us

Is but a breath,

Or a glance across a room.

Choices, Choices...

There are so many things in this life that we have absolutely no control over. It can even be rather maddening when you realize just how few things you are actually in charge of. So, what can you control?

• The remote. It’s called a “remote control,” after all.
•  Who you vote off the island, Dancing with the Stars, the Amazing Race, etc. (Sadly, you have no control over The Bachelor, though.)
•  How you respond to situations.

Ahhh one of these things isn't like the other. That last one was serious. Good catch. You’re a smart one. *wink*

Personal responses are really all we can control. I've kind of been realizing this lately. I went through some situations recently that caused me to panic. It took me weeks to realize that I could actually control when I panicked and that I didn't have to if I didn't want to. I am in charge of my emotions, not the other way around.

In the same way, I’m in charge of my own happiness. We often say, “you make me so happy!” or “pizza makes me happy.” This is true. These things can lead to happiness, but at the end of the day, I am the only person who is able to decide when I am happy. So, I've been learning how to be happy for others, even when my first response might be a less-desirable emotion. I've been learning how to choose happiness for myself too.

Love is kind of the same thing. Contrary to fairy tale ending, follow-your-heart preaching, love is a choice. It’s not just the warm fuzzy feelings. Those are important too. But those don’t last. I've watched relationships close to me go through horrible changes and absolute destruction, only to hear the involved parties tell each other that they still loved each other, even if they didn't feel like they did.

At first, this was kind of shocking. I mean, no one wants to lose that romance. I still think it’s important to hang onto that and try to keep it alive. But even if it goes out, the most important thing is that the initial love is still there.

It’s a choice. It’s a choice to get up in the morning and pray for him. It’s a choice to take care of him when he’s sick. It’s a choice to want his well-being over yours. It’s a choice to rejoice with his success. It’s a choice to deny that base, sense of jealousy. It’s a choice to remain faithful. It’s a choice utter kind words that will build him up.

So today, I choose peace. I choose happiness. And most of all, I choose love. 

As If Those Moments Were Going to Go on Forever.

“Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night and images of Mom Mom play through my brain. I see her shuffling through the house on those last days. She just went about her day, a little slower than before, but other than that, just the same. It was really cool to watch her live those moments, as if those moments were going to go on forever.”

As if those moments were going to go on forever.

Those words echoed over and over in my head. I was already crying on the phone as I talked to my mom. It hadn't been a particularly hard day, but I had awakened that morning and my first thought was to pray for Mom Mom. And then, I remembered. Any time Mom Mom is my first thought, and I have to remind myself that she’s gone, somewhere along in the day, I’ll end up in tears. 

I've been having a bit of a hard time lately. It’s been various things, but my boyfriend, my best friend, and my mom have been the best and strongest people in my life, because they've listened to all of my worries, my rants, my irrational fears, my spiritual troubles, and (as with this conversation) my tearful confessions.

But amidst all of my little problems, the spiritual battle that I've been facing lately, and my lack of faith and belief, I was reminded last night of something so important.

As if those moments were going to go on forever.

                Isn't that how we are supposed to live? I've been letting my worries and my own personal issues disrupt my life, at least mentally. I've been placing today’s concerns upon tomorrow, and worrying about the future. We were never meant to live that way. Here I am, 25, in perfect health, letting little things eat away at my peace. Yet, there was my great grandmother, well into her 90s, and on her very last days, she wasn't worried. She wasn't fretting about what would happen to her, what she would be doing tomorrow. No. She was shuffling back and forth from her bedroom and her living room, in her pajamas, waiting for the next PBS special to come on. She was giving me bridge toll, as if it was simply a normal visit and nothing had ever changed—as if nothing would ever change.

Was it denial? Not at all. She knew she was dying. She just didn't care. She still had life, so she was living it.

I cried. I cried so hard last night. Big, gasping sobs. I am inspired by how Mom Mom lived. But it doesn't mean that I don’t miss her every single day.

“How long does it take to stop hurting?” I asked my mom.

“Sometimes it takes a long time,” she replied. “I tried to prepare you,” she said, her voice trailing off.

I nodded, but she couldn't see it. “I know,” I said. “I just didn't want to believe it.”

It’s been 6 months and I’m still learning how to deal. But I guess more importantly, I’m still learning how to live.

This Time, I Want to Do It Right

This time, I want to do it right.

I want to trust you so perfectly

That I’ll never doubt you.

I want to believe in you

More than I believe in myself.

I want to love you in such a way

That if nothing else, I can at least say

That I loved you as perfectly

As this imperfect person can.

I want to think about your needs

So much that I put them above my own.

I want to consider you

Before I consider myself.

I want you to be free.

I want you to dance and live

As you always have.

I just want to dance with you.

I want us to find God together,

Pray together,

Read together,

Love God more than we love each other.

This time I want to do it right.