What do you say to taking chances?

Depression is like that puppy that keeps coming to wimper at you while you really just want to leave the house. It's a knife that stabs you in the back when you least expect it. It's something you triumph over only to succumb to it at the downfall of your highest point. Yesterday I went to visit my Grammy at the assisted living she is in. We sent her flowers and they were on the table when we got there. She still thinks it is temporary and that she isn't staying there. I am going to make a sign for her door that says Sharon so maybe she will feel a little more like it is her new home. She finally took a shower. The problem is that we come to visit and can't even say goodbye because she tries to leave with us. She ran out of the house yesterday after we left and my mom had to peel out of the parking lot. I can't function without saying goodbye. I want her to be ok with the house but she won't be. I don't want her to forget my face, but I saw the very beginnings of that yesterday. She's going. I'm going to start borrowing the car and driving over there after school somedays to visit alone, because I can escape easier that way. Then I went to see Dear John with The Troop. It was a GREAT movie and I tried so hard not to cry. But now there is major friend drama over me even going. People claim I didn't tell them about it, and that it was a secret date. Well if I actually was going on a date, I'd be shouting it to everyone. It's ridiculous to be cursed out over facebook because your friends like the same person and can't handle the two of you simply seeing a movie. I've never tasted friend drama like this before and it's like a punch to the gut. I just don't know anything anymore. I need to take SAT's again but I keep forgetting to sign up. I need to clean my room because one week at school made it messy again. I was hoping to have applied for a summer job somewhere already but Amy hasn't changed the application yet like she said she would. I'm a wreck today, when yesterday I was floating on clouds. Interesting to say the least.

Self Imposed Obligations and Singles Awareness Day

I should be at school right now but I have an appointment later so I am skipping the first half of the day; which is the perfect time to talk about Valentine's Day. There are several key steps to spending it as a single:
1. Turn on Michael Buble, Amy Kuney, Danielle Ate the Sandwich, and Julia Nunes.
2. Slather on excessive amounts of too bright for your skin tone red lipstick. (tips and tricks.)
3. Find your frilliest shirt and beautify yourself....don't bother with real pants though because you're not really going anywhere.
4. Open a can of, heat up, and eat Chef Boyardee ravioli (with cold centers.)
5. Read the Valentine's Day PostSecret blog.
6. Let your puppy kiss you and kiss you and kiss you and kiss you and kiss you and then wander off to eat out of his food bowl.
7. Work on your "weddingbook".
8. Smile. That's the key.

I'm just gonna go with the story that Chef was my Valentine. But on another completely opposite note I did go to church for the first time in months. erm. yeah.
The Troop and I are going to see Dear John tonight and I am so excited, but so nervous. Taking Chances.

Monologues

Today I discovered a hair on my chinny-chin-chin. It was most depressing.
I cried watching My Sister's Keeper.
My grandmother is a numismatist...
I might go see Valentine's Day with my mom. I need to write something about 'Vday' but I don't want any obligations.
There is an art project in the works scattered across my floor.
I bought embroidery floss to make friendship bracelets today. The bracelets are for myself because no one makes me any.
And I am now the proud owner of a pocket NIV Bible with a leather cover to carry in my purse.

Saw this sign while out shopping with my mom.
Look at those icicles on my PopPop's place! Hangin' on...

Naturally

 

11:22. Ok I am ending the drought. Nothing spectacular has happened to influence this decision, but more like a conglomeration of inspirations gave me drive to write again. Now nothing in my life is perfect. And maybe that's the best thing there can be. I love that people come to me for advice and instead it makes me analyze myself. I spent a good half hour on the phone with The Troop (and that's how I will refer to him.) just now and it made me realize that I am not qualified to give someone an elaborate and eloquent solution to the viscious circle when my life has been in shambles. On the contrary, I'm learning to LISTEN. And that excites me. I cleaned my room yesterday soley because of this song/video. I was drawn in by the clean lines, the fashion, and the smile. Yeah it's a little dramatic and teenyboppers are not supposed to be the influence for a clean room. But I was tired of grasping for perfection yet not having the WILLPOWER to reach the earthly equivalent.
For the first time ever I watched the entire Super Bowl and actually understood football. No I didn't do it because I like football that much (which can be proven by my desire for the Colts to win because they had prettier colors and Peyton Manning), but it's something that I'd never done before so I figured I could try. Something easy and entertaining to succeed at. Also, yesterday I spent over an hour sitting and talking to my Grammy. It was hard and I felt like I was rambling on for no reason. But I needed to realize that I haven't lost her yet. We talked and laughed and I glimpsed some of the past that I have been longing for. Then John went into the hospital with a potential heart attack. I was scared for him (or what I told The Troop scared me). He needs a heart cath today and I pray it goes alright. We couldn't lose him.
Everything's going to be just fine because I am getting off this hormonal gotta find a boy kick and I know that someday I'll have the one. It's alright to wait. Now granted I still don't want to be alone on Valentine's day, but there is always the jilted ex excuse that it's such a Hallmark holiday. I guess I've been trying to fix myself and do more for others at the same time. And I am noticing the failure of this method. So that's why I've been neglecting some people for a while. I'll get back on track soon. I have a plan for the day (or a couple); and there's always the option of building a snowman with the 2 feet of snow on our lawn. No school for the week? Quite plausible.

I'm singing again. I haven't been able to belt out a tune even alone for these months. But now I am an opera.
....brotheriamfire.

Sadness Pervades My Soul

Sadness pervades my soul. And then significantly less eloquent than a well thought out sentence, I cry. The tears flow freely from my face as more people learn of my heart breaking. Today I found out that my Marine advisor from Basic Leadership Training this summer, had hung himself on December 3rd. Corporal Andrew William Marrari was only 24 years old. This summer he was engaged to be married in 2011. He was my inspiration, the bane of my existence, and someone to laugh with during the best and worst week of my life. I stand by that. It seems impossible. A young man with so much going for him. A marine that changed my life. If it weren't for Angelface, I would never be holding the position I am today. There are people set in your path to swerve you left and right. Corp, you were that person for me.
I found out at the peak of a lot of other issues tumbling down on me. It was unexpected. I'm not that strong, and no my mascara is not waterproof. This got me thinking some more, after feeling as though I had made some revolutionary breakthrough last night. I talked to a great friend of mine for a while, on the floor of the gym, with volleyballs whizzing by. Maybe the lesson I need to learn this year (that I have been aware of but never believed) is that I DO NOT have all the answers. I can't fix every situation. And I am most assuredly NOT expected to comprehend all that life encompasses. I need to embrace confusion, frustration, doubt, indecisiveness, and fear of the unknown.
I also thought some about suicide. Most people don't know this, but I was as close as I'll ever come to killing myself this summer. I was on the roof, with my father screaming in my ear, telling me it wouldn't matter if I did; the hospital was only 15 minutes away and I wouldn't bleed to death by then. Honestly, it wasn't even the brink, because I could have never done it. But that's just it, I have a release. I was thinking about this on the bus today while I was crying again. Some people cut themselves, get wasted, get high, attack others, are bulimic, or even anorexic. A lot of these self afflictions are because they make people release. I equate writing to cutting. You dig deep and bring up all the things that make you sorrowful, lonely, and longing. You twist the words, embellish them, attract attention, and all for what? To have that feeling of elation when you hit publish and the world can see your emotions finally. When they are verbalized in the only way you know how. This is my self affliction. This is my wound.

Here's another thought. A resolution with no other place to be written. I am going to attempt to take more pictures from my perspective and not of myself. I want to rid myself of the vanity other's see and that I suppose is there. I want to remember what I SAW and not what I was wearing, or looked like. I want to remember the outside.

So thank you life, thank you Corporal, thank you sir. I don't understand AND THAT'S OKAY!!!!

"Open me up and you will see
I'm a gallery of broken hearts
I'm beyond repair, let me be
And give me back my broken parts"
Be Ok (Ingrid Michaelson)

Dear Samantha

"She lacks the indefinable charm of weakness." Oscar Wilde

"When I go for a drive I like to pull off to the side
Of the road, turn out the lights, get out and look up at the sky
And I do this to remind me that I'm really, really tiny
In the grand scheme of things and sometimes this terrifies me.
But it's only really scary cause it makes me feel serene
In a way I never thought I'd be because I've never been
So grounded, and so humbled, and so one with everything" Kimya Dawson (I Like Giants)

"Character is higher than intellect. A great soul will be strong to live as well as think. " Ralph Waldo Emerson

It’s taken me ages to write this. It’s taken me longer than it should to feel. It’s been too long since I’ve let myself react, feel, love, have, truly cry, or sing with a passion for tomorrows. I want to please people. I want to be approachable. I don’t want to mope. I want to write about my ADVENTURES and not my sorrows. I want joy and faith and salvation and inspiration and productivity and hearth. I need air.
Do you ever realize how easy it is to lay in bed thinking in eloquent speeches, come up with philosophical arguments and ponderings, truly put the conflicts of the recent months into a context of solution? But the warmth beneath these covers would rather hold me captive and draw me into a fitful sleep than allow me the simple energy to grab the flashlight that lays next to my bed, get a pen, and just jot something down on a post it note. I used to; well of course then I would wake up to an unusual amount of scattered sentences with grammar errors in big sloppy highlighter writing. But, they combined to form me. My thoughts mold and melt and form the molten essence that allows for interpretation of experienced experiences. I often take too much of a step back to look at my situations so that I become detached from them. I feel regretful that I cry when I hear a Disney channel star singing about love and it makes me lonely. I hate not feeling wanted, because in my head, there’s not a single reason in the world NOT to want me. Yet no one does.

I find it hilarious that adults have taken to calling me disrespectful and full of attitude, that because I am right or even wrong, they’d rather let their emotions win (and claim logic) while they rant in tones usually associated with those of 2 year olds. I was taught respect. I learned discipline. So when I TRY SO HARD to utilize those lessons and not step on the toes of others, or take things with a calm grain of salt, I am suddenly the one you are “walking on eggshells” around. Do people not realize that our comments and criticisms are mirrors. I can be moody and grumpy. But more often than that I am a listener, an advisor, a comic relief, or a shoulder to cry on. I want you to come and cry. So why don’t you want me to?

Now listen here, creativity is what has shaped our WORLD, and SOCIETY. Art and thought, recipes, scents, fashion, writing, reading, singing, laughing, even writing laws is a creative development of our minds. I can see the future I want in front of me, but the steps to getting there have crumbled and I don’t have the cement or the grit to rebuild them. I can see myself in the kitchen trying new holiday cookie recipes, or designing a dress for my daughter, or laughing over something with my husband, working at preserving history in a field that I’ll work my butt off to become involved in.

Yeah, so maybe my church abandoned me. So maybe my father kicked me out. So maybe I’m just the person you come and ask answers from despite the fact that I care about you more than a name or an acquaintance and know indefinitely more about you than you could ever me. So maybe I didn’t finish my novel because I’m a slacker, and I didn’t think of a new year’s resolution because I SIMPLY forgot. Maybe I’m vain and selfish, beautiful and undiscovered. Silly, confused, inquisitive, descriptive, glittery, sloppy, philosophical, argumentative and LOUD. That’s me. I was born 17 years ago to a loving mother with a loving counterpart and I wouldn’t trade them for the world. I met a man who’d adopt me as his own and if I had a better memory and less blush might call Dad or sir. I rose above adversity.

Yet for some reason this time it seems different. I’ve told more than one person that I feel as though God has thrown situations into my path, taught me to solve problems, yet not allowed for a solution in these. I want one, but maybe the NEW lesson is that there is none. There is only forgiveness IN THE MAKING, and future in the front.

I make promises I know I can’t keep. I laugh when I want to cry. But hey, it’s just dawning on me now that I’m A LOT like any other teenager in America, and that while my problems are bad and I want a pillow to scream into, someone next to me is probably feeling the same. At first this notion made me feel robbed. How dare they create me without uniqueness, how dare we all be human? Gasp. Then I rethought as I often find myself doing.

The year is 2010. A new decade. Last year was brilliant and devastating. I shamed myself and others. I learned and grew, flew and soared and crashed and burned. I’ll remember 2009, the year I was 16, as my transition from childhood to a semblance of adulthood. Now these first few days of January have been hard on me, honestly. But I think in taking my friends’ advice and writing this and rambling incoherently, I may know why. To switch consciously from these two stages is like a fissure in life. It’s disrupting, but overcome-able.

I plan on reading more nonfiction. Becoming more organized. Embracing stress. Not making the jokes to fit in, but laughing for the simple pleasure of togetherness. I plan on waiting. PATIENCE. COURAGE and STRENGTH. Womanhood, ladyship, confidence and development of instinct. Noting the little things.

Current Reading List:
The Voyage of the Dawn Treader
The Professor and the Madman
Julie and Julia
History as Art and Science
My Sister’s Keeper
The Time Traveler’s Wife
On the Art of Life and Vice Versa
For Whom the Bell Tolls

Dear Samantha, courage and compassion are virtues. Don't be halted by the inconsiderate lackies of your enemy, for they shall rule your life if you are. Stand strong, press forward, and love. Sincerely, Your Conscience

Hello, and Good-morning Sunshine.

Cruelty of Mind

"Every man's memory is his private literature.” Aldous Huxley

Now think about a world without that book, without that diary, where a giant eraser scrubs the penciled in notes for the moment from your thought and you are lost. That's the way I picture Alzheimer's and it kills me. My grandmother's memory is being cruelly ripped from her every minute of everyday. She wanders around the house at all hours of the night, thinks there are people there and can't remember what you told her literally 3 minutes ago. “You never know when you're making a memory.” I guess that can go the opposite way as well. You never know when you are losing a memory either. How much can the capacity of your mind really retain. Memories are triggered in the present by other relateable instances. I can't stand sitting with her because she forgets and it makes me so sad. Some get frustrated with her, but she can't control it. She's become more aggressive and just outright mean. It hurts. It's confusing. Will it happen to me? Is it generational? How can we help? Is the only option putting her somewhere? God, how do we have the tools to handle this disease that is eating the brain of your daughter? I miss my Grammy and the person she used to be. She is still in there somewhere and the day she forgets my name will be the day I truly break down.

If memories define the way you view daily life then it must be concluded that the losing of them only reverts you back to childlike natures when you had a simpler temperament, less judgement of right and wrong, and your mouth got you in more trouble. I hate knowing this about her and having to explain it. I hate that the waitresses at Cracker Barrell that see her everyday think they know everything about her and my Major when really I am their family. I know them better! I'm losing my elders and it's selfish of me that I haven't taken more time to know them. I feel like I have a lot of regrets in life and I want to purge myself of them. But I am scared.

One need not be a chamber to be haunted;
One need not be a house;
The brain has corridors surpassing
Material place.
~Emily Dickinson, "Time and Eternity"

I've been hiding and I need to address that. I hide from loneliness and sitting here on the computer envying others. I've been neglecting personal relationships with relatives because I feel like I cannot reciprocate in my present state. It's a viscious circle and for once in my life can honestly not deny depression at times. I hide because I know those things are detrimental. But honestly, how is taking on 15 extra curriculars any healthier for me. I am tired all the time. Despite working out a ton I am not losing weight from all this stress. I feel like I'll never not envy Lizz and Lacey. I feel like I'm a failure. I took the SAT's this morning and it kills me that I can't get a perfect score. I hate that depsite everything I try to do and prove, I can't even get a decent guy to notice. My mom says that maybe I am intimidating to them. Maybe so, but I try to be approachable. I cling to childhood wonder because I feel like in growing up it becomes ever fleeting and unacceptable, but I don't want to lose that. I want my coloring pages and Winnie the Pooh anthology, because they taught me to be the person I am today.

On another note: Today was the first snow of winter. It was bittersweet.

I can't

People shouldn't say those words. But in a profound sense they are true of everyone. I can't cry tonight despite the fact that tears are welling up in my eyes. I can't get over how he put me out and doesn't even ask about me. I can't hide my bitterness. I can't fake being okay anymore. I can't believe that my friends are hurting and I have no way of getting to them. I want to fall in love so much that it's killing me despite the common sense of waiting for God. I want to be noticed for myself and not for my grade point average.
I have a history assignment this week to write an essay (sort of a practice on writing) on why I am the greatest human being ever to have lived. I just don't have that kind of vanity in my heart to even try.
What is it about intelligent beautiful people that is so intimidating?
Why doesn't it rain like it used to in Washington?
How can you just live without thinking about your actions and their affects on others.
If you need to hear it tonight, know that I love you. Because people should hear that more often and not think of it as just an inadequate response to a friend. It's true.
Lately I am so scared. My grandmother's alzheimer's is getting worse and I am afraid that I am going to develop it too when I get to be her age. I still think about being in an accident everytime I get into a car. Would they visit? I doubt it.

"never knew love was a fad
you fooled me bad
wish you were easy to hate
but i'm stuck in the middle for now
wondering how
i entertain this debate
and i'd like to get over
i'd like to get over you"

Expiration Date by Pomplamoose

Here's a quick anecdote about how people never cease to amaze me:
My mom and I were in the check-out line at Walmart tonight buying some canned meat. Yes, canned meat. Don't bash it until you have tried my momma's chipped beef gravy. Anyway, this really nerdy register guy with a nasally voice persisted to hassle us. Out of all our other items on the counter he picks up and examines the meat. He proceeds to look back and forth from it to my mom. Then exclaims, "This looks like something that belongs in a science lab!" Well, ok, haha you're not funny but thanks for trying. What really aggravates me is that he continued. "Like I don't know maybe a worm intestine or something. In fact I think my biology teacher had something like this in cabinet....only she called it a squid." *cricket cricket* Yes thank you Mark the Walmart boy for examining our food, commenting on how you find it repulsive, and not ceasing to hold back your word vomit. Since when has it ever been ok to talk about other people's food? That's just common etiquette. And Mark, for the record, Ethiopians hate you for talking about food as if it was disposable. I'm gonna eat my canned meat and enjoy it thank you very much. And yes my family did just process a deer in our garage last night, want to criticize that? haha rant over...
As of right now I have 1,657/50,000 words of my novel for NaNoWriMo written. Still going strong. I may post excerpts as I go along.

Writing Sample 1

I wrote this freshman year for creative writing club. The prompt was that it had to have a bottle, paperclips, and an office in it. Enjoy:

“Cherry Soda”

A ray of light filtered through the blinds that hung loosely over the window. I could see the dust swirling around in the lazy air. It was entrancing. A soft cough from the corner drew me from my daydreaming. I looked over to my husband; his forehead marked with wrinkles as he concentrated on whatever he was thinking. I glanced over my shoulder to see what he was looking at and was greeted with the familiar sight of a mahogany desk sitting squatly in the middle of the room. It smelled like lemons, mint and pipe tobacco in this office room. I remembered the same smell from years past. The nameplate on the desktop was a bit dusty and the engraved letters were an off white. It said in big bold obnoxious letter “Andrew Hopeston”. Just running the name through my head again was agonizing and I guessed that wrinkles were appearing on my forehead as well. This was the office of my grandfather. My beloved sturdy grandfather, whom I missed increasingly each day. He had died in his sleep unexpectedly three days prior.

This bright spring morning Pete, my grandfather’s intern had let Nate and I into his office to go through his papers and get his estate in order. We had a lot of information processing to do this afternoon. My brother wanted memorable items for display at the funeral, my lawyer wanted me to sift through all of the business and legal documents the office contained. But before we took on that monumental task, we were taking an awestruck moment to remember all that had passed in this open office with its garnet red walls and bookshelves towering over our heads. I walked over and sat down next to Nate, taking his hand, closing my eyes, resting my head against his shoulder and sighing. The memories came pouring back.

My first memory of this office was a week before school started the year I turned nine. Unlike all of the other kids that lived in our neighborhood, my mother and father could not afford summer camp or a trip to the beach that year. It was mostly because they were going through a long and stressful divorce that occupied most of their funds at the time. I didn’t quite understand the situation, but was happy enough to oblige when they told me I could go to work with Grandpa Drew and read to my heart’s content. It was about 3:30 in the afternoon and I was lying on the floor coloring a princess page that my trusty Grandpa had printed out for me. I heard his chair creak and knew that he must be taking a break and leaning back into the soft leather. I twisted my neck around and smiled up at him happily. He was already smiling back, his strong arms up and his leathery hands behind his head. He pulled them down, braced them against the seat of his chair and heaved himself up gracefully. Walking out of the office, he grinned slyly at me and returned carrying two bottles of a bright red liquid. I twisted the top off mine and the overwhelmingly sweet and sticky smell of fizzy cherry soda reached my nose. I was beaming as big as if I had a slice of watermelon for a mouth.

He sipped his soda looking at me over the rim of the bottle’s opening, his right hand played with the paperclips strewn over his desk. An idea struck me. I wanted to teach my wise old grandpa something special that day. I leaped from my relaxed position sitting Indian style on the floor and went to his side. I picked up two paperclips and connected them making a two-link chain. He caught on quickly and we spent the next hour making paperclip chains and stringing them over the shelves of the bookcases. We were as happy as ever and it was the nicest, laziest day of summer I ever had.

My cheek slid across the soft fleece of Nate’s sweater as I smiled sadly. I wondered what he was thinking of in his perpetual concentration.

I knew his first memory too. One caused me much jealousy in my preteen years. I was ten, he was eleven. Nate’s father worked under my Grandfather, and being the generous man he was, always invited Nate in to play when he came to work with his father. On this particular occasion, we had off school because it was snowing like nothing we’d ever seen. All of the state offices stayed open, though, and this included the courthouse where the men worked. Nate had wandered into Mr. Hopeston’s office in search of a relief from boredom’s grip. My grandpa quickly thought of a handy thing to teach a boy of eleven- how to change the batteries in a wristwatch. He used a paperclip to unscrew the back, dictating the steps to his young companion. All I knew when I sauntered in, dropped off by my mother, was that I was not the one getting the attention and a boy I didn’t know was. I wanted my Grandpa to play with me, not him. Of course, looking back, I had no right to be upset, but at ten, it made me quite the grouch. Nate and I’s friendship blossomed from there and that brought me straight to the happiest memory of this office I knew of.

I snuggled up close to my husband for this memory, knowing my motion would trigger it in his mind as well. The memory train came fast and I was remembering every detail as crisply as if it was yesterday.

My grandfather hired Nate and I as interns the year we were juniors in college. It was a late Friday night as we tried to get as much done as possible before the weekend came up. Grandpa Drew went home early that night because he knew he could leave his workload for his happy young interns. We were not too pleased. I was sitting at a table researching law in the books my grandfather had in his office. As I was deep in thought on intricacies of a young teenage murder case, I heard footsteps in the hall. I knew they were just Nate’s and I chose to ignore them. As I got back into the reading, the soft footsteps stopped and a low breathing was to be heard closer now. I looked up startled, relieved to see only Nate there. He had a funny look on his face as if something was on his mind. He asked if he could sit down and assuming he had research to do, I cleared some books onto the floor, bending down to place them so. When I looked up, he was facing me and his leg was placed beside him in the chair. He cleared his throat and then unexpectedly leaned into me. Our noses brushed as he kissed me full on the lips. For an unknown reason to this day, I held the kiss and our lips moved more passionately. He put his hand behind my head and felt my hair. I was in bliss. Suddenly he pulled back, shook his head, smiled and left the office with me completely awestruck.

I giggled at this awkward but lovely memory and a soft breathing broke me of my reminiscing. Nate was staring at me and when I looked to him he kissed me softly on my cheek. He had remembered, as I knew he would. A tear rolled down my cheek over the place his lips had just been and I cried. I cried for my selfishness, for my loss, and for my forgetfulness of the real task. I put my hand on Nate’s thigh and pushed myself out of the chair. I walked over to the desk on which sat a five-link paperclip chain, and began to open drawers. I began forming organized stacks on the table by the window, and next went to the trash. The lawyer had told me to check there too and make sure no important pieces of my Grandpa’s life would be gone. The first thing I pulled out was an empty bottle of Irish Crème, followed by receipts dating back to when I was 5 with all one thing in common. They were from the liquor store. Cherry Soda was not his death, nor was age, he had been attacked by a lonely silent killer. My tear hit the rim of the empty bottle.

The End.