another class assignment

I always thought that selective memory was something that I had better than anyone else, excluding my father, in my family. After all, I am the only one who has an unadulterated view of my childhood, who believed my parents were happily married at one point, and who doesn’t remember carving her initials into the dryer when my parents brought it home from Sears. However, there is one memory that I have in vivid detail that others present have forgotten. Maybe it is that this moment holds in it my deepest regrets that I have not been able to look past it, as my sisters and father have.

Mom was in London; more importantly, she had been in London for nearly five months. Even Dad, who had two deaf ears and two blind eyes when it came to the real world, had begun to suspect that something wasn’t right with their marriage. I had escaped the brunt of it by running away to “I-want-to-be-a-senator-when-I-grow-up camp”, as Heather called it. Someday I won’t even remember that it was called Junior Statesmen of America. All that mattered was that I lived in my own world of political science nerds and Starbucks. Nora and Heather, who lived in Boston, drove out to see me at Yale. Joyce had been abandoned at home. She saw the liquor bottles in the fridge, and she saw the websites listed on our computer’s history.

That is what the fight was about, though even that may have been a surface reason. I got home from Yale, and Nora from Boston; and Dad still waited for Mom with growing despair. We had visited her in England with possibly the worst results of a family vacation to date. The cords had to snap. Naturally, the breaking began on the side of Joyce. Dad yelled about something—he often yelled about nothing—and Joyce no longer felt the need to take it, not when she felt so much disgust for him. The two yelled, which shouldn’t have surprised anyone. That’s how they communicated.

Nora, on the other hand, likes the world to be fluffy pink and blue, perhaps out of unwillingness to give in to her manic depression the way Dad and Joyce have. She began to intercede on Joyce’s behalf, to try to calm Dad down and stop the hurt. I was in the room the whole time, listening with the practiced passivity I have developed in a family of high-strung individuals. I determined not to be a part of that stupid anger; until, that is, Dad yelled at Nora. Her eyes brimmed with tears, and my heart filled with very articulate rage. I stepped up.

I don’t remember the exact words he said to Nora, except that it ended with “I’m just so damned depressed.” Those words, that phrase, held no meaning to us anymore after having heard them so many times—like PTSD, a hiss and a by-word, the phrase used to caricature Dad. No more would he get away with the pouting routine! “Everyone gets depressed, Dad, but that is no excuse to abandon moral and parental responsibilities.” I went on, systematically naming all his shortcomings in perfect destroying diction. “F— you!” he bellowed. “I hate you!” I screamed back, throwing a tantrum like I had never done as a child. I ran to my room, literally throwing myself in my closet. I landed hard on top of my shoes and cried until Nora came in. She kept him away from me until I chose to see him. Nora always has stood up for others better than she has for herself.

Nora told the story to Heather, the sardonic hard case of the family, who praised my performance. Now, however, Nora does not remember the event ever occurring. For Joyce it is a vague recollection of one of the times she and Dad fought. I haven’t asked Dad if he remembers it. I finally understand why Nora chose to let it go. Her “la vie en rose” approach to life would be tainted by this ugly scene. She couldn’t have remembered it and forgiven any of us. To her, forgiveness means literally remembering it no more. Now I alone remember how awful that day was, what exactly everyone did that was unforgivable and how we all managed to forgive each other for it. For me, the fact that I remember serves as much of a lesson as what I remember. I just wish I could ask Nora for the details; because, like I said, I was pretty articulate.

inevitability

I have been asking my friends about fate. Do they believe in predestination? Emilie tried explaining foreordination, but that is not what I mean. I mean, have you ever been introduced to a situation and seen it, as if in retrospect, and known that you would be altered by it, that you would be involved in it? It's like looking back on a time in your life and understanding why you were there and seeing what you learned; only, instead, you are looking forward and the details are a little hazy. You know that for better or worse, you are tied irrevocably to this new event, or person. The best way it was described back to me was as the feeling of inevitability.

I have had this feeling come over me the last week or so, that I am bound to a certain fate. Almost like Frodo, only I do not bear the One Ring to its doom. Yet the prospect is just as daunting and just as inspiring. Although I do not feel able--allowed or capable--of explaining the path I see before my feet, I will say this, that if it is so that I must tread it, I will with all my strength, and that is not something I have given to anything before.

And it may be that I am wrong, that my path curves after all, just beyond my sight. So I guess, I keep going until I know. One step enough for me.

it seems i am doomed to blindness

I have experienced dramatic earth-rending paradigm shifts in my life before. People I knew turned out to be other than I had expected. The closets (one case in the typical way; that was awkward) out of which they have come varied in makeup and measurement. But one strength I possess, one for which I am too grateful even to be vain, is that I can rewire my thinking and take in this new world in place of my old, and I will still be who I always have been. I still love those I have loved before, often times more so. I come to love my Savior more as I understand why he loves us despite what we do. I adapt.

I am good at understanding people, sometimes better than they are themselves. Few people are introspective enough to beat out the degree to which I observe them. It's somewhat revelatory. I see things about people that there is no way to see. Perhaps I pick up on the things that they are not saying; but whatever it is I have learned before how important my sight is--and my discretion.

That's why I can't understand why I didn't see it before! Even those much more naive than I have seen it, though they are too innocent to know what they're seeing. The last few days I have listened to their comments, and for once I didn't rely on their judgment to tell me what mine ought to be. Nora's analysis made my eyes flinch open. And now I think she is right. And it takes a bit of a paradigm shift.

I laugh a little at myself, especially at my previous blogs. I cried a little where my roommates couldn't see. I realized I have been too focused on watching my own behavior. And I feel a little bit of an idiot. In the end, however, it doesn't change much; life was this way the whole time whether I knew it or not, so nothing, really, has happened to me at all. And that's always good to know.

If it follows that I am wrong, I will laugh even harder and then give up on being an observer of mankind; I'll move to the sudan and take my vows of hermitage

oh shmit

Nothing happened. Ted wagered it wouldn't, against the opinion of everyone, except me. Sure, I was hoping something would happen, but since when have hope and expectation been the same thing? Ted laughed at me when I told him my mind on the subject. I told him I expected failure, because I doubted that I recieved as much favor as I granted; but I also determined to try and to let myself see it through, because you never can tell with bees. At least my conveluded mix of cynicism and optimism entertained Ted. It frustrates me, but it's the sort of frustration that every girls feels as she drops face down onto her bed at the end of a night and despairs to her roommates that nothing has happened...yet. It's the tantalizing frustration that leaves a crack under the door for light to shine through, so I know I will continue frustrated until I can get to that light or know I've failed. If I had the guts I'd simply ask, but I lack the temerity.

To be more explicit, nothing happened during a movie last night with Danny. Did I flirt? So help me, did I flirt! Did he flirt back? Well, yeah, but like that means anything. I had a lot of fun, and he invited me to a movie again, but nothing happened. It's like pursuing Kevin all over again. I just hope that this time, it doesn't take five months.

p.p.s.

Rob is Scott's roommate. Weird. The two shy boys live together.

p.s.

I passed someone in the hall yesterday who turned as I did so and said, "Hey, cute smile!"

I'm doomed to vanity.

complements

My mom once wrote a letter to the makers of a cereal, letting them know that they had hired idiots to print their boxes. "Regular exercise compliments a healthy diet." I pictured how it would be. Regular Exercise (Fabio) walks up to Healthy Diet (Cindy Crawford circa 1990) and says "Hey, I really like that waistline you have; it's very small." What the -!

Last night I got a sparkling compliment. Shy Boy at work, whose name incidentally is Rob, walked up to me with more determination than usual. His fist was clenched in the Go Get 'Em way that athletes use to psych themselves up before a match. With his voice at such a volume to be heard over the Brobdingnagian dishwasher, yet pitched to avoid yelling--Shy Boy could never draw such attention to himself--he leaned in and said with practiced leisure, "You know, you have the most beautiful smile." I, like a retard, didn't hear him right away--why oh why can't I read lips--but once understanding settled over me so did the biggest smile of the night. I even managed to say thank you with a self-conscious-less pleasure. Of course, for the next hour I was shy of Shy Boy, unable to meet his eyes and bowing my head every time I had the temerity to smile at him. Did I blush? Possibly; but if I did, I attributed the glow to the heat in the dishroom. You know how steamy that place can get. I did make sure to cut the awkwardness before the end of the night by smiling that smile I now know he loves. And then I went home and told my roommates.

I love compliments. Who doesn't? I'm not saying I handle them well; I'm usually much less classy than I was last night. Even praise offered with the deepest sincerity leaves me feeling embarrassed and mocked. I feel I have to defend myself from others' adulation. If, however, I can overcome my shyness, I cherish the flattery I have received. For instance, eleven years ago Brittany Makos told me that I have lovely feet. I have an Anne Complex now, only with a fixation on a different part of my anatomy.

There are some people who compliment me better than others, whose words fill me with pleasure instead of discomfort. One may even say that they complement me. I have had many complements in my life. I never knew, until recently, that there is a pattern into which they fall. Those girls who have the most influence over me have always been the beautifully feminine and morally strong women with whom I thought I had nothing in common. Alyessa was the first. April and Emilie have been two of the best. Their gentle influence and subtle compliments bring out my own femininity. Among the male gender there seemed to be no standard; just you try finding the x-factor that groups Ted and Bryan together! These elite of the elite, support with ever-present positive reinforcement all the good things in me, until I find myself becoming good. Some, whose love for me is more an admirable reflection of their ability to love than my entitlement to it, see me as great. As I come to trust these few I even begin to see my own inherent potential to greatness. These are they who make me a better person and more worthy of others' compliments.

amnesty

"Again to the sisters I say that you will be as highly respected, you will be considered as being as much in the line of duty, your efforts will be as acceptable to the Lord and to the Church whether you go on a mission or do not go on a mission" ~ President Gordon B. Hinkley, October 1997 Conference Priesthood Session.

Brother Bott played the recording of that talk to the class today. This is the lesson I have been waiting for, so I am glad that I made it to class, however late. I sat on the floor in the back of the stadium classroom in the law building listening with baited breath. Ladies and gentlemen, the prophet of God said this, in full accord with the apostles. It is scripture.

But not for me, I said. It's not true for me. I am still required to go, obligated to go. My heart kept rebelling against the amnesty. Finally my heart cried out, scripture! And I accepted it. Instantly my heart calmed, my mind elevated and the Spirit almost patted my hand as if to say, there thatta girl. It's all I've been trying to tell you.

So I have entered into a new phase of not-knowing in my life. For the last month I have not wanted to go on a mission. I don't know the reasoning. Perhaps because I made it a chore. But that does not mean that I don't want to go. It's just that I've always said I would go, and so I've kept saying it. That, however, is not a good reason to do anything. Feeling it my duty, a recent development, directed my path toward it, but the duty is not mine. The experience would be amazing, but, as Brother Bott said, "You will not do anything while wearing that black name tag that you will not do as a wife and mother; you will reactivate, teach, prepare for baptism, serve, etc. And there are sacred experiences you cannot have as a missionary that you are allowed as a wife."

So now I must make up my mind. I will make it up for me, with the Lord's help, but whatever the decision at whatever time, I have my Heavenly Father's blessing on it. And that's good to know.

over the moon

Where are you going?
To the moon?
Can I come?
I don't know. What's in it for me?
What do you want?
There's no getting out of it that easy. Where's your resume? You've got to sell the product.
Ummm, what will you be doing on the moon?
Conquering. Likely.
Well, I'm great at conquering!
What else?

For a week now, Tarythe has been earning her passage to the moon. When she finishes a quote for me or brings me glasses of milk she gives a smug look and says, "That is why you're taking me to the moon!" I admit, her salesmanship was pretty impressive, but last night she finally convinced me.

I was chatting on-line, and if you can't guess with whom, I will think you a simpleton. But occasionally I needed help, and mole hills become mountains when it comes to impressing a boy.
Tarythe, make me witty!
She told me something to say, or else just affirmed that what I already said was perfect. That's why you're taking me to the moon.
At the end of the conversation, an hour later, he finally signed off-line at one in the morning. He had to be up in four hours' time. Tell me I'm being unwise, he said. I laughed aloud, so help me, and then I turned to Tarythe. Alright, I said, you're coming to the moon with me.

round two

Tonight's dance went much better. I am smitten. I hope he calls.

dances

I waited only long enough for her to get her clothes on. Then I clung to her like a child. She petted my head. I started crying, just like I had cried the night before in the middle of the crowd.
Please, I whispered. Please don't ask me again to go to a dance with you.
She promised.
It's not that I don't like dancing. I love it. I like to go dancing, especially if I have a guaranteed partner. Country dancing, swing dancing, latin dancing. But not YSA dances. I hate crowds, I hate flashing lights, and I hate hiphop music. Dances demand all my energy, and if I don't have energy they suck my life force. I was disappointed by the night already, so a stressful environment put me over the edge. Cassidy felt responsible for me and tried to make my night better, which was beyond her powers. I just needed to get home and sleep. Maybe I'll do better at the dance tonight with Emilie.

pictures forthcoming

My mom’s face hasn’t changed in thirty years. I know this from the photographs. A few months ago my dad gave me a collection of all the things he had that reminded him of Mom. It took him two and a half years after the divorce to part with their wedding announcement. I have it. I have it in one of those gallon-sized zip-lock bags along with many other pictures of her. There are two that I love.

The first shows her when she was about my age. Like I said, she has the same face. My mother’s beauty, then and now, comes from that face--timeless, both old and young. She has no expression either happy or sad dancing on her face. She is merely quiet. Whoever took the picture must have known my mother well; she didn’t even look up from her book when the shot was snapped. Her hair is long and dark and parted straight down the middle. She is leaning back ungainly and slouching on the couch so her hair flows around her shoulders and the thick knit sweater she wears. Her knees do not sit lady-like, but lean against the armrest with her feet on the table-top. She wears wool slacks, and in the seventies, this wasn’t usual. Of course, my mother never was very dainty, despite her inherent femininity. She always wore the pants in the family. The ring on her left hand should tell me something about the time frame, but I don’t know for a fact that it was my father to whom she was engaged at that time. Like I said, she was beautiful. I think it was dad though. I like that he had the kind of intimacy with her that allowed him to take that picture.

But what I like best about the photograph is that it looks exactly like one taken of me. I look more like my dad, really, but there’s a shot of me, lounging in an armchair with my legs over one side and a book in my lap. My hair is dark and I used to part it in the middle. I too wore that same expression of serenity. I have loved this picture ever since I first saw it. I once asked my mom if I may have it, but despite her search she never produced it. When my dad gave me the pictures, I first cried, and then was glad. This picture ties me to my mother.

The second picture of that bunch that I particularly liked was one taken a few years later. My mom is wearing a heinously hideous one-piece pantsuit that resembles the couches made in that same era. She is standing next to an aluminum Christmas tree that is so bedecked in tinsel that it appears as though silver has vomited over it. It’s beautiful in its own cheap way. What’s prettier, however, is my mother. Even in that pantsuit. She is standing with her hands on her hips, a stance that says, “why not”, poking laughter at her own happiness--for she is happy. I have never seen such an unadulterated smile on her face in all the years I can remember. Her eyes are mischievous. It is my parents’ first Christmas together and my mom would have been about six weeks into her first pregnancy. This shot captures that “glow” that people speak of.

The class project which sparked this entry asked us to point out what might be missing from the photographs we looked at. I have discovered what is missing from the serene shot of a girl enjoying her book and the excited air of a newly wed: time. She didn’t bear that look for long. My mom is never at peace, a constant type-A personality. Go, go, go. If I were to compare a picture of her now, to say what is missing would be harder. She isn’t as poor as she was then; she is more educated, and has seen and done more. What would be absent is that look of excited expectation, from the second picture, and that look of unbreakable peace from the first. Time makes us wiser but it takes with it our innocence. Thankfully, we have pictures in order to remember that these things did exist, even if a long time ago.

crushing me

I decided at the beginning of this semester that I am ready to date. Even above that--I am ready to actually put work into a relationship. So I made this decision and then boldly stood up to look around, and I was cruelly disappointed to see no one running to my side, hoping to be candidate for my affections. The one boy on whom I have my eye isn't making any bold moves to claim me; he is standing stock-still without even so much as a deer-in-the-headlight look in my direction. Occasionally I think he casts a sideways glance, but I can't seem to catch him at it.

But maybe, despite my aggravations, this is for the best. Truthfully, were he to bound to my doorstep and assault me with vigorous and amorous attentions, I would flee with all my strength. The best way to win my trust is to be my friend, to just be there. But why does he have to go and actually be just my friend?

I check my email like a crazy person. And even when I do get an email it is sparse, and no matter how many times I reread it looking for hidden meanings I find none. His blog (which he gave me permission to read; and no I will not return the favor-naturally) doesn't ever mention anything concrete. It is merely a witty column-esque commentary on everything but what I want to know--which is this: does he notice me, and, if so, in what manner?

Help! I'm not cut out for liking someone.

sisters three

it's one, two, three, and four
bodies all in a line
unbeknownst any more
which limbs are yours or mine

our tears blend like pigments
the laughter mixes too
our fears become figments
while each plan becomes true

our hair a fair spectrum
backgrounds just as diverse
our friendship's a poem
and we each write a verse

we're one, two, three and four
you mean the world to me
my home needs nothing more
than these, my sisters three

Thanks, you guys, for holding my hand as I fell asleep. I love you.

my hope

I did not use to have a favorite prophet. And then I read the story of the saving of Alma the Younger. The angel appears to him and said, "Behold, the Lord hath heard the prayers of his people, and also the prayers of his servant, Alma, who is thy father; for he has prayed with much faith concerning thee that thou mightest be brought to the knowledge of the truth; therefore, for this purpose have I come to convince thee of the power and authority of God, that the prayers of his servants might be answered according to their faith." And now I love Alma with a loyal devotion; not Alma the Younger, but Alma who is his father--he who prayed and anguished over the salvation of his family, hoping that his favor with the Lord may be passed in the form of blessings to another.

And my favorite scripture is 3Nephi 18:32.

If you know me, you know why.

on the top of the world

Work has become the place where I am most myself. Part of it is because I am confident. I am a dang fine worker and my supervisors and coworkers know it. I am not assigned a station in the dishroom. I am the rescuer, running from disaster to disaster and making it right. But there is something else that lifts my head and gives me the confidence to smile at the charmingly cute grill worker who walks through every day between the hours of seven and nine. It's the music.

I do not enjoy the music of my roommates, for the most part. I used to think I liked all music, but now I know that I despise hip-hop. And while I like many songs of the country variety, what I really love are the hits of the sixties and seventies. Joyce has made comments to me about how dad gave us our music tastes, and it's true. However appealing Dashboard Confessional is at times, there is never a moment when I don't want to hear Simon and Garfunkel. But alas, I do not own a single CD of any of the music that I love. And that is why I need work.

The radio station is named something totally stupid, cozy 104.1 maybe, but it is followed by "all the hits of the sixties and seventies". Why, it's like discovering my soul mate!--as actually I have when I see who in the dishroom or of those walking through are singing along. Turns out, both boys to whom I give "the look" know the words to Beach Boys, Carpenters, Beatles and a few others. Good boys, Lloyd. I find myself singing along to every song. Every single flippin' one. I even know The Lover's Concerto (sung by the Supremes), not to mention that it is a "cover" of Minuet in G. I know the words to Margaritaville, including the profanity. No, Nora, I didn't omit it, even on BYU campus.

Another great part of my dishroom experience every night is that the clanging and banging of dishes is too loud for my singing to be heard, so I feel free to belt it at the top of my lungs. If I also dance from the silverware station to the dishwasher, then that's my own concern.

I can't wait for work on Thursday. Maybe they'll play some more CCR!

frustration

I did it. I wrote the entry you have all been waiting for. It was articulate, slightly funny and at times touching, and it was most certainly uplifting as I exposed for you all my immediate goals. And then the damn computer deleted it. You will have to wait another two weeks, I guess, because right now I am not in the mood.

self

How many children have been accosted with the thoughtless remark, why can't you be like your sister? (brother works too, just less often.) Parents have no idea how cutting that simple sentence is. It tears apart a child's identity, creating self-doubt and abnegation. That is where we grow stereotypes, from those told to be someone else. Since when has self not been good enough?

I have always fought against anything false in my self. I do not wear makeup because I do not want someone's entire view of me to be someone hiding herself. Once I am familiar with a person, I let my inner princess show, because then I am confident that my bad hair days and cosmetic-free self are already well known. I am a sweetheart--really quite a generous and genuine person--but only those who know me in and out notice that. I am nice to other people, but I do not fake a smile. I am not the Caitie type who is naturally sweet and glowing. I don't want to leave that impression on those I meet. I hate the idea that they will be disappointed eventually.

But really, in the end, it isn't for anyone else. That would be just as false. I do it for me. If I can't love myself, then who can? "To love one's self is the beginning of a life long romance." I have been laughed at because of how seriously I take a careless criticism. I don't mind. I know that I spend a conscious effort to understand and improve myself. It has never reached the stage of fanaticism or sycophancy because mostly, after self-evaluation, I decide it is better to love myself than to change.

Like most girls, I am not one hundred percent in love with my physical appearance. But I will not be in a battle with my body for my entire life. So, it comes down to a simple choice, to love it or change it. For those things that are life-long or at least long term it is healthier to love them, while those day-to-day annoyances will be fought. I can fix a bad hair day, wrestling with the strands, but a bad hair-cut I will accept and adapt into the image I hold of myself. My hair style may change with the weather, but my hair color--including those four streaks of gray--will not be touched. I try to fix my posture for the sake of my spine, but my facial expressions are meant to please only myself. I only bought nice clothes when I decided it made me feel better, as opposed to caring how I appeared to others. I wear make up when I want to feel like a princess, but I will not do it when I want to impress someone. Maybe it's pure vanity: that I am good enough without all the borrowed feathers. If so, vanity is my favorite attribute.

Ridiculously, my feelings were hurt the other night when a friend made a suggestion, which--to me--sounded like, why can't you be like Emilie? Anyone out there who knows me knows my fondness for Emilie. If I weren't myself I should like to be her, but I am not. I am myself and ought to be loved for that. I am shy, despite my brashness, and I do not like strangers for the mere fact that I don't already know them. I sit out at dances, even though I could, conceivably, make a bold move and ask a guy to dance. Or, even walk the floor looking demure and attract one to me. The thing is, I don't want to, and I don't see how that is a flaw. I enjoyed my time, and hopefully I did not detract from anyone else's pleasure. I felt giddy for Emilie as she was admired by the many boys, smiling at the rightness of the night. Until, suddenly, I was wrong. My way was not the correct way. The comment wasn't meant to criticize; it was supposed to be encouraging. We've discussed this and understand the fact that we had misunderstood.

But as I do most character analyses, I took this to heart and contemplated it. I came to this conclusion: I am not like everyone else, but I love myself. It is not as much fun to deal with grays as it is black and white, laughed a friend, play-attacking me. Perhaps this is true, but it makes me miss Bryan who, when faced with such a choice, spotlighted the white, instead. Why can't you be more like you?

stepping out

I sat myself on the couch at about five thirty yesterday evening preparing to read a book. I wore anything but my usual jeans and sweatshirt, and my hair had the look of a soon-to-be-partier. Indeed, I had spent a good deal of time blowing-dry, pinning and curling my hair until it looked the fright that girls call elegant. I had no plans to go out, and my dates were the brothers Karamazov. I found, however, that I couldn't concentrate on Zosima when my hair begged to be taken out.

I immediately texted Emilie. Should I go to Danny's party? She had told me to the day before. However, I was not invited and had none of the information necessary to gate-crash. She never texted back. Instead the land-line rang. Hi, my name is Danny Nelson. We met once before... Wow, Emmers, quick work. With advice from Caitie I changed my outfit and casualized my hair by straightening it in a high ponytail. I even wore mascara.

And then I walked out my door and up to the door of a complete stranger, and into a room where I didn't know a single person. I was brave --and yes a little awkward at first-- but soon I was chatting with perfect strangers about movies, books, and French history. I feigned coolness when Death Cab for Cutie began to play. Joyce gave me their CD just a week ago, and I have learned that if I want to act popular I need to mimic anything Joyce. It worked. I talked to Danny for maybe a total of five minutes, but that didn't stop me from having a good time.

I left about one o'clock and headed home in a state of pride. Although Emilie was disappointed that my evening didn't end in a date invitation, I felt no regrets. I, Audrey, had been successfully social. Dates can wait. What a way to start off the New Year!

warning: do not read unless...

I think every TV show and every movie ever made has featured at least one scenario like this one; a letter/diary/note that was thoughtlessly or harmlessly written is read by the subject and a misunderstanding/understanding occurs. At any rate, it is a fiasco at least, a disaster at worst. Some things are meant never to be read. Others, ought to be topped with a warning sign--Caution, do not read unless you are a capable and intelligent human being. I guess those are the same thing. Or maybe, better yet, Caution, do not WRITE unless you are prepared for sitcom-like consequences.

I have had my share of situations resulting from a rather loose tongue and a free keyboard. Some have been comical, but not all. Perhaps I should learn to be more guarded, except that I don't mind taking the consequences, not for being honest. Others must bear the results that come from reading. Allow me to be more specific.

There was the Jon fiasco. That situation was just annoying. I understand that it hurt him when he read less than flattering things about himself on the site of an ex-girlfriend. But would he have been pained had he not read? No. Ignorance is bliss, so I've been told. Instead of going about his business, he made life more difficult for many people, trying to fight against the harshness he had read. It seemed a never-ending cycle as long as he frequented my blog. With each perusal the words became more severe. When he finally swore never to read it again, anger subsided to be replaced by cool indifference.

Situation number two: Jessica*'s Vivianne Leigh impersonation. In that case I will not try for a second to deny how in the wrong I was in our fight. But, I do not think that venting my feelings--no matter how childish they were--on my own blog is grounds for condemnation. All that I posted--and subsequently deleted--was said to her face before hand and later. Her pain, I am guessing, stemmed from the fact that I committed my sentiments to words, published before the eyes of many. I learned a lesson: When I publish negative feelings about anyone, I will provide them with an alias. The lesson she ought to have learned: do not expect stories of flowers, puppies and rainbows while in a fight.

The lesson that all should internalize: do not read unless prepared for the truth, good or bad. But when you do commit to reading, make sure to read the whole thing...I hate misunderstanding more than negative revelations, unless of course the confusion results in comedy.

I have just such an example. Ted's mom--and I really am sorry to her for this--believes me to be in love with her son. Over Thanksgiving Ted decided to do some archive reading on my blog, resurrecting the words I penned back in July. His reading it is embarrassing enough, with his full understanding of the background of each sentiment. What resulted from his trip into mylife is that his mom had the link to my blog on her computer's history. She does not understand my near-obsessive love of my friends, so when she read the archives, she became alarmed. Ted was interrogated, and I defamed. We both got a great laugh about it, but I'm not sure that Mrs. Long even now is convinced of the truth of the friendship.

Ah, well, "what do we live for but to make sport for our neighbors and laugh at them in our turn?"


* name changed to protect myself from repercussions.

weeping may endure

There is a reason why I sleep with my lamp on. The light is necessary to ward off suffocation. The dark, at times, becomes oppressive, and pain threatens to stop my breath. A light, like a beacon for help, calms me and makes me feel like I am not alone. I use a night light when I am lonely. Of the past eight days I have slept in a lighted room for four. The remaining time I spent away, and the days so revived my heart that I didn't need a lamp. I'll write more on that later. For now, I need to discuss pain.

Last Tuesday night I saw, for the first time, my father cry. He discovered that my mother is living with Bob. He asked me. Yes, I told him. It's true. He handed me my Christmas present--which, incidentally, is what my mom gave him. Fitting, I suppose, as she gave her present from him to Joyce--and started weeping. Then he drove off. Unable to breathe, I walked up the stairs and hid in the shadows. I couldn't go back inside, because only Julie was waiting there. Luckily, I had my cell phone. I tried to call Emilie, but she was on the road. I tried to call Ted, but no one answered. I fell back against the brick and slid to the floor, concentrating on stilling my sobs. The subsequent high-jinks of the night chased away the threat of breaking, but still I slept with the lamp on for the second time in a row.

Sunday night, Christmas, I cannot explain the reason. I think I left the lamp on in protest against the day ending. In all reality the time had been perfect, if also tiring. Perhaps I fell asleep before I could turn the light off.

But Monday was fraught with disappointment. I do not deal well with disappointment. That is something profound to learn about me. I am gracious when let down, but I will not forget the lesson. Two years ago I learned not to spend Christmas Day with anyone who does not love the holiday. Now I will add to it. I will not celebrate Christmas on any day with someone who does not love the holiday.

Also on that day I got to hear the poisonous remarks by both parents regarding the other. They now hate each other. Their war is a competition to see who can be the most indifferent. A cold war, as someone remarked. Mom called while I was playing a game with my brother and dad. I answered it with my dad's commentary in the background. Tell her how much fun I'm having. If only that had been the worst remark of the night. You have to find me a wife, Audrey. It's up to you. No, I protested. That is not my job. Find yourself your own damn wife. I'm only kidding, of course. I just should have done better the first time. I wanted to cry, that's my mother you speak of so derisively. Did he make it better with his retraction, if I hadn't married her, I wouldn't have you? No. I hated him for wanting to erase those twenty-seven years, for wishing my life, my family away.

I half-heartedly opened up to Ted about it when we went to Walmart. But, midnight was approaching and I didn't want to be burdensome and demanding, so I fought against the battering ram at my heart. When he lay on my sofa looking at me, I knew that if he didn't talk I would break, and breaking wasn't an option at 11:50 pm. So we spoke trivially, and he left.

And when I checked my email to find a distraction from my emotions, I found something. And it was certainly distracting. Kevin has a girl friend. My organs, previously melted in anguish, instantly solidified into molten lead. Kevin is not supposed to have a girl friend. He's not supposed to get over me. I'm not supposed to mean that little to him. I know, cognitively, that it's right he move on, that he moved on eight months ago; but I rather wished to go on believing that I mean something to him. I did not respond to the email, and instead meandered to bed.

The lamp remained on, this time on more active duty than guard. Nuora, light-giver, in full battle array. The war I fought was to keep the sobs from breaking my throat, and to keep myself from crawling into bed with Cassidy for comfort. Every time my chin started the tell-tale shaking, and my eyes stung with tears, I forced a breath into my lungs. I shivered with the exertion, using compulsion to bring relaxation. I fell asleep two hours after crawling into bed. I learned a lot about myself in that time. I learned that I can take a lot of pain and internalize it, neutralizing it slowly until it loses its toxicity.

I learned something else too.

I learned that despite the pain of the night prior, the morning is healing. That is how I know I am not depressed. I am just sad, and the hurt that comes from very definite events ambushes me in the dark alley-way of bed-time; but in daylight the shadows hold no threats, and I can continue on with my life in my usual happy manner. I can even reply to the email and tease with ridiculous follow-up questions that, come night, I will not want to know the answers to.

Pain came again tonight, but not for me. I had to observe and attempt to share. My protests against accepting a broken heart were met with the cynicism of self-preservation. Life is pain, highness; anyone who says differently is selling something. Or the less popular, because never said before tonight, life hurts, but it's good to have a dose of reality every once in a while. There will always be pain, wounds I wish I could understand, bear or heal. This evening proved that. Tonight, I know I will sleep with the light on, but it will be with the hope that my lamp could cast its rays to a distant room. Sleep well.

Weeping may endure for a night but joy cometh in the morning.

dreaming

I had nightmares again last night. I woke up smiling, snuggling deep under my covers and squeezing Raphael with fondness. You know those dreams where you suddenly realize at the end of a semester that you've been enrolled in a class that you've never been to, and now you have to take the final? I hate those dreams. But last night's was just a little different: I was on stage. For most people that would make the situation worse. Not for me. I had the lead role, and the day before the performance I remembered that I hadn't been to a single rehearsal. Everyone knew what they were doing, while I read off of someone's torn apart script. Annoying disasters occurred, and I kept appearing places I didn't want to be and having to get back to the stage. Yet, despite it all, I woke up with the thrill I always feel just before a performance.

Oh, how I miss theater.

I've been talking nonstop about the stage ever since Ted and I discovered it in the JFSB. There is a small theater there that he and I explored in the dark on Sunday. He found a piano and immediately started playing. I stood in the middle of the stage, automatically putting back my shoulders and raising my head. Lovingly I stroked the curtains as I ambled around the stage, playing imagination games with myself in my mind. I sighed as we reentered the lighted world of Real.

It's been five years since I quit drama. My one relapse was my senior year in high school when I wrote, directed and acted in the ward roadshow. The night Ted and I talked about good advice not taken I brought up how Nora, sage that she is, told me to stick it out in drama no matter how terrible the high school theater teachers became. I didn't listen. At the time I blamed it on a new teacher who treated me like the underclassmen that I was. Now I know that I couldn't have been happy acting during those years no matter who directed me. That was the time when I shut off my emotions, finding daily life a bit too difficult to feel deeply. And, to be Great on stage, one has to feel deeply. I quit because suddenly I found the emotional vulnerability a bit too much like standing naked before a panel of judges.

Now, however, I think I would jump on the stage and pirouette before them, letting the world see all the things I fear about life, just for the chance to enter that world again; the chance to experience opening night, to see the eyes watching me and then feeling them disappear as I become the part I play; the chance to feel the rush and jolt of being part of a world I create for the audience, as they and I fuse into one entity; the chance to bond with fellow actors as I explore the script and all the possibilities it holds. For that, I would give a lot.

the morning after

This morning I reread the blog I composed last night, and I shake my head to myself. You stayed up late to write that? It is mostly the last paragraph that annoys me. She sits there at the end of my thoughtful, albeit rambling, prose laughing at me. I cannot delete the stupid reference to a poor rendition of A Christmas Carol. The fact that it is there says a lot about me. It says that I will mock my own emotions, especially pain. It says that if I try to do anything great, even by way of a personal thesis, I will trip myself up, because I am too afraid that if I take myself seriously, no one else will. So I laugh first.

But I was in pain last night. Sometimes, when things hurt, it is easy to feel through them. It is a clean pain from an overt wound. Sometimes, the pain is better denied. Sometimes when it is too hard to feel one kind of hurt, feeling another makes it better. I understand why people inflict physical wounds on themselves. I did not do that. Instead, I systematically and unemotionally demolished my heart. A sledgehammer in one hand, a pickaxe in another, I swung left then right without passion or prejudice at the deep places where I feel pain. Mostly, to me, that last paragraph says the things I didn't say, can't say--not on this blog at any rate--about the topic I brought up. I know, now you're all curious. Ask, and I'll probably tell you.

At any rate, I cried myself to sleep, but not until nearly two in the morning. I couldn't bring myself to call anyone, and I prayed only for a minute before I shook my head at my own ridiculousness and crawled into bed. I didn't want to burden anyone with an abstract pain. I slept with the light on. The glow protected my dreams, like a sentinel, like a guardian angel perched on my dresser, cramped but unable to move for all the clutter he would knock to the floor. He was rather unshaven, his trench coat was wrinkled, and his overly-large wings bent at odd angles as they tried to make themselves unobtrusive. I felt glad of his presence, but this morning he was gone. Likely he had a Christmas to save, like Gideon or Clarence.

This morning it was righteous anger that got me up and out of the house. It was also righteous anger that got me back home within the hour. So, now that I don't have a job, I'm feeling great. I think I'll go back to sleep.

perfect love and all the rest

Everyone needs a Reason and a Way.

There is One Reason, and He has given us a Way. I am the light and the life of the world. Life. The Reason to work, to endure, to try and succeed. He opened to our imaginations a veritable cornucopia of rewards. He told us the Plan, the Reward, and how we were going to get there. He is the Way. Light. We follow where he leads, and where he leads is to life. We cannot blaze our own path, we cannot make it alone. But with him all things are possible.
He is the Light and the Life.

He is life. Life mirrors him, copies his perfection in minute replicas all over the universe. C. S. Lewis said that, "miracles are a retelling in small letters of the very same story which is written across the whole world in letters too large for some of us to see." Seasons change; spring eradicates winter. Dawn burns away night. A birth and death of all things, in a simple and perfect design, His design.

Art imitates life, just as life imitates its creator. The archetypes of the hero, the protector, the king, all point to him. We knew in LOTR that Gandalf couldn't really be dead, because he died for his friends, and we all know how the story progresses from there. Same with Aslan. Believe me, dad, you don't have to read the Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe to know the story. You've heard it every day of your life. And I don't mean since you were born. Even Ayn Rand, vociferous atheist, wrote her greatest novel about a perfect man who redeems those who have been abused by evil -eventually suffering phyiscal torture. He saves them from their own follies after they worked for those who enslaved them by sanctioning the evil that destroys them. Oh, Ayn, I shake my head at your determined denial of truth.

But I get off topic.

Where I mean to go with this is here: We search so desperately-albeit unconsciously- for anything in this life that will remind us of The Life. Is it surprising, therefore, that when we fall in love, the emotion mirrors the Greatest Love? We seek a Reason and a Way.

We want to be inspired. All of us earnestly seek someone who will give us a reason to rise above whatever in our life is bringing us down, ourselves most importantly. Not someone to say to us, you're okay as you are, but someone to say, I know that you have it in you to be amazing. For that person, you want to be amazing. You are willing to work to possess her (him, in my case, but its much more romantic the other way). She is worth every effort, every pain, to hold for one moment that glowing white fruit of perfection. She is the Reason. So gearing ourselves up for the enormous challenge, we suddenly find that she is also the Way. How being our best possible selves is suddenly so easy and freeing...why it's all a tribute to her. The inspiration that gives us the desire also unconsciously gives us the ability. That is the romantic love that all artists, philosophers, housewives and schoolboys aspire to. You've heard the song. You know which one I mean.

Isn't it amazing! The very act of falling in love is a testimony of our belief in a greater good. To love someone with one's whole soul is a sacred gift to the Father and the Son, an acceptance of their gift.

The reason I thought of this is not because of the conversation I had with Ted tonight, though my sentiments mirror his in many respects. I came upon this idea while watching a drama on TNT. Wanted. Now, ask me, how did a television show about police guys who hunt down wanted criminals make you think about the sanctity of romantic love? Because the criminal had Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. I wish I could relate the entire show to you. It inspired me. But the relevant part has been related in full. The mad bomber was a PTSD victim of Desert Storm. It made me think of Dad.

Sometimes I think my dad is so weak, unable to do the simplest things for himself, unable to be a grownup in many ways. I feel burdened, thinking that it is my duty to take care of him. And yet, he has never starved, nor frozen to death. He is perfectly able to take care of himself. So why do I feel that he is not alive? My father is not happy. He chooses to live in the past, in the years he was surrounded by war, death, hatred and pain, rather than to live in the present. Why would anyone choose such a life? Why does he not let himself be happy? It's a simple choice. One that I've tried to make for him, so many times. But I cannot make my father happy. I do not think that even he has that ability anymore. But he used to.

PTSD is a catchword in our family, among we children anyway. A hiss and a byword. Like the phrase, "so damned depressed", it has ceased to mean anything important or real. I forget sometimes that people who have it are legitimately sick, and I use the word sick in its worst connotation. These bastards are sick! And, yeah, sometimes Dad veers that way, but for the most part, even he doesn't think of his mental unhealth as relevant. Dad is skitzophrenic. My dad is insane. And yet, it's not a big deal to us. Why? Because he has always been insane, since before we were born, but it never got in the way before. It was always there, unnamed, but he never let it bother him. My dad, my weak dad, never let his wife of twenty-seven years know that he saw his dead friends from Vietnam. How did he find that strength? Because of her.

I learned the meaning of the word romance from watching my father. Because of him, I can never marry a man who does not treat me like a princess. My mother once lectured him for the money he spent buying her flowers, as flowers die. So, whenever my father got the urge to splurge on a bouquet, he instead bought a single silk rose. In her bathroom, my mother had an immortal collection of ILOVEYOUs and JUSTBECAUSEs arrayed in all colors imaginable. Incidentally, I learned the meaning of disappointed from my mother.

In my mom, my dad found all the inspiration he could ever want for life. His wild past that we joke about with him did not influence our lives negatively, because the man we met was gentle-even when he yelled- protective and living a life within the lines. I'm not counting the Pepsi he drank behind mom's back. She was his Reason for fighting all the demons and dark things that lived in his mind. And she was his Way to do it. Heaven knows they did not have a perfect marriage even at the best of times. They probably ought never to have been married, but I may not ever meet a man who still means it for All Eternity when Time has turned her back on him.

Maybe that is why my dad could not believe in God anymore, and why the Son became fiction in his mind. Dad could not believe in Reason and Way. He had lost love. My parents' marriage really hit the rocks at the same time they left the church. The cause and effect is one eternal return. But I do know that my dad's mental weaknesses caught up to him when he gave up on her. That is why he chooses to live in the war; because to live in a life that doesn't have her is traumatic.

I wish I could do something more than observe it.

For my sanity, I must end on a note of inspiration. Perhaps I may speculate on my future prospects of romantic love. I may bear testimony of the Great Love. Girlishly, I may hope to be the Reason and Way for someone some day. But all of a sudden, I am afraid of messing up those sentiments and paths. So I will end, with a Tiny Tim thought for all: May you find love in your lives that make you a better person every day. May you find a Reason and Way, and the Light and the Life.

God bless us every one. (<--must use very bad cockney accent)

confidence

I do not like an audience. Sincerity becomes diffused between many participants in a conversation. Ted tried asking me about something today and, despite a desire to confide on my part, I did not answer. Not well, anyway. The reason is that Tarythe was present. It is not that I would not have told those things to her, but that I could not do it with more than one person at a time. The same is true if I play the role of a listener. I don't feel a connection to the speaker because I am trying to connect to the other listeners as well. My attention falters. At least, I feel that the speaker thinks my attention falters. Any conversation I hold with other people present feels like role-playing, a performance with the energy and wit and timing of a script. It doesn't seem real to me. I cannot make eye-contact. I am honest in word but not in spirit. Any other arrangement besides one-on-one just doesn't cut it for me when I want confidence.

Yet, when I lack confidence, a group of supporting friends helps to heighten my courage. Meeting new people, for instance, is a task I daren't undertake alone. When I am in a group of people who I know love me despite my follies, then I feel empowered to win over a new friend. It is at those times that I truly believe-a different thing than knowing-that I am a person anyone would like for a friend. So both settings are imperative for me, groups and intimacy. They are good for different reasons: one for the energy and wit and timing that make me feel beautiful and fun; the other for truth and honesty, another way of making me feel beautiful and appreciated.

A note to Ted: When you read this looking for a selfish confidence boost, hear this: I do not think that all you do is ridicule. I am not afraid that you will mock me. I trust you. You are a good friend. No buts about it.

me-mail

I once told Emilie that I learn things about myself through observations not of my emotions but of my actions. Then I find a pattern and trace it back to its cause.

Recently I did this with my obsession toward checking email. I noticed that it is not random chance as to when I sit by the computer clicking refresh on my inbox, nor do I run to the laptop every time I get home. The pattern is this: I check my email when I am exceptionally emotional. I may be very happy, sad, lonely, giddy, romantic, proud, or any number of other emotions. I check my email because when I feel anything that strongly I know in some deep place in my mind that someone somewhere has to be reaching out yearning to be a part of that sense. It is a faith I cling to despite evidence to the contrary.

It is faith that who I am in my most raw form must appeal to someone, and that I need to share it with that person. I am glad to discover this about myself. Especially after last night. Last night I confided to Emilie that I am afraid that when someone really gets to know me then they will stop loving me. Now I know that my soul is really more optimistic than that. My fear of abandonment or inadequacy, or whatever it is, is really a surmountable barrier. I respond very quickly and easily to encouragement, and discouragement alike. If one is enthusiastic about any aspect of my character, I am inclined to show more. It's progressive. And it is not because I dislike my innermost self, but rather that I so love my innermost self that I would reveal it to none other than those who would also love it.

Is it weird to associate that with checking email? Perhaps there is no logical connection. But the relationship, strange though it may be, is that when I feel truly myself, I get on line to see who out there is ready to celebrate it with me.

opposition in all things

Of course, the day after the perfect week ends, I get a cold. Not just any cold, one of those deep-chest colds where breathing seems an impossible task and you wish the knife in your throat would cut deeper and just get it over with. I had the day off, so I spent it sleeping. I called in sick to work today and again used my time productively, by laying in near coma hour after hour. I find that if I focus on my every breath, I can avoid coughing, and if I stay silent my throat had nothing of which to complain...as long as I don't swallow. So really everything is a-ok. I'm a little hungry and loopy from Dayquil, but besides those effects, I have been enjoying a new Zen-like state. Perhaps I'll reach enlightenment tonight. Or perhaps I'll call in sick again tomorrow.

the perfect week

This past week has been perfect.

First Contact
Emilie asserted all semester that I should be with her friend Danny. You'd love each other, she said. Or hate each other. She has wanted us to meet since she first mentioned him to me in September. Caitie agreed. Wednesday he came over for the first time. I was on the computer buying movie tickets, and Em came to invite me out to the living room. I grudgingly, though half-excitedly, exited my room. My breath caught in my chest.
Hi, nice to meet you.
Nice to be met.
Mmm, not bad. Okay, great. When he left I was glad to know I would see him again Sunday.

Scoring
No, not that way.
I played snow football Wednesday night, delighting in the exertion. I wanted to opt out originally-I was tired, hungry and sore. However, wiley boys convinced me to layer my clothes and gird up my loins. The cold air felt wonderful, and I even shed layers as I ran back and forth across uneven ground. Unfortunately, my quarter back wouldn't throw to girls. Ted was QB of the other team and made Emilie, Caitie and me proud by his admirable sportmanship. Finally the QB did pass to me, and I caught it in the End Zone. Ted claims to have won the game, but I was really the winner. Even when he flattened me in the snow to prove his dominance, I never relinquished my claim.

The exercise chased away all the gloomy, wearisome thoughts that had plagued my brain-the anticipation of homework and finals, the prospect of yet another semester feeling lonely, and any other feel sorry for myself thoughts that elbow their way into my mind when I am tired and hungry. I ran, played, laughed and won, and then returned home with my roommates and Ted for hot chocolate.

Night Time Talking
After hot chocolate, my roommates retired for the night. Ted stuck around, and he and I talked together on the couch in my living room with the lights off and the room illuminated only by a lamp and the Christmas tree in the corner. We only stopped when we realized that it was past curfew. We talked on all sorts of subjects. The one that meant the most was sparked by Alanis Morissette. No, we didn't find any deep and important truths in her music. Rather, a mocking discussion of the song Ironic led us to the question, "what good advice have you not taken?"

We discussed regrets. I regret not giving my all to school. I could have been brilliant. You are, he replied. You just don't apply yourself. He misses his father. I've never pursued the subject, just as I have never pushed Ted for any confidences, but I'll admit curiosity. It's such a big part of who he is, a sadness I see only because of the walls he has around it. I want someday to have the confidence necessary to ask him those kinds of questions; I guess all I lack is the belief that he will answer. I never push when I think it is in the direction of Away. But Wednesday night I didn't feel that possibility existed. I felt so euphoric that homework didn't daunt me at all.

Lectures on Principles
Professor Kearl's last lecture Thursday morning ended in a thunderous applause. No other economics professor in the history of supply and demand has ever been given such a reception. The reason: no professor has ever traded in Adam Smith for Joseph.

My biggest fear, began Kearl, is that you will leave this class and believe what you have learned, that some invisible hand choreographs all your self-interested behavior into a glowing Utopian society. Kearl lectured on charity with all the might of King Benjamin, ending with quotes from D&C, for those who "don't believe in ancient prophets". Be generous of heart, he begged us. Give now, of your time, of your money, and of yourself. If you are stingy when you are poor you will never have enough money to help others. Absorb negative externalities.

The second soapbox on his agenda: take pride in your education. Don't let your major cheat you out of exploring all there is in various subjects. Learn to love to learn. Soak in culture and ideas, so that your leisure time will not be a waste when you are an adult. Find something about which you are passionate-Gothic Cathedrals, Eighteenth century British Literature-and pursue it with zeal.

In short, he ended, learn to better yourselves in all things. See you Monday at the final.

When the clapping started, I grinned. I felt like standing on my chair and yelling, "oh Captain, my Captain!" But fear of plagiarism kept me seated.

Narnia
I wish I had words enough to describe this movie. I am powerless. Just know that The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe is the most perfect movie ever made. Feeling the Spirit at a Hollywood film is a once-in-a-lifetime event. I wept, and I was not the only one, not even among my companions.

I will comment on one thing. When Lucy and Susan follow Aslan up the hill and he asks them to walk with him, the two make a comment that they could not sleep. Did C.S. Lewis rewrite the story as it ought to have been, purposefully altering the behavior of Peter, James and John, who could not stay awake in order that they might watch with their Savior and Friend on that His hardest of nights?

As I said, the movie was beautiful.

After the Wardrobe
Driving home that night, Ted asked why he had been so fortunate as to have been invited with me and Emilie to the movie. The truth was that I had thought of him first, knowing that of all my friends (both of them) that he would love the movie the most. He and I have repeatedly discussed the book, and his enthusiasm has matched mine. In the car, we could hardly contain it as we relived scene after scene, hardly breathing for fear of banishing the aura of the two hours prior.

Finally, Ted turned his head toward me. Audrey, you know I love you, right?

No, actually. Ted had never said that before. In times of great sentiment, sometimes he would say he liked me. He always hugged me tightly, but Ted hugs everyone tightly. Despite all signs I have never known that he liked me, let alone loved me.

Oh. Well I do.

Oh. Ted, my best friend, had once said that he doesn't say those words easily. I have witnessed it before, as he avoided saying it in reply to Elise. My shock made me think of a conversation he and I had before the movie. Some people fight hard against believing that what they want is true. I realized that was the case with me. I had to have it spelled out.

Thank you, I replied. I was truly grateful that he had told me, but more grateful that he felt that way. It is not a romantic love-likely I wouldn't have said thank you to that- but just as necessary. I know he only said it because he was tired and had no control over his words. That, in a way, almost made it better. Eventually, my mind realized that I had said, Thank you, to an offered, I love you, and so I finished with, I love you too, not because it was expected but because I wanted to say it back.

Christmas and all the Trimmings
Christmas has always been wonderful. Sunday was no exception. There was even a stranger there, and I didn't mind at all! Each of us in the apartment dressed up and did her hair beautifully. Church was one long Christmas musical program. Emilie, Caitie and Danny sang and were wonderful. I made Chimichangas in between decorating the apartment and singing carols. To dinner came Ted, Danny, Jocilyn and we roomies. The atmosphere was comfy and loving. We ate chimis, then oranges and nuts from makeshift stockings Tarythe and I formed from Christmas-decorated oven-mitts. We laughed and quoted and teased and shared stories. I'll admit, Danny intrigued me. But that's not really what I paid attention to. I noticed the overall feeling of warmth and peace. Christmas is the best day of the year even if it is two weeks early.

School
I passed my economics exam and thus the semester. I can say nothing else on the matter. I am too proud and humbly grateful.

Flora
Cassidy got lilies from a boy. We put the flowers on a Grecian pedestal in the living room with arrows leading to the pillar. She glowed. We giggled.

Nora
Nora got in to BYU, though she doesn't admit it yet. Sure, there was no acceptance letter, but when you are informed that your credits are as follows and your standing is probation, that usually means that you're in.

Fitzwilliam
Even today, twenty-four hours later, I am ready to propose marriage to any male I see. Pride and Prejudice was superbly made. Wonderful direction, amazing cinematography, and grand sound track. The actors played their roles with conviction. I love Keira Knightly. I love the story. All the satire and down time in the books was deleted, all the passion and romance magnified. Wit kept. Visuals enhanced. But mostly, there was HIM! HE stood in the rain confessing love and vanity. HE ran to her side to help her from pain. HE walked across a field full of sage in the light of dawn, surrounded by morning mist, wearing a long black trench coat that flowed behind him as the music swelled in my ears. After HE married her, they sat outside his home discussing pet names. You may only call be Mrs. Darcy when you are perfectly, totally and incandescently happy. He kisses her cheek. Mrs. Darcy. He kisses her brow. Mrs. Darcy. He kisses her chin. Mrs. Darcy. He leans close to her lips and pauses. Mrs. Darcy. Kiss. Roll credits.

Post Final Party
Pizza, Never On Sundaes, Ted, Cassidy, Emilie, Caitie, no more school.


Like I said. Perfect.

masochism

Emilie, Cassidy and I watched an episode of Everwood. We didn't mean to. We flipped channels and there was the best scene ever. Boy and girls are dating and girl is insecure about her appearance overall, not just on this specific occasion. To make her feel better, he locks her in the bathroom until she can see herself in the mirror the way he sees her. Look at your skin, your lips, your eye lashes. We watched avidly.

It made Emilie want to cuddle; it made me want to be told how beautiful I am in someone's eyes; it made Cassidy wish she were self-conscious about her appearance. We relived the scene verbatim. We may as well have developed a habit of poking ourselves with flaming hot brands. Why do we do this to ourselves? Girls are gluttons for pain, as if wanting will replace having, as if viewing will feed longing. It's stupid. Really, really stupid.

Everyone wants a happily ever after, but planning out how it has to be will just leave us dissatisfied when the right person turns out not to follow a script written by the WB. There is no perfect guy, just a guy who's perfect for you. Yes, a guy who's perfect for me will find me beautiful -and better tell me so!- but he'll do it in his own way, and I'll be myself -someone who is too vain to admit feelings of inadequacy- and somehow that will work too, perfectly. Until then, I need to stop torturing myself.

workshop

My creative writing class liked my story tonight! I felt great, especially after the others workshopped with a lot of criticism. It makes me more excited for my own book. I've always been intimidated by my desire to write. Who grows up to be an author, really? But now my story is budding and my characters are becoming real to me, and even people who don't like me have told me to keep at it and finish. I love my CW class because my writing has matured, my ambition developed, and when I feel like I'm wasting my afternoon typing away on my ancient laptop, I remind myself that it's homework.

k-mails

Aren't emails the greatest?! They are especially great when they tell you how great you are, how much you mean to the writer and what specifically they love about you. These emails are so great in fact that you forget you're not supposed to smile that way. You forget that he's gone and left you behind of his own volition. You forget all the bad things that went on before. You might even entertain stupid daydreams where he behaves more like you wish, not like his character dictates. You definitely quote and/or read the email to all your roommates. Ah, the power of words!

But I am just speaking hypothetically, of course. I would never act so irrationally over a mere email.

addicted to chick-flicks

Watching chick-flicks is a dangerous past-time. It makes me want a boy. I want to hold hands, cuddle and, yes, maybe recieve a kiss or two. I want to smile that smile, you know the one. Those who can bring that smile to my face aren't allowed. Maybe Steven Shaw will come up here next semester and I'll swoop in for the catch. Or I could keep watching romantic comedies until I overdose.
I don't have problem. I can quit any time I want. I just don't want to.

the song i was trying to remember

BRIGHT EYES LYRICS

"A Perfect Sonnet"

Lately I've been wishing I had one desire

Something that would make me never want another

Something that would make it so that nothing mattered

All would be clear then

But I guess I'll have to settle for a few brief moments

And watch it all dissolve into a single second

And try to write it down into a perfect sonnet

or one foolish line

'Cause that's all that you'll get so you'll have to accept

You are here then you're gone

But I believe that lovers should be tied together and

Thrown into the ocean in the worst of weatherand left there to drown

Left there to drown in their innocence

But as for me I'm coming to the final chapter

I read all of the pages and there is still no answer

Only all that was before I know must soon come after

That is the only way it can be

So I stand in the sun

And I breathe with my lungs

Trying to spare me the weight of the truth

Saying everything you've ever seen was just a mirror

And you've spent your whole life sweating in an endless fever

And now you are laying in a bathtub full of freezing water

Wishing you were a ghost

But once you knew a girl and you named her Lover

And danced with her in kitchens through the greenest summer

But autumn came, She disappeared

You can't remember where she said she was going to

But you know that she's gone 'cause she left you a song

That you don't want to sing

We're singing I believe that lovers should be chained together

And thrown into a fire with their songs and letters

And left there to burn

Left there to burn in their arrogance

But as for me I'm coming to my final failure

I've killed myself with changes trying to make things better

But I ended up becoming something other than what I had planned to be

Now I believe that lovers should be draped in flowers

And layed entwined together on a bed of clover

And left there to sleep

Left there to dream of their happiness

nightmares

Two summers ago my nightmares became so bad that I would sit up in bed all night trying to stay awake, just to avoid dreaming. Last night, I had a dream that was so horrible, so totally vicious and terrifying, that sleep no longer sounds inviting. And for me, that's a big deal. I love sleep. But to face something like that dream again...It was like a Lifetime original movie, only with more violence. Maybe it's because I slept irregularly this whole weekend due to my work schedule. I will try to get to bed early and wake early too. Hopefully that helps, because if it doesn't, it's back to sitting up all night.

like love

I watched Julie reclining in the arms of her boyfriend whispering sweet nothings to him, and I had to wonder...how does she do it? I can't. I do not posses the ability to say all those googly gaggly giggly things to someone in whom I am interested. And pet names, forget it. I can see myself in the middle of a relationship being able to say nonchalantly, "hey hun, could you pass me the butter?" but as for starting it...Well, let's just say I'll never be the one to nickname someone Bry-bear. Am I just bad at a natural part of relationships -that wouldn't surprise me at all- or is it not in my character no matter how natural a relationship feels to me to whisper seductively all the reasons why I think my guy is knight-in-shining-armor-in-a-box?

In search of answers I interrogated Julie and Tarythe. All I got out of it was that I'm screwed up. Thanks Julie for saying, "Well, there are a lot of things you just try to get out of, aren't there?" Ouch. I lost my drive on the research mode and switched to defense mode. I lost time and momentum, and have yet to understand mushy relationships.

There are reasons besides my own psychoanalysis for understanding. The characters in my book cannot all think, act and feel the way I do. I need the perspective of someone uninhibitedly romantic, someone male, and someone completely stoic. I am not any of those things. I am a cynically optimistic romantic realist. Therefore: I don't understand anybody.

Another topic of concern. How does one go about saying "I love you"? Tarythe has dropped the word numerous times. She means it the way I mean it when I talk to Elise. How does one mean it the way Jane Austen writes it? The more I feel for a person, the more I want to pull away. I don't hold any emotion back, but I let the other person think that I have. Maybe I feel more secure that way. Really, however, it means they don't love me and then they back off, leaving me feeling very naked and wounded. To prevent said broken heart, whenever the impulse to take any next step hits me, I inevitably take a step back. I have been in love, but I never voiced it. So, to reiterate, how does one do it the normal way? How does it work? How does one bring oneself to saying those three monumental words?

Get back to me. Because I just don't get it.

happy holidays

I never knew why the Holidays created such depression in people. For me they have always been a time of supreme bliss, a time to share with loved ones, to celebrate all that is good in the world. Now I understand. The reason for the depression is not having loved ones around with whom to celebrate. For three days I felt this. It is a crippling, debilitating pain that turns everything gray and makes breathing the biggest task of the day. Now, I tend to learn things about myself by observing my actions, and I watched as I slept too long and then did nothing but read all day. When the phone rang I raced haphazardly toward it. I crashed into walls in my enthusiasm to reach someone, to be reached. Then I got an email inviting me to thanksgiving dinner with my family. It will be enough time before work that I can go. My day turned into rainbows and artichoke hearts. I watched a chic-flick without tears. I still race for the phone, but I don't think I'll ever outgrow that.

nora, too big for prose

When you were near I rarely cried.
The need was gone.
But when outside forces overpowered me,
when I finally melted into tears,
you were there to make sure that I wasn't alone,
and then you picked me up again.

With you around laughter was language.
We made ridiculous an art,
as we squirmed and squished on my bed.
I told you everything and you understood.
You would tease, as sisters do,
but then you loved me more.

When you were home I was never lonely.
Homesick was when you were away.
And then I could call you and you would always be there.
I never had to tell you of the pain,
because as soon as I heard your voice
the loneliness was gone.

My world fell apart along time ago.
I never knew it.
Because I had you.

Since you've been gone,
I feel each time a wall shakes,
each time my heart breaks,
and I know how much you bore for me.

It makes me glad that I am now
old enough to bear something
for you.

success stories

It is a universal rule that when a girl confesses love to a guy, he shuns her forthwith. Well doesn't it just beat all that Julie receives a date invitation when she makes her confession. How does she do it? Does the awkwardness help, or does he have to have affection for her already when she comes to him? That's been every girl's problem.

But now, ladies and gents, I have a better success story to properly inspire you all. Nora is considering going back to school at BYU. There are many laws upon which this blessing is predicated, so we can't yet count our chickens (I just mixed scripture and chickens!) but the success is that she wants to try. I'm so proud. It just tickles me. It rendered me speechless, quite speechless I tell you, and I have not stopped talking of it since.

Eegads, I'm too hyper to write anything sensible, but when I calm down there will be an entry dedicated to my fantabulous sister.

matchmaker, matchmaker

Emilie and I had a wonderful and sad conversation. We both cried. It involved our hurt feelings, not from each other, but from past relationships. It ended in one conclusion: we need to reinstate arranged marriages.

We will set up a network, like LDS Link-up. Parents can communicate over vast distances, narrowing their network to a community of shared values from which to pick their children's spouses. This would solve so many problems.

I would never try to give a bad first impression because I know that he's in it for good, no matter what.
I wouldn't hold back and because of that he would love me as I am, making a long-lasting strong relationship of its own.
My parents, who have such different ideas of what's good for me, would find the perfect match when finally forced to compromise.
Those who cannot marry arranged out of sheer principle will be those story-worthy passionate ones who are destined to find true love or a great calling on their own anyway.
Guys would be held to a much lower standard for romance. That's good for them and us.

Overall, good idea.

in my mind

We used to go on walks holding hands;
now when my hands close they cannot help
but remember the calluses and
creases in yours.
I cannot close my hand all the way;
my fingers leave a space there for you,
as if your hand had never let go.
it's still there.
When I walk alone my hand will still
take along you.
that's not true.
we never held hands.

It is my mind that takes you with me.
i am in distant lands without you;
but it seems to me that you are here.
constantly here.
We laugh at all of our inside jokes;
together we sing that same old tune;
tell me how you learned to play it on
your old guitar.
We discuss the new ideas I've heard.
i debate you.
why do I lose;
it's all in my head?

I remember everything for you;
i bring back the jokes, songs and hearsay.
now we can laugh and sing and argue.
now it's true.
We live the walk that you took with me;
then you in turn tell me of your life
and the walk that I went on with you.
i was there.
This is how I hold hands with you -all
when we talk.
on my walk
and again on yours.

irony and regrets

When Emily told me the news, I had to laugh. It was funny in the too-much-drama-to-handle way. The blog I wrote last night, venting my feelings about Julie, was only posted for twenty minutes, after which time Emily and Cassidy told me it was too harsh. Although my feelings were justified, they said, there would be consequences for what I write. I have often chided others for their naivete. Just because you didn't want consequences does not mean they won't happen. I did not want contention so I deleted the post. The humor comes into play when it is discovered that in that mere twenty minutes Julie read the blog and has sworn estrangement hence forth. She told Emily that I deleted the blog to destroy evidence. Yeah. Okay. If I wanted to do that, I'd erase her ridiculous comment.

The sad part is that I deleted it for her feelings and for my soul. I wanted to rise above it, to be a better person. I released my frustrations slowly, reading the scriptures and elevating my feelings. I determined to be more like the Savior. I was glad I had erased something so hurtful. I was humbled and repentant. But I still got to face the consequences. I missed out on the chance to explore something beautiful because I was laughing at something ridiculous.

I am sorry when I lose my temper and say things that are cruel. It is what I hate most about myself. I deleted the entry because it was the first time I could literally take my words back. I'm not sad that they were read. I like to be honest about how I feel so that it does not get suppressed and start suffocating everyone I'm around including myself. Confrontation leads to clearing the air, to understanding each other and to learning to find a middle ground. It is an irony in life that avoiding confrontation leads to contention.

I am sorry that I hurt Julie's feelings, but I would not retract my own. I am sorry that she wants to avoid the apartment because of me, but I am not sorry if that brings peace. I am not sorry that I used my own blog -my journal- to express myself. I am sorry that it is leading to such drama.

touched

Tonight Emilie got home. Oh, how I have missed her. I babbled to her like I do only to my family. Babbling is my forte, but I only do it around people with whom I am comfortable. I told Em about the drama this weekend, about fights with roommates and calls from home. We talked about falling in love. We talked, she talked and I talked. Then we went shopping. At Walmart I was given one of the best compliments of my life.

"I like talking to you," she said. "Even though Caitie isn't home I know it's alright because I can talk to you."

the man trap

The bait is released, a beautiful girl of only nineteen. The unsuspecting beast is lured to her lair with whispered promises. That is when the trap is sprung. The entire pack moves in for the kill, submitting the victim to hours of physical torture. We've done it before; Tuesday night was not the first time. It will not be the last.

Chris was victim number one that night. He wanted to learn to dance, and Julie had seemed a promising teacher. What she hadn't explained was that she would force him to move his body in extreme fashions to absurd music with her roommates watching. But oh! We did more than just watch. We heckled. By the end of the night he was sweating and utterly disheveled. All the while he is of course aware of what he is undergoing. Or is he? Does he know that every look, every step is being analyzed for future discussions, so that when Julie asks us at the end of the night what we think of him, our answers will be full of over-killed observations. He was innocent, and we destroyed him.

Unfortunately for the male pack, our hunger was not appeased. As Steve walked below our window, carring home a supply of cupcakes, Emily's impromtu soliciting secured us dessert to top off our earlier feast. Dance for us! Dance he did. He spun Emily with the naive belief that he was demonstrating his lack of dancing talent to the group. What he was actually doing was submitting to our psychoanalysis. Did he look at her the way I think he did? We examined him over and over, telling him what to do and when in order to observe his alacrity. We, the sick-minded females of laboratory 99, decided to play Pavlov. Drool puppy! Drool for Em! And when you go, leave the cupcakes here.

We have pictures to document the evening, the proof satan will use against us in the judgment day.

discretion

Hey!
Hi.
I recognized the back of your head.
Impressive.
Where are you off to?
A meeting. Hey, can I talk to you later? It doesn’t have to be tonight.
No, my curiosity is peaked. I have no patience when I know people want to talk to me. Come over tonight. But not until eight because I am watching Gilmore Girls.
Can’t I watch too?
If you really want to.
See you at eight.
-------------------------
So, it’s nothing serious. Don’t be worried.
What’s up then?
I need to talk to you about –
I thought so.
It’s just that, well I mean I, do you know…
Blunt equals good communication.
Let’s just say I know what’s going on.
Do you want me to talk to her?
No.
Good.
I just wanted to talk to someone about it.
I hate to say it, but honesty is the best policy.
Ok. I’ll talk to her.

check mate

Last night I chose Steel Magnolias over the homecoming game, much to the chagrin of my roommates. We'll let that pass. As a result I was shunned, left alone while they hunted for an unused TV to watch our teams potential failure. (weirdly we won). While I was thus ensconced I received a visitor. Chris, the unaware love of Julie's life, came over and invited me for a game of chess today. My smile appeared before I thought about it.

Julie came home that night grinning from ear to ear because Chris had sat by her watching the game. Her cheeriness cooled when I told her of his invitation. I know the girl rules. I tread dangerous ground. My wariness grew when Tarythe told me Chris knew I was the only one home and had come purposefully.

We played the game today. Julie sat next to me as the match progressed. She watched like a hawk to learn the dynamics of each player. The King had very little room to maneuver. The Queen was ruthless, a jealous guardian of her domain, while the Knight sidestepped trap after trap, heading for the King. In the end it was check mate, as it always is. One player is backed into the corner with nowhere to move without dying. To stay perfectly still also welcomes doom. Today I got check-mated.

tombstones

I watched Tombstone yesterday and cried through it. I cried over the friendship between Doc Holliday and Wyatt Earp. Doc, dying of tuberculosis, never misses a fight along side his friend.

Wyatt: Doc, this isn't your fight.
Doc: You've got a hell of a lot of nerve saying that to me.

Man in Posse: Doc, you should be in bed. Why do you do it?
Doc: Wyatt Earp's my friend.
Man: Hell, I got lots of friends.
Doc: I don't.

Doc passes out in the saddle from exposure and exhurtion. He is left behind when Wyatt goes to do battle one-on-one with Johnny Ringo. Wyatt leaves him out of love, and for the same reason Doc beats Wyatt to the rendezvous and dispatches with Ringo first. The battle costs him and he goes to Colorado to a sanitorium to die. Wyatt comes every day, on the last of which he gives Doc a present before dealing out the cards for poker, but Doc doesn't want to play anymore. Yet, before he dies, he takes care fo his friend.

Doc Holliday: What do you want Wyatt?
Wyatt Earp: Just to live a normal life.
Doc Holliday: There is no normal life, there's just life, ya live it.
Wyatt Earp: I don't know how.
Doc Holliday: Sure ya do, say goodbye to me, go grab that spirited actress and make her your own. Take that and don't look back. Live every second, live right on through the end. Live Wyatt, live for me. Wyatt, if you were ever truly my friend, or if ya ever had just the slightest of feelin' for me, leave now, leave now, please.
Wyatt Earp: Thanks for always being there, Doc.

After Wyatt leaves, Doc sees a pamphlet-style book entitled My Friend Doc Holliday by Wyatt Earp. Doc smiles and dies alone without anyone to hold his hand. I wept watching that, watching how the two men loved each other, and hurt themselves for the other. I watched the last scene and decided that I do not want to die alone. What if my tombstone didn't read "beloved wife and mother"? I can't stand the idea that I'll have no one to hold my hand as I face death. Someone once said that (probably) that it is not the manner in which you die but the manner in whih you live that matters. In that case I want someone to hold my hand as I face life. I want a friend like Doc, who will always be there.

rain

When it rains I feel a symphony. I love rain because, unlike the soaking from submerging, the sensations come individually, a drop here, a splash there. As each contact with the skin is made, an indistinguishable note comes forth. Disney's Bambi captures the effect. As I walk in the rain I feel the music, as each little piece of the storm joins in with the others. The flute, the violin, the cello, the kettle drum; when it snows, the large soft flakes sound like an oboe. It's a magic thing walking in the rain, hearing the comforting drip of water on the surrounding surfaces, and imagining the echo of the orchestra.

hiding behind mascara

My feelings were hurt by Ben yesterday. He told Julie that I had been mean to him. I went to apologize. I told him it was unintentional and even unnoticed. I stood before his roommates, looking at him and gave away my pride. He rolled over on the couch and told me it was no big deal, that it's not like it's keeping him up nights. He turned back away. All I could do was walk out. I couldn't explain my hurt. Had I been disappointed that I hadn't wounded him? No. I felt small because he had not acknowledged my effort to be his friend. I felt that I was no big deal.

That was my last visit to apartment 130, at least for a while. It's not because of Ben. It was a feeling I got putting on mascara before FHE. I looked at myself in the mirror -beautiful, Caitlin said- and hated something, knew something had to change. I skipped the meeting to which I ought to have gone and sat alone in the apartment, listening. An observer would have witnessed one side of a conversation, as if overhearing a phone call. What is it that has to change? What am I meant to do? /I can't. I have to apologize to Ben. /Fine. I'll say my goodbyes then. /Not at all? /I can do that....When I went I did not say goodbye. They don't know I'm not coming back. How can I tell them? There's no reason to it. How can I say to them, I'm sorry but I have been wearing too much mascara recently so I can't come over anymore?

The connection as I see it is this: vanity. Or self-consciousness. Either one. Sure I like putting on makeup, I like playing dress up. I've done it at slumber parties and before the mirror with my roommates. I often enjoy how I look, but I am afraid that that was all I was becoming. I was losing myself in a mess of paint and powder. I have always given bad first impressions to those who end up meaning the most to me. The reason is quite simple. I trust my friends more when they go through the bad and still stick around. If I can get the bad out of the way at the very beginning then I can stop being afraid, stop wondering when they are going to find something in me that they hate, something that will make them leave. With apartment 130 I have done just the opposite. I have flirted and flounced and primped. I needed mascara. Ted did not recognize me. And the thing is...I am much too vain to do that. I believe myself beautiful without a facade, and all I want is someone else to realize that, to think, she might not be wearing mascara but she doesn't need it.

I loved that Ted was thrown off when I wore mascara. He should be. I don't wear it, and he knows me. That is what means the most, being known. Ted told me a week ago that when I hurt so does he. He once told me that when he met me he thought of me as a cute fun girl worth getting to know. Now (and here comes a phrase meant especially for his amusement) why can't I find a guy like that?

I called him when I felt slighted by Ben, and I told him that I needed to talk to someone to whom I wasn't completely expendable. He laughed at me, at the turn of phrase and the modest hope of my value to him. I used to hate when Ted laughed at me. I hated feeling that I wasn't good enough. I was scared to show him who I was, because to have him laugh at my inner self would have killed me. But, lo and behold, when I let him see me, he did not run away, did not find anything to hate. He still laughs, but he doesn't leave and so I love his laughing. It reminds me that I am known, all my ridiculocities (made up word but effective nonetheless) and I am loved.

I think I can go back over to apartment 130 when I decide that I am fine with rejection. Because, when that time comes, I believe that I will not meet with it. Ted taught me that.

lessons in love

Angry girl music. That's normal. At least it is for girls who have been dumped. But does angry girl music usually include Wicked and Cindi Lauper? It seemed more uplifting than any post-breakup rant that I had experienced. In fact, Emilie insists her boy isn't a jerk. She, being a good person, takes comfort in the fact that his intentions were honorable and that he didn't want to hurt her. I, I take comfort in that eventually. At the time I want to revel in bitter thoughts of him as an evil heartless jerk. I don't want the touchy feely, we'll still be friends approach. I want to blame him, myself and then him again. After I heal then I can be thankful for what I had. But right away I don't want to think about what I learned, and I definitely don't want him asking how I am. She, she loves him for still caring, where I would curse him.

I learned most of my breakup lessons from Kevin. Of course I had three chances to learn them. What did I learn? I learned that I can make my face absolutely blank to completely mask my feelings from my emotional attackers. I learned that I am just as irrational as everyone else despite the fact that I maintain calm. I learned that I would rather be hurt than hurt someone else, but that hurting still feels terrible. I learned that despite the fact that I claim with firmness that I will never agian be hurt in that manner, I will once more put myself in the vulnerable circumstances I claim to despise. I learned that all the lessons we learn from breakups are the wrong ones, and that if it weren't for chocolate shakes and popcorn no one would ever try a second time to fall in love and the species would be doomed. I learned that the lessons worth learning are found during the relationship and not the breakup.