I can't believe I'm here again. Only this time, it's different. The next step isn't just another step in rapid succession. Now it's like every step means something more. I feel like I'm actually moving forward.
That was me when I was 17 or 18. I'd just started taking college classes full time. I was still brokenhearted and blaming every male on the planet for it. I was just hitting my stride when it came to finding some confidence. I actually felt almost pretty. I was hanging out with people I'd met at Navarro as well as my best friends from high school. I hung out with Shelley a lot in those days. Shelley, Grady, Colin and Dillon formed a group we called the Zombie Hunter Ripoffs. We would take walks at midnight pretending like we were Zombie Hunters. We ran from skunks and laughed until we woke up my Dad . We lived at each others houses. I cried and clung to Shelley on my front porch as we said goodbye before she moved to Dallas. I never imagined Shelley would be dead within two year. I met a guy at Navarro who fell in love with me but I didn't feel the same, or so I made myself believe. I still don't know what was wrong with me. He became my best friend. I never thought that six or so years later, I wouldn't even know his number.
Here I am at 19. I thought black hair would make me seem daring. It only made me seem pale. Dad freaked out and yelled at me when he saw it. I thought he was being unreasonable and oppressive. He was just trying to save me from feeling super stupid about it later, which I did. I started dating this guy and my Dad didn't like him. He tried to tell me it was a waste of time; the guy had the I.Q. of a paperweight. The relationship only last five months. I also became a part of a family of friends that made so much noise in the lounge at Navarro that we got put in our own classroom, just to hang out. We made spaghetti in crock pots in the hallway and gave the Dean of Students slices of "better than sex" cake. We played video games, held kangaroo court, and I fell in love with Taylor. I got my heartbroken over and over by the same person. I slid head first into a washing machine and gave myself a concussion. I never thought those days would come to a quick and abrupt end. I never thought those friends, The Crew, would turn on each other. We all made mistakes we can't take back.
Here I am again at 19. I dyed my hair purple after Taylor dumped me. He dumped me a lot. This was only the first time. I could fake a smile really well in those days. I never thought I would really miss my purple hair.
This is me at 20. I started dating Taylor again. I was at my most confident. All the guys in our group liked me. I still don't know why, but I felt pretty. I wasn't afraid to do the chicken dance in front of fifty strangers. I wasn't afraid to speak my mind, unless it was to Taylor. I started dressing like a girl. I loved being in a dress. We had a party every weekend. I had the tightest group of friends. I still do, just not with the same people. Drama started. People were jealous of me for the first time in my life. But why me?
I'm still 20. Dad had a took that fell out, but the wound wouldn't close. He went to the doctor and they did a biopsy. He had cancer. A whirlwind of doctor visits discovered two kinda. He sat with me and Mom on the back porch and they told me. I cried and screamed and told him I couldn't lose him. He cried and told me something I'll never forget. "I'm not afraid to die, baby. But I'm not ready yet." He wanted to walk me down the aisle someday. To hold my babies. I knew I'd lose my parents. God willing, they would go first because that's how it's supposed to be. Parents shouldn't bury their children. Taylor dumped me again. Dad started chemo and got really sick. I called Taylor over and over one week because he was my best friend and my Dad wasn't doing good. He ignored me because he was with his ex girlfriend at the beach. I never truly got over that one, even when we got back together. Shelley died. She was murdered. I screamed. I had nightmares. I was filled with rage. I remember her funeral vividly. I saw and spoke to people I hadn't in years. I hugged someone I hadn't in a long time. I forgave him. There was more important things in life than the guy that broke my heart when I was sixteen.
I'm 21 now. Dad is recovering from chemo and the tumor in his lung shrank half it's size. He's considered a cancer survivor because his mouth cancer is gone. He gets a purple tshirt and gives it to me. He always gives me tshirst to sleep in. I start at SAGU and the divide between me and my old life at Navarro grows. The gap between Taylor and I grows wider still. I was super lonely that first semester. I made a friend named Sam. He was cooler than he'll ever give himself credit for. I think about transferring. People aren't always nice to the Baptist in a Pentecostal school. Chapel freaks me out because people dance, lift their hands, and speak in tongues. I was taught differently. I don't care about fitting in as much as following my own heart. I felt God move in me. He drew me to a passage. "Blessed are you who weep now, for you will laugh,"-Luke 6: 21. Who knew that, come summertime, I would cling to those words like a lifeline?
I'm still 21. My Dad is dying. The cancer came back in his liver and is growing fast. Chemo isn't working. Taylor isn't helping. I asked God for a miracle while I was working in the library one day. I gave up and gave it all to Him. Then the door to the library opens and Zach walks in. I smile, he smiles, and I help him find a book. I didn't know then that was the start of something. I didn't want to hurt Taylor, but he kept hurting me. So I dumped him this time. I wasn't a doormat. I was free. I fell in love. Truly, this time. It was different. This was real. Dad died. I was there. In the same room. I watched him take his last breath. My best friend Emily listened to his last heartbeat through her stethoscope. I found out I'm strong. I freaked out, and then I stopped. I dealt with it. Who knew that I really am my father's daughter?
I'm 22. Dad's gone and I'm engaged. I can't believe this. I meet two people who would become two of my greatest friends, Majken and Elizabeth. They keep me sane. They accept me, crap and all. Mrs. George becomes my second mother/sister/mentor/friend. She and Dr. Amy become my support system. They love me and I don't know why. I am hurting, but I am also healing. I'm moving toward being in a good place. My "friends" from Navarro stab me in the back three months after I lose my Dad. But I move past it with ease. I have Zach. I have my Mom. I have Majken and Elizabeth and the rest of the English department. I can do this.
Hey, that's me a few weeks ago. I'm 23 now and I'm happier than I have been in a long time. I'm engaged to the greatest person on the planet. I miss Daddy and Shelley everyday, but I can think about them and smile. They loved me. I loved them. How lucky am I? To have known these wonderful amazing people? To have the memories I do? How blessed I am! I am still healing. I have my bad days. Emily, Majken, Elizabeth, Justin, and Zach help. Jessica, Lindsay, Tabitha, Erin, Megan have become some of the greatest friends I have as well. Mrs. George still rocks. I feel like I have the respect of my teachers. I have the love of a great man. I have a greater love of an amazing God who enabled me to understand that, no matter how many tears I shed, there will always be laughter. Life is taking the bad with the good. Thank God for my imperfect humanity.
In a little under five months I will be taking a few more steps toward my future. I will reach out and not only grasp the future, but a diploma! I'm freaked out, but I'm ready for whatever life has left to throw at me. I've been at the bottom, in the middle, back to the bottom, and on top. I am not afraid to fail. I don't fear failure. I'm not scared to die. I'm ready to laugh in the face of danger and grad school! I've accepted the fact that everyone dies. But I've also learned that not everyone truly lives.
Life isn't about pursuing only pleasure. It isn't only about seeking the divine. It's a balancing act. Nothing is going to go the way you think it will. Not everyone is going to think like you do. Most people aren't going to care how you feel. And you will never know everything. Maybe you'll never know anything. That's okay too. I don't know that I know anything either.
If I could go back, maybe I would do things differently. Maybe not, though. I probably would have given Dad more credit than I did. Him and Mom knew their stuff. I'd probably give the guy with the I.Q. of a flobberworm (if you get the reference, I'll kiss you) a swift kick in the jacobs. I'd punch that one girl in the face. I'd definitely tell Daddy how proud I was and am to be his daughter. I'd tell Shelley that she was an inspiration. I'd go back in time and save her if I could.
I think I'm ready to get lost in this big ole' world. I'm glad I wont be alone.
In five months, I'm sure I'll have more to say about the future. But for now, here are some lessons I've learned about life and about growing up.
Don't let anyone tell you that you aren't beautiful,
God made you, God loves you, so love yourself.
Don't cry because it's over,
Smile because it happened.
Live life the best you can,
Because you have to live the life you choose.
If you love someone, for pete's sake, tell them!
There is always that chance they wont be here tomorrow.
Pray every day, as often as you need to,
and don't care what people say about it.
Listen to your music as loud as you can,
and dance like you're absolutely insane.
Do everything they told you that you'd never do,
and smile while you do it.
And after you've done all this to find yourself,
Lose yourself.
Let go everything you think is you, because it isn't,
I would not call myself an indecisive person. Sure, I'll take hours at the bookstore because I want to make sure I'm not wasting my money on a book I'm not going to like. Yeah, I take a while when buying makeup because I want to compare prices and the quality of what I'm getting. But when it comes to important decisions, I may take my time to make the choice, but once I do, I do not waver. I hold on to the idea and carry it forward to fruition, no matter the cost.
But that's in my every day life. In my life as a writer, I make difficult decisions every time I create a character. One of the hardest decisions to make when creating a character is a name.
So much can be said about a person by their name. My name is Alison, and to me that is a very proper, sophisticated name. Of course, my nickname is Ali, and to me that sounds a bit childish and fun. When I'm in a formal setting, I prefer Alison. When I'm chilling at home with friends or family, Ali is usually more comfortable.
When creating a name for my characters, I take into account their appearance, their personalities, and what I want to be percieved by their name. I'll use 2 of my favorite characters as examples.
Briste is a character I created in 2004 with the help of two of my best friends, Shelley and Grady. In this instance, the character was brought to life because of the name. When I was 15 I got really into the idea of learning Irish Gaelic. Well, let me tell yah, that's one of the most difficult languages to learn (in my opinon) because nothing looks the way it sounds. I realize that's how it is for a lot of languages, but my word! Anyway, I was on the Google translator and wanted to know what the word for "broken" was in Gaelic. The word "briste" popped up. I do not know how to pronounce this word to the day, but I thought that it would be a beautiful name for a girl, and I would pronounce it Bris-tee.
So, with a name that essentially means "broken" what kind of person is Briste? At first, Briste was a half angel half vampire. I figured it'd be an interesting play on her name, but as I grew older and more mature in my characterization, I realized that was incredibly cheesy. So instead, I made her a half witch, half vampire with an incredibly complicated life. I won't give away too much about her character simply because I haven't written the books yet, but from this name spawned an entire person. I know what kind of jokes she likes, what food she eats, to what religion she follows. I know everything about Briste, and it all started from her name.
Another character of mine from the Briste series actually had no name for a very long time. He wasn't in my original idea, nor my second draft of the idea. He came about after I watched the movie From Hell with Johnny Depp and I thought, "Johnny Depp would be an amazing vampire." I still think this is true, though I no longer associate my character with Johnny Depp's looks. He has taken on a whole new persona in the few years since he's been created.
First came his looks. Like I said, I thought Johnny Depp would have been a wonderful vampire and pictured him with long hair, mustache and beard, and tall and lanky. I always pictured him surrounded by people in a dark red room. I don't know why. At first, he was a villian. He was the enemy of the witches, and at the time, the witches were my heroes. But then I started delving deeper into his character, and everything about him changed. Suddenly, he was a vampire that had been changed against his will during the time of the Spanish Inquisition. He made two friends that he trusted along the way, another Spaniard vampire named Gabriel (I loved the angel's name, even if I didn't want to use angels in my story anymore) and an Egyptian vampire named Hamon. Sometime in their far distant future, Gabriel would fall in love with a witch and they would create a child: Briste. This is when my unknown vampire was given a name: Dominic De La Cruz, his surname meaing "of the cross" and he's in a battle with himself about whether or not he will be accepted into heaven, even though he's a blood drinker. I know, that part is a little bit Twilight esque, but I promise, I didn't steal it from that. This character took on a personality of his own and basically told me his story, not the other way around.
I know naming a character doesn't quite seem like a difficult decision to most people, but most people aren't trying to create a whole person on paper. Once you've invested so much of yourself into creating someone, you won't take for granted the importance of a name.
Because I read too much into these types of things, I've been contemplating this weeks blog topic since Monday and wondering about what I should write about. Of course, I had to make it complicated and try to find something profound to write about instead of sticking to something easy like...uh...okay, when it comes to me, nothing is ever easy, so I guess that was over before it even began.
I digress.
In attempts of trying to figure out what to write about, I read some of my old journal entries and various blog posts from different sites, and I've come to a conclusion: I wish I knew as much now, at 23 (in 6 days!), as I did when I was 16. Boy, I thought I had it all figured out. I was so clueless, and yet I felt like I was so informed. Ha. Isn't it amazing what 7 years and lots of trials and tribulations will do for the completion of the soul?
When I was younger, I thought I had the answer to everything. It was a horrific day when I came to the realization that I don't even know half the questions yet. It doesn't matter how grown you are, you will never know everything. Tough.
I remember when I thought a broken heart was the worst feeling in the world. I learned quickly that there is indeed something worse: being the person who inflicts another person with a broken heart. I remember that sting, that ache left from the empty spot in my chest. The fact that I know I've done that to someone else makes me sick to my stomach. How could I, when I knew how badly it hurt? And you know what hurts even worse than being the heart breaker? Knowing that you literally had no other option other than doing the breaking. You scramble, trying to figure out how to avoid it, but you can't. In a breakup/death/ending of a friendship, someone is moving on and someone is being left behind. I've been both of those people (except for the whole dying thing, haven't done that yet and don't plan on it for a while **knocks on wood**), and it sucks, plain and simple.
I also remember thinking that if someone beaks up with you, someone had to have done something wrong. Either he left me for another girl (I'm not gonna lie, that's happened to me a few times and it was not fun, let me tell ya) or there was something wrong with me. Guess what? Sometimes relationships just don't work out. It doesn't have to be anybodies fault. Most of the time, you can split the blame right down the middle. It is absolutely okay to realize that maybe that person isn't who you're meant to be with at that time in your life, maybe ever. It is so much better to simply bow out gracefully than possibly lose someone that could have, and probably should have, been your very best friend later on.
I have also learned that (and I'm still guilty of this, mind) I like to complicate things. This blog is proof. I don't think I am ever truly satisfied unless I'm struggling with something. So much of who I am is wrapped up in this constant internal conflict with myself. I can never just let things be simple. Nothing can ever be easy. If it's easy, it can't be real. If it comes as simple as breathing, there has to be a catch. I know, I'm incredibly weird and I'm working on it.
And so, in the spirit of being "simple", I am going to post a list of random facts about myself. Enjoy guys!
Disturbed is the best band ever!
My favorite color is cerulean, but I love wearing purple and green
I adore Applejacks and baked potatoes
I still secretly listen to Backstreet Boys
My first heartbreak happened at 16
One day one of my books will be on your shelf
I took singing lessons for 3 years, but I am stage fright inclined
My secret aspiration is to be somebodies hero
I have an accent
I'm also Captain Obvious
I like eating spaghetti at midnight
I'm not as clumsy as I appear, I just like to make people laugh
Don't yell at me because I promise, I'm louder than you
I live in the world of imagination and no cell phone service
I think real courage is hard to find these days
The longest I've slept is 18 hours
I am not your typical catty female
I'm small, but I have a mean right hook
Don't underestimate me, my resolve will be your downfall
No one puts baby in the corner!
Good manners will go far with me
So will a sense of humor
I’m not a vengeful person but I do believe in Karma.
I have the temper of a sinner and the patience of a Saint.
Second chances must be earned and this ain’t baseball son!
If you lie to me I'll forgive you, but I'll never forget
And I'll make sure you never forget either
I'm not easily intimidated, but feel free to try
I still wish on every shooting star I see
I have no use for a coward
I do not scare easily
I daydream out loud because I feel like dreams should be shared
I forgive you
Well ladies and gents, that's all she wrote for tonight! Remember, as the great Dolly Parton said in the movie Steel Magnolias, "Smile! It increases your face value!"
I do not believe in coincidences, and so I do not think that the month I was born in was dubbed National Novel Writing Month. The gist of it is: in 30 days, write 50,000 words on a new project!
I've never participated in NaNo, but I'm gonna give it a try this year. I am starting late, so I'll go into December to give myself the full 30 days. I read the blog of one of my favorite authors Amelia Atwater-Rhodes, and she participates just about every year. If it works for her, maybe it'll work for me. I'm gonna cheat though and use this as a chance to maybe actually finish a novel!
I don't know why I am so mentally blocked when it comes to finishing a novel. I have been writing since I was in the 4th grade. I've always known it was what I was meant to do. God gave me a talent for words---a birthright gift, as Dr. Amy Alexander would say---(Jess, I put the dashes in for you. I'm trying them out.), but I think I'm just scared.
I know, that doesn't make sense. Who's scared of finishing a novel? It's not like it's gonna bite yah! Well, I think I'm scared of finishing it, sending it off, and it never getting published. Like, what if this isn't my calling? What if I'm not good enough? What if I'm actually a horrid writer and everyone has just been being nice to me for 13 years??!?!?!?!?! It'd be my worse nightmare made reality.
Now before anyone chastises me, I know that's a ridiculous fear, but you gotta admit that it has merit. I mean, aren't you scared of something like that? Writing is not just what I do, it's a part of who I am. The characters I've created, I know them like they are my friends. I know what they would do in any given situation. I even know what some of them would eat for breakfast. Stories are my way of saying the things I can't say in real life. I pride myself as being someone who speaks her mind no matter what anyone has to say about it, but some things you can't put into simple sentences. Some things you have to create a whole story to get one point across. I want to make a difference in someones life, like my favorite writers have made a difference in mine. I want someone to find Truth, Hope, Faith, and Love in my words. I want someone to find God in my words. I want to be able to give someone a glimpse into my head and heart through pictures I paint with what I say. I want someone to see...me.
It usually starts with a song. Every time I have started a new project, it has been a song that has taken me there. It also usually happens while I'm driving. Something about the road helps make a scene unfold before my eyes, and the lyrics drive what I see. My story called Morgan Road started with the song "Everything is You" by the Eli Young Band. When I listen to the beginning part of that song, I always pictured a man with haunted eyes driving toward some destination, him thinking about a woman who left him far behind. When I heard the song "November" by Lindsay Ray Spurlock, I saw flashes of different scenes. I saw a handsome guy in a green dress shirt. I saw a different young guy playing guitar. I saw a girl standing in front of a headstone. And when I hear the song "Twisted Transistor" by Korn, I see two young girls dressed in black walking down a hill into a club filled with people.
I was born to be a writer, but I'm scared I'll never make a living at what I love. I really hope I find my fear unfounded.
There were two things my Daddy taught me as soon as I learned to walk: how to fish, and how to play baseball. Yeah, believe it or not, Daddy wanted to have a little girl.
I've loved baseball for as long as I can remember, and it was largely because of Dad. He worked all day long, but he was never too tired to play catch with me or be the pitcher and let me hit. After I destroyed a chair with a crazy hard-hit ball, I felt like a super human. Then Dad hit the ball and busted out our neighbors window. Dad was always way more BA than me.
Baseball wasn't the only thing Dad and I shared, but it held a special place in our hearts. We played all sorts of sports together. We collected things (Beenie-Babies, Hotwheels, baseball cards, rocks, even foreign currency as I got older) and we shared the same taste in music. Dad was an amazing guitar player and when I was 16, he started teaching me. It was awesome the first time my Dad listened to some of my music. He liked Three Days Grace's "Animal I Have Become" the best because he said the guitar went hard. He played by ear, so he taught himself the main guitar riff! But there was something about baseball that brought me and him together in a way that nothing else did.
Baseball made Dad and I a team. We rooted for the same players, loved and hated the same teams, and screamed (and yeah, sometimes cussed) when our teams did crappy. No matter what though, no matter how badly they sucked, The Texas Rangers were always our #1! Dad started taking me to games when I was probably in the third or fourth grade. Back then, Juan Gonzalez was my man! I wanted to be an outfielder, just like him. And man, that man could swing a bat! One time Dad took me to a game and we sat right behind him (he played left field) and we ended up sitting next to some of Juan's friends from Puerto Rico. I didn't believe them till one of the guys called out to Juan and when he looked back, the guy started pointing at me. Juan smiled at me and waved, and said something back to the guy in Spanish. I got invited to stay after the game to go meet him! Unfortunately, it was a school night, so Dad didn't let me stay. Dad later said that he totally regretted not letting me stay, but I still look back on that day has an amazing day.
When Dad got sick, baseball became something he found shelter in. He was sick for a whole season and the Rangers kinda sucked it up, but Dad watched them faithfully (maybe more so) as he'd always done, and cussed the Yankees just as much. Dad got better and he and my Uncle planned a trip to go to the baseball Hall of Fame, but then cancer came back with a vengeance...Dad never made that trip. Baseball season had just gotten into the full swing of things when Dad finally lost his battle with lung cancer. A month before he died, he was watching the Rangers kick some major butt and he looked at me, shook his head, and said (I'm quoting here, so excuse the language), "I'll be damned. Watch, I'm gonna die and the Rangers are gonna go to the damn World Series." Well, go to the World Series they did, and I'll be dad-gummed if they didn't go again!!!!
I haven't watched a game of baseball since Dad died. I don't know if I would turn down a chance to watch the Rangers in the World Series, but I'm not sure I would go either. That was our thing, something special between me and my Dad and I'm not sure I'd be able to watch it without him. My Uncle Bob went to see them last year and bought a seat for my Dad, so in a way he had the best seat in the house. I'm not sure how much God gets involved in professional sports, but I do know that if God allowed such things, Dad would totally be down with being the angel in the outfield. Patrol Saint of Baseball! Err, not that my Dad was a Saint or anything, he was too goofy for that, but you know what I mean.
So, come on Rangers! Bring it home this time, for people like my Dad who were always faithful fans. I know winning the World Series, to most, wouldn't be considered much of a miracle, but to people like me and my Daddy, it's the next best thing.
I wish life was easy. I wish love didn't fade, people didn't die, and friends stayed friends forever. The truth of it is, life is hard and messy most of the time, and beautiful and wonderful sometimes. Maybe I've had too much of the bad and now I'm jaded. Or maybe I've gone through just enough bad so that I can treasure the good just that much more.
Sometimes I feel like my life has been one gigantic thunderstorm. It doesn't matter how many steps I take forward, there is always a bolt of lightning making craters along my path. Sometimes I manage to find my way around the gigantic holes, but most of the time I trip and fall in. Every single time, though, I manage to climb and claw and curse my way out of the grave I and others have dug for me. I come out a little dirtier than I went in. A little bloodier and with fresh scars. I'm changed, sometimes for the worst, but sometimes for the better.
No one watches their father die a slow and painful death and come out unaffected. I watched him take his last breath. I saw, over the span of several months, the life just creep out of his body. My daddy was a fighter, but at the end, he just didn't have any fight left in him. We bought baby monitors to put in his room toward the end so that we could hear if he needed us late at night. We knew he would go anytime. The night he died, my aunt came into the living room where me and my cousins and friends were sitting and asked us if we'd gone into his room. We told them no, we hadn't been in there for nearly half an hour. Some voice had come over the monitor and asked, "Are you okay?" I figured it was interference from another electronically device and shrugged it off. A few minutes later my aunt returns, saying that she heard another voice say "Be still." He died not long after that. A few weeks later I found a passage in Exodus and I will never forget the shock I felt when I read it. Exodus 14:14 reads, "The Lord will fight for you; you need only to be still." Daddy stopped fighting and let God fight for him, and God decided it was time for Roland to go home. I don't know another man more deserving of a rest.
In the year since my daddy has been gone, I have had to fight. I've had to fight to keep my head above water, and sometimes I just feel like letting myself drown. What astonishes me is that no matter what I do for people, no matter how kind I am, it never seems to be enough. I don't think I'm perfect by any means, but I am not a bad person. I'm certainly no illusionist. I'm so much more than smoke and mirrors. I am transparent and I wear my emotions and hearts on my sleeves. I am a human being with feelings and I've been through so much, too much for someone who is only about to be 23. I hate when people cry about life not being fair, but what was done to me by people who claimed to be some of my best friends...it wasn't right. I didn't deserve it. I will never take the blame for the cruelty that others dish out for no good reason. 4 months after I buried my father, three girls who I had grown to love like family started treating me like dirt simply because I didn't want to go to a party. I chose to spend time with my fiance because he wanted to take me out for my birthday. It was demanded that I not see him and go to the party with these girls. When I refused, all hell broke loose. There had been tension before this, I guess it was the straw that broke the camels back. I didn't want to party, I didn't want to be out late, and I didn't want to gossip. I wanted to study and spend time at home with my family and future husband. I wanted to feel normal after the hell my family had just been put through. I wanted someone to tell me that everything would be okay. I wanted them to give me space, and they wouldn't. They treated me like I was their child, told me what to do, and in the end pretty much said it was Zach or them. I chose the man I felt God had put on earth for me.
Zach has been a blessing to my life. He and I had been together for a month when my daddy died, but Zach was there through it all, even though he didn't have to be. He picked up my father and carried him so that we could move him into his hospital bed we built in his room. That's who Zach is. He loved me that much, and loves me more to this day. Why would I not want him in my life? I have never been loved so fiercely. As my friends, they didn't love me like that. They turned their backs on me and spread rumors that weren't true. They tried telling me what to do with my life and make my choices for me. They hurt me, threatened to get me kicked out of school. None of them gave a damn about the pain I was going through. Of the emptiness that now surrounded me, and the silence that engulfed me in our home that used to be filled with the sound of my daddy's laughter. They didn't understand that because they didn't try. Whether it was out of selfishness, or jealousy, I don't know. The only thing I do know is I'm not fighting anymore.
Last night one of my ex boyfriends tried to spread rumors about me to hurt me. I never did anything to him. I was happy when he had his child and he repays me by calling me a mess and saying I'm a liar and a cheat. I am neither of those things. I was good to him in the brief time we were together and he screwed it up, not me. My hands are clean. I was angry, fighting angry.
I AM A GOOD PERSON, I DO NOT DESERVE TO BE TREATED THAT WAY! I am a person with feelings but no one seems to care! I am in a loving relationship, about to graduate from college, have some of the best friends anyone could ask for (for real this time) and what do you have? Tell me what do you have that I don't? What do I have that you don't? I have self-respect. I have pride in myself and my family. I have a future and goals and dreams that I will reach. I have a legacy. I have talent. I have class. I am everything God made me. I am everything you wish you could be, and you could be, if you'd only learn. If you would speak kindly and with love. If you would learn to treat others as you want to be treated. If you would learn not to make the same mistake twice, or the mistakes of those who have gone before you. Learn from what you did to me. Treat someone else better than you treated me.
I'm a strong person. I'm stronger than I want to be most of the time. I've lost so many people to death or circumstance, and I've experienced and witness some of the worst kind of cruelty. I am a better person because of the way I've been treated, because I will never treat someone else so callously. I will appreciate the friendships I have even more now. I will love my husband the way he loves me. I will cherish my fathers memory. I will see Shelley have justice. But it wont be because of me. I don't have much fight left in me. God will pick up the sword and shield and go to battle for me. I'm so tired of being angry at these people, resenting these people, hating them. I'm so tired of my heart being a storm. It may not be fair, but it is what it is, and they will probably never be sorry. And that's okay. I know what I will answer for when I am presented before my savior, and they will also be held accountable for every word that has ever come out of their mouths. I hope they are ready for this.
I read my first word at the age of about 3. You see, my momma started reading to me the moment she found out she was pregnant. She read everything she could get her hands on! Cereal boxes, magazines, novels, you name, it, she read it. I come from two very talented parents and gene pools. Daddy was a science and music man. He played guitar beautifully and could be found in our back yard with a pair of binoculars, bird watching. I always thought people were going to think my dad was some kind of pervert, but he was really just watching the bird fly by and looking up their names in a book. He liked to read mostly history stuff, and read mostly before bed or while he was, erm, indisposed. When I was younger, I honestly thought I would do something in the science field, as I showed talent in earth and animal science. But, Momma's genes eventually dominated. See, she was a Literature lover and a writer in her younger years. I have a nice little Literary legacy.
One of my favorite stories that Daddy would tell (and Momma will still tell me if I want to hear it. Again.) has to do with my love for reading. I made my parents read to me every day, often several times a day. My favorite was Rainbow Bright. Daddy said that he would often try to skip pages because he was so tired of that stupid Rainbow Bright, but that I would call him on it. "No Daddy, you missed a spot." He couldn't believe it, I'd memorized the entire book. I could recite it to him from memory. After a while, I memorized most of my books. If either of my parents tried to skip pages, I would just give them a look like "Yeah, right, nice try," and they'd have to back track. My kids will likely do the same thing to me and Zach someday. Dad will point and laugh at me from Heaven.
One of my Daddy's older sisters, my Aunt Rhonda, was a third grade teacher most of my childhood, and so she played a huge roll in my love for reading as well. She would send me home with book and worksheets she used with her kids when I was very young. To this day she supports my love for reading.
I remember vividly the day I read my first word all by myself. I was in the car with my Aunt Paula (one of my moms older sisters) and her three sons driving back to Italy. I noticed on the drive that a hotel on the side of the highway had changed their sign. I used all the tricks of sounding the words out in my head just like my Aunt Rhonda taught me and eventually sputtered out the word "Ramada Inn". My Aunt and cousins whirled their heads around, their mouths hanging open. When we arrived at my house, Aunt Paula was just beaming at the fact that she heard me read my first word!
After that, there was no stopping me. I devoured everything I could get my hands on. When I was 5 I gave my first novel a try, attempting Treasure Island for the first time. I didn't understand anything, but I felt awesome because I could read every single word. When I was in the third grade, my teachers made me stop reading things like the Bernstein Bears, saying it was under my reading level. That was when I discovered the Box Car Children and The Hardy Boys.
I wish I had kept a log of all the books I've read over my lifetime. I'm sure the number is up in the 1000's. And I know beyond the shadow of a doubt that being a writer is my greatest dream. I want to touch someones life the way my favorite authors have touched mine. I want to impact a young girl or boy with something I write. And more than that, I feel like I have something to say and can offer the world my experiences. I could have been a biologist, geologist, historian, detective, explorer, actress, singer, painter, archeologist, or absolutely nothing at all. But then I realized that I can be all of those things because, in the realm of my imagination, anything is possible! :)
So, as I was sitting here contemplating what to write, I had a bit of a fright involving the kids that I babysit. Dr. M, forgive me, for this post will surely come after midnight, but I think the post itself will make up for its lateness. It is 11:45 as I'm writing this, and even though this is somewhat of an embarrassing moment for me, I simply have to share.
Sometimes I babysit my friend Alicia’s two children. The oldest is a boy and he’s ten, and his little sister is 7. They are two of my favorite kids in the world! I’ve known them since they were about 2 and 5, and they are the most precious kids. Granted, they can drive me crazy and be a handful, but I would still go to the mats for them. Well, I babysit them at their house, which is a loft on top of a barn out in the sticks. Ever heard of the movie Deliverance? It is not SAGU appropriate and I’ve only seen parts of it years ago, but her property sometimes gives me the feeling like I’ve just entered this movie. She lives next door to her parents, who have a house just to the side of the barn.
So, this being said, one would understand why I, at 11:30 p.m, would get a little jumpy when I hear someone in the barn below the loft. I heard the door slam shut, and I thought that maybe Alicia was home early. I waited and waited for her to come upstairs, but I never heard a sound. I rose from the couch and looked out the window and, to my horror, Alicia’s car was not in the drive way.
The first thing I think to do is to call my fiancé. He’s my protector and one of the only people who make me feel safe. He answers the phone on the first ring and as soon as I tell him what I heard, he rushes over. I texted Alicia and tell her what I heard, and she told me she would text her dad to check if he was awake, and gave me the address to the house in case I had to call 911. Zach was on his way and she lives so far out in the country that it usually takes the police 30 minutes to even make it out to her house. My best bet was to sit tight and wait for my knight in shining armor to come and rescue me.
I don’t need to tell you, dear reader, that I was nearly scared out of my pants. But I’ve been in pretty hairy situations before and I can usually stay pretty calm if I feel like I am in danger. My first thought wasn’t for myself, however. It was for those two angels asleep in the other room. I walked to the kitchen and pulled out the longest, sharpest cutting knife I could find, and I stood by the door, watching and waiting for Zach to arrive. I just kept thinking about what I would do if some stranger with a chainsaw (because, of course, he would have a chainsaw) came sauntering up the stairs. How would I protect these kids? I’m 5 foot 4 and not very strong, but I’m mean as all get out when I’m scared or angry, so I guess I had that going for me. It was also a pretty sharp knife. I could keep the kids in their room and make them lock the door. I could distract the person and they could sneak out of their room onto the stairs and out of the house to their grandparents. Sure, I’d probably be chopped to pieces by then, but that wasn’t my main concern.
Well, Zach arrived with our friend Brandon and a tennis racket just in time for Alicia to text me and tell me that it had been her dad downstairs in the barn. I just threw my hands up and thanked Jesus because I really didn’t want to be chopped into little pieces, or have to shank anyone! Zach left, giving me a kiss and telling me to put the knife away before I hurt myself. Alicia laughed at me, but I think she appreciates the fact that I would have faced off with a serial killer to protect her children.
When did I become that kind of person? I always thought my parents were brave. I’ve heard stories and seen my parents do crazy things in order to protect themselves, each other, and me, but I didn’t really know I had it in me. I have had prowlers in my backyard as of late (probably why I’m so jumpy) and I feel a fierce urge to protect my mother now that my daddy’s gone. I have no problem going outside with a baseball bat. Next time that happens, I’ll quote one of the speakers from chapel. “I’ll wear you out in the name of Jesus and speak in tongues the whole time!”
I’ve never thought of myself as brave. I’ve always wanted to be brave and courageous. That’s probably why my childhood & adult heroes have always been Robin Hood, Severus Snape, and Daddy. It’s not easy to stay calm in a scary situation, but I did it. I just kept thinking of the kids, and that their safety mattered more than mine. That’s why I went outside as soon as I saw Zach step out of his car. His safety meant more to me than mine, too. I’ve always said that I would hope that I would be able to put someone else before myself if the situation ever arose. Have I finally reached the point where I can say with certainty that I would? Am I brave now?
It’d be easier if I had a bow and some arrows, a magic wand, or was six feet tall and knew how to shoot a gun with extreme accuracy. But hey, we work with what we’ve got!
I have been doing a lot of thinking about self-identity lately. I'm reading the non-fiction story called Eat. Pray. Love, by Elizabeth Gilbert. It is her account of her life after going through a terrible divorce and the mental and spiritual crisis she went through during this time. She realizes that she's always found her self identity wrapped up in other people, never wondering who Liz actually is. It has been helpful for me to read because I've realized over a period of time that I have done the same exact same thing. The memoir is divided into three different parts. First, we go through her time in Italy where she is seeking happiness and pleasure and escape from her depression. Second, we find ourselves in India in the Ashram of her Guru, exploring her journey to God. And lastly, we travel with her to Indonesia where she finds love.
Anyone that knows anything about my story knows about Taylor. He was such a huge part of my life for two years, it'd be difficult to have missed hearing about him. But some of you have simply heard of him as "my ex-boyfriend", not in the other ways that I saw him for those two years of my life. Taylor was my best friend. In many ways, he was the bright spot in a world full of gray. When we first met, both of us were in serious relationships. Well, he was in a serious relationship, I was in the middle of making a huge mistake (but that's another story). We became instant friends, taking refuge in one another and in the fact that we were practically the same person living in two different bodies. The first week that we met, we finished each others sentences, had every interest (aside from computers) in common, and felt like we practically lived inside each others heads. Well, eventually our relationships imploded in on themselves, and we clung to each other like two refugees just expelled from our countries due to a horrible war. That was our first of many mistake,s and though it would take two years, that is what inevitably tore us apart.
I want to be clear about one thing: I do not hate Taylor, nor does he hate me. We don't speak, it's better that way. I am engaged to be married to a wonderful man and it is largely out of our shared respect for my beloved that we have decided we cannot have a friendship. We cared very much for one another, but we both made mistakes and said things in the end that we can't take back and can't forget. We hurt each other. Neither of us is going to lay the blame 100% at the others feet. That isn't fair, isn't right, and would demean everything that he and I shared. Yes, there are times that anger still rises up in me and I say things about him that I shouldn't, and I'm sure he does the same. It's easy to look back and remember all the horrible that someone has done to you, conveniently forgetting all the horrible that you participated in.
Two years doesn't really sound very long when you put it on paper. I know couples that have been together way longer than that. To them, two years sounds superficial. But when you think about all the life that you live in two years, it's a long time. Taylor and I went through hell and back together. We broke up, got back together, fought, made up. We dealt with his Mom having strokes, my Daddy becoming ill with cancer, and one of my best friends dying. We held on and pushed each other and hated each other and loved each other all at the same time. We needed each other. We needed away from each other. We became family.
Somewhere in those two years, I lost who Alison was. I noticed that if Taylor was in a bad mood, it ruined my whole day. Taylor tended to take his bad moods out on me, so if there was even a hint of struggle in his voice or irritation in his text messages, I would completely fall apart because I knew what was coming next. Every day I would check my facebook apprehensively because something on his page would almost always make me cry. Something he would say to another girl, mostly, but sometimes it was what he wouldn't say: I have a girlfriend. He would hardly ever tell people that he had a girlfriend. I know it sounds extremely superficial, but one thing I wanted more than anything was for him to put "in a relationship" on his facebook. I wanted to be claimed. I wanted him to be proud to be with me. But he never did, and it broke my heart a little more every day.
Another thing Taylor never did in two years is tell me that he loved me. Two years is a very long time to go fighting and fighting and hoping and hoping, only to be disappointed every time. Every day I prayed and hoped and waited, and every day I was let down. You see, Taylor was in love with someone else. Shortly before he started dating me, his girlfriend of five years left him heart broken and alone. Shortly before that, his mother had a major stroke that left her without speech and use of her left side. Taylor was in such a deep, dark hole that he just couldn't pull himself out of. I tried so hard to reach inside that darkness, to provide a little light for him, and I did. I believe that I did, but it wasn't enough. I couldn't go where he was, and he couldn't seem to catch his breath long enough. To me, being heart broken is a choice. At some point in the grief and pain, you have to decide to get up and smile. You have to say "Today, just for today, I am going to go on with life like I was never hurt," and eventually, it will become reality. Taylor could never make that choice, and I couldn't make that choice for him.
I think our relationship truly ended March of 2009. We broke up (he dumped me for the 2nd time) and two weeks later my family and I were faced with the horrible reality that my father had cancer and it was bad. Taylor came to the hospital when Daddy had surgery. But after that, Taylor retreated completely from me. He still talked to me when he was lonely, but for the most part I didn't hear from him. One week in May my Daddy was so incredibly sick from chemo, we didn't know if he would make it. I tried calling and calling and calling Taylor but he wouldn't pick up. I found out the next week that he'd gone on a little mini vacation with his ex girlfriend. The girl that constantly stood in my way when it came to him. The girl who I didn't think deserved to breathe the same air as Taylor, as badly as she'd hurt him. It was then I realized the ugly truth that he was trying to get back together with her, and had abandoned me when I truly needed him the most. At the end of the summer, his ex ended up with a brand new boyfriend, dumped him on his butt again, and he came crawling back. We got back together, but I'd checked out emotionally. Then September happened. Shelley was murdered and Taylor was there more than he ever had been. I thought maybe it was a new start. I was wrong.
Don't get me wrong, I will be eternally grateful for the way Taylor helped me hold together during those first few weeks after Shelley's death. Without him, I honestly don't know what I would have done. I had never experienced such a horrible loss and it left me breathless. Dependent. But Taylor and I broke up again in December (his third time for breaking up with me) and though he's never admitted it, I'm fairly sure he started dating a girl I'd noticed he'd started hanging out with more. That didn't work I'm guessing because 11 days later, on Christmas day, we were back together. But something changed. We both felt it, standing there on our road. We held each other and we knew that the magical bond that had held us together all that time was gone. Nothing was ever the same. That was when I started praying.
Now I don't mean that I didn't pray UNTIL that moment. Of course I'd prayed before, but I started praying differently. I started praying for myself to find a back bone. I started praying for strength for me to survive, not for our relationship to survive. At that point, that wasn't my concern. Daddy got better, but then he got worse. He was dying. My best friend went to the Army and I cried and cried. Taylor yelled at me and told me to shut up, stop making a big deal about it, and that him playing video games was more important than me hurting over my friend. Suddenly, a dam broke and everything I'd felt over the past few years just poured out. For the first time, I stood up for myself. It shocked him. He didn't apologize, but he did say that he deserved it. I would love to tell you all that he never spoke to me that way again, but that wouldn't be telling the truth.
Our two year anniversary rolled around and I was disappointed to not even receive a phone call. I called him that night and told him how hurt I was. He informed me then that he didn't love me, didn't know if he ever would, and that I cared too much about him. I was too selfless. I was too needy. He found other girls "interesting". At first I cried and promised to change and we hung up and everything seemed fine. Till I looked myself in the mirror. I was red faced, puffy eyed, and sad. And that wasn't me. I did need to change, but not for Taylor. Not to make him happy. Not to conform to be the kind of girl that he could love. He should have already loved me. I went above and beyond the call of duty for him. I rearranged my life countless times to meet his needs, took him back when he didn't deserve it, and this is how he treats me? And I apologize? How is this love?
We didn't see each other for three days. We didn't see each other till the 6th of June. And the 5th, everything changed. I was working in the library and I was just down. Daddy was getting worse by the day and the doctors told us to make him comfortable. I was losing my Daddy. The only man in my life that had never let me down, who had loved me completely and unconditionally, was going to die. It was a horrible reality to face, but face it head on I did. I didn't have much of a choice. Daddy would want me to "take it like a man" if you know what I mean. In that library, I sat reading my Bible, and I was reading Acts. A few words in a passage jumped out at me. Peter said, "Who am I to oppose God?" Now I'd asked God many times for a sign on whether I should leave Taylor or not, and I never got one. But I realized that perhaps I wasn't asking for the right reasons, nor with the right heart. I was asking Him what He wanted me to do, instead of just letting Him do it. So then and there I shut my Bible, put my head in my hands, and I gave up. I literally just sighed and said, "Okay, fine, I quit. It's yours. It was always yours. You deal with it. I'm done. What do you want to do?" As soon as I said, "amen" the door to the library opened. A tall boy with a pony tail walked in and smiled at me. That was all it took. I'd known this boy going on 8 years, but in that moment, I was seeing him for the first time and he was seeing me. I haven't ever really heard God talk to me, but I felt Him say something very significant to me in that moment. He said, "You've finally asked the right question. You've finally lost enough to appreciate what I'm about to give you. You're going to keep losing, I can't make people live forever, but you're done fighting. You asked for it, so here's your answer."
I had no idea that Zach was my future husband at the time. All I knew in that moment was I had gone all fuzzy and couldn't really stop grinning like an idiot. I was suddenly a sixteen year old girl. When Zach left, he gave me his phone number, saying he wasn't sure why we'd never exchanged numbers before then. I took it and text him about two hours later, saying that I was glad we got to hang out even briefly. The next day I went to the park to hang out with him while he let his little brother Jon play. And it all came spilling out. Everything about Taylor, the things he'd done, and Zach listened, playing guitar and telling me I deserved better. I already knew that, but it was nice hearing him say that. I left the park and went to hang out with Taylor for a little while, and on the way Zach texted me. He told me that he knew it was random, he knew I had a boyfriend, but that if he had a girl as beautiful, funny, and special as me, he'd never let her go. He said, "I'd be a fool to let you go. I wish I could be the guy to make you happy." After that, it was all he wrote.
Taylor and I broke up on the 12th of June. I had becoming distant over the week and Taylor knew something was coming. He was never the jealous type. He didn't give a crap who I hung out with and hung out alone with other girls all the time, whether I had a problem with it or not. But he told me I couldn't talk to Zach anymore. Apparently I talked about him a little too fondly. I was texting him a little too much. I looked Taylor square in the eye and said "I find him interesting." Taylor was losing me, and he didn't count on me letting myself be lost. He got angry with me one night and told me, "He can have you!" and instead of crying and begging, I sighed and said, "Okay." He was flabbergasted. "What? Okay? What do you mean." I remember telling him that I couldn't make him love me, that I didn't want to try anymore. I was tired, and I deserved to be happy. He said, "Why do you sound like you already have your mind made up?" Because I did. I had since the 5th of June.
On the 12th, I drove to his house with a box of things I'd collected over two years and I told him it was over. He cried as I drove away, and found tooth and nail over the next few months to try to win me back. But it was too late. Taylor always told me that once I had my mind made up, I held on to my decisions with a vise grip and didn't waver. He knew this would be no different, but he had to try. I was the one. I was the girl he was supposed to marry. He did love me after all. I wondered if maybe he could change, teeter-tottered between Zach and Taylor and I hurt them both. I was horribly confused and watching my Daddy float away from me as every day went by. As the light faded in my Daddy's eyes, so did the light in mine. I didn't know what to do. I didn't know how to let him go and Taylor go at the same time.
I was in the room when my Daddy died. I remember running from the room and ending up on the front lawn, on my knees, screaming my heart out into one of my best friends laps. Then Taylor showed up and pulled me into him. He nor Zach had left me in days. They tolerated each others presence, even though their dislike for one another was fully established, because they needed to be there. Taylor was in pain as well. Taylor was apart of my family. He was grieving my Daddy's loss as well. As he cradled me in the front yard, though, I had only two thoughts: my Daddy is dead, and I want Zach. And that was when I made my choice. I looked up into Taylor's eyes and I think we both knew that it was over in that moment. I think we knew it wasn't him I wanted anymore. I didn't need him anymore.
Truth is, I didn't need Zach either. I wanted him. For the first time, I was very aware of the difference between those two things. I knew in that moment that life would never be the same, but life never really stays the same. Life goes on and on until suddenly, it doesn't. I needed to get far enough away from Taylor that I could decide for myself who I wanted to be. I didn't need him deciding for me. I deserved to be treated with respect. I deserved to matter. I am important. I felt so unloved for so long that I'd forgotten that I was always loved. I am loved by God, my family, myself, and now by my future husband, Zach. I am loved. I am strong. No one gets to dictate how I feel on a daily basis. No one tells me that video games are more important than me. No one breaks plans with me to go hang out with another female alone. No one leaves me with a sick father and goes to the beach with their ex girlfriend. No one puts baby in the corner!
Now to the two million dollar question, or two one million dollar questions: Do I still love Taylor, and why did I write this ridiculously long blog that no one but me will ever read?
When I think about Taylor, sometimes I get angry at him, but sometimes I'm thankful to him. Because of him, I learned so much about myself and my life. I wont lie to you, reader, and say that our relationship was rainbows and butterflies, but I wont say that it was all bad. We had some wonderfully hilarious moments and share some of the most amazing memories. I am happy when I think about those times. But what Taylor and I had was never love, not in the way that I wanted it to be. We were best friends who tried to be something more, and we failed. The harder I clung to Taylor, the further he pulled himself away from me. He needed space and I needed less space. He told me after we broke up that he'd only needed a chance to miss me. It's a sad reality, but now he gets to miss me...forever. Taylor has made it clear that he hasn't moved on quite yet, at least in the past. He's compared our story to The Notebook. I will never be the person to say "this will never happen" because I have said this too many times in my life only to be proven wrong. The only thing that I know for sure is that I am totally and completely in love with the man I feel like God put into my life. I am going to marry this man in a years time and we are going to have a wonderful, adventurous, and beautiful life together. He means more to me than I could ever describe and I find myself in awe at the amount of love I see in his eyes when he looks at me. This is what I know.
Why did I write this? That's simple. I wanted to tell every girl out there one simple thing: Find out who you are, and never let anyone else tell you different. Do NOT let anyone, male of female, make you less than what you are. You are a creation of the Divine. You are GODS child. You are beautiful because God made you. You are important because God made you important. He dwells inside you, and if you let someone use you and treat you like second best, you are letting them treat God that way. Ask God the right questions. I was so wrapped up in someone else, I stopped taking care of myself. I stopped seeing the Alison that God created. I will never do that again, for anyone.
When Eat. Pray. Love. first started playing in movie theaters and the book became popular, I went to a book store with Taylor with the intent of buying this book. This was the 6th of June. He took it out of my hand and told me there was no way he was going to let me buy this book. When I asked him why, he told me that with the way I was acting, I'd read this book and suddenly feel the need to go on some spiritual journey and I'd just end up dumping him. So I didn't buy the book. In August, Zach came home one weekend from college and handed me that book. He told me that he didn't care if I needed to go on some journey after I read it. He would go with me. I am just now reading it, a year later, and I feel like I'm going on this journey with Liz. But I also realize that it is a journey Zach and I will go on, and that I will go on and have gone on many times in my life. Life is this journey. Liz needed a year in three different countries to get her act together. I needed to lose people.
Love God and love yourself. Everything else in life is just a roadside attraction on a journey that will take you your entire existence on this earth to complete. Travel this road with grace, kindness, understanding, and perseverance. Do not waver from what you believe. Do not back down. Take the road less traveled by. And smile every day :)
"I Wish The Best For You"-Emerson Hart
How long can we wait here
To say goodbye?
The words once they're spoken
Are words that we can't take
Back to where we were, before
Things got in the way
Life gets so confusing
When you know what you're loosing
You
Me
Why can't we see that there's
More to love than we'll ever know
Sometimes you're closer when you're
Letting go
I wish the best for you
I wish the best for you
We'll both regret the hurting
That we will do
You'll learn to forget me
And I'll try
I'll try to forget...
You
Me
Why can't we see that there's
More to love than we'll ever know
Sometimes you're closer when you're
Letting go
I wish the best for you
I wish the best
If you ever need a place that you can run to
I'll be here, I'll be here
You
Me
Why can't we see that there's
More to love than we'll ever know
Sometimes you're closer when you're
Letting go
I wish the best for you
I wish the best for you
