Kiersten got that awful flu. When I had it, I couldnt talk. When she got it. . .
Sunday, February 17, 2008
Saturday, February 16, 2008
Conversation from work or there is a time and place for everything.
"Good morning! Are you having a good day?"
"Yes! A blessed day! Is Jesus Christ your personal Lord and Savior?"
"Uh . . . yes, Sir. Did you just need to renew your license plates today?"
"Yes, I do. Do you think he's coming back soon?"
"I don't think so. Is this for your 1997 Chevy?"
"Yes. Its only going to be a matter of months now before he comes. It has been prophisied."
"Thats nice. Is your address still the same?"
"Yes. Did you know that every generation in past history has reached heaven or hell through the grave, and we will be the first generation to ascend into heaven before our bodily death?"
"Thats interesting. Your total is 54.50"
"Aren't you excited?"
"I guess so, sir. Here is your change and registration. You have a nice day."
"You have a blessed day! And tell someone about Jesus!"
"Yes! A blessed day! Is Jesus Christ your personal Lord and Savior?"
"Uh . . . yes, Sir. Did you just need to renew your license plates today?"
"Yes, I do. Do you think he's coming back soon?"
"I don't think so. Is this for your 1997 Chevy?"
"Yes. Its only going to be a matter of months now before he comes. It has been prophisied."
"Thats nice. Is your address still the same?"
"Yes. Did you know that every generation in past history has reached heaven or hell through the grave, and we will be the first generation to ascend into heaven before our bodily death?"
"Thats interesting. Your total is 54.50"
"Aren't you excited?"
"I guess so, sir. Here is your change and registration. You have a nice day."
"You have a blessed day! And tell someone about Jesus!"
Wednesday, February 13, 2008
Tuesday, February 12, 2008
I really wanted to hug those men, but I'm not sure how appropriate it would have been.
Miami has three campuses. This morning, two of them were closed. Which campus did I have class on? You guessed it: the open one.
So, I tried to go. You'll notice the operative word here is tried. Let me tell you why.
I was getting on the exit ramp, the one that curves right then left then right again. The roadway was perfectly clear, but I soon realized that the exit ramp was covered in a lovely mixture of slush and freezing rain. Suddendly, and somehow very slowly, the back end of my car swung around to the right, sending the front of my car to the left. I spun. And spun. And spun. Down the icy ramp. Soon, the back end of my car asserted itself as the leader and I was facing the wrong direction knowing that very, very soon, I would feel my car rolling over the median. Turns out, it didnt roll smoothly over the median but instead came to an akward and shuddering stop. I had two tires on eithers side of the concrete barrier. All kinds of warning lights came on. I cried.
That was two hours ago. Now, my car is at the mechanics and I came home to find an email telling me that class was canceled. Lovely.
It is, apparently, a dangerous assumption that everyone lives on campus and only has to walk to class.
On the bright side, my car was driven, and not towed, to the mechanics. I am not hurt in anyway. And handsome young paramedics happened to drive by just as I burst into tears, saving me and my car from . . . well . . . from having to call a tow truck.
What did I learn today? My priorities are a little mixed up. From now on, my personal safety will come BEFORE my attendance record. Thank you, world, thank you very much.
Now, were is my hot chocolate?
So, I tried to go. You'll notice the operative word here is tried. Let me tell you why.
I was getting on the exit ramp, the one that curves right then left then right again. The roadway was perfectly clear, but I soon realized that the exit ramp was covered in a lovely mixture of slush and freezing rain. Suddendly, and somehow very slowly, the back end of my car swung around to the right, sending the front of my car to the left. I spun. And spun. And spun. Down the icy ramp. Soon, the back end of my car asserted itself as the leader and I was facing the wrong direction knowing that very, very soon, I would feel my car rolling over the median. Turns out, it didnt roll smoothly over the median but instead came to an akward and shuddering stop. I had two tires on eithers side of the concrete barrier. All kinds of warning lights came on. I cried.
That was two hours ago. Now, my car is at the mechanics and I came home to find an email telling me that class was canceled. Lovely.
It is, apparently, a dangerous assumption that everyone lives on campus and only has to walk to class.
On the bright side, my car was driven, and not towed, to the mechanics. I am not hurt in anyway. And handsome young paramedics happened to drive by just as I burst into tears, saving me and my car from . . . well . . . from having to call a tow truck.
What did I learn today? My priorities are a little mixed up. From now on, my personal safety will come BEFORE my attendance record. Thank you, world, thank you very much.
Now, were is my hot chocolate?
Monday, February 11, 2008
It will all be okay in the end. If its not okay, its not the end.
Before you read this: This blog has absolutely no point. I thought I would reach one, but it never happened. Good luck.
Oh man, I feel really good right now. It might have something to do with the Mocha Latte I just drank, but I'm going to say its real happiness and go with that.
I'm mostly writing here to postpone doing my homework for twenty more minutes. I know the typical college student wouldn't avoid writing by writing, but thats how my brain works. . . somehow. I suppose it works like this: I love to write until I HAVE to write, then its not so fun. I love reading, except the reading I'm assigned for school.
I read somewhere that if you find do what you love for a career, you will never work a day in your life, but I don't think thats true. I love to write. I can't think of anything more satisfying or fulfilling than a paper I just covered in ink. It is my thing. Somehow, I must write. But that doesn't mean that writing is always fun or amazing; sometimes, it is just work. Its no fun editing and it hurts sometimes to delete paragraphs or sentances, like cutting off healthy branches so that the whole plant can flourish. And I don't have kids right now, but I think the same thing holds true there too. People say that there is nothing like raising a child, but no one would say that there is no work, no pain involved.
But you know what? Things can't always feel good all the time. Think about perfume. When you first put it on in the morning, it kind of burns your nose and floats around your head while you put on your make-up, but later, it fades to nothing at all. All day long people may notice how good you smell, and they may even tell you too, but you don't notice that perfume at all. Eventually, all that perfume evaporates and you shower and it is truly gone. The next day, you spray it on again and WOW, you smell it again! Now, I know that was a really long example, but I am getting to my point: if things were perfect all the time, we would become desensitized to the goodness, taking it for granted. The bad days provide the perfect contrast to the good days. Yesterday it rained, and that makes todays sunshine that much brighter.
I'm twenty one years old now, and everything I think I know now might very well turn out to be foolishness in twenty one more years, but I right now, I believe what I believe with so much conviction because I only have my own experiences to guide me, and I've only had twenty one years to collect them. So please, excuse me if I sound naive or sugary, that is not my intention at all.
I'm moving on at exactly the same pace as my thoughts. I hope you can follow along.
I might have said this next part some time before:
Someone once wrote somewhere (I know, I'm TOO specific sometimes) that we are given the burdens we each bear because we are the ones strong enough to carry them. That really resonated with me. Sometimes, I get a little angry when I hear people complain about things I would love to consider "problems"; if that is the worst thing going on in her life, she must be lucky. But we never really know all the secret pains someone has to deal with, and to her, that situation may be devestating. I can't really wear her shoes. And I get angry with things I have to deal with because I think This isn't normal. Most people don't have to worry about things like this. But maybe its all for a reason.
Maybe some time in the future something will happen to me that will require a strong, resilient spirit. Maybe my future husband is the kind of man that requires a lot of patience from a woman. Maybe when God was trying to decide what spirit should inhabit this body, mine was the strong enough one. Or maybe the writer in me is always looking for the greater meaning in personal struggles. What does this singular story mean to strangers, to the world?
You know, I didn't know I wanted to write until . . . (here, my sense of time fails me) . . . I dunno, the last five years or so? I remember wanting to sing. That was part of my self-conception. I was a singer. But I'm not a singer. I don't have a passion for it. I think I sing passably well, but its more for me than to share with anyone else. I don't like it when people are looking right at me. But with writing, I can pour my whole self out onto the pages and shove it in peoples faces. Here, I feel really seen. ( And no one is worrying about my hair.)
But, you know, I really do feel good right now, even as the pile of homeowork glares at me from the corner, my Cafe Mocha looses its edge, and I am reminded that I alone, in this house of seven people, have a job. Excuse me while I go pay the water bill and return to my studies.
Oh man, I feel really good right now. It might have something to do with the Mocha Latte I just drank, but I'm going to say its real happiness and go with that.
I'm mostly writing here to postpone doing my homework for twenty more minutes. I know the typical college student wouldn't avoid writing by writing, but thats how my brain works. . . somehow. I suppose it works like this: I love to write until I HAVE to write, then its not so fun. I love reading, except the reading I'm assigned for school.
I read somewhere that if you find do what you love for a career, you will never work a day in your life, but I don't think thats true. I love to write. I can't think of anything more satisfying or fulfilling than a paper I just covered in ink. It is my thing. Somehow, I must write. But that doesn't mean that writing is always fun or amazing; sometimes, it is just work. Its no fun editing and it hurts sometimes to delete paragraphs or sentances, like cutting off healthy branches so that the whole plant can flourish. And I don't have kids right now, but I think the same thing holds true there too. People say that there is nothing like raising a child, but no one would say that there is no work, no pain involved.
But you know what? Things can't always feel good all the time. Think about perfume. When you first put it on in the morning, it kind of burns your nose and floats around your head while you put on your make-up, but later, it fades to nothing at all. All day long people may notice how good you smell, and they may even tell you too, but you don't notice that perfume at all. Eventually, all that perfume evaporates and you shower and it is truly gone. The next day, you spray it on again and WOW, you smell it again! Now, I know that was a really long example, but I am getting to my point: if things were perfect all the time, we would become desensitized to the goodness, taking it for granted. The bad days provide the perfect contrast to the good days. Yesterday it rained, and that makes todays sunshine that much brighter.
I'm twenty one years old now, and everything I think I know now might very well turn out to be foolishness in twenty one more years, but I right now, I believe what I believe with so much conviction because I only have my own experiences to guide me, and I've only had twenty one years to collect them. So please, excuse me if I sound naive or sugary, that is not my intention at all.
I'm moving on at exactly the same pace as my thoughts. I hope you can follow along.
I might have said this next part some time before:
Someone once wrote somewhere (I know, I'm TOO specific sometimes) that we are given the burdens we each bear because we are the ones strong enough to carry them. That really resonated with me. Sometimes, I get a little angry when I hear people complain about things I would love to consider "problems"; if that is the worst thing going on in her life, she must be lucky. But we never really know all the secret pains someone has to deal with, and to her, that situation may be devestating. I can't really wear her shoes. And I get angry with things I have to deal with because I think This isn't normal. Most people don't have to worry about things like this. But maybe its all for a reason.
Maybe some time in the future something will happen to me that will require a strong, resilient spirit. Maybe my future husband is the kind of man that requires a lot of patience from a woman. Maybe when God was trying to decide what spirit should inhabit this body, mine was the strong enough one. Or maybe the writer in me is always looking for the greater meaning in personal struggles. What does this singular story mean to strangers, to the world?
You know, I didn't know I wanted to write until . . . (here, my sense of time fails me) . . . I dunno, the last five years or so? I remember wanting to sing. That was part of my self-conception. I was a singer. But I'm not a singer. I don't have a passion for it. I think I sing passably well, but its more for me than to share with anyone else. I don't like it when people are looking right at me. But with writing, I can pour my whole self out onto the pages and shove it in peoples faces. Here, I feel really seen. ( And no one is worrying about my hair.)
But, you know, I really do feel good right now, even as the pile of homeowork glares at me from the corner, my Cafe Mocha looses its edge, and I am reminded that I alone, in this house of seven people, have a job. Excuse me while I go pay the water bill and return to my studies.
Sunday, February 10, 2008
I wrote this for school. Yes, this semester, homework is fun.
I don’t remember any of the good things. My mind must be wired to only form and collect memories of the negative kind, because surely, there were good things. My parents always look offended when I recount my version of my childhood. A look of horror passes over their faces like they cannot imagine they raised such a child. We must be different creatures, my parents and I. A conversation about it might go something like this:
“Do you remember the time we stayed in that cabin for vacation?” My dad would ask.
“Yes, Mom was sick and stayed in bed the whole time, the lake smelled funny, and we left all of our cooking utensils in the drawer when we left.”
“But you had a good time. Remember, we drove out to that little store to rent movies to watch on that little TV.”
“Didn’t that TV get stolen when we were robbed? See, nothing good ever happened to us!”
“Well, what about all those days you spent at your Grandma’s pool?”
“Didn’t Christopher get a concussion there? And we were always afraid of the hornet’s nests by the side windows. And my aunts told us we would get sucked into the drain in the deep end and die. It was amazing fun.”
These aren’t the only bad things I remember. Other memories reach out and grab my attention as I search the mad filing cabinet of my mind: sleeping on a mattress on a floor with no carpet, packing all of our belongings into the minivan to go live in the hotel, having no running water for weeks at a time, seeing my mother run out the back door when the police knocked. These things turn into an ink, staining all the memories of wonderful things that must have happened too. I am angry, and I cannot stand to remember the Hanson ice-cream-cake (that probably melted) or the happy child in all those pictures. How can this little gap-toothed, shirtless three-year-old smile with the future looming in front of her?
We don’t talk about the bad bad things. According to my parents, they never happened. They didn’t matter. Everyone makes mistakes, why keep bringing it up? But I can’t seem to focus on the warmth of the sun or the cool relief of the water when the hornets are buzzing behind me and the deep-end looms dangerously before me. These events all happened as I was learning how to be me; I cannot simply leave them behind like our cooking utensils.
I still check my closet for monsters sometimes; I make sure the door is securely closed before I crawl into my bed. I’ve been known to sleep with the light on when the fear of something happening makes the shadows malicious and the random sounds turn into approaching footsteps across the carpet.
“It couldn’t have been too bad, “my mother would argue, “You have always been so happy; no one would think you were so negative about things.” And then she would try to make me feel guilty about accusing her of being a bad mother.
I’ll step back here and say that, at some point, we all accuse our parents of ruining our lives. This may just be my version, but I have a right to say it. So, how do I explain my apparent cheerful disposition in the face of such a negative view of my childhood? I don’t have all the answers, but I know that happiness is a choice, and those inky fingers haven’t quite reached out to spoil my future. Somewhere, in some vague tomorrow, I will be in control. I’ll decide what happens in my own house: the bills will be paid, the laws will be followed, and no drugs whatsoever will be present. Everything will be safe and consistent one day.
I’m still angry. I’m still hurt. I’m still waiting for the next bad surprise to come along. Will it happen tomorrow? However, my anger and hurt do not solve problems, they don’t make my family make better choices, and they certainly don’t make me a healthier person. So instead, I push them aside somewhere, allowing them to wreak havoc on my past while I work on finding happiness in the small things I see everyday.
In the past three months, I’ve had as many people offer for me to come live with them, but I stay here. I say I don’t remember any of the good things, but it must not be true, because even when I hate my parents for the choices they made, I love them even more. And I do remember that Hanson cake.
“Do you remember the time we stayed in that cabin for vacation?” My dad would ask.
“Yes, Mom was sick and stayed in bed the whole time, the lake smelled funny, and we left all of our cooking utensils in the drawer when we left.”
“But you had a good time. Remember, we drove out to that little store to rent movies to watch on that little TV.”
“Didn’t that TV get stolen when we were robbed? See, nothing good ever happened to us!”
“Well, what about all those days you spent at your Grandma’s pool?”
“Didn’t Christopher get a concussion there? And we were always afraid of the hornet’s nests by the side windows. And my aunts told us we would get sucked into the drain in the deep end and die. It was amazing fun.”
These aren’t the only bad things I remember. Other memories reach out and grab my attention as I search the mad filing cabinet of my mind: sleeping on a mattress on a floor with no carpet, packing all of our belongings into the minivan to go live in the hotel, having no running water for weeks at a time, seeing my mother run out the back door when the police knocked. These things turn into an ink, staining all the memories of wonderful things that must have happened too. I am angry, and I cannot stand to remember the Hanson ice-cream-cake (that probably melted) or the happy child in all those pictures. How can this little gap-toothed, shirtless three-year-old smile with the future looming in front of her?
We don’t talk about the bad bad things. According to my parents, they never happened. They didn’t matter. Everyone makes mistakes, why keep bringing it up? But I can’t seem to focus on the warmth of the sun or the cool relief of the water when the hornets are buzzing behind me and the deep-end looms dangerously before me. These events all happened as I was learning how to be me; I cannot simply leave them behind like our cooking utensils.
I still check my closet for monsters sometimes; I make sure the door is securely closed before I crawl into my bed. I’ve been known to sleep with the light on when the fear of something happening makes the shadows malicious and the random sounds turn into approaching footsteps across the carpet.
“It couldn’t have been too bad, “my mother would argue, “You have always been so happy; no one would think you were so negative about things.” And then she would try to make me feel guilty about accusing her of being a bad mother.
I’ll step back here and say that, at some point, we all accuse our parents of ruining our lives. This may just be my version, but I have a right to say it. So, how do I explain my apparent cheerful disposition in the face of such a negative view of my childhood? I don’t have all the answers, but I know that happiness is a choice, and those inky fingers haven’t quite reached out to spoil my future. Somewhere, in some vague tomorrow, I will be in control. I’ll decide what happens in my own house: the bills will be paid, the laws will be followed, and no drugs whatsoever will be present. Everything will be safe and consistent one day.
I’m still angry. I’m still hurt. I’m still waiting for the next bad surprise to come along. Will it happen tomorrow? However, my anger and hurt do not solve problems, they don’t make my family make better choices, and they certainly don’t make me a healthier person. So instead, I push them aside somewhere, allowing them to wreak havoc on my past while I work on finding happiness in the small things I see everyday.
In the past three months, I’ve had as many people offer for me to come live with them, but I stay here. I say I don’t remember any of the good things, but it must not be true, because even when I hate my parents for the choices they made, I love them even more. And I do remember that Hanson cake.
Tuesday, January 29, 2008
Its like suddenly not having any pants.
This afternoon I thought for sure I was going to miss the bus and be late for class. I caught the bus. But on the way there I realized I was getting really stressed, getting angry with the train and the rain on the roads and the semi in front of me going fifteen under the speed limit like all this anger and frustration would somehow make the bus wait for me. Useless, right? I tried my best to breathe and stop worrying because no amount of worry would change the outcome, but it would change my mood. I think I mostly succeeded in staying calm, but I'll admit, there was a little wory involved.
My space bar randomly doesn't work and so I get things that looklike this all overmy page. Nofun. I'm just gonna go with it and not fix it when it happens.
For about the first timein my life, I find myself feeling "not good enough" about my writing. I've felt the "not goodenough" feeling in nearly every other aspect of my life, but it has never infectedmywriting. Writing has always been what I do and not something I worry and fuss over. Now I'm worrying and fussing.
I'm tired of feeling not good enough. I can't rationalize a feeling, you know? I know why I feel this way, but that doesn't make it go away. Once, during a "discussion" with Robbie, hetold me, "you shouldn't feel that way". I know that this statement would apply here, but I hate it as much now as I did when he first said it. Just not a very good argument, all in all.
So, I'm off now to do morehomework and write. I hope the writing goeswell. I'm just feeling awfully sad. I have my Grandma's visitations tomorrow night, funeral on Thursday. How can I write anything aboutthat?
Sarah Jo
My space bar randomly doesn't work and so I get things that looklike this all overmy page. Nofun. I'm just gonna go with it and not fix it when it happens.
For about the first timein my life, I find myself feeling "not good enough" about my writing. I've felt the "not goodenough" feeling in nearly every other aspect of my life, but it has never infectedmywriting. Writing has always been what I do and not something I worry and fuss over. Now I'm worrying and fussing.
I'm tired of feeling not good enough. I can't rationalize a feeling, you know? I know why I feel this way, but that doesn't make it go away. Once, during a "discussion" with Robbie, hetold me, "you shouldn't feel that way". I know that this statement would apply here, but I hate it as much now as I did when he first said it. Just not a very good argument, all in all.
So, I'm off now to do morehomework and write. I hope the writing goeswell. I'm just feeling awfully sad. I have my Grandma's visitations tomorrow night, funeral on Thursday. How can I write anything aboutthat?
Sarah Jo
To the maker of the world’s best cinnamon toast ever:
I want to tell you that I will remember, even if you can’t be with me for awhile.
I’ll remember the offered cups of hot chocolate at that giant kitchen table in the old house.
I’ll remember the pile of Goosebumps books you put in the bedroom for us grandkids.
And how you “forgot” we were still asleep at the insane hour of 10 o’clock the next morning, turning on that bedroom light at least half a dozen times or running into the door with the vacuum cleaner.
I’ll remember the white t-shirt with the blue stripes that had its home in the laundry room closet to forever be my nightgown when I stayed all night. It was comforting to fall asleep in a shirt that smelled like grandma’s house.
“Shit” You’re blessed refrain. And you did not sit still.
And you hovered over the oven door while you made sure the garlic bread got to be the perfect kind of crunchy.
The last time I ever rode in the car while you drove, I thought I was going to die.
Every time we went to the store, you would let me buy something. It always ended up being more than one thing.
I never saw another person who could cross their legs and still have them both touch the floor.
I’ll never forget sitting across from you at that tiny little table, watching you nurse coffee from a stained cup while you asked for the fifth time if I was hungry. No Grandma, I’m not hungry. You just fed me cookies.
And you thought your cigarettes were a secret for so long. We always knew.
And that dog, Andre, was the fattest animal that’s ever slobbered on me.
I remember all kinds of other things, like the way you would pat my hand as you sat next to me, or the way you would smile from across the room just to let me know you saw me. I remember the way you smell and the way your hair falls across your head. I remember you hands and fingernails and the way your cabinets held more candy than real food.
So Grandma, you aren’t really gone, see? You are right here with me. And it won’t be so very long, really, before I see you again. So I’m not saying goodbye, if it’s all the same to you. I’ll settle with “until next time” and keep these memories with me till then
I’ll remember the offered cups of hot chocolate at that giant kitchen table in the old house.
I’ll remember the pile of Goosebumps books you put in the bedroom for us grandkids.
And how you “forgot” we were still asleep at the insane hour of 10 o’clock the next morning, turning on that bedroom light at least half a dozen times or running into the door with the vacuum cleaner.
I’ll remember the white t-shirt with the blue stripes that had its home in the laundry room closet to forever be my nightgown when I stayed all night. It was comforting to fall asleep in a shirt that smelled like grandma’s house.
“Shit” You’re blessed refrain. And you did not sit still.
And you hovered over the oven door while you made sure the garlic bread got to be the perfect kind of crunchy.
The last time I ever rode in the car while you drove, I thought I was going to die.
Every time we went to the store, you would let me buy something. It always ended up being more than one thing.
I never saw another person who could cross their legs and still have them both touch the floor.
I’ll never forget sitting across from you at that tiny little table, watching you nurse coffee from a stained cup while you asked for the fifth time if I was hungry. No Grandma, I’m not hungry. You just fed me cookies.
And you thought your cigarettes were a secret for so long. We always knew.
And that dog, Andre, was the fattest animal that’s ever slobbered on me.
I remember all kinds of other things, like the way you would pat my hand as you sat next to me, or the way you would smile from across the room just to let me know you saw me. I remember the way you smell and the way your hair falls across your head. I remember you hands and fingernails and the way your cabinets held more candy than real food.
So Grandma, you aren’t really gone, see? You are right here with me. And it won’t be so very long, really, before I see you again. So I’m not saying goodbye, if it’s all the same to you. I’ll settle with “until next time” and keep these memories with me till then
Monday, January 28, 2008
Just so ya know . . .
I've been SO sick the past week that I could barely talk or breathe and had no desire to get out of bed. I mean, I DID get out of bed and I'll tell you why:
My grandma died. Last night. After three days of the hospice nurses telling us, "any minute now".
Point of this whole thing? I'm tired. Really really really tired.
Sarah Jo
My grandma died. Last night. After three days of the hospice nurses telling us, "any minute now".
Point of this whole thing? I'm tired. Really really really tired.
Sarah Jo
Tuesday, January 22, 2008
Everyone is one of us.
I just read that statement in one of my textbooks, World Religions in America, and thought it so inspiring I had to share. Enjoy.
Sunday, January 20, 2008
A confession:
I was just reading over her old blog entries because she won't talk to me anymore and I missed her so much I just wanted to hear her voice, even in text. She hasnt written in more than a year, but when she did, she wrote them all for me. I was always the "you" in her posts. I miss that.
Sunday, January 13, 2008
I just spent $80 on amazon. I bought books.
I just want to read and read and read and never come back to reality. Magical things happen in my books, but not in my life.
Thursday, January 03, 2008
Tuesday, January 01, 2008
Thats so me
I think it terrible that the people that hurt me the most are the ones I call friends and family. It happens occasionally or continuously depending on which group it is. So thats why I would rather stay home alone. And thats why I have trouble getting close to others and trusting others. And thats why I don't tell you what I think or feel and why I don't explain my actions and leave you wondering.
And to me, hanging out in groups is painful. I like people one at a time and no more than that. When I'm with a group, its those four people and then me. I don't like it, but I do it because I like you and you would want me to and you wouldnt understand if I didnt want to go. So I go. And then its hard for me not to sit there silently while the rest of you talk, and its hard for me when I'm talking and you all are looking at me. So, while it may not seem like much to you, its progress when I go and I talk and I smile.
So all holiday season I've gone and I've talked and I've smiled.
And then I get hurt.
And its already taking enough effort to do what I'm doing, I cant let you see that I'm upset. Thats not what I do. I hide it and go away somewhere by myself. It takes a lot of courage to let others see me anything other than happy. So when we are all sitting there and everyone is all smiles, I'm telling myself that I can cry later when I get home. And I'm telling myself that its not worth the effort. It would have been better to stay at home anyway. I'll stay at home next time.
Oh, and happy new year.
And to me, hanging out in groups is painful. I like people one at a time and no more than that. When I'm with a group, its those four people and then me. I don't like it, but I do it because I like you and you would want me to and you wouldnt understand if I didnt want to go. So I go. And then its hard for me not to sit there silently while the rest of you talk, and its hard for me when I'm talking and you all are looking at me. So, while it may not seem like much to you, its progress when I go and I talk and I smile.
So all holiday season I've gone and I've talked and I've smiled.
And then I get hurt.
And its already taking enough effort to do what I'm doing, I cant let you see that I'm upset. Thats not what I do. I hide it and go away somewhere by myself. It takes a lot of courage to let others see me anything other than happy. So when we are all sitting there and everyone is all smiles, I'm telling myself that I can cry later when I get home. And I'm telling myself that its not worth the effort. It would have been better to stay at home anyway. I'll stay at home next time.
Oh, and happy new year.
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