this is not one to trifle with

It's been a rough couple of days.

A song line keeps playing over and over again in my head, "when you think of love do you think of pain."

I openly admit to the fact that I am not perfect.

This weekend I realized how disgustingly bossy I can be, especially when frustrated. I can be snide and quick to anger at times; sarcasm flowing from me like a molten river of destruction.

There are times when I am not kind, when I am too stubborn and proud to admit my mistake or own ignorance.

Other times when I am so blindly selfish I do not realize the hurt or pain I cause to those around me, most especially the ones I love and the ones I am meant to help.

Jacob and I had an interesting conversation the other night, in which these two thoughts came to me:

1. I am tired of being selfish. I want someone else's problems to deal with and I want someone to help me deal with my problems.
2. We date to fall in love.

I've grown weary of friends calling to update on life and their first question always posed to me: "Are you dating anyone?" When do they start asking me about my writing, or my babies? Oh duh, I don't have any babies.

I don't date to get married. I'm looking to fall in love, marriage tends to just follow...

Marmee and I spoke last week. She told me my brother's concern was that I was desperate to be married and that because of that I was driving the men away.

I wrote to my sweet younger sister, serving a religious mission in California following that conversation and I write here some thoughts I shared with her. Please bear with me, it's the most exposed I have been:

"Marmee and I spoke the other day. She mentioned my brother's worry about my need for the next guy I date to be the one, but how can they worry about that and then turn around and stress the importance of marriage and its influence in our faith?

I have such a lovely belief that in the end it is only the two of you: your children will have their own spouses, and their children will have their own, and so on.

No, you cannot take the search for an eternal partner lightly, and no marriage does not solve any problems. It is only a new set, and I may one day miss having the struggles of single-hood. But how often I feel such a strong desire to be in love and to give of all this love I have.

I think loving someone is one of the most sacred, beautiful things - the ability to love unconditionally  might be one of the rare times we come to being Godlike.

So then why am I judged for wanting to fall in love? Why am I looked at as a crazy heathen for it? For speaking of it so often?

My patience is wearing thin. I feel my prayers becoming more and more shallow and small. I know that I will find someone I love and who loves me, but when? Why have I not been blessed with something I so righteously desire? What more can I possibly learn?

I hear the voice inside my head tell me the cure for my loneliness: service. Yet sometimes I do feel that there is a tiny little hole that can only be cured by the loving touch of someone you love embracing you. And I am ok with that thought."

I finally called Sol.

I told myself back in May that I would give him the summer.

As of today, summer is over.

He wasn't sure how he felt about meeting up, so he will be dropping my things off later this week.

I expect the worst, yet I'm not sure I would even want the best at this point.

My fight was ignored.

All those small feelings that could have been something so much more never had a chance to grow.

I was never acknowledged.

No thank you was ever given for the small tokens I gave.

I deserve more, do I not?

I want to believe that I only seek closure. An explanation, even a bogus one might sate my need.

I think I just need to hear it. To hear that there is no chance fall from his lips and allow me to completely and finally walk away.

And no longer feel the need to hope or even want it anymore.

But if that is so, why do I still dream of him kissing me so firmly and intentionally?

possible stress fractures & possible fears

Ever since running down in So. UT over 4th of July weekend, my right ankle has been bothering me.

I didn't roll it, never heard a pop, nothing. But it's continued to hurt and be a bother. So I finally went in to the doctor last week seeing as our half marathon was coming up on Saturday and I didn't want to really damage it.

I'm not a regular at doctors' offices and going always makes me nervous. I always worry that I'll be going in for a broken arm and they'll discover that I have an incurable disease and only ten days left to live.

I had only gone in for my ankle, but I suddenly felt like every move I made was being put on review and this man in a white coat had the power to alter my lifestyle with nothing but a look and the word sorry.

"I know that's not probably what you want to hear, but you have to stop running."

Yes, that is exactly what he said.

They put you in those rooms, alone, to wait quietly pondering over all the things you've done wrong. Giving you enough time to rethink your decisions so that when the doctor comes in you're just a mess, fragile and weepy, sorry for the smallest mistake: skipping breakfast, running on a bummed ankle, not sleeping enough, and from there all the other life decisions start to come into question.

It's miserable. I was miserable. I started to cry as I waited to get an X-ray and then again walking home.

I'm not sure why I was so heart-broken. I had my heart set on training and accomplishing this great thing, something I probably wouldn't have chosen to do except in the heat of the moment, which it was. My sister had called me 3 hours before registration closed (and since it's a lottery there was a chance I wouldn't even get picked) and I thought, what the heck?! Why not? What are the chances? Sure. No problem.

I was determined that this great, big goal was going to define my life this summer. It was the thing to keep me going, the thing to keep me distracted and busy from dating and waiting for Sol. And suddenly I wasn't going to be able to do it anymore. I actually had a doctor tell me to stop running until I heard back from the radiologist and even after seeing a podiatrist.

But the tiniest part of me was ok with it, ok with not having to push myself to do something really hard, to not go outside of my physical comfort zone. Pushing yourself physically is hard enough, and I've done it before with rock climbing, but running felt different. It felt different because it's a "single's" sport for me. I've never had someone right there next to me, pushing me, encouraging me, telling me they believe I can do it. So this tiny part of me was almost relieved to have a good excuse that I could pull on to bow out gracefully, and I was almost more disappointed with myself and feeling that way than actually having a fracture.

My sister was sweet and reminded me that there would be other marathons as I cried over the phone, but I knew this was something I didn't want to do alone. I probably couldn't do it alone, and the thought of having two sisters as a support system when the big day came was comforting. I knew I could do it if they were there beside me, but to imagine going and doing it alone was disheartening.

I would have though, if I needed to. Maybe because the vain woman inside of me was determined to not suddenly go to mush after finding out about a stress fracture. I was going to continue to cross train and exercise and not gain anymore weight and stay thin and be beautiful! The vain one was panicking, I'll admit it. She was quite distraught, and that didn't help my disappointment (I'll speak more of her one day).

I spent the rest of last week resting, no running, no cross training. Taking the prescribed naproxen from the doctor helped seeing as I took it for one day and spent that whole day dizzy and sick and in bed.

By Friday I was again worried because I hadn't heard from the radiologist and was loathing going to the podiatrist the following week. But as I walked home I received the voicemail saying my X-ray was a negative for a fracture.

Remember Christmas mornings as a kid? That's what it felt like. It was wonderful and scary at the same time, though because that small part of me that was ok with bowing out suddenly had to wrap its head around training again. I couldn't back out anymore, not without admitting my fear.

So instead I have 7 miles to run tonight; alone.

I'm not looking forward to it, but I am looking forward to the after part. The part where I get to text my two sisters and tell them I did it, and it was great (even if it wasn't).

because letting go

It's been a long time since I've written late at night. I try to avoid it since I discovered that most of what comes out in the wee hours tends to be shredded chunks of my soul spat out in a frenzy of desperation to remove the vowels and consonants that seem to be rattling about in my brain.

I'm not good at giving up hope.

It should be seen as a virtue, but some nights it feels more like a vice.

I've been told it will be a blessing when I am married - that I'm not a quitter. But until then I should be ok with walking away if I'm sacrificing too much of myself holding on to wisps.



I've often given advice to others to walk away, to let go, because unless you do you live in a state of false security.



Six years ago I fell in love with someone.

In the end neither of us was willing to make the sacrifice necessary to be together.

We stayed in touch though. A year after the first severing I asked him one night if there might be a chance for a second try. He didn't know.

Two years after that, he came back to me, but by then I had moved on. Still, I was too afraid of not having something, anything, that I gave him false hope.

I didn't give him the truth because what if I told him no and he walked away and for once in my life I was completely alone with no one loving me.

I couldn't do it. I pulled him along for some time until I came to that realization. And with that I finally gave him the truth.

It was scary and hard. But I knew that I wouldn't be able to give of myself fully to someone else until I had let him and the fear of being alone go.




This last week has been a small explosion of little somethings. New discoveries, new vibrance, new sounds, new smiles and faces.

And because of those shy smiles and whispers behind hands, the idea of letting go of Sol didn't seem so scary anymore.

I've waited. I've been patient (to a degree). I've grown, I've learned. I've enjoyed and I have continually waited for that phone call.

It hasn't come. And my faith and hope has waned.

But rather than demand of myself to be more constant or patient, maybe it's time I demanded my eyes to open.

Maybe I received my answer already.

Because of those shy smiles and whispers behind hands, I'm not so scared of walking away.

Because of those shy smiles and whispers behind hands, I have hope in someone else: me.

Maybe I can be loved by another.

And maybe it won't be that face I saw from across the room, the one who made me feel as if I had been waiting for him to notice me all my life. That if I just turned around he would be there waiting, wondering what took me so long.

Maybe it won't be that face. Maybe it will be another new face in a month, or two, or six.

(a new face that will make me feel the same - that he had been waiting for me all this time)

But remembering and believing in that has made the fear of walking away disappear.

It is no longer the hook in my back, pulling my heart down every time I think of Sol's face; the words he said.

Maybe I can be loved. For all the hopeless mess I am.

because of spilled milk

I think I set hell in motion at work yesterday.

I spilled my breakfast in my lap and spent the first couple of hours wet and smelling like milk.

I wanted to explode.

I'm tired. I had to run 6 miles last night and 12 more on Saturday. My ankle is in pain and I'm near positive that I'm iron deficient. I spent most of work yesterday researching injury prevention and how to fix my form for running.

Marathon training is getting harder. My runs are longer and I have to really be good about setting aside time to go when it's not baking outside. On top of that - water. I think I've always spent my life in a borderline state of dehydration. I've never been good at staying hydrated, and now when I need it the most I still just can't quite give up the soda. I can pound a good 32 oz water bottle into me by noon, but after that I spend my afternoons tired and bloated and sick of the stuff.

Before I fell asleep the night before, I was informed via social media that someone I really care about had lied to me. Over a petty thing. But I fell asleep crying with a sick feeling inside.

So yesterday morning I wanted to cry - over spilled milk.

After running home to change I came back to work, feeling a bit better after the walk. Grateful that I live close to my job to allow for that, and that my boss was kind enough to let me leave. Upon getting back she and I sat chatting. I needed it. I told her about the roommate drama and she gave me the validation I needed.

Then a kid threw up. All over the playground. I sat reading books to him until a teacher brought down another child who was sobbing with a big scratch across her face. We dealt with the neosporin, and my boss brought the culprit of the scratch in to sit with me. Mom picked up the sick kid, and I sat with a new student: a 4-year-old who thought it was ok to scratch the entire side of an older child's face because she bumped into him. Then from down the hall came the frustrated cries of another child being pulled from class for punching another student.

So there my boss and I sat. The two of us with these kids wondering which of us was the cause for the chaos.

We got through it though. Laughed and joked, rolled our eyes and found some little things to be grateful for. Whether it was another child in the afternoon class showing his new invention, or the fact that I had a fun night with friends to look forward to.

Something my boss mentioned made me really think though. As I told her I had jokingly wanted to cry over spilled milk she said it was a symptom. And I got to thinking about what my disease must have been and I discovered it was just self-pity.

And just being able to recognize that helped me yank myself out of that gutter and get over it.

I've never been a fan of self-pity and when I find myself brooding in it, the fear of being there gets me running out of the muck like a madman.

I don't let myself wallow. Wallowing is destructive. It can tear you apart from the inside out leaving you half empty and darkly hollow.

So I didn't cry over spilled milk. I didn't curl up in a ball and let the pity surround me in the dark. I pulled out a book and I read about Ophelia. I listened to Isaac Russell and let his music sooth my soul. I grabbed a soda and said damned if I have to go run 6 miles still tonight, I'm doing whatever I want right now.

And you know what? The sun kept shining through it all.

marathon madness

I finally had a panic attack the other night as I realized just what I had gotten myself into with this whole marathon business.

I was creating a route for Saturday's 9-mile run while Meg was checking my schedule and telling me when the half marathon was coming. As I navigated my way through GoogleMaps, the fact of just how far 26.2 miles is struck me and I started gasp-laughing (aka hyperventilating of sorts), which is basically a combination of laughing at the ridiculousness of it all and gasping for air in sheer panic.

It is 26 miles from Provo to Draper, UT. That's a THIRTY-SEVEN minute drive!!!!!!! Which will take me 37 hours to complete then at best. People should NOT be running for that long. It took me a minute to get a handle on myself as I remembered that I've done this before, halfway at least. I've done the training, the hard work, I just need to do it again, for a bit longer, and a bit farther. No biggie.

Everyone keeps saying that I'm in the "prime of my youth," but there are days that I don't feel like it. Days where my knees are creaking and my ankle is sore (the latter has actually started to worry me). Days when I can't wait to get home to just take a nap, and still manage to get to bed by 10pm. And other days when I can barely manage a 12-minute mile.

Running a marathon has always been a goal of mine, and I kind of like the idea that I'll be 26 when I do my first. But reading other people's stories of their own marathon/triathalon/ironman experiences has really worried me. What if I get halfway and all my faculties shut down and I have to be carried away on a stretcher with an IV jammed into my arm? What if my legs turn into jelly at the finish line and I wobble over it, fall down, pass out and again am carried away on a stretcher with an IV jammed into my arm?!

But more importantly, what if I get injured? I strained my IT band training for the half, ran injured, and then didn't run again all summer. Then just this last Christmas break I strained my MCL while sledding (I know people who have been paralyzed from sledding so don't you dare laugh!) and all I can think about is what if I injure myself to the point of no return and can't run ever again, turn into a couch potato and then Gilbert Grape's mother?!

So instead of freaking out for the rest of the summer, I've started stretching any chance I get. I've looked into post- and pre-workout exercises to help, better cross-training ideas, yoga, hydrating, better eating, just about anything so that I don't die in the process. I don't mind if I die after I cross the finish line, but I'd like to at least get there.

all the love you can give

I recently read this post on a friend's blog (I say friend but really he's an acquaintance from The Porch who I told the first time meeting him that I wanted to meet his mom). Aside from that, and the fact that I have been blog stalking him endlessly during my down time at work.... this specific post was about The Sound of Music and all about our dreams, our situations, our realities. It was about looking inward and being honest with ourselves.

I got to this specific part of his post:
"Mother Superior tells Maria to be willing to climb every mountain and do all of the hard things and self-reflection she needed to do to find her dream, 'a dream that will need all the love you can give, every day of your life, for as long as you live.'"

And it struck me that I haven't given my dreams all the love that I could give them, and then I wondered what that even meant.

He went on to talk about how Maria has to be brave and strong enough "to do what feels right and true according to her capabilities and life circumstances."

I feel like I've done a good job in always being honest with myself, in admitting my fears and in knowing what I want. But I got to thinking about this past week and the discouragement and frustration it has been and maybe I haven't been brave enough to do what has felt right to me all along.

I've been raised to say a prayer every morning and every night, but lately I've really only been good at the night part. Most times when I remember in the mornings, it's during my walk up to work, so I stumble out a quick thank you and please-bless-us. But it just so happens that the morning before I read Eli's post I found myself mindlessly stitching together something to resemble a heartfelt plea. And as I stuttered my way up to work, I found myself really talking to my Father in Heaven. It was then that a groggy lightning bolt hit- I've always felt that my Father in Heaven has faith in me and trusts me to make good decisions (despite the years of making some really dumb ones, He still believes in me). But even though my Lord trusted me, I didn't trust me. I didn't believe I had it in me to make a good choice. Especially when it came to love because, well, I've done a fair job of always making what seems like the wrong choice. I've had moments where I have selfishly told the universe and my Father in Heaven I was going to love someone despite all the red flags and signs, I've had moments where everything felt right and good and in the end that person made a choice to not continue forward, to not love.

And then I've had moments like now, where all the goodness and hope is staring me in the face and all I can do is get defensive and worry about what others must think of me because I chose the hard way. I know I chose the road of heartbreak. But the fear of judgement and worry from others has almost paralyzed me. I find myself lying in bed asking what to do, what to do. Someone pick for me, someone choose for me because I don't trust myself to make the choice you all want me to make.

But that's not what life or love should be. I should be making choices on what I want, I should be following my dream. And even if our dreams are similar, my journey there is my own.

I need to do what feels right and true to me, depending on my capabilities and my heart. Because I am the one who gets to love that dream "every day of my life, for as long as I live." So even though it may seem stupid and wasteful to others, I've chosen something I believe in and something I could maybe love. If my God can trust me, then I should be able to trust me too. And trust that I can make not only good decisions, but ones that I want and love and that really are good, even though it may not seem like it to those on the outside. So I'll keep praying for my personal miracle and courage in myself. And I'll keep trusting and believing in that person and hoping that maybe he'll come and prove everyone wrong. And if not, I'll find a new hope (wow, didn't even try for that. Too much Star Wars lately).

And while I patiently wait I will enjoy my life now. Because it is good, and all is well. And all the worry of what I feel others might be thinking won't make the empty nights any easier. Being me and enjoying what I do have is what will help me up that mountain.

baby pigeons and crippling fear

First off, where are all the baby pigeons?!?!?!?!?!?!?! (thank you never-ending, Summer binge watching of 30Rock)

Second, as I laid in bed last night I heard something rustle in my laundry basket and I'm positive it was a snake.

Rather than investigate, I moved my basket to the other side of the room because if there was a snake he wouldn't be able to slither straight up into my bed of course (Right. It would only take just a little longer for him to make it across the room and into my bed where he would then wrap himself around my ankle cutting off the circulation in my foot rendering it dead whereupon when I woke in the morning we would have to cut it off making me a cripple although then I would have an excuse to start using a cane).

Snakes scare me. To death. I see them and my toes curl involuntarily, tears well up in my eyes, and my skin starts to retreat into my body as if it is trying to make my whole form shrink into nothingness. It's a crippling fear and I wholeheartedly confess it. I once was forced to pet a snake and my hands would not come of my armpits where I had crammed them into in hopes of continuing to maintain all ten fingers.

So no, I don't handle snakes well. And I'm not really sure where the confirmation of the mysterious noise came from since it was more than likely to be a mouse or the recently dried clothes settling.

And yes, I still have no idea what the noise was from, so on the off chance that it was a snake I must go home and burn the whole place down. Just to be positive.