http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HP2MKYGggd8

Here I sat, listening to Springsteen by Eric Church, reading He's So Not Worth It by Kieran Scott, my mind dancing somewhere on the North Carolina beaches, as the sun tucks it self beneath the horizon, to return in a mere few hours. Half of my mind was consumed by processing the words I read on each page, the other half absently reminiscing on the three days I spent with my best friend on the glistening waters of Beaufort and Atlantic Beach. The song recounts, funny how a melody sounds like a memory, fitting my feelings so well. I flash back to sitting in our room on our respective twin beds, the FM radio across the room, those same words unraveling through the small speakers and into the sweet and slightly salty air. I would be sedentary, legs crossed at the ankle, enveloped in a book, while Morgan surfed the web on her Blackberry or texted someone. And in the silence between us, Eric Church sang the bond between us to life, each drum beat a like the gentle rays of the sun on the beach, his voice like the sloshing waves against the foldable chairs we dragged up to the tip of the water.

But through the evocative music being expelled through my iHome, I heard a call that was soft enough it could have been imagined. "Jen." A voice so familiar to me begged, almost choked out entirely by sobs. Jumping to my feet, realizing the need in my sister's voice, I walked the eight steps from the edge of the carpeting in my room to hers. There lay my older sister, her face stained by tears, a sea of tissues around her bed like lava. I was prince charming, having to make it across to the princess in distress. She scooted herself over on her small bed, with bright pink sheets and a teddy bear residing close to her. She looked of such juvenile innocence, her hands gripping the blankets around her body, her nose runny and red as if her friends at school had just mutinied and she was kicked out of the Fab Five in the fourth grade, now revised to be the Fab Four. But that is essentially what happened. The only word she uttered was "Jen," her head now resting on my sunburnt thigh, her blonde ponytail thin and flimsy behind her. I ran my fingers through it, keeping my other hand propped on the top of her head, stroking it. Beads of water splashed onto my leg, as she recounted what the mean girls on the playground had said. Now more like mean girls at the bar. Her words fell like glass, shards flying everywhere, some even hurting me. The queen bee had found flaw in my sister, her words the accusation of a judge after a trial. Seeing one you had admired, one you had looked up to and seen as strong, brave, untouchable, cry makes your own tears prepare for the front line. We just lay there, her head on my lap, her soft hair the same it had been since we were a couple of elementary schoolers, fighting over the last cookie. And while so much had changed between us, a dragon occupying the lava between us, some rugged rocks finding their place between us, I would always find my way across the bridge, me to her rescue, or her to mine.

Now I hear the water in the shower beside my room gushing through the pipes and out into the bath-shower, the water droplets hitting the floor beneath her feet. I know she'll come out, red as beat, and tiptoe into my room. She'll talk, or maybe she'll be characterized by reticence, her thoughts running away as she wishes she could. And I'll be ready to brush her hair, or paint her toenails. Because we all need each other. As I need her, and she needs me now, I'll be ready with in my armor, to come comfort her and rescue her from the harsh reality of life. We'll go back to the playground in our pigtails and overalls, slide down the slides and never take it for granted.

Days Like These

The sun's weary rays are illuminating my room as it sets, and Jason Aldean is playing on pandora while I'm sitting criss-cross-apple-sauce in the nook of my futon. What could be better? In truth, I could probably sit here and list many a thing, but over the past few days I've had a taste of the consequences and rewards in life and all their implications. And this life I speak of means, that while cliche, nothing is perfect or permanent, and happiness is defined not by a single moment but a series of choices to see the positive aspects of each setting.

Following a wild weekend infused with too much liquor and marijuana, too much testosterone, and its fair share of drama, I couldn't have had a worse Monday. But with the help of my best friend, brother, and someone to hold my hair as I threw up all the contents of my stomach on Monday morning, my blessings dawned upon me. Not only will there always be someone to help you get back on your feet, but you have to find the strength within yourself. Because God gave you lungs to breathe and feet to walk, not to be wasted but to be used.

Another important lesson found itself at my door today. It never hurts to apologize. You never know what that one word uttered can do. While covering and repairing all harm done is not in its power, the simple word sorry is like a pebble dropped into a still pond. The ripples ricochet in all directions, affecting more than two words seem to have the ability to do. 

Lastly, we are all victims of a terribly real love of a Savior beyond comprehension. Sin is only a slight encumbrance that has no jurisdiction over the love of our Maker. This love is unparalleled, unprecedented and incomparable to any other, more vast even than a mother's for her child. This love stretches to the depths of our wounds and our brokenness, and whispers to the shattered pieces left of us that no action is too unforgivable. And despite the sinner behind these words, I no longer find myself defined by that word. Instead, I am a child, a treasure, of a matchless King, who lifts me after I have stumbled, who loves me after skipping church due to a hangover, who talks to me when none of my friends will, who assures me of my worth when all say I have none. 

"Nothing lasts forever, no matter how it feels today"

A mix of pain and disbelief strike like a clock as I hear my mom's words again in my head. "I don't want to hear about your medicine, or your favorite candy bar, or your eye problem. I don't want to hear what you have to say. I don't care. I don't."

Something about words allows them to have this violent sting, similar to how I react to bees, with my near anaphylactic reaction. Something hurts even more when you know the words were intended, not out of anger, but out of legitimate feelings and nothing but the raw truth. Unlike the large inflamed area that aches for days after the bee sting but eventually ceases to remain, a slight but noticeable darkened spot of where the bee decided to proclaim territory tarries, never entirely removing itself. That mark is left for weeks, new moons, decades, just a small mark left to wholly symbolize the total caustic happening.

Tears are good. They don't come easily to me, not at all, but I wish I could cry more. When something absolutely sucks, and you're left broken, crying seems to me as a physical ridding of the pain, a final step towards healing. When you can't cry, you just remain, allowing these waves of emotion and hurt to sweep over you, but instead stare blankly, praying for the sun to rise on the distant horizon. And the injury beneath the surface begins to heal and grow a new layer of skin, baby steps to being okay again, when another tide comes ashore, breaking the skin, allowing the wound to return to square one.

Now I am here, in this place they call the present, though if this were tucked into a box decorated with shiny wrapping and an extravagant bow, I wouldn't want it. I would ask for the gift receipt and be first in line to get my money back. And even if they handed a card with store credit, to get anything but this, this small scalded burn would reside, throbbing more with every ice cube, every attempt to heal, forcing the words to feel unforgettable, after weeks, new moons, and decades, forever. 

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=w0o8JCxjjpM

I have so much on my mind, yet so little understand as to which keys to use first. It's a gross understatement to tell you that I have been meaning to post but running low on time. And starting Tuesday, the first day of the swim season, I will officially have lost about 15 more hours per week. So here's to the last post for, who knows, maybe a week, maybe two months.

The  last time I wrote, September 26, was exactly a week and four days before my grandfather passed away. I like to think that October 7th was only his official passing, and that he had been gone for a while before that, that October 7th was finally the day he bowed out stubbornly to his malignant brain tumor. While those of you who did not know him may think calling him stubborn was an insult, it is not at all. He was a fighter, in multiple senses of the word, dying as a two star Admiral, a widow, a father to five, a widow of 15 years, and the husband of a smoker and alcoholic, the only complaint I heard leave his mouth being about his hip pain two years ago.  

I will certainly miss him, as I already do, but I am acutely aware of the beauty and sheer blessing of knowing him for fifteen years. The song in the title is a good one, one that definitely expresses so many emotions in no defined lyrics, but instead the lyrics being the thoughts that occupy your mind as you listen. My fingers are prosed above these keys, unsure of the words necessary to capture what I am trying to vocalize. Listen to 3:17 until around 6. There are few feelings not explored in this measure of time. It reminds me extremely much of my grandfather's death, explosions of intensity and uncertainty of what is to follow, an absolute silence then resuming with such tranquility. I swear, I have never seen more random people at a funeral than his. I have attended my share of family funerals but not one had audiences of random passers-by who had been  just strongly affected and inspired by the deceased except for my grandfather's. I chose to believe that the truth about his death is rather simple, like those 2 minutes and 43 seconds of the song. While there is such pain and a striking reality left in the open like shattered glass, one never able to be fixed, it will eventually subside, be swept away, and a period of serenity, a beautifully broken serenity will remain in the space of the once shattered glass.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7YMLmlHfehQ

So, today I turn 15. While I've thought about this fact only briefly, I did come across one thought that could summarize what I've learned in life thus far.

Memories are almost an addiction for the most of us. We hold them with both hands, and let them live by telling of them until they are worn into just words. But as I proceed into the coming years, months, days, or whatever I have left, I want to be hands-on involved into my life at the moment, releasing past memories to fall into the places they belong.

It's a winding road, when you're in the lost and found. You're a lover, I'm a runner and we go 'round and 'round.

The feeling of relief after a good cry is comparable to few things in life. As I type I just think one thing, however sinful it is, goddamn it. Hello to all readers, if you're just tuning in, be aware that I am not a people pleaser, but I tell it like it is.

My breath is sharp and punctuated by my shivering, audible even above the music flowing from my earphones and into my ears. Sometimes I just wonder, are there people in similar situations to mine that, like me, don't share it with many or even any. I wonder, do the people I encounter daily know what is happening in my life, or are they maybe even too consumed with struggles in their own, greater than mine? 

I am long since discovering that my mother and I will never cease to fight. But, on Friday, as I drove five hours with her to visit my dying grandfather, I had a fleeting idea that maybe that didn't have to be the case. Once more, I realize how far off that thought was. One more fight, one less day. The thought keeps scrolling through my brain, continuously, just as Krispy Kreme doughnuts do in the factory behind the seemingly quaint dining area. I've realized the worst type of fights are the ones which are inclusive of words beyond the personal sphere, which are shameful, seizing words, that just leave you breathless.

As I sat eating my 3 Minute Brownie, back against my cheetah print pillow that I can't remember life without, I heard my mom's footsteps advancing up the stairs and knew they were directed towards me. She brought in her cell phone, the back held together by a piece of duct tape, an abhorrent yet sufficing solution to her. My father was on the other end, and we spoke for a while, about my mom's and my argument, about my grandfather, about trivial topics. Only a few of the hundreds of words he spoke really registered with me, depositing an unpleasant sting on my argument with my mom. "I don't have any more money and she is having to use her savings to shop for you." Suddenly I knew why she had been so taken aback as I complained about the lack of apple sauce and cheez-its. 

I wish I could draw a cliche picture for you, how I sat with my head in my hands and was so torn up, how I cried, how I sat in dismay at my own ignorance. But, instead, I just used the back of my spoon to smush the rest of my brownie, and strained to hold back tears, to let myself be weak, one thing my grandfather wasn't. I remained immobile, and sucked in my own breath hard, pulling my hair back to keep from falling in my face. I just rested, without movement, my head placed on the edge of the desk behind me. Looking up at my fan, I just wept. I wouldn't look down and allow even more tears escape from my eyes, as I saw that my grandfather is just one more thing neither my dad nor I have anymore of. And I refused to look down, because I am too aware that the bottom is lurking right beneath me, that my white flag stands taller than I do, and that there is no where left for me to run.  .

Money makes for a great slave but a horrible master

Ah, it feels good to be back. I had been meaning to post for such a long time, but I've had a shortage of time. The days feel so long in the passing but all at once, they're gone.

Inside me, emotions are so abundantly flowing, making every move of mine feel stifled. So many feelings that I am unsure of what to make of them. It's like a fork in the river, with more than two ways to go. These next few months of my life fit that last sentence perfectly. Oh, how things can change. But, maybe in these next few months there will be a glorious beginning. Which is where I should probably start.

I have been blessed with two parents who love me dearly and are wonderful. But, as the economy crashed, my parents' jobs were both taken. And while this has been an adjustment, I'm afraid the adjustment of adjustments is ahead of me. Needless to divulge all the details, my parents' funds run out right after Christmas. What is there to say? Fear is for cowards, though sometimes the cowards are the wiser ones.

So much of what I know as true, so much of my lifestyle, has been altered already and may be once more. As I glance around my room from behind my laptop, I picture all of my belongings in boxes, them being the only part of me that will be ready to leave this house. And while I can picture this room stark white, back to the way it was the first time I saw it, none of my possessions will remain. I'll be all I have left, with one exception. Jesus remains. Sometimes I had to admit this truth, but He's the only thing I've learned I can hold on to. As things, places and people have been stripped from my life, as I've had to adjust to living on less, Jesus never once even shifted.

"Things can only go up from here," a friend told me the day I found out my dad had lost his job. Boy, were they wrong. I am desperately afraid, I won't lie. But if things go down from here, I know one thing. My desire is to be at the bottom, sitting on Jesus' lap, his arms cradling my trembling body.

As I type this post, I am moving my back up against my futon, looking quite peculiar, I'm sure. I have been eaten by bugs, not nearly as bad as I have been before, but as bad as you can be in a mile walk at 10pm.

The problem with telling people how you feel is, unlike the school counselor who always provides insightful perspective and never becomes short-tempered, they have a choice of how to respond. Even if you are sobbing, and your heart is broken, these people have a choice to be insensitive.

This evening, as my mom picked me up from the library and we began to make conversation on the ride home, my sister came up as a topic. If you happen to know anything about me, or have read earlier posts, you'll know that my relationship with my sister, second only to my relationship with my mom, is the most broken relationship I've ever seen. It pains me so deeply, and never ceases to, no matter the circumstance. As the conversation took a turn and became a little more deeper, this once more arose... my problem with me sister, or, rather, her problem with me. I shared with my mother what I hoped she would have known in my fifteen years of life. My sister's emotionally murderous remarks, threats, words and more importantly, actions. When we finally stopped at Harris Teeter, where my mom was stopping to pick up some groceries, she exited the car without slightest sign of hearing a word. She rounded the small SUV and opened one of the back doors and lifted her purse over her shoulder. "Are you mad at me?" The words fell out of my mouth before I could stop them.

"I don't know. I'm just tired of hearing the same old thing, over and over again. I'm so tired of it." At this moment, I should have just slid out of my seat and walked home. Instead, I sat and waited, in the heat of a car without open windows or AC, a car as still and immovable, as determined as my mother's mind. She returned and began to spit out words quickly, asking questions, but not really asking, instead just wanting to put me in my place, put me back in the playpen, back where the only sounds I could make were safe, positive ones  "ma", "pa", "gah." She asked what my plan was and I said, wearily, I was done trying. This was quickly rebuked and she proclaimed to me how that relationship affects everyone. My last rational words were that she should take it up with my sister then. More retorts, more painted-white wooden stakes were driven into the ground, a picket fence that didn't mean a happy, American family at all, but instead a divided one. I had too much self-respect to listen to that, or maybe was too weak to hear the consequences of my own actions and said "You have NO compassion. Stop the car. I'm getting out. I don't ever want to talk to you."

I fled the car and walked onto the sidewalk, where my mother's car followed. I made a sharp turn and crossed the road, which she couldn't emulate. The little gold car drove past the intersection and stopped, her lights signalling traffic to go around. As I continued to walk straight, approaching my mother in her car, I heard her yell for me to get back in the car. I just repeated what I had said before, I don't want to talk to you. And off went the car, but mostly my mother, quickly and without hesitation, with ease and even seeming eager to do so.

One thing I was distinctly aware of was how many times I had done that exact same thing before: been left, emotionally, on the curb of a road, to walk home. In all of about the eight times I've just had to leave, out of sheer hurt and inability to exist under the same roof with those people and remain civil, not once have I been sought out. This was an acute awareness, that just seemed to be sharpened as I turned a corner and saw the back door of my house, shut, appearing to be a different world. The door is made of wood but felt like a thick, steel lock. The criss-crossing of the window panes of the upper half of the door screamed indifference, the wooden grain the same direction it had always been, no evidence of a missing daughter.

I came into my house, though it felt like a stranger's, like that of the people I petsit for, maybe even more unfamiliar. I heard the voices of my parents in the other room, and I knew they'd heard the door, though neither of us said a word to the other. Running upstairs and settling into the groove of the futon I'm still on now, someone texted me and asked if I'd done anything this summer. I knew my normal response: camp, the keys, and backpacking and whitewater canoeing trip (in chronological order). But instead, I altered it: camp and a backpacking and whitewater canoeing trip, what about you? I slid in a pair of earbuds after I sent the text, and turned my music up loud enough to not be able to hear my ceiling fan.

Bit by bit, even an unnoticeable amount, I built my window panes, the beginning of my door. It'll be wooden alright, but feel like thick steel. My door will be just a door to most of those, but to my family, the ones who fabricated wall after wall to keep me out, it'll be impassable. It'll look like aged wood, painted white with a friendly brass doorknob. But that doorknob, with its four-inch diameter, will be all it takes to keep us apart. It was all it took to take us back to the silence, the cold-shoulder; back to the start.