pick yourself up and get on with it

It's possible that at times I am a masochist.

Feeling pain reminds us that we are alive.

And it helps us enjoy the good parts all the more.

Some times, though, I need to fall apart and just cry.

My mother always emphasized the fact that we need to allow ourselves time to grieve.

Grieve over a lost love, a lost day, a lost dream.

But grieve.

I remember a day seven years ago when I found myself sobbing in my room, in the apartment of my brother's where I lived that summer.

I was heartbroken over Riley.

I was barely 19.

But as I lay in the depths of despair, my brother came into my room and said "Cry, and then let's go get some ice cream."

All I could sputter out was an ok, because well, I could never say no to ice cream.

But that has become one of my philosophies in life (no, not never saying no to ice cream, although that kind of is my number one rule) but rather just feel it.

Feel the pain and sorrow all within and about you. And then pick yourself up and get on with life.

Grant yourself that small bit, but don't lose yourself in it.

Feeling great sorrow allows us to feel great joy.

because tomorrow is a new day, with no mistakes in it

I told myself I couldn't go to sleep until I had written something

This week has seen many late nights full of homework and reading, seeming to never end. Always one more thing to do. And by the time morning comes there is just another load.

On top of the homework and studying the to-do lists have still been full to brimming. Little things that don't seem like that big of a deal until midnight hits and I've realized I have gotten nothing done.

I've not been productive at all. My time seems to have been wasted on a hundred other things that came up, or just a lack of self-discipline.

As I finished up the third paper I had to write tonight, I checked Facebook for the umpteenth time tonight and saw this video Chloe had posted:

I recognize that my life is nowhere close to a mother's and that I had not done anything today for anyone except for myself.

But this video made me realize the importance of service and that fact that some days, I won't get everything done on my list because other things (like life) were more important.

It also reminded me that those little things that aren't on my to-do lists, but are forever in the back of my mind are truly the most important ones.

because he's married

I've thought of writing about him before. But it never felt like a hill I wanted to venture up (and I'm sorry this is a very raw post).

But then last week I found out that he's married.

The boy who broke me.

The one who completely ruined me has been married for over a year.

And he has a baby.

After all he did, all the crap he put me through, he's married and has a baby.

And I'm disgusted. Disgusted at myself for how I feel.

I guess I had always thought he would be miserable for the rest of his life to pay for how he treated me.

It only seemed fair.

But suddenly all these photos of him and his family flash before my eyes and scrape open old wounds. Feelings of such inadequacy, all the lies, the hurt, the late nights, the road trips, meeting his family, his cheating and other dirty secrets, falling on my knees to do anything and everything for him, the love and affection that I gave and wasted, compromising my whole being. It all came charging toward me like a full steam train packed with nothing but coal for the black heart I harbored for so long after him.

Yes, I rarely think of him anymore or what happened between us, but at the time I remember it being the hardest thing I ever had to go through.

It wrecked me for years and relationships to come.

I lost sight of my worth, my value.

I was nothing more than a pair of arms, and lips, and breasts. I was a bookmark in a boy's book of endeavors.

And for years to come that's all I saw myself as to any boy who ever paid the smallest attention.

There were times where people have asked if I have ever regretted anything in my life, and the only thing that has ever come to my mind was him.

And yet, as I think about who I have become since all of that, I've realized I can't regret it.

So much of who I have become, what I had to force myself to do in these last 5 years has been because of all the pain and destruction he caused in my life.

But without it, I would not have learned to become the strong person I am today. I believe that from it I learned to see the red flags a bit quicker. I've learned to not give in so easily.

To not give favors for love.

To demand respect.

To not compromise myself.

To see my worth.

But most importantly to love myself.

So yes, he's married, and he's probably happy. He may even be a good person.

But rather than begrudge his happiness, and still be angry for the disaster that we were, maybe I can start to forgive him because in the end all that matters is that I am a better person now.

And that I learned something from it all.

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 Caleb and tiny boxes

About this time last year I was suppose to be on a honeymoon with Caleb.

I think he and his wife are expecting their first baby in a week or two.

You do the math.

There is a tiny place in my heart that sometimes twists and kinks when I think about him and how he handled everything. How he hurt me. Sometimes the kink sticks around for a day or so creating a painful ache and sadness that seems as if it will never leave.

But it always does. 

Those moments come less often and are less painful now.

Often on those hard days I have to remind myself of what I learned from him, from that relationship, that journey.

Through him I met Jacob.

And through Jacob I met Sol.

And through it all I found a part of me.

Even though everything didn't work out, I still have to be grateful because each of those relationships molded me into a better person. Each of them taught me something about myself and love as a whole.

Some people close to me haven't been as forgiving toward Caleb as I have been, and I wonder if I should have been angrier. I don't think I ever got angry. I cried, a lot. I spent nights on end at my brother's place filling that hole in my chest with unconditional love from family.

I don't believe Caleb ever meant to hurt me. I believe he was unsure, and I greatly believe that he was also overwhelmed by panic and anxiety. But in truth (when it all came down to it) in the end he had a choice. We both did.

And he chose no.

The last time I saw him was when we stood in his driveway - my brother in the car for moral support, Caleb there in his pajamas, and me holding a small box that I hoped as it left my hands would remove any resentment that might grow. A small box that had held something so beautiful and precious. A small box that held a future, a past, memories, and forgotten love. A small box that still held a part of my broken heart.

In that moment all I could think was "You took my heart, you took my hands, you took my whole body, my whole soul, all my love, and now you are asking for this one last thing and I don't think I can give any more."

That tiny box was the end.

I don't pray about it anymore. I don't wish on stars for a second chance anymore (not really possible anyway). Instead I just give thanks.

I give thanks for the lessons he taught me and the respect he gave me. I give thanks for meeting someone who showed me I can be loved and that I can be with someone who would go down on one knee, someone who would ask my father's permission.

I give thanks for the hope he gave me in a tiny box.