Insights into the Average Girl

I want to say it all..

Do you know how hard it is to write honestly when the person you're dating reads your journal? It's an interesting conquest. Every word in the sentence is a piece of you and every piece of you is a potential part he could reject. And rejection scares the hell out of me.

It's part of the reason, I am so...me. Mysterious is how Garth(an old one-fail date) put it, but I call it guarded. I think I've accomplished a lot though for 2 months, I think we're on the right path.

Paths, by the way, also scare me..(Let me just devote this entire entry to my list of fears..)
Want to know the path I want (not necessarily on)?..Well, I'll share my dream path-- if all I'm considering is me, because to put down a path that includes someone else, I may freak a few people out, because after all, it has only been two months. RambleRambleRambleAnyways.

I want to work for a publishing company. Random House for instance. I want to edit and play with words. I want to discover beautiful stories and share them with the world. I want a family of people who love books and who love each other. I want to live in Connecticut. Or Maryland. Or Massachusetts. Or Virgina, or even North Carolina. And I want to write a book. I have my snippets picked out...or handed to me really..I'm just missing the plot..heh.
Know what my major is? I bet you don't, because my Facebook lies. English:Creative Writing. Minor:Journalism-Public Relations

Want to know when I graduate: There's no telling. Not on time, that's for sure...But I'm content with this. I have other tasks to attend to.

Like learning how to love someone more then myself.
Like saving for an internship that's going to take me into the business bustle of New York for ten weeks.
Like learning how to sew, so I can finally stop searching stores for the designs in my head.
Like singing & playing one song in front of a crowd, just to prove I can.
Like getting to know my Savior, my Father, and my only hope in making it anywhere at all.

I wanted to tell it all, but I'm not so sure I'm ready for the world to see my downfall.

Scratched Out & Painted White

I am blank...Or rather, I am crumpled at the bottom of your book bag, covered in scribbles and doodles and scratch-out marks. Yep, that is me, the worthless girl.

It's funny, I never thought I'd be here. Or anywhere near here. I was this shy, reserved, avoid-all-human-interaction girl. I was that girl who cried if the teacher picked on her, who dreaded recess, and lunch hour...

Nonetheless, here I am, pursuing a career in journalism and crossing my fingers that I can become fearless in a matter of months..
Perhaps I should just retreat back to my book haven. I can become a frizzy-haired, cat-owning recluse who stays within the walls of her familiar sanctuary writing pages upon pages of life through characters. There's no failure in that.

These fears and doubts are off topic however, and so I am back to my principal statement: I am blank.

I am blank in a way that I can't describe...Possibly because my words are being swallowed by blankness and taking my thoughts right along with them.

Oh, what's that Professor, you want an opinion...?

____________________________________________________.




Crap.

Sick, Gross, & Ugly

If I had to pick a time from my entire existence where I shouldn't be dating someone, this would be it.
I am bruising at the slightest touch, breaking out consistently, turning an ugly shade of yellow, dizzy with too many movements, painstakingly exhausted, and loathing myself for every moment of it. My self-esteem level is somewhere in the negatives and I can't remember the last time I actually felt pretty, let alone healthy.
Not a good time for someone to get to know me. But I can't decide if that's because I'm not myself or because I'm myself at my worst.?

I need everything to just stop and time to recoup. I need my bed.

dipping into the shallow end

I absolutly loathe myself today.

I am in such a place of annoyance that I can't even muster up a decent explanation of self-hatred. Let's start with the fact that for several days I keep waking up to tiny, evil, flaky, red bumps who are clearly on a mission to destroy my mouth. I have thrown out my usual makeup, I have chunked my chapsticks, I have started actually drinking water, my pillows have been washed, and to my cat's displeasure-- so was she. I should be safe. I should be confident as I leave my house, and I shouldn't be honestly considering holing up until the offensive rash has decided to part...But here I am with a towel over my face and the sudden bewilderment that perhaps maybe, this rash was given to me for a purpose. Do I care more about my outisides than my insides?

And once again, He comes down to my level to bring me up to his.

Girls & Trees

This past week has probably weilded more odd moments from me then the entire past year.
I can blame this primarily on the hormones coursing throughout my body, but also on the fact that it's June and June was our month.
Friday, I found myself in a darkened store with Madie (my cat) to keep me company, while the tornado sirens (located conviently and directly behind our store) attempted to both warn and deafen us. I was fine. I was alone and slightly freaked out, but I was fine.
I was fine the entire drive home, through the makeshift four-way stops and branch covered streets, I was happy almost. Natural disasters have a way of unifying us, don't they?
I was fine, up until the point where I turned into my driveway and found our tree split in half. Partly standing, partly dead.
And then came the tears. Tears that I can't give a name to, can't find something for them to stand for.

Except possibly, that I am a mess. A wreck of a girl who has nothing to say and everything to hide from. If I sit here and think, I'm sure I could create symbolism between me and that tree..But that would be something to say. And I'm content for the moment on being my own natural disaster.

I have retreated. I live a life of routine. For 8 hours, I am forced to resurface into the world, within the walls of a health-crazed dog store.

This week, I decided to reread the Harry Potter series. Probably not a wise choice, if I was planning to actually live this week.



Perhaps I should backtrack. I haven't always been this way. Just 2 weeks ago, I was driving up the east coast, stopping everywhere and anywhere along the way. We helped move some Yale kids out of their dorm, we walked purposefully and fast through Manhattan (we were very untouristy...focused more on becoming New Yorkers for the day). This accounts for why there are no pictures of NY. We splurged on an actuall place to stay in Maine, choosing a nice (and expensive) Inn, equipped with hard wood floors (my favorite) and a jacuzzi placed perfectly before the TV set..We decided that we would wear our bathingsuits when using it, but that quickly went out the window. I learned how not to notice things from the corner of my eye.



But see? I used to be alive. I didn't always exist soley through my mind and the pages before me.

Reoccuring, Restless, Reality

It's odd how different the church seems when there's nobody left in the building. The halls are cloaked in this empty sadness, and every second of silence becomes a little more eerie.
I know these halls though. I could find my way to the preschool building blindfolded, provided I don't trip and fall first...Bringing me to my first concern--a flashlight would be a comforting welcome. And flipping a light switch, would be both too easy and frightening, for just as I could see better so could anybody else.
In 1993 there were 1,285 doors in Bellevue, of course that was before they added the new wing. I've lost count now. But the point is, that of all these doors, of all these possible hideaways--at least ONE would be unlocked. Nope, the Bellevue security staff should be given props for that. I am trapped within the somber hallways and the echoing stairwells.
I just want out. Nothing else, only freedom, and the ability to turn corners without looking back. Can't I leave this behind?

a night before change

It was the night before our Savior was born--in memory anyways-- and all I could feel was..this distinct awareness of being microscopic and alone in this hell of a world. It didn't matter that I had someone to see a movie with, and then someone to come home to. Or even that I know the true meaning of Christmas.. I was still apart somehow.

I was walking Louie and Dakota later that evening. It was just us three,under the stars and circling the lake on a quiet Christmas Eve. It brought to mind the famous Bible story of the three wise men...I wondered how they had felt that night. Certainly not comparable to my mood of bleakness. Instead, I imagined they felt a lot how I used to feel on Christmas Eve...Those times when I was snuggled up under the covers with new pajamas and freshly brushed teeth. I was impatient, and charged with eagerness of awakening to the presents Santa had left me. I couldn't sleep. I could hardly stay still. The excitement, the anticipation--could this be how the Magi had felt--walking miles, on the faith of a star, to meet the One who would save us?

I longed to feel that way for something bigger then life. I can't say how many miles we walked around that lake. With me praying..begging for a semblance of understanding. I was searching for a star to guide me somewhere..anywhere else.

Sunken and disconsolate, I ended the walk and drove home. I put in a worship cd--for it was still soon to be His day, whether I felt the "right" way or not.



Never underestimate the power of music. The power of words, composed with the melody of voices. Harmonized with the struggles and strengths of other human beings.
I was in tears within seconds. I was screaming within minutes. I was letting it all go..And I was comforted. For "Fear thou not; for I am with thee: be not dismayed; for I am thy God: I will strengthen thee; yea, I will help thee; yea, I will uphold thee with the right hand of my righteousness." Isaiah 41:10

Odd Sundays & Callowness

I don't quite know what to do with myself today.

Thoughts are too incoherent to make a whole.


I am still avoiding You...
I painted my nails the color of Christmas, a happy red, far from how I actually feel.
I painted them on a Will Smith vinyl. And was almost done with the second hand before I realized that that is all I ever do with that record, which is rather disrespectful. Decided to put it on...Learned it was better for the nails.
I had an entire conversation with my dad today. And it didn't end in tears.
But a game of "Blurt" with Laura did.
Those crazy, hormonal thoughts had me sobbing about not knowing words--and yet I was an English major. It was disheartening irony.
I smoked a cigarette and oil pasteld a superman symbol on Victor's extremely belated birthday card. I then preceded to write him a poem of awful cheesiness.
I ate potatoes out of can and cooked broccoli for dinner. Potatoes..from a can.
I refused to read Ester or Job today.
Finished Blue Like Jazz instead.

"God risked Himself on me. I will risk myself on you. And together we will learn to love, and perhaps then, and only then, understand this gravity that drew Him, unto us." -Donald Miller

dally, dwindle, dawdle

You would think with school being out I'd be a little more relaxed...instead I'm bustling about through one task to another project, hopelessly chasing my tail, and pacing the house in utter restlessness.

Yesterday, I began a sketch book...only with my lack of drawing skills its morphing into more of a scrapbook type deal.

The day before, I came home from work--to clean my bathtub. I scrubbed. I used a toothbrush.I inhaled what's probably considered too much bleach. And rather then taking the time to enjoy my amazingly shiny and sterile work by immersing myself beneath lavender bubbles, I opted to do the dishes. My laundry.And Laura's laundry.

I have spent hours on the piano. Hours on the internet--Christmas shopping.Hours walking dogs that don't belong to me. Hours of frivolousness. But nothing compares to the hours I spent Monday (my official day of freedom) on MATA bus 285.

It was too tempting. If the bus would have just stopped a few feet further down Walker Avenue instead of blocking my path to the parking lot, time would have passed differently. But I was finished with classes, with finals, with thinking about birth control and its relations to chemistry. I was liberated. And the bus door was ajar. And the driver was smiling. And there was no hesitation.

I rode. I people watched. I thought. I learned Ms.Gerda's entire bus route. But I didn't come out any different a person, as I think I hoped for. There were no lessons or secrets learned. Just time spent, doing everything but what I've been avoiding.