Do everything you can possibly do, and then some.

She sits there under the stars wondering when she’ll ever truly be happy. She isn’t now, nor has she ever been, and she doesn’t know why. Why does the moon in a cool night sky make her want to cry, to lie down on her face and pray to the heavens for love, though she doesn’t believe in God? Why does the sun rising over the hillside make her feel like she’ll always have more to do, to see, to love? Why? Why does the earth make her feel so peaceful, yet so afraid, like there are not enough hours in the day? “Where does the time go,” she wonders. “Where does my life go?” But maybe it’s a good thing. Maybe the fear that she’ll never do enough, never feel enough, never be enough will make her good enough. Maybe she will someday be strong enough to look out over a vast field of blooming flowers and feel as though her life is complete. Maybe someday she will feel loved, or maybe she won’t, but it won’t matter, because all that matters is that there’s enough time left in the day.

And maybe, after everything, she was always happy, and that’s why she cried.

Runaway A

Here's a short story I have been continuously working on for 2 quarters. I have to turn in an edited version (this version) as part of my fiction writing portfolio tomorrow. Unfortunately, I'd love to turn in a more finished version, but this has come leaps and bounds from where it started. I used to to hate this story, and when I realized I had to go back and work with it some more, I wanted to throw it away and just write something new. Maybe that would have been a good idea, but being the lazy person I'm so good at being, I decided to try to spiffy this up for the sake of my final. And I have to say, even if I'm not 100% pleased with where it is now, I'm definitely pleased with where it's going.

On a Thursday morning in early February, Braden woke up with a secret. His mother hadn’t come in to tell him to get ready yet; instead, his anticipation had woken him early. As he crept from his bed, the chill air of his bedroom raised goose bumps along the bare skin of his gangly arms and legs. The sun had barely risen and was just beginning to peep through the edges of the blinds that covered his window, turning the room a cool blue.
At breakfast his mother noticed his strange mood.
“Stop rapping your fingers,” she said sternly, watching him out of the corner of her eye as she stood at the stove frying eggs. “You’ll bug your father. He’s working.”
Why does she always say that? He wondered silently.
She placed the eggs and toast before him, analyzing his face as he devoured the food. He didn’t think he’d be hungry today, but the combination of excitement and terror amplified his appetite rather than squandered it. She didn’t say anything else to him that morning, and he tapped his foot impatiently as she gathered his jacket, his backpack, and his mittens before leading him out the door. Once he had detangled himself from the grip of her morning hug, he bolted from the front porch and sprinted to school along the frosty sidewalks. In his hurry, he forgot to dodge the drops of water that plunged from the treetops onto his hair instead of his hood, which hung wrinkled and forgotten on his shoulders.
Back at the house, his father Jim sat in his study smoking as he stared out the window at nothing. A large manuscript sat on the desk in front of him which he looked at for a second as he ground his cigarette into an ash tray. He shook his head in defeat before lighting up another cigarette and stuffing the manuscript into his briefcase. On his way out of the house, he stopped at the kitchen leaning on the archway.
“I’m heading to work,” he said, hoping his wife would look up from the dishes she was scrubbing at the sink.
“Have a good one,” was all she said. He watched her reach under the sink to get more dish soap, but she didn’t turn around.
“We can make this work,” was the only thing he wanted to say to her, but the words wouldn’t pass his lips. “No,” he kept thinking. “She can make it work. I can’t. I have too much on my plate.” Once in the car, he tried to justify his marital problems.
“Work is a pain in my ass, and Debbie just gets too upset about it. Really, what does she expect when I’m the only one making money? For life to be easy? For me to have time to pay the bills and be romantic at the same time? I’m not Superman, god damn it. God fucking damn it!” When he arrived at the editing firm that he worked at, he was so stressed out about his job and his wife that he forgot to worry about his son.
Braden got to school early and sat before the set of double doors leading into the front hallway, biting his lip in frustration. The other kids were cherishing their moments on the playground, swinging from monkey bars and swirling on tire swings while he sat alone, his cold hands shoved into his coat pockets as he stared fervently at the clock he could see through a classroom window.
Five more minutes.
Two more minutes.
Just one minute!
5, 4, 3, 2, 1…
The bell situated above his head blared across the playground summoning the bodies toward the red brick building. Braden stood up hastily, brushed dust and rocks from his pants, and followed the playground monitor in through the doors surrounded by a buzzing hum of chatter. But his excruciating wait wasn’t over. Mrs. Sanders took her sweet time handing out the math assignment, scheduling the silent reading hour, and letting the fourth grade class work on their map project. Braden not only had to wait through first recess, but then lunch, and again through the second playground excursion. He had to suffer through fitness class and music class and through Mrs. Sanders’ explanation of how a light bulb works. While the other students experimented with Double A batteries and neon colored wires, he sat tracing his finger along the lines that students had carved into the piss-colored desk years before him. In the top right hand corner, scrawled in bad handwriting and black ink, the phrase, “Hilary sucks,” stared back at him. He saw this message every day, and every time it took him back to the first week of fourth grade on the playground. A group of ten students had surrounded him and his only friend Kyle in the corner by the basketball hoops.
They chanted, “Braden sucks! Braden sucks! Braden sucks!” over and over while they stomped on his collection of baseball cards. He didn’t notice Kyle laughing with them until the playground monitor sent the group away and Kyle went with them.
A week later, as he lay in bed with the covers up to his nose, he could hear the familiar sound of rushing water as his mother finished cleaning the kitchen. His eyes were beginning to droop when her voice brought him back to attention.
“Braden’s principal called today.”
“Hmm?” his father asked.
“She wants us to go in for a conference concerning bullying. When can you take time off work? She said she could do a weekend if she had to.”
“Can’t you just go?” There was silence. Braden’s lip stung as he realized he was biting it, so he pulled his teddy bear, the one he continuously claimed to be too old for, out of its hiding place between his bed and the wall, chomping down on its arm instead.
“I’m not going alone, Jim,” his mother finally said. Braden could hear her turning off the sink.
“Debby, you know I don’t have time. Why don’t you go and talk to the lady, and if it’s something serious then I can see when I’m available. But it just sounds like some overly-concerned principal with too much time on her hands has got her panties in bunch over some annoying little kids that she can’t control. She wants us to come and listen to her rant about how parents these days aren’t doing enough to raise their kids correctly.” After he had said it, Jim immediately regretted his words.
“Did I really just say she had her panties in a bunch?” he wondered silently. “Debby’s gonna flip a bitch.” But he kept his face set so she wouldn’t know he was sorry. He was too stubborn to give her any victories.
“It’s obvious some parents don’t know how to raise a child,” she said coldly. Braden heard her footsteps move from the kitchen to the bedroom and then the sound of a chair scraping against the linoleum followed by his father’s footsteps going into the study. Tears slipped from Braden’s eyes as he turned onto his side and buried his face into Teddy’s neck.
At 2:50, Braden realized he hadn’t been paying attention to anything in the classroom. He now watched as Mrs. Sanders walked over to her desk and pulled out a stack of official looking papers. The smart girls that sat behind Braden giggled and a few people groaned, but Braden jolted up in his seat and gripped the edges of his desk, his knuckles shining like ice sculptures while Mrs. Sanders handed the papers out one by one in alphabetical order.
She finally made it to his desk as the bell sounded, and the students began clambering into the hallways, some downcast, some bubbling, and some unaffected by what they had just received. The teacher looked down at Braden as she handed him the report card.
“I’m really proud of you,” she said, her voice soft with pleasure.
Braden unfolded the document to see a column of A’s staring back at him. Without a word or a smile for his teacher, he jumped from his seat and rushed from the classroom, nearly forgetting his backpack, and began running towards home. The cement squares of the sidewalk passed beneath his feet in a blur until he was one block from home, and then his pace slowed to a reluctant walk as his stomach began to swirl. Once standing in front of his front door, he took a deep breath, placed his hand on the chilled doorknob, and entered the house.
He walked past the kitchen where his mother was stationed; the smells of her homemade pies perfumed the hallway that led to his father’s office, and he gripped his wrinkled report card with shaky hands as he approached the door. Standing outside the room for several heart-pounding moments, his heart seemed to stick to his throat as he forgot to breathe. When he did finally rap on the door, the knocks were light, and he prayed that they would go unheard, but the gruff voice of his father responded immediately.
“What is it?” The words dripped with frustration and impatience.
Regret washing over him, Braden opened the door and tentatively stepped into the dark study. Thick red curtains were draped across the windows, and a gold cord of rope tied them tightly shut. A lamp with a gold metallic base threw dim hues over the desk, its cream shade muffling rather than illuminating the room. The carpets stretched out clean and white, vacuumed nightly by Braden’s mother, and he looked down at his feet, relieved he had removed his soggy boots in the mudroom. The desk, a looming fortress of mahogany wood, sat against the far wall of the room, and his father’s solid slate of a back stood in greeting as he scribbled upon a desk calendar that was surrounded by a frothy sea of white, discarded papers.
“What do you need,” Jim asked sternly, still facing the desk and not the intruder.
Braden approached slowly, shuffling his feet that now felt like lead, and laid the slip of paper upon the desk. The page now looked petty and miniscule next to the towers of manuscripts and layers of sticky notes. Jim slid his reading glasses down his nose to turn and look at Braden with a piercing glare before picking up the paper. He unfolded it with an excruciating precision that made Braden’s stomach lurch. Once the report card was completely unfurled, Jim stared blankly at the line of A’s.
“Your mom will be happy. Tell her to put it on the fridge.”
“Are you – are you happy, Dad?” Braden watched as his father’s head bob up and down in a nod.
“Mhm,” was all he said, and without a second glance he set the paper on the edge of his desk and began to tap his foot. Feeling the wetness brimming in his eyes and the redness creeping into his cheeks, Braden snatched the artifact and darted from the room in a panic. He sprinted past the kitchen where his mother still stood guard over dinner and dessert and up the stairs to his cold bedroom. The blinds were still drawn and the winter sun was laying its head to rest early, leaving a gloom to rest around and within Braden. Without thinking, he grabbed his backpack, ripping out the school supplies and replacing them with a change of clothes, the box of granola bars he kept on his desk, a water bottle, and a small blanket. Creeping back down the stairs, his movements were now much slower, and he obsessed over every creak and thump that his footsteps summoned from the floorboards. He snuck his way into the mudroom where he donned his coat and hat as silently as a ghost slipping through a graveyard.
Braden passed through the freezing night air as darkness rapidly enveloped him like a heavy blanket falling to the earth. He moved through the streets unconsciously, unconcerned with time and place, wandering with no plans: he only intended to escape. Finding a cold nook in a ditch hidden beneath the skeleton of a frozen Weeping Willow, he buried himself in his blanket and ate a granola bar, shivering as he began to think about what he was doing.
“I wish I could really run away. It doesn’t matter how much they hate me; I have to go back.” Tears began to fall cold on his cheeks, and his eyelashes stiffened into pinprick icicles.
“I’ve never been good enough,” was the last thought that slipped through his mind before dreams immersed him in a sweet forgetfulness.
The damp night shook him throughout his dreams, and hard blocks of mud began to cling to his jacket. He awoke to the humming of an engine as one firm arm curled beneath his knees and another held him beneath the shoulders, cradling him into a warm chest. He felt himself being slipped onto the smooth leather seats in the back of a car, and he opened his eyes to see the cream suede roof of his mother’s Subaru Outback above him. The car ride home was gentle, and the voices of his parents were hushed to whispers that he couldn’t comprehend, that he didn’t want to comprehend. Lulled into a half-sleep by the gentle murmur of the car and the persistent stream of hot air from the vent above, he was barely aware of being lifted from the car and carried into his room, but when he felt his father’s calloused hand smooth the cold air from his forehead, Braden snapped out of the fuzzy reality and into clear consciousness.
“You found me,” he said in a whisper, incredulous that his parents had even noticed he had gone.
“What can I get you?” Jim asked, ignoring his son’s simple epiphany. Braden’s mother stood in the doorway, her silhouette a dark shadow against the light in the hall, and Braden could see her wringing her hands and swaying from heel-to-toe in a nervous fever.
“Are you hungry?” his father persisted. Braden merely nodded, forgetting the angry thoughts and the overwhelming sadness that had swamped him hours earlier. Jim rose from the edge of the bed and kissed his wife’s cheek in the doorway.
“It’ll be alright, Debs. He’s back now. You should go get some sleep too.” She stayed in the doorway with him for several moments holding onto his arm with both hands and looking up into his eyes before he added, “I’ll come to bed tonight.”
When Jim got back to Braden’s room, he brought with him the scent of apple pie, and in his hand he held an old leather book. He propped Braden’s pillows up and adjusted him into a sitting position against the headboards, then handed him the plate of dessert before opening the volume of Aesop’s Fables, which had once been Braden’s favorite.
The bedtime stories were read in such a deep and soothing voice that the pie was left half eaten on the bedside table as drowsiness washed over Braden like the tides. Jim laid the book down beside the discarded plate and leaned forward to do something he hadn’t done in years: he kissed his son’s forehead. Watching Braden’s eyes begin to close, he felt a pang in his chest.
How had he forgotten his son had existed? For months now, he had thought of his son as a pest, something in the way, always beneath his feet, tripping him. Or had it been years? Jim squeezed his eyes tightly shut as he tried to push the guilt away.
“How could I forget?” he wondered. “How could I not have tried to love him more? But I do love him. I just forgot. I do love him, I just didn’t show it.” He looked at Braden’s face again and stroked the hair off of the smooth forehead.
“I love you so much,” he said to his sleeping son. “If I can promise you anything, it’s that I love you.” He stood up and began to leave the room, when he saw a crumpled piece of paper on the floor. Picking it up and smoothing out the wrinkles, he turned off the lights and walked down to his study where he pinned the report card in the middle of his cluttered cork board. Going to the bookshelf on the other side of the room, he found an old picture of Debbie pushing a 2-year-old Braden in a swing and moved it to his desk. As he was leaving the study, he noticed his pillow on the leather. Picking it up, he sighed, wishing he could change so much of his life.
“No better time than now,” he said, turning off the light with his pillow in hand and going to join his wife in their bedroom.

Encounters of the Third Nipple

Sitting in the Hasting’s café,

My eyes shift over the rows of magazines –

Automobile, People, Time –

And I tune into the hum of the coffee machine.

I’m trying to ignore my friend

As she whines about her lackluster Valentine.

Oh, how she bores me.

I’m more intrigued by the “30 Things to do to a Naked Man”

That Cosmo is offering to teach me.

But then she asks me something brilliant.

Finally something worth my time:
“Have you seen The Boxer yet?”

A cold breath of February air bursts through the glass door of the café,

And as if on cue, Mark Wahlberg struts in,

Tall, ripped, and sexy,

Swaggering like he’s straight out of Pirates of the Caribbean,

With sweat glistening on his bare chest in the rigid 30 degree weather.

He walks past the ogling barista,

Past my star struck friend,

And up to me.

“Mark Wahlberg,” I say in a whisper, my voice trembling in his presence.

“Call me Marky Mark.”

His voice is like a lion’s – low, rumbling, and fierce.

He takes my hand, and I swoon.

I wake up to a sun beating down on me

And heating the golden sand that I lie upon.

I’m in Jamaica.

Marky Mark is next to me,

Sprawled out on a red beach towel

In those tight swim trunks that Daniel Craig wore in Casino Royale:

The one’s that only Calvin Klein models should wear.

He hands me a bottle of tanning lotion,

And as I spread the brown plaster over his bulging shoulders,

I begin to wish I had read “30 Things to do to a Naked Man.”

Slowly, he turns to me, his third nipple covered in sand,

And tells me he has a confession to make.

I brace myself for those three special words:
“I’m a secret agent,” he says.

He’s in a James Bond tuxedo,

Running across a highway with my body swung over his shoulder.

At the last second he jumps over a semi - Michael Jordan style -

And fires his Walther PPK at the bad guys.

“Hey, have you seen The Boxer yet?”

He asks me suddenly.

But it’s not the growling voice of an untamed beast this time,

It’s the obnoxious drawl of the girl sitting across the café table.

I shake my head, examining the 80 year-old-man that I had been staring at.

“No, I haven’t,” I finally say. “Wanna go read Cosmo?”

It's in These Moments

A brutally honest memoir about visiting my grandma, and the memories it invokes. So far this is only a draft. I'm turning it in tomorrow for peer editing.

The day I decide to visit Highgate, my grandmother’s assisted living home, is a day when the guilt has gripped me long and hard enough that I can’t postpone the inevitable any longer. I know she is lonely, and I know I have neglected her by staying away so long.

The drive is so short. Sometimes I wish it would last longer, and then I would have more excuses to explain my absence. The face of the brick building is friendly with two-story walls and wide windows to greet me. The front door is open, and I enter a small square room where I face a second door. From here I can see into the tacky, carpeted room full of old people milling about with walkers or in sitting in chairs existing numbly. I start to feel the oppression already, and I want to turn around and leave, but I’ve already come this far.

The second door is locked with a keypad, but the entry code is written plainly beside it.

“It’s there to keep the senile ones locked in,” I think to myself as I punch in *0321 backwards.

I swing the door open and am greeted by the toothless smiles of strangers and also a putrid smell. It reeks of Lysol and old, leathery skin hanging flabby and wrinkled in flaps, like loose shingles on a roof. The sunspots and milky eyes boar into me as if they haven’t seen anyone younger than thirty in years, so I run to the elevator.

“Oh god, get me out of here!” I scream within the confines of my mind.

The upstairs halls are empty, but not free of the stink. I walk down the hall, past the hair salon, the laundry room, and to my grandmother’s door which reads “Georgia Wood.” A picture of her in a Hawaiian shirt hangs on the wall nearby, and I think that they must have had another family barbeque that I didn’t go to.

I knock, and she opens the door to her surprise visitor. Her face lights up with excitement, and instead of feeling good about making her so happy, her joy inflicts yet another pang of guilt. I can’t help but think that even at 92 she looks better than the other inmates, but her face is still thinner, her hair is still sparser. It’s in these first few moments that I think, “Yes, she really will die soon, and there’s nothing I can do about it, and I still don’t come to visit her.”

As she welcomes me into the confines of her small, cluttered room, the stench of the elderly assaults me yet again, but now the fumes of Lysol are paired with something familiar. This smell doesn’t make me want to vomit: it just reminds me of being ten again.

It reminds me of spring afternoons in Grandma’s garden with silver mixing bowls full of ripe, freshly picked, homegrown raspberries. I’d bring the bowl in with my prickled fingers just before it overflowed, and she’d apply kisses to my scratches and sugar to the berries. My sister and I would then sit at the breakfast bar munching away at our harvest while Grandma would save the rest for delicious raspberry preservatives that we would enjoy throughout the winter. It reminds me of eating cherry tomatoes from the vines in the corner of the garden that I didn’t discover for years because there was so much for a ten year old to explore. It reminds me of the skeleton of some old car hidden beneath the branches of a shady tree. The metal rusted by years of rain and forgetfulness housed racecar games for my imagination. It reminds me of the plastic owl that played my best friend when I pretended that I lived in the wilderness. I’d climb the rickety ladder up to the shed’s rooftop with him in tow where I’d pick apricots from the tree now in reach. Every time I made these expeditions I worried that the rungs would snap off the ladder at any moment, and I’m sure if Grandma saw me she would have told me the same thing. It reminds me of pulling carrots from the soft earth, picking flowers to mimic in my watercolor paintings, and trying to feed weeds to the dogs through the fence in the backyard. It reminds me of the rock, perfectly round and smooth, that I’d turn over in search of Roly-Polys and worms, and it also reminds me of running away, screaming at the top of my lungs when I would find a spider instead. It reminds me of the Grand Ole Opry, Walker Texas Ranger, and digging through Grandma’s jewelry box. It reminds me of walking to Kenroy Elementary School on a summer day to play cops and robbers and whiz down the slides. I remember home cooked meals where I’d always beg for coleslaw, squash pie with Cool Whip, and stir fry. It even reminds me of dreaming of drinking a big glass of water and consequently being awoken by my sister’s screams as I wet the bed we were sharing.

However, I’m sucked away from these memories and back into reality as my grandma offers me a cookie she saved from lunch and chocolate she won in Bingo last night. I comply, not because I want to, but because she won’t take “no” for an answer. She’s stubborn and she knows it. Everyone knows it. She doesn’t hear me though because with her stubbornness comes her refusal to wear her hearing aids. Today I’ll have to break out the line that my dad taught me: the one I hate using.

“Grandma, if you won’t wear your hearing aids, I’m going to leave.”

I have to tell her twice before she hears me. As she fights with the technology, I examine the photos that engulf me. At the top of the shelf is my senior picture, and beside me are photos of my sister and I all dressed up in German clothing, my mother’s choice no doubt, at about ages two and four. I was two. There are also pictures of Daddy, Aunt Caroline, and Uncle Ivan, of my cousin Patty, my second cousin Amanda, and her two young children. Still, there are even more photos of people I don’t know and have never met.

Once again I am drawn back into the moment as my grandma announces that she met someone who knows me from high school. She has to find her planner, hidden beneath junk and craft supplies, in order to remember the name. It makes me sad when I remember how strong her memory used to be, and how fast it is fading now. She reads off the name: a girl I’ve never heard of. Another human being I didn’t even know existed. I promise my grandma that I’ll check my yearbook when I go home even though I know I won’t. I just assume that I was nice to the girl in high school even though I never liked her, so she probably remembers me as a kind person. In reality I’m just a two-faced, cold hearted liar. Visiting Grandma always makes me so bitter these days.

I’m swept from my contemplations as my grandmother begins to tell me about her bowel movements. She has written down how many times a day she has had diarrhea since she took some antibiotics, and she points out the tally marks to me, and I’m sure to anyone else will listen. She informs me that these bowel movements are “runny,” a word that is accompanied by hand gestures: she wiggles her fingers as she moves her hands down through the air, a motion that resembles rain, or better yet, runny diarrhea.

Once I have gotten her off the topic of her bowel movements, she begins to tell me a story about my father’s childhood, but what she doesn’t remember is that she’s told me before. I try to remind her that I’ve already heard it, but being stubborn she finishes anyways. Finally fed up and yawning profusely I make up some excuse to get the hell out of here. We exchange a hug, a kiss, and some “I love you’s,” and I promise to come back soon even though we both know that it will be weeks, or more likely months, before I return.

As I make my way through the throngs of flabby skin once more, the frustration begins to fade and the guilt begins to grip me again and hang upon me like chains. It’s in these last few moments that I realize, “Yes, she really will die soon, and there’s nothing I can do about it.” With the guilt also comes fear: fear that the next time I muster the courage to see her, she won’t be here anymore.

Journal #3

This was an assignment for my Creative Writing class. It's basically a journal entry inspired by a poem (whose title and author have escaped me), and this is technically just supposed to be a draft, but I've already rewritten it about 5 times, so this may be pretty final, if I can help it. Also, it's not actually supposed to rhyme, and I usually try to avoid rhyming in my poetry, but for reason this just... happened. So I let it. Plus, it was the professor who said that day, "If you're the kind of person who gets freaked out or paralyzed: Get over it." - Teresa Martin.

"Where I'm From"

I am from the Russian Olive, whose scent is sweet and strong,

and I am from a purple orchid, its crumpled petals a sign of lost love.

I am from a pumpkin painted house with forest green trim,

from a small valley living in the shadows of Saddle Rock and Mission Ridge.

I am from high mountain tops capped with glistening snow,

from the raging Columbia River, her waters swift and always cold.

I am from sexy high heels that I buy but never wear,

from Madden Girl and Hot Kiss, from wondering if people care.

I am from Arkansas Musicians and German Alcoholics,

from the Hillbilly South and from the High-Cultured Europe.

I am from beef stew and stir fry, Cool Whip and squash pie,

from Spatzle and Sauerkraut, Bratwurst and fresh Rye.

I am from my Uncle Ivan who used to look like Elvis,

from feather beds, real Christmas trees, and quick picked mandolins.

I am from pianos with white, ceramic keys,

from Jurassic Park monsters that used to chase me in my dreams.

I am from Gone with the Wind, Swim the Moon, and Harry Potter,

from James Mitchner, Margaret Mitchell, Sharon Creech, and no-name writers.

I am from maybe there's a God, but also probably not,

from I' believe there's only darkness after you are gone.

Finding my Happiness

At some point in my life I heard someone say that it was difficult to be your own person while being involved with other people, specifically a significant other. I don't know who said it, or where it came from, but in the last 8 months, or however long it's been since I was last in a relationship, I've not only been able to understand this statement, but I've been able to make it true for me.

As a child, people knew me as the happiest baby around. Pictures and videos of me during my early years depict a little girl smiling, squealing, waving, and laughing. My life was joyous, carefree, innocent, and beautiful. People were happy to be around this cheerful, well-behaved child, and I look back on those fuzzy memories with fondness.

However, during my middle school and high school years, depression, insecurities, and self-loathing plagued my everyday life. I found myself in and out of friendships, relationships, acquaintances. I found myself in and out of superficial happiness and heart wrenching sadness. I found myself stuck in a world of in betweens: not quite here, not quite there, not sure of where I was going, and not sure where I was coming from. I was never quite happy.

For the past 8 months or so, I've been single. I made a promise to myself the day that Ryan and I broke up, and that promise was to love myself, take care of myself, and find myself. I felt lost. Coming in and out of relationships that I never really understood nor I was ever really happy in, I had no concept of what kind of person I really was. I knew I enjoyed tennis, I knew I liked to ski, I knew that I loved my family, I knew that I was smart: I knew a lot of things about myself, but I never really knew me. It's easy to describe someone, but to truly understand someone? That's much more difficult.

In the past 8 months, I've kept that promise to myself. I've done everything that I've wanted to do. I haven't let anyone hold me back, not even myself. I haven't let society and its expectations keep me grounded to what people might consider social norms. This time has been a time for me, for discovery, for understanding. If I have learned nothing else from this time in my life, I've at least found who I am. I am a happy person. By living for myself, I have rediscovered the joy I once knew as a child. I no longer put my wants and needs on a to-do list or let them stand in a waiting line. They come first, they are my priority, and nothing else is. That may seem selfish, but I've learned that by not putting myself first, I become depressed, insecure, and dejected, and when I become those things, other people cannot appreciate me, or enjoy being with me. If I'm suffering from those emotions I become snappy, mean, clingy, emotional, and dramatic. If I'm happy then I'm laid back, interesting, a good listener, and healthily detached from other people.

Even if I enter into another relationship and I lose my happiness again, at least then I'll know that it exists, and I'll know how to rediscover it. I'll know who I really am. I am not a clingy, over-dramatic bitch, so I shouldn't feel insecure about it.