Grief

When you first lose something you loved... a precious object, a family member, a belief... the grief is so strong because you don't know how to go on without it. They say time heals but I think the reality is that we keep going and we learn that we can live without the thing we once held dear. The pain exists because we think we need the thing to survive, and as we continue our lives the pain fades because we discover that we didn't need it as much as we thought.

I Will

I will be strong.
I will do things I do not want to do.
Even if I fail and fail again, I will not quit.
I will succeed in the end.
I will keep my faith, even when I don't act it.
I will set goals and achieve them.

I want to cry out from the wanting,
This desire I have to be the best,
My best.
I will learn, I will grow, I will do.
Every day I will look back and realize
That I've arrived where yesterday I was pining to be.
My arms will carry heavy loads,
My legs will move with strength and grace,
I will smile at everyone and forgive.

There was a person I imagined as a child.
I will be that person.

Happy birthday. Love you, whoever you would've been.

First or Third?

If (when!) I get around to writing a book, I know I'll probably end up writing in first person. It scares me though because I hate when I read a book in first person and the main character is hardly a character at all. All the other people in the book have personalities and quirks and you get to know them, but for some reason, reading in first person eliminates that main character from your head. You replace them with yourself. And it doesn't make sense when the love interest falls in love with them because there's nothing there to love, just a voice narrating a story.

So the obvious solution would be to write in third person, but that always seems so stilted. If you have two females talking, it's a thin line between being repetitive and making things confusing. (For example, "She looked at her and knew she would never come back." Who would never come back? The first she or the second she? The alternative is, "Stacy looked at Maria and knew Maria would never come back." Which just sounds dumb. I hate using names too often. It's awkward.)

Becoming

I've become the kind of girl (woman?)
who feels naked without makeup
who goes to the gym five times a week
who listens to classical music in the car

The kind of girl (woman?)
who does her classwork the night that it's assigned
who keeps her cool in a tough spot
who works for a living

I've become the kind of girl (woman?)
I never thought I would (could?) be
And I find I'm quite enjoying it

Fear

One of the most important lessons I've had to learn is that thinking and worrying about something too much is actually scarier than doing it. Sometimes you just have to decide to not think about it all and dive right in.

The first time I put this into practice was when I donated blood in high school. I had heard the horror stories of students fainting and I'd seen the bruises on people's arms. But I knew that I wanted to be a hero more than I was afraid of the needle. I had to consciously decide not to be afraid. And it worked! It hurt a bit when they punctured my arm, but not as much as it would have if I'd been scared out of my mind. I was so proud of myself and went on to donate as much as possible for the next few years. I've had to stop recently because of high platelets, but my doctor said I can restart in October!

I wish I could have a conversation with myself in the past, that I could tell myself not to quit things because they seem hard. Then again, if I hadn't quit before, I wouldn't be where I am now, and I'm so happy where I am. I was just thinking about how hard Sundays are on my paper route, but then I realized that when I take things one step at a time, it's really not that bad. Thinking about the whole (the whole Sunday, the whole week, the whole year, my whole life) makes peace of mind impossible. But little chunks are doable.

I guess none of this would make sense to anyone else, but I need to have it here to remind myself.

First Day of School

I woke up today at 4:05 pm. Class started at 5, so I knew I had to hustle. I got all dressed up, only to realize that I had not a single pair of cute shoes to match my outfit. My options were a) a two-sizes-too-large pair of men's flip flops, b) my ugly black work shoes, or c) brown ballet flats that give me terrible blisters. I was wearing black and white, but I couldn't stand to wear huge flip flops on the first day of school, so I chose the ballet flats. Bad decision.

Almost as soon as I put them on, my feet started to hurt. I thought I could tough it out, though, and rushed out of the house. I had to get my parking decal from the security office before class started, and that went pretty smoothly, despite having a security officer tell me she would love to make me cry by giving me a $60 ticket if I parked in the wrong spot. It was exactly 5:00 by the time I was putting the decal on my car.

Now, I had looked up my classes on the map online a few days ago, but that didn't help much. I drove around aimlessly, trying to see the tiny letters they have on the corners of buildings. I finally decided to just park and walk around, figuring I'd be able to see the minuscule letters if I was two inches away from them. Half-running in ballet flats made of what feels like razor blades is not the most comfortable thing in the world. Eventually I wandered just the right amount and ended up at the BA building, where I needed to be. A kindly old man pointed out the right classroom to me.

I arrived at 5:12, a sweaty, disheveled mess, with my shoes half on and a panicked look on my face. The room was full, the teacher was mid-lecture. I tried to slip silently into the back row, but being quiet is something I've never excelled at. I clanked and tapped and tripped my way into a chair, heaving a sigh of relief.

Then my phone rang.

I was reminded of that show about meerkats as every eye in the room turned to look at me. I smiled sheepishly and pulled out my phone. My mom had texted me to wish me luck. Frantically, I jammed the volume control until it reached Silent mode and shoved the phone back in my purse.

At this point, I achieved a few precious minutes of peace, looking over the syllabus and mentally calculating how much money I would have to spend on textbooks and other supplies. Somewhere, Murphy and his law detected that there was an opening available for some new sort of torture, and my nose turned on like a faucet.

I don't know what's wrong with me. I seem to be allergic to random rooms or learning or something. I felt a sneeze coming on and knew instantly what the rest of the hour would look like for me. There was nothing I could do but ride it out. The sneezing came first, and then the watery eyes and red nose. I raised one shaky, timid hand and asked where the nearest bathroom was.

I had taken my shoes off, and in my panic I put them back on on the wrong feet. Sigh. I had no choice but to hobble out of the classroom with the toes pointing in opposite directions, every step poking my numerous blisters.

I won't go in to too many details, but I had to leave twice more to blow my nose. It was easily one of the most humiliating hours of my life. The teacher was very nice, though, and when she gave us a diagnostic test (it was a math class) I finished first and got to leave a few minutes early. I walked to my car barefoot, shoes in hand, and you would have thought I was walking around naked based on the looks I was getting.

On the bright side, things can only go up from here!