Caleb.

He’s my brother.  I used to hate him.  Some people would say I have reason and some don’t know how I love him now.  But I do.  I love him so much.  And I hate that he lives so far away.  He lives in Lawton, Oklahoma which is some part of the country that I assume may as well be the asscrack of America.  Based partially on it being in OK and partially based on it being so small, you basically have nowhere to shop but WalMart.  All good reasons not to live there (I hope he reads this and immediately moves).

Anyhow, he’s really the best big brother a girl could ask for… as long as you’re old enough to be past sibling rivalry.  However, our disdain of each other was often a little bit too deep and hate-filled to really only be called sibling rivalry.  We pulled knives on each other.  I used to tell him all the time that when he died, I’d be more than willing to make a cake for the “after party” that was round, iced in yellow and decorated with a chocolate frosting smiley face.  If I tried, I couldn’t tell you how many times we told each other we hated each other.  And by told each other, I mean screamed violently.  He was a fat kid, so I would grab his fat rolls and twist so that he would be in so much pain he’d fall to the floor and writhe in pain while I laughed.  He was an amazing archer and when I started to participate in the sport with him, I got good enough that he got “jealous.”  My parents made me quit, which really bothered me (since we spent a good 20 hours with him watching his shoot and we all had to be there).  As soon as my quitting was complete, he told me (when my parents weren’t around) that he only said it bothered him so much because he didn’t want me to have fun while he was shooting.

Point is, we did not get along.  Not even slightly.  We grew older and matured (a little) and are now really close.  We talk almost daily and vent to each other all the time.  We can’t stand living so far apart from each other and wish we could see each other more often.  It’s so annoying that the distance is part of what brought us together.  Maybe one day we’ll live near each other.  I can’t wait until I can see him all the time and love on him in person and not have to rely on telecommunications.

Bathroom Book

Alright, so my writing is often intensely shallow and sometimes rather comical.  I’m pretty sure that makes for great bathroom reading.  Pretty sure I need to come up with a book for people to read while sitting on the pot.  I think that could be pretty comical and I could have the cover be brown with a big toilet on it.  Ha.  This idea is great!  I don’t have many good ideas, but I think a bathroom book would be great. 

Any ideas for bathroom reading topics would be appreciated.  Though, I’m sure like all of my other ideas, this one will go un-done.

Friendship

“Little friends may prove great friends.”

~ Aesop

I love this quote. Love it. I ran across it today looking for a quote to get tattooed on the outside of my right forearm. It grabbed my attention because it’s so true. My boss recently told me that he was so glad that I had a good group of friends and how blessed I am to have these people in my life who care about me and like to hang out with me. And it is definitely true. I cried in front of six or seven of my friends a couple weeks ago and didn’t feel judged or ridiculed. I am blessed with a great lot of friends.

However, this past weekend, it became quite apparent that sometimes having too many friends just creates a more stressful life and environment. It’s important to remember that you can only nurture a certain number of close relationships and it is very crucial to your sanity to remember not to take people at face value no matter how well you “know” them. It is not easy to know how someone you haven’t known for a while is going to react in certain situations. If four or five people are close to each other and to you, then you’re probably golden.

I’m close to quite a bit more than four or five people. And have hundreds of friends – no exaggeration. I am twenty-three, but it really took me another lesson in friendship to realize that even people you are attached to may be people you shouldn’t have in your life as more than acquaintances. And with that, I have had to learn that I need to not “weed out” my friends, but pull away from some and be more careful before diving head first into relationships with people who should be held at arm’s length before fully devoting myself to nurturing our friendship.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Sidebar (at the bottom):

It’s funny that this quote stood out to me because it reads “little friends” which obviously is not supposed to mean “small friends.”

If I Die Young

If I die young

Bury me in satin

Lay me down on a bed of roses

Sink me in the river at dawn

Send me away with the words of a love song

Oh, oh, the ballad of a dove

Go in peace and love

Gather up your tears

Keep ‘em in your pocket

Save em for a time when you’re really gonna need them

~ The Band Perry “If I Die Young”

Honestly, those are some of the most amazing, intense lyrics I have ever heard.  And oddly, they resonate with me on a level that no other song ever has.  And that resonation is probably one of the more depressing things that I have faced in a really long time.  I’m not sure if this song is prophetic for the Perrys or if it is just a willingness to recognize the imminent possibility of a short life.

I’ve never wanted to live that long.  Honestly, it’s true.  And in the past four weeks, I’ve been faced with the death of seven people I care about.  I only had the gumption and courage to go to two of the memorial services.  At one of the services, I ran into a lady who had been like another mother to me when I was younger.  Her husband passed away when I was a freshman in college a month after one of my good friends committed suicide.  Her husband was like another dad to me – he was the only person besides my dad and my uncle whose lap I would sit on when I was little.  I was almost brought to tears just by hugging her because I didn’t have the emotional capacity to go to her husband’s funeral.

All of these experiences made me realize how precious life really is.

Every day, I wake up and try to fit everything that I possibly can into my day.  I don’t want to miss anything.  It is not uncommon for me to be triple booked in one night.  You never know when you’re going to die. 

The Band Perry goes on to say:

The sharp knife of a short life

Well, I’ve had just enough time

Those are words I hope I can say when I’m in process of passing away.  I hope that at my funeral people really believe that I’ve had enough time.  I don’t care how young I am.

The lyrics of this song are almost enough to make me want to create a bucket list so that I can attempt to accomplish everything I want to before it is my time.  I do know that if I do die young, I do want everyone I know to gather up their tears and save them for a time when they’ll really need them.  I like to think that I mean something to my friends, but I want them to remember me when I’m gone – not miss me.  I want them to have a party and drink and play games and just have fun as if I were there. 

I’ll be haunting them anyhow, so they may as well just pretend I’m there.

Kaye

Have you ever known you needed to say something? Or just felt like you needed to share something with someone or a group of people?

I’m into communication. This is something that happens to me often. Today, it happened to me at a time when I really didn’t want it to. It happened during the “sharing time” at a memorial service.

Kaye Roach was one of my mom’s friends when I was growing up (not that they stopped being friends – but they were much closer when I was younger). She was like another mom or another grandma. I’m not sure which. She was older than my mom, so in my young mind, she was like another grandma. In hindsight, she was more like another mother. But she was also a friend. Honestly, first and foremost, she was a friend. She was like a mentor friend.

Kaye would spend time with me and when you’re ten or eleven years old, that’s a big thing. It’s huge. There really aren’t many words for what it’s like to have an “older” person take you under their wing and make you feel like the center of their world (when you’re with them). Kaye did this for me – but on a level very different than almost anyone ever has. For years, every Wednesday, I would go to her house to “hang out” and then she would take me to gymnastics. Most often, we would make cookies. I have tons of memories with her. And not only when I was alone with her.

One of the most impressive things about Kaye that I remember is that she loved everyone. There was not one person she didn’t love. One Wednesday, I even asked, “How do you love my brother?!” (I didn’t really like him much at the time…) She laughed. She didn’t scold me or tell me I was a bad sister. She just told me she did. And as I’ve gotten older and further and further away from my days of sibling rivalry, it has become so clear that she just had a heart of love. She couldn’t help it. She loved everyone.

At the memorial service tonight, I heard over and over how much she loved everyone and how there wasn’t a single person she could come in contact with that she didn’t love.

One story in particular stood out. There was a couple she worked with who called her Mom because they could confide in her about anything. That doesn’t seem all that impressive from the outside. But this service was held in an Evangelical Christian Church. What made this story powerful is that this couple was a pair of homosexual men – which, of course, is taboo in most churches. She would tell them she loved them, and she really did. So, though that may not be that amazing to you or me, it was impressive because it was “against” her beliefs, but she didn’t let that stand in the way of love.

As the sharing went on, Kaye’s legacy and who she was became very inspiring and impressive. Over and over, people stood up and said, “Kaye did this for my kids,” “Kaye love my children,” “Kaye was like another mother to my daughter and my son,” etc. But not one child got up (not that most of those who were discussed are “children” anymore). My heart started pounding like I was lying or I was being dishonest. It was pounding so hard, I could see it when I looked down at my black dress. Finally, during a lull in the sharing, I stood up. I knew I needed to say something and I knew that though some of the sharing was comical (Kaye was hilarious), it was all very serious and somber. I knew someone who was one of those “children” needed to share how Kaye had impact in their lives.

After introducing myself (which was apparently a great idea because I heard “OOoohhh…” from several audience members who hadn’t recognized me), I just let loose.

“I used to spend as much time with Kaye as I possibly could. It was mostly when I was a little person. I would go to her house every week to make cookies or bake something else and then she would take me to gymnastics. Whenever I was there, I knew I was the only person in her world. I was the only person she was with. I would ask questions and tell stories and she would tell stories. [[I told them about asking how she could love my brother]] And she was so fun. She was hilarious. I remember one time, we were talking and somehow Mr. Roach came up. I’ve always called him Mr. Roach, even wrote that on a card for him today. But she looks at me and says, ‘You know his first name is Harry, right?’ I didn’t really know where she was going with this, but I said, ‘Yeah…’ She looks right at me and says, ‘He’s a Harry Roach!’ I remember laughing soooo hard. I kept laughing. And it’s a good thing she pointed that out because I still tell people I know a guy named Harry Roach.”

My “testimony” sounds lame and surfacy to me. I was a little ashamed at myself when I sat down because people were laughing the entire time. It almost seemed inappropriate.

But then I remembered what I had told my friend Schuyler while we were sitting and waiting for the actual service to start. He asked, “Don’t you think it’s a little inappropriate how happy everyone is right now and how everyone’s so glad to see each other?” (Backstory: the church we were in has had sever “splits” or “factions” in which large groups of people left the congregation and some stopped speaking to each other).

“Nah. Kaye would love this! She was so fun, you know that. Plus, think about it, tons of the people here don’t come to church here anymore and some of them haven’t even spoken to each other in years. Some of the people here have probably told some of the other people here they never want to see them together. She’s excited that all these people are here and that she brought them together. She wants us to have fun tonight.”

And it’s true. Kaye would have wanted exactly that.

Dear Anonymous,

Thank you for your comment.  Since you took it down, I will respect your privacy and not post it in its entirety.  However, I am going to quote you as I write my response.

“So I am a person that ALWAYS reads your blog. Every single post.”

This tells me that you’re at least slightly interested in what I have to say.  Whether or not you like it, you do spend the time reading it.

Later, you mention that you don’t criticize my writing for four reasons.  To sum them up:

1.    My writing is too special to me, so critiquing it is too harsh

2.    I didn’t make it clear previously to now that I was open to critique

3.    I need to seek criticism from “qualified” people.  Later you mention that “lot of us aren't the people to tell you”

4.    Because my writing is as personal as it is, it’s more like critiquing me than my craft

My response to those reasons is fairly simple. 

I do understand it being difficult to critique the writing of other people.  That’s why workshop classes can be so intense.  I have a minor in English – mostly creative writing non-fiction – and sometimes class got very heated or very emotional.  Writing a response paper can be intensely emotional. 

It is true that I haven’t specifically requested criticism, however, the way I look at it – a blog with an open comment box sort of asks for it.  So, I just sort of expected it to happen naturally.  But that is something that I could have asked for earlier on in my blog.  Which is also something I expected to happen after writing an assessment of my blog as well as explaining my feelings on trolls and bloggers.

One hundred percent agreement on the third thing.  I do need to seek opinions from “qualified” people.  Which I do.  I have several who read my blog and give their opinions either verbally or through email.  Also, my “real” pieces (i.e.: the 19-page essay I wrote last week) are sent to several people who were/are creative writing majors/minors or have even been published.  However, I want criticism from the “lay” people almost more so than from these “qualified” people because the “lay” people are those who would be purchasing my writing if I do get published at some point.

Writing is always personal.  To clarify: non-fiction writing and personal essay is always incredibly personal.  But that is what I have been trained to write and enjoy writing, so an intense piece written about how hard it was to be at my uncle’s funeral (or what have you) is going to be hard for me have critiqued, but it is an ability that I have chosen to develop and therefore accepting criticism of my personal stories is something I have to be open to.

You continue…

“Stop writing only about yourself. The world is not just about you. Someone who can write like you can could be writing about serious issues… You could make a real difference. You need to decide if you want to.”

I agree that the world is not just about me.  I thoroughly agree.  Those who know me well may go so far as to tell you that I need to think more about myself.  I need to focus on me and be less available to those who need me.  My writing, as stated above, is non-fiction.  Meaning it is about me.  That seems narcissistic, but that’s the craft I’m developing.  Thank you very much for the compliment, however.  It’s awesome to hear you say that I have an ability to make a difference.  My boss read that part and said, “…wants you to change his life, believes you can.”  You, a “lay” person, the Everyman of my blog following, are giving me that credit.  Believing that just the words I type could change a life.

Yes, you do say that I should not wring only about, “how wonderful and talented you have been or what insignificant things have happened in your day,” but at the same time are willing to admit that I can make a difference through this blog.  And go on to say, “I'm a faithful fan and will continue reading. Keep writing.”

My overall response is this:  Please read my blog in a different light.  Read it with the understanding that this blog is written for me as a therapy as well as a way to develop my abilities in creative writing non-fiction.  I don’t have any training (or gifting – trust me) to write poetry or fiction.  I have a passion for writing about what happens to me and around me.  Some of the things that have happened to me are things that I know others can resonate with. 

Also, I am planning on writing (and have cracked the surface) on a book regarding an issue that I don’t want to share on here based on personal reasons.  I will expand on that at some point and will eventually be attempting to get it published.  But, it will have a lot of personal stories in it in order to give me some level of credibility.

I thoroughly appreciated your comment and am glad I have a follower willing to share that with me.  Thank you so much for reading my blog.  Keep it up.

Sincerely,

Kristen

Stats

I want to take this time to express that I'm scared and also to express gratitude to my readers.  Check this out:

I know it's hard to read.  But basically, what it says is that In just the last month, my blog has been read by a TON of people in several different countries.  On another screen, it shows that my blog has been read almost 1100 times since January.  That's quite a bit.

I'm scared because that means I truly have an audience.

I'm thankful because it shows that I have me some support.

So thanks.  And keep reading and know that you make me nervous.  :)

*****'s Block.

Last night, I needed to write.  No ifs, no ands, no buts.  That's what I needed to do.  I had to get things off my chest.  However, there was no point in me writing because it was almost literally gibberish.  I was in the middle of my second page, single-space, 10-pt font when I realized what I had written was worthless shit.  It would have made sense to someone who could read my mind.

That's bad.  Because normally, my writing makes some sort of sense to at least one crazy person.  But reading over what I had written, I started actually worrying about my sanity.  My brain was all over the place.  So, I kept thinking I hard writer's block because I couldn't narrow myself to one topic.  Therefore, I can not decide what kind of block I was suffering from.  The fact that I felt like I got hit by a truck may have something to do with that.  It was like a mental road block.  

That said, I think I know where this came from. 

Last week, I wrote a 19-page personal, braided essay.  Personally, I feel it's really shittily written.  However, I have it in several friends' inboxes right now knowing that they will have invaluable input into my craft.  I also sent it to some non-writers who just enjoy reading (some specifically enjoy reading my writing).  So far, everyone I've heard from have said they like it.

This is slightly problematic.  Reason:  I can not post that on a blog.  Not really because of content, even though content does have it's roll in my decision not to post it.  The issue is that it's 19 pages long.  I have several other longer pieces that I kind of want to post.  

I crave criticism of my writing.  

There is only one way for me to have my "real" pieces criticized.  Get them posted in a spot where I can receive commentary that could help me become a better writer.  To that end, I have decided I have to suck it up and start a website.  For now, It'll mostly revolve around my writing.  Soon... Or something... Maybe I'll add things like video blogging - which, I have to say makes me laugh like hell.  But I've been told that I'd be good at it, so why not give it a shot.  At the very least, I could read (pretend to recite) my blog once a week or something.  And I can have random thoughts on random things and have multiple different types of blogging involved.  For example, I could have a tab that took you to a blog (of my writing) that revolves around music and another link that takes you to more creative writing pieces, and just my personal, whatever-the-hell-I-want-to-write-about writing, and then a link for my personal essays and whatnot.  

My issues with a website are fairly simple.  

• Seems overly confident and a little cocky.  I'm not really either of those things - especially about my writing.  I've always been a fan of "behind the scenes" stuff where I get little recognition.  I really like criticism because I just want to get better.  Don't care if you think it's good already.
• Some of the stuff I would post (the lengthier pieces) would truly make me feel naked to the world.  Which is probably ok, but still scary.

I think those are the two biggest issues.  Anyways, you can thank my life and the shit it's been throwing at me for making me decide I want to plug away at writing and attempt to truly get my crap up on the internet awaiting critique so that I can start truly improving.

You can also thank it for making my posts less and less creative and more and more boring, mundane, and bitchy. 

Gifts

Have you ever been told that you're gifted at something and all you could do was laugh because of how thoroughly you disagreed with the complimentor?

Have you ever been told that you should keep practicing something or doing something because it effects the people around you?


Have you ever given something up because people said you were good at it?

I've had all three of those things happen.  So it sounds like I'm totally tootin' my own horn.  But I'm really not.  Lately, I've been really frustrated by my writing ability.  When I write a story, it's guaranteed that I'll be lacking scene or it'll have too little dialogue or I'll have too much thought rather than actual story.  I have had people offer to publish some of my stuff but I really can't just bring myself to let them because I firmly believe that it isn't my best work.  

This is kind of how I've been my whole life.  My parents always used to call me a jack of all trades and master of none.  It's because every time I started getting really good at something, I quit.  I was a concert pianist level musician when I quit taking lessons because I didn't want to play for people.  I quit directing plays when I finally directed my personal best.  I didn't want to keep on because I didn't want the attention (I got over 300 roses for one show once... bugged the hell out of me - threw 'em all away).  I quit violin because I was getting good and I didn't want to keep being asked to play for things.  I quit baking when I won a baking contest.  The list goes on and on.  I always quit things when I start getting recognition for my abilities.

I'm not sure what it is and it sounds like I'm asking for praise right now.  Like I'm asking to hear someone tell me they love reading my blog.  I die laughing when people say they like my blog.  Unless they point to a specific post that is meant to be funny and is funny and say it's funny.  That's about it.   


I once played at a piano recital - "Joy To The World."  It was an intensely awesome arrangement of the song.  I had a cast on my wrist and still played (played violin in the same recital... I just had to twist my cast to hold my hand in the right place).  After the recital, a woman came up to me with tears in her eyes because of how powerful the piece was when I played it and the emotion I communicated through the piano.  That was the last Christmas recital I ever played.  I played one more recital in my life and only because my parents forced me because I had been excessively rude to my teacher.


My point is, I kind of am a jack of all trades at this point.  I can do anything I put my mind to but want to always be in the background.  Maybe that's why I like writing.  You can't always put a face to writing.  And I think that's why I crave criticism of my writing because obviously all I can do is improve.  Pretty sure I couldn't get worse... And I really want to get better.  I do want to be published one day.  And I'll even let the publisher put my picture near my bio.

My Therapy

I don't have anything against therapy, therapists, shrinks, counselors, support groups, or any other such group or person that people tend to go to when they need emotional or mental "help."  It's just not for me.  I'm my own therapist.  Over the past years, I've developed a finely honed routine for "dealing" with what's going on in my life and have also been blessed with a finely honed, well-trained group of friends who now know how to listed to me put myself through often unnecessary mind-fuckings that throw my whole world into a loop for absolutely no reason.  In this group of friends, I have many who are even willing to participate in my therapy sessions.

The three most-often approached methods of therapy are as follows:

1. Writing Therapy
2. Retail Therapy
3. Body Modification Therapy

None of these is anything incredibly special and first two are fairly common as far as I know.  However, in the past month or so, I have realized how much I have really relied on all three of these therapies to get me through the shit-filled weeks of mind-fucking and ballisticness.

Let me explain:

Writing Therapy

Obviously, I spend some time writing.  This is written.  This past week, I have spent quite a time sitting with a computer in my lap typing and writing and therapizing myself.  I wrote a 19 page personal, braided essay.  It didn't take an incredible amount of time, but long enough that I got some good thinking in and made some personal self-realizations that I really didn't want to make, but needed to make.  Writing is also probably my healthiest form of Therapy as I get the thoughts out and will eventually have someone read it.  It also doesn't do anything permanent to my wallet or my body.  It's also the most effective as I am hoping to one day be published - and obviously need all the practice I can get. 

Retail Therapy

I have a bad habit of shopping when my mood gets crappy.  Get in a fight with my parents, go spend some money.  Have a bad day, go spend some money.  I am not a complete jackass, though, so I do my best to buy things that I need or have wanted for a while.  So, it's not irresponsible.  Because I did learn once that Reverse Retail Therapy - the returning of the crap you bought during your retail therapy session - is not so therapeutic.

Body Modification Therapy

Body Modification Therapy (never to be confused with BM Therapy)  can be the most expensive of my three therapies.  However, Body Modification Therapy comes in three major forms.  For me, it comes in three forms:

1. Tattoos
2. Piercings
3. Hair Dyeing (sometimes cutting)

For the most part, the Body Modification Therapy Categories are valued in that order (most expensive being first).  I've discovered that I tend to get pierced or tattooed when stuff is pretty bad.  If I'm just not doing great, but not doing too badly either, I'll probably stick to dyeing my hair.  But the Therapy of dyeing my hair can last weeks, months, sometimes even years.  

I want to touch on this Therapy the most.  The reason for that is I had a huge  realization while dyeing my hair last night:  I dyed my hair all through high school and college - I was either single or in a bad relationship that whole time.  During the single times, I was also "interested" in guys that I knew wouldn't work out or even didn't work out.  After college, I slowed down with the dye some - but not much.  I didn't have my natural color, but I had colors that looked natural.  Then I started dating again, and for about six months, I didn't change the color at all and my hair style was short enough that I actually got to my normal color about a month before I got dumped.  A week after getting dumped, I had dyed my hair four times - not once did it look natural.  I dyed it again last night.  It's more natural-looking but clearly dyed.

Disclaimer

I think I should make a disclaimer here and clarify that I do deal with my issues through these three forms of Therapy.  However, I also do have a group of people I know I can go to for any reason.  I often do.  I'm blessed with several people I can tell anything to and not get judged, they'll just listen, and will only give advice when they know I want it.  If they aren't sure I want it, they'll ask. 

The Blogosphere, Trolling, Etc.

I blog.  Duh.  I think you figured that out.  I say stupid shit on here, I curse a little bit like a sailor, I bitch, I complain, sometimes I say too much.  And I'm ok with that.  'Cause dammit, that's what a blog is.  It's an open forum for me to say anything I want.  If it gets too vulgar, it'd be wise to put a warning on it.  Maybe I should do that. 

Not only can I say whatever I want on here, but I'm welcoming random readers from across the globe (no, seriously, I looked on my stats) to say whatever they hell they want about things that I post.  Honestly, I get a little nervous about what some people might take away from my blog.  They may get offended or think less of me for whatever reason.  And then maybe they'll share that in a public forum.  But because I have this blog and allow for comments, I'm willing to accept criticism, praise, belittlement, judgment or anything that comes along with the territory of publicly posting my thoughts, my feelings, my emotions, and what I'm dealing with in life.  

For example, what I really want to blogging about right now is something I don't want posted on a public forum.  Not because I don't want to hear other people's thoughts, but because I know my thoughts and the responses I would get could potentially be hurtful to someone who could stumble across my blog.  So, rather than deal with the drama or decide not to allow certain comments to be posted, I'm going to go ahead and not blog about it.

Something that goes hand-in-hand with it are people who post judgmental or overly-opinionated Facebook statuses, Twitter updates, etc and get frustrated by the commentary they receive following.  If you post something angrily or frustratedly, you're going to get a response.  Suck it up.  Or don't post it.  Or post certain things in one forum and only accept people who you know won't piss you off.  My Twitter is a place where I don't accept certain friends.  Based wholly on the idea that I don't want to deal with the responses I would get from some people on my Facebook.

Also, there is a troll following my blog.  Goes by "Anonymous."  I'm totally ok with that.  Anonymous doesn't seem to like me much, but that's totally fine.  I have been a troll on a couple of blogs and random internet threads.  My reasons: 

• I knew the person writing the blog or managing the thread would immediately discredit everything I said if I put my real name. 
• I have actually been shut down by the owner before for stating my opinion.  I was careful not to be rude when writing my responses.  
• I've been shut down by an blog writer for stating my first response, someone taking it out of context and being offended, and then the author also being offended.  Then I was defended and shut down before I could also create my own defense which in turn makes me look like a jackass.

People who do these three things really shouldn't be allowed to blog or publish anything on an open forum.
 
This post was really just meant to complain about my fellow bloggers who have stepped into a world of drama - the internet - without giving it credit for what it can do.  So, before people start getting all internet-savvy and posting blogs and typing crazy Tweets, etc they should be required to understand that it may just make their life more difficult.

That gold tastes like shit.

Remember how I told you in my last post that I was handed a lemon once and I painted that shit gold? Well, when you paint that shit gold, eventually you accept a similar lemon for whatever reason. Let me explain this in a better way.

Freshman year of college. Fell for a dude – basically an albino. At the time, someone I thought was a good guy even though several (dozens) of people told me I could do better and he would hold me back and I shouldn’t date him. Because I’m stubborn, independent and a bit of a bitch, I didn’t listen to these people, even though they truly cared about me, knew me well, and knew him well. We dated for three years. He was mean almost the entire time, I basically supported him (so he could “save money” for when we got “married”), he didn’t show he cared, and I’m pretty sure he never really did care about me. He cared about what we looked like to others and he would pretend in public that he cared about me, but when people weren’t around, he “fucking hated” me and wanted me to “go fuck” myself. I later found out that he was allowed to talk to his mom this way because she would just fall to pieces and not reprimand him. He actually told me he thought this behavior was ok. It’s actually worse than all that, but certainly not something I’m going to post on the internet.

Then, suddenly, he didn’t want to be with me anymore. He didn’t want to be around me. He accused me of cheating on him (in public with a mutual friend of ours). Then we were finally completely over. All the sudden, he really cared about me and was even in denial about us not being together anymore. He even told his parents that we were “on a break” (very Ross and Rachel of him). I got reprimanded by another mutual friend of ours in class for cheating on him – so untactfully that several people who didn’t even really know me stood up for me and told her to back down. The teacher even threatened her “participation” grade.

After that dude was out of my life, I was pretty sure I didn’t want to have anything to do with dudes on a romantic level. Which, you know, seems like a kneejerk reaction. However, I had never really been excited about marriage or babies, any of that marital “bliss” that I hear about. I didn’t really see it as something that could be bliss. For about a year and a half, I was fairly successful at not having any type of relationship besides friendship. Then I had a crush on a guy who is now a good friend of mine and we sorta dated (but not really). And then on an air force pilot that was mostly just attractive. Sweet, but hard to listen to ‘cause he was so hot. This was me attempting to paint that shit gold.

This year, around April sometime, I met a dude through a friend’s facebook wall. He wasn’t that cute in his profile picture. He said I was cute, though (but, duh…). Eventually, we started dating. Somehow, he broke through my steely exterior, thrashed through some thorns, and found my freaking chocolate pudding heart that I had even hidden from myself. Not to say that he “has my heart” or that I’m in love with him. But he did definitely shoot down anything that made me think that romantic or “lovey” feelings for someone was completely impossible. He changed me from a cold, heartless bitch into someone who was able to feel an emotion I have avoided for my whole life and have only felt in a forced way. He made me very vulnerable in way that was good for me to experience. Til now.

I can’t believe I’m typing things that are this cheesy.

So, that was the similar lemon the world handed me. I had painted the first one gold in order to eventually handle a new “relationship.” But it really was a lemon. I got dumped (for reasons I’m not going to share on here). The reasons were acceptable to me (not to some of my friends). And I’m ok with them. I really am. But it’s one of those weird places to be. I’m left feeling helpless, not hopeless (not sure if I should be hopeful either, though) and wondering what’s going to happen next. Wondering if this lemon is really only a lemon. Kind of hoping that it’s a lemonhead and the sour will go away and flood me with sweetness.

Gotta say, though, right now, still just tastes like shit. It’s not a happy place to be. I’m sort of afraid I’m going to have to pull out my gold paint again and find a damn paint brush to get this lemon coated in gold. But, if I had to guess, I’m never gonna paint it gold, and I’m not going to make lemonade. Unless this is really a lemonhead, I’m pretty sure that I’ll probably add a layer of steel, maybe some poisonous thorns, and just chill on my own. I have a damn awesome life without a dude. Just… I don’t know. Felt good to be wanted like that and felt good to know that I was safe. Though, I guess safety is fleeting.

I guess I gotta decide what to do with this fucking lemon.

When life gives you lemons...

Paint that shit gold!

Or just make lemonade, whatever floats your boat.

Anyhow… there’s a point to this.  Life’s been kinda handing me lemons lately.  And this whole thought is going to have to be more than one post.  Because it’s been handing me lemons hardcore the last few days.  But the only reason one of the lemons was so sour is because I had received a similar lemon, and had painted it gold.  Then got the lemon back and it was so sour, I teared up.  Which is saying something since I’m not an emotional person.

This week.  Boiled down.  Ridiculously insane and taxing.  It started a few weeks ago when my grandma had to be taken into the hospital.  She was about a day away from being bad enough that she may not have been able to bounce back.  It was a tough time because of some family issues that were coupled with that as well as it’s just always taxing to have to make several trips to the hospital to visit someone you are care about and discuss the pain they’re in.  A few days after she got admitted to the hospital, a dear friend of mine, Mary ended up in the hospital with cracked ribs. 

At first, I thought Mary would be fine – she’s tough, I thought.  Then a couple days after that, she and her son Pete decided that they should have a feeding tube put in her stomach so she would be capable of getting more nutrition.  Within a week, she passed away from complications involving c-diff and pneumonia. 

That was Wednesday.

Fortunately, my grandma is doing much better and gaining weight and will even be able to swim within a week.  But, now she’s home.  She’s old, my grandpa’s older.  They have to be taken care of.  I spend at least an hour every day with them – which doesn’t seem like it should be too taxing.  However, it’s often quite a bit longer than an hour and often involves quite a bit of work and is usually somewhat inconvenient. 

Not that I’m complaining, but when you’re 23, a friend passes away, you get dumped, you’re having car problems, and your friends “need” you and your grandparents are time consuming, life kinda gets to you. 

This would be an instance of life handin’ me lemons.  Gotta be honest, though.  Haven’t made lemonade out of it yet.  Nor have I painted it gold.  And I’m going to guess I haven’t finished processing all of this yet based on the lack of creativity of this post.  And the fact that it’s semi-bitchy. 

I have to say, though, having all that going on at once, really, really got to me.  I don’t cry.  I’m just not a crier.  I sobbed this weekend.  So hard that I heaved over and over and went through tons of tissues and had makeup streaming down my face.  I even let Jonathan’s dad see me cry.  And be concerned about me.  Between the sorrow and the stress, I just couldn’t take it. 

And I swear I’m not a baby girl.  I just couldn’t handle it.  I think the thing that topped it off was the one lemon that was similar to the one I got handed years ago and had painted gold.  But, again, that’s a whole other post.