Merry Christmas

Season's greetings. Happy holidays. And of course: merry Christmas. You undoubtedly have heard these phrases, received them on cards in the mail, or said them to your friends, family, loved ones, etc. But have you ever stopped to think about who's saying them?

I suppose it doesn't really matter who wishes you a happy holiday. Christmas isn't the only holiday being celebrated this time of year. Hannukah just happened recently as well. Not to mention everyone celebrates the New Year's, so wishing someone a happy holiday is almost the same as wishing him or her a good day. Same can be applied to season's greetings. But the most popular one, the one you see on church bulletin boards, read in texts from friends, and most commonly hear wherever you go this time of the year is "Merry Christmas."

As a Christian, I should love this. But when a Catholic-raised turned atheist friend from school sent me a text wishing me a merry Christmas yesterday, it for some reason caught me off guard. I've been friends with this person since my first year of college. This person celebrated Christmas last year and the year before. In fact, this year this person even gave me a Christmas gift. Until I received that text, it never even occurred to me how peculiar it is that my friend, who believes in no god and certainly not Jesus, fully partakes in Christianity's biggest tradition. And then I began to realize how I have several atheist friends who celebrate Christmas.

And to be perfectly honest, it bugs me. A lot.

The more I began to think about it, the more it made my skin crawl. For one reason, it seems absurd. My friends, who are so bent on the belief that God does not exist and that Jesus, if he did exist, is no savior, why on earth would they celebrate Christmas? Don't they think it's highly hypocritical? Does this mean that Christmas truly has become a cultural tradition rather than a religious one? That anybody has the right to partake in the festivities? Or are they just trying to avoid the crazy Christians who are paying big bucks to have billboards up with messages that say "I miss hearing you say 'Merry Christmas' – Jesus"? Are they just trying to keep the peace and be kind, overlooking the fact they complete disagree with everything Christmas stands for?

Do you get what I'm saying?

It's frustrating enough to see Christians forget the meaning behind Christmas, and it sets me over the edge knowing that people who complete disagree with the entire belief system are enjoying the celebrations.

I know. I sound nuts. It's crazy that I am getting myself so worked up over who can and cannot, or really should or should not, participate in Christmas. And I have no room to talk. I still went out and bought gifts. I was still excited to wake up on Christmas morning to open mine. I prayed last night my thanks for Christmas after the service. But have I prayed today? Have I spent any time today thinking about what this day is truly about? No. I thought about what I could spend the money I received on. I thought about the clothes my mom and sisters bought me, and when to wear them. I have said Merry Christmas countless times today and not once did I think about the meaning behind it.

And I'm calling everyone else a hypocrite?

Earlier today when I thought about blogging out my frustrations I really wanted to take it out on my atheist friends who celebrate Christmas. And I'm not going to lie, I still do. I really want to lash out how it nerves me so much that they attack what I believe but then turnaround and get so excited for the holiday my religion created. It's almost as if they're mocking me.

But they're not.

The reason I am not going to lash out on how much I disagree with my friends is because of what I've been ranting and raving about for a long time now: the true meaning of Christmas. I don't know if I have it exactly right. But I think the meaning of Christmas is more than just the birth of Jesus. It's about God sending Himself to earth to make the ultimate sacrifice. The ultimate sacrifice is death. And the sacrifice of one's life is the ultimate act of love.

In a nutshell, I think Christmas, and Christianity in general, is much more than the complex religious system I have been taught and continue to learn about. I think it's much simpler than that. I think it's really just about love.

Maybe I sound like a hopeless romantic. Or a Beatles-loving hippie. But the story of Jesus' life, whether you believe it or not, focuses on the theme of love. From stopping angry men from stoning a prostitute to denying the devil, everything Jesus did was centered on love. And although Jesus has been gone for more than 2000 years, I like to think that some of that love still exists today.

My atheist friends aren't out to mock me. Instead they're simply celebrating what I consider one of the greatest events of all time. Sure, they're not really celebrating for the birth of God, but it's nice to know that they are enjoying themselves. It's nice to know that they find happiness in a religious event they don't even believe in. It's actually rather ironic. And gives me a small amount of hope.

Maybe Christmas is what I called it yesterday; an ugly beast focused on greed, impatience, and materialism. But despite all the negative I see this time of year, I greatly forget how wonderful it is. Christmas is able to bring even the non-believers together. I think that really says something. That people who don't even care about God are enjoying this day. The least I can do is love them for it.

During my pastor's sermon last night he said something about Christians getting upset over the idea of Christ no longer being in Christmas. He said it'll never happen. It's impossible for Christ to be left out of Christmas. And I agree. As long as there's love this time of year, Christ will never be kicked out of Christmas. Because Jesus is God (Luke 2:11), and God is love (1 John 4:8).

So to my friends, both believers and non-believers, I'd like to add just one more thing:

Merry Christmas ☺

Silent Night

Sophomore year of high school was the last time I was truly in the Christmas spirit. Once I worked retail my junior year of high school and realized the ugly greed, impatience, and materialism that truly exists behind this holiday, my joy for Christmas disappeared. Although working retail my senior year of high school was a lot less stressful than the first, I still found myself in a slump. I had discovered the true meaning of Christmas for most people and it sickened me.

Going off to college and leaving the retail world didn't help. With the semester ending in the middle of the holiday season, my mind usually became consumed with focusing on surviving finals, finishing projects, and writing last minute papers. By the time I get home, there's usually only a small amount of time before Christmas day and I turn into all the people I judge and turn my nose up to. I stress over with finding "perfect gifts" for family and friends, stress about money and what I can and cannot afford for everyone. Christmas day has turned into a day of "thank God this is over" instead of the joyous "Hooray it's Christmas!!" the child in me knew so long ago.

Of course, no one can expect to be in that childlike happiness of Christmas the rest of their lives. The day you find out Santa isn't real is already a tough blow on the joy of Christmas. But I grew up and learned to view Christmas as not a day for toys and gifts, but as a day of celebrating a great moment in my faith. Christmas switched from leaving cookies for Santa to prayers of thanks for the birth of Christ. Unfortunately, I think for a lot of people (at least from what I observed at Steve & Barry's), many were still wrapped up in the joy of gifts. The world became my Grinch. Reality stole my Christmas spirit.

I was hoping this year would be different. Once I returned to school after Thanksgiving I felt happy and in the Christmas spirit. I would walk to and from campus listening to Christmas songs on my Ipod. I brought my mini tree up and put it in my room as decoration. Since I've been jobless since May, and spent most of my money on my trip abroad, I knew that gift giving would be trickier this year. I figured instead of spending a lot of money on gifts, I would spend money on crafts and make everyone something homemade. Knowing I'd probably be able to skip the shopping madness, I really thought this year I would be in the Christmas spirit.

But somehow, despite all my optimism, I am not in the Christmas spirit. I only have myself to blame. As easy as it is to say that it's the rest of the world that has become the Grinch, reality is I've become my own Grinch. I let the holidays get to me. I let the "real world" stand in the way of what I know Christmas is truly about. I get stressed and angry and every year I secretly think to myself "one of these years I'm really going to skip Christmas, and I'm going to love it."

I don't really want to skip Christmas but I hate how it makes me feel. I wish I could enjoy decorating the tree, making cookies, and sending off Christmas cards as I once did. Although it's a little too late now to try to salvage the holiday spirit, there is one glimmer of hope. It's the one thing that really puts me in the Christmas spirit. Not the holiday spirit, but the true Christmas spirit. It's all I have left.

What is it? It's today. Christmas Eve.

I look forward to Christmas Eve now more than Christmas day. In particular I look forward to the night, when I attend the Christmas Eve service at my church. It is the one moment in all of this holiday madness where I feel people actually stop and take the time to remember what this is all about.

The physical size of my church is big, but the size in terms of attendance is quite small. You wouldn't think that if you attended my church, or my guess any church, on Christmas Eve. I used to judge the people that I never saw at my church except on Christmas and Easter. I felt they were fake Christians, only attending the two services they felt were worthy of their time. Boy was I wrong. Now I'm thankful that so many still do care to show up for the Christmas Eve service. Maybe they go reluctantly. Maybe they go only to show off their fancy Christmas dress or clothes. Maybe they do it for so many other reasons other than for God. But does it matter? They're there. They kneel and pray, they sing the hymns. For at least one hour of this holiday they're there for God. It's comforting to know that even though Christmas has turned into some ugly beast that has nothing to do with the birth of Jesus, there are still a lot of people out there who care enough to go to church. It brings me a little bit of hope.

Aside from the people, it's the service that makes me so happy. It is the singing of the hymns. It is the kneeling and the praying. It's listening to the pastor's sermon as he again tries to convince more people to keep coming to church, even though next service it will have some attendance as it's always had. For the one time in all of this holiday madness, it's about God. And I love it.

My favorite part of the service is at the very end. I'm not sure if other protestant churches do this. I'm not sure if it's a Lutheran only thing, or something that we adapted from the Catholic Church. But most Lutheran churches do the lighting of the candles at the very end. Every person has a candle, and as the hymn Silent Night is sung those candles get lit. By the time the song is in the last verse, most of the lights in the church are off and there's nothing but the light of candles and the sounds of Silent Night. It is the most peaceful part of the service. It literally gives me chills. When it comes to Christmas, it is the one single moment I look forward to. I look at my little flame, I sing along to Silent Night. And for that one moment I remember what Christmas is all about.

Silent night, Holy night. Son of God, love's pure light. If you celebrate Christmas I encourage you to remember what Christmas is all about. It's about the birth of Jesus, the Son of God. Who was sent to die for our sins; to make the ultimate sacrifice, because He loved us so. When it's all said and done, it's about love.

A Little Crazy

There are days where I think to myself, "what would I honestly do if I didn't have running?" Today was fortunately one of those days.

It was perfect conditions for a run in the middle of December. The roads were clear, therefore no worries about slipping and breaking a leg or ankle on the ice. The temperature was just above freezing. With no wind, this made it feel a lot warmer. Only five minutes into the run and I was ready to take off my headband.

I ran solo. And by solo I mean just myself and my stopwatch. No, I didn't even bring my Ipod along. The battery was near dead and I didn't feel like having to take off my right glove every time I wanted to change songs or adjust the volume (it's an ipod touch). The only sounds that accompanied me were the squishes from my shoes and my own breathing.

It was fantastic.

I told a twitter friend that my favorite runs are the simple runs in my hometown, especially in my own neighborhood. Today I remembered how true that really is. I'm not quite sure why that is. I'm sure it has something to do with the fact that I started running here. That this is where I discovered my love for the sport. Along these streets is where I laughed with friends, pushed the limits of my body, and learned to deal with any problem that came my way. This is where I became a runner.

If you know me you would think this all has to do with memories and nostalgia and so forth. And it does, but when I go for runs in my neighborhood I don't think about old cross-country workouts and memories don't flood my mind. In fact, on the contrary, I rarely think about the past when I run. I enjoy running on these streets today as much as I did when I was surrounded by teammates. My pace has gotten slower, but I am feeling better. In fact I think I have a much better relationship with running than I did when I was my fastest. I no longer cry at the end of workouts when I feel I didn't do my best and I no longer read Runner's World as if it were the bible. Running isn't something that brings any amount of stress to me anymore. Instead it's what brings me a great sense of joy.

I have been searching for the perfect balance with running since my final 3200 race at the District's meet back in May 2008. My hope for this next semester is that I will accomplish that.

This next semester I am hoping to accomplish what several of my running friends have beaten me to: the 26.2 miles of pain, anguish, and accomplishment, also known as the marathon.

What made me decide that I was going to a run a marathon is something that's beyond me. What I tell people is that I had made a promise back in the beginning of my first year of college to my to-be boyfriend that by the time I graduated I will have a run a marathon. Truth is I'm not sure if I ever really made that promise or if I made that up. My boyfriend doesn't remember, so I have no one but myself to hold accountable. What probably happened is that at the time I decided that on a whim without giving it much thought. Much like my final decision to actually run it.

I think the real reason is that I have seen so many of my friends run marathons, and, here's the key word, they enjoyed it, and so I want to take part in that enjoyment myself. I had a friend run the International Marathon, a race that starts in America and goes into Canada past Niagara Falls in the fall of 2009. I was incredibly impressed that on his own he was able to train and run it. He said he would do it and he did. Another friend ran Grandma's Marathon in Minnesota with her dad. Another friend, who didn't think she'd be able to run the marathon due to injury, ran the Dayton Marathon and qualified for Boston. She and another friend will be running the Boston this spring.

The list goes on. My dad ran the Flying Pig, my boyfriend ran the Tecumseh Marathon when he was 16, and my professor and another friend also took on the trail marathon despite snow and freezing temps just recently. It seems almost everyone in my little running circle has pushed through the grueling 26.2 miles. Except me.

And so here I am. Bored with 5ks, no chance of racing in the 3200 (as far as I know at least) and looking for something to challenge me and keep my love of running alive. The marathon sounds perfect.

I have no PRs for the marathon so there's no stress about setting one. I would like to break 4 hours but I'm not sweating it if I don't. My ultimate goal is to just run this thing without dying and run it at a comfortable but challenging pace. What I would really like to do is to cross the finish line with a smile on my face and think, "That was fun. Can't wait to do it again." That's right, I expect hours of running to be fun. Because running is fun. And I mean that.

I think this is where the whole, "You're crazy" thing comes into play. And I never disagree. Runners are crazy. It is crazy to wake up at 5am to go for a 20 miler. It is crazy to lace up your shoes and go out in the middle of a freezing rain. We're crazy masochists. But we need it. I need it. In a way that I can't even explain. I'm a runner. I need running. I need it to survive, even if it means being a little crazy.

180

Everything is different.

I had this realization of how much my life has changed the other day when my mom asked me to pick up pizza. We ordered LaRosa's and as I drove into the parking lot of the restaurant, I realized the last time I had been there I was still in high school and it was a carbo-loading pasta night with my cross-country team. Bittersweet memories. But what really woke me up was the person I met inside the restaurant.

Her name is Pam, and she is the daughter of my first cross-country coach, the one who coached me for the first two years of high school. The last time I saw her I swear she was only 11 years old and still running faster than everyone else.

Well, now she's old enough to have a job and she works at this particular LaRosa's. As I was rummaging through my purse for my wallet I heard a voice saying, "Rebecca. Rebecca." Even though it was not my name I had a feeling it was directed at me. Sure enough I looked up and there she was.

I was sweet. I didn't have much to say, but what was there to say? I hadn't seen the girl in years. She recognized me but didn't even remember my name. Our conversation was short and awkward. I left hoping she didn't think I was rude.

As I got into my car though I realized the petty life I was living in high school and how much it meant to me. You see, when Pam's mom quit coaching, she didn't just quit. She took the team down with her. Her reasoning for quitting was that we were a bunch of lazy asses who didn't put forth any work effort. She did however call two runners and told them they were the exception. I was not one of them and this greatly offended me, especially since she had given me an award at the end of the season for being the hardest worker. I would run into her later and she would admit that she thought about calling me, but she never actually gave me a reason as to why she didn't. At that point I was too apathetic to care.

But running into Pam had nothing to do with her mom. It reminded me more of my second coach, the one I'll call, well, I'll just stick to Coach. When he heard about how our first coach quit, he used her daughter to fuel our anger. Her daughter was in high school our senior year and we competed against her. Coach never had any trouble reminding us that she was there, her mom was there, and our duty was to take her down.

I knew what he was doing. He was just trying to get us motivated, get us all hyped up and feel competitive. But it was petty. He used her daughter as a representation of how we felt for our old coach. I specifically remember he gathering us four seniors in a circle to tell us that Pam was just over there, that we would be running against her, and the greatest revenge would be to beat her. Show her mom she shouldn't have bailed on us.

And it worked. We beat her and her team. After the meets I remember him letting us know how we did. At the time it felt great, it felt like we had won. Now it just feels pathetic.

Fortunately Pam never knew that we were secretly plotting to beat her every time she showed up. Pam never knew how we were coached to specifically beat her to get our revenge. She still liked us. What happened with her mom was nothing to her. She saw as old friends – we learned to see her as an enemy.

All of this hit me as I drove out of the parking lot on home. I no longer go to LaRosa's for cross-country dinners. I no longer think highly of Coach. And now I no longer dislike Pam.

Everything has made a complete 180. And while I loved my running career in high school, today I have never been happier. The years I dreaded saying goodbye to are in the past. And I no longer miss them.

Rhyme and Reason

(My head won't leave my head alone)

At 8:30am on a Friday you can hear the sound of dedicated music majors as you walk down the practice rooms hall at the music building at Ball State. I, a mere journalism student, was among them to brush up on the piano skills I once possessed years and years ago.

While violins, pianos, and other instruments played difficult pieces by Mozart, Tchaikovsky, and so on, I pulled out a piece by Pachelbal. My favorite piece by Pachelbal. In fact, my favorite piano piece ever: Canon in D.

I fell in love with Canon in D when my sister first played it at home. While I had heard Canon in D before, hearing it on the piano, alone, with no other instruments, in the cozy comfort of my house, was the most beautiful thing I had ever heard. I immediately borrowed the sheet music from my sister and went about learning to play it. The score I have isn't hard, and because I was so determined to fill my ears with its lovely sounds, it didn't take long for me to learn it. Once I learned it I perfected it. And once I perfected it, I memorized it. And then I was able to sit down at the piano any time and breeze through the piece. It was one of the only pieces I had learned to play so well.

Until one day, it wasn't.

I can't remember the exact moment I stopped practicing it, but I do remember the first time I tried playing it and couldn't remember. It was last year when I was an RA in one of the dorms. On a lazy Friday morning, like today, I found myself at the piano in our lounge and decided I would hammer out Canon in D, just for fun. The beginning part was easy. But then suddenly, I stumbled. A wrong note. I played it again. Wrong note. Okay, it's this note. No, no it's not. Is this note? No...

Suddenly I realized that not only had my fingers forgotten their way, I had forgotten how the piece even went. I called my mother and asked her if she would send me the sheet music.

I never did get around to actually practicing it last year. But this year I have gotten in the habit of stopping by the music building on Fridays and playing for an hour or so. I take with me an assortment of sheet music; most of it much more difficult than I had ever learned when I took piano lessons. But every Friday I barely touch the other pieces. Every Friday I sit down and the first thing I play is Canon in D.

I've been struggling with the piece for awhile. Looking at the sheet music actually makes it worse. My fingers have gotten so use to playing without having to read music, that reading music actually throws them off. It's much better for me to just play it by ear and feel, as I have done so many times before, and when needed glance at the sheets.

What's interesting is that my fingers do remember, it's just that I forget. I get nervous at the parts where I know I have a tendency to mess up and in the back of my mind I think "Don't mess up, don't mess up, you've got this..." which of course makes me mess up. Then I try to play it again and the same thing happens. Soon enough my practicing gets worse and worse. Before I know it I'm laughing at myself because I've completely butchered this beautiful piece and my hands are now keeping my head from banging against the top of the piano.

That's what's keeping me from playing this piece flawlessly. My head.

I knew it was all in my head, but I didn't realize to what extent until last Friday when I was at the music building. Frustrated once again for messing up at the same part, I started playing the piece from the beginning. Then I thought I heard voices outside. "Oh no," I thought to myself. "They can hear me. And they can hear how horrible I am." Soon my mind wandered off into this daydream of these music professionals laughing at me as they walk down the hall, or one barging in on me, screaming "You're not a music major! You're not even a pianist! Get out!". As I amused myself with such thoughts, I suddenly realized that I was still playing. Not only was I still playing, I hadn't messed up. In fact, I just made it through the toughest part in the piece without stumbling once. I kept playing and finished the piece. Although it wasn't played perfectly smooth, it was played without hitting any wrong notes. I took a deep breath, packed up my belongings and went home. It was a good enough note to end on.

The piano practices are only a metaphorical reminder as to how my head gets in the way of me all the time. My head prevents me from thinking I can be a writer. My head once kept me from dating the guy of my dreams. My own damn head gets in the way of things more than anything else.

I remember one time I was running 800 repeats and I didn't think I could go at a certain pace. My track coach said me, "The body is willing but the mind is weak." Translation: You have the ability, but you lack the confidence and belief. He was right. I had it in me to do the repeats at the pace he wanted. I had the ability to run the 2 mile (a race I was forced into but ultimately ended up loving). I had the ability to be a much better runner than I thought. But my head, my own mind, was keeping me from doing so.

And that's what I'm working on. These piano practices aren't just about practicing piano. They're not only about learning new pieces and perfecting the old ones. Every week my piano practice is a mental challenge. Will I be able to play Canon in D flawlessly or will my head mess me up? Sometimes my fingers win. Sometimes it's my head. Today, at 8:30am without my cup of coffee yet, I was still in zombie-like state of mind and so my fingers fortunately won. But will I be able to keep it up? Will I be able to break the mental block I keep facing? If the body is willing, will the mind stay weak?

Stay tuned.

Only for a moment and the moment's gone (8/90)

Didn't know how long it was going to take me, but recently it finally hit me: I miss England.

Thing is, I'm not quite sure why. I very much enjoyed my time in England, but I was still homesick most of the time. By week 5 I was ready to go home. I was tired of always moving, always trying to see and do more. I missed my boyfriend. I missed driving. I missed Mexican food. I was ready before everyone else to pack up my bags and head back to the states.

Maybe I miss what I missed out on.

The more time passes here in the states, the more I wish I would've done in England. I wish I would've gone out more. I wish I would've hung out with my friends there more. I wish I had gotten to know the British more. I wish I had visited Oxford again. I wish I had ran around the Iffley Road Track. I wish I had traveled somewhere up north. I wish I would've gone for more walks and explored the city more. I wish I had purchased a bottle of Worcestershire sauce. I wish, I wish, I wish...

Funny thing is this wishing only set in recently. Everyone else seemed to have missed England the moment we arrived in Dayton. Everyone else seemed to want to go back immediately. Everyone else loves England and feels it's where they belong.

Me? Nope. It took four months for me to start thinking of England and actual miss it. Probably after three weeks of being in England (probably when I realized how much I crave mexican food) I realized I belonged in America. I belong in the country where stores are open 24/7. Where football means the scoring a touchdown instead of scoring a goal. Where people drive on the right side of the road. Where you don't have to pay to pee in a public restroom. You get my drift.

So why do I suddenly long to take a boat ride along the River Severn? Why do I want to go dance with my friends in one of the trashy named clubs like Sin & Bushwackers or Tramps (craft names aren't they)? Why do I want to go for a run in the Malvern hills?

Because I loved it.

Being homesick and missing loved ones did put a slight damper on my time in England. But it was still a dream come true. I was still in England. I got to see the English countryside I had literally dreamed of. I got to visit my dream European city. I got to hear English accents and visit so many places. I had high tea at the Pump rooms in Bath. I stood at the exact same spot where McCartney met Lennon and got chills; and I'm not even a Beatles fan! I almost cried at the track where Roger Bannister broke the 4 minute mile. I kissed the Blarney Stone in Ireland, tried Guinness for the first time, and saw Dolores O'Riordan (lead singer of the Irish band the Cranberries) house. I had one hell of a time in europe. And that was only visiting two countries.

There are always experiences I'll want to live over. There's always going to be things I wish I had, or hadn't, done. Not just in England, but wherever go and whatever I do. I'm sure once I'm done with college I'll look back and think of things I regret and the things I wish I could've experienced. It's a shame you can't do it all.

I guess it just goes to show that you really do have to live in the moment. While I was in England I shouldn't have been counting the days til I was home. I should've been trying to experience it all while I was right there in the middle of it. It's too late to realize that for then, but at least I'll know for the future. Because I will go back. I made a promise when I left England that one day I will return.

Pen Pals (7/90)

I'm in a good mood this morning.

For starters, I think my headache is starting to go away. Why? Because I'm drinking coffee which is full of caffeine and I am really beginning to believe that my now frequent occurring headaches are caused by something other than the weather. Considering the last migraine I had was the day after I had a lot of caffeinated beverages, and it did not go away until half an hour after drinking coffee the next day, I think it's safe to say I might have a caffeine addiction. I would try to break it right now but the headaches hurt and I need my caffeine to keep me going throughout the day. The semester will be over in three weeks and then I'll have three weeks to get a start on weening myself off of this drug. But for now, I need my coffee.

Second of all, I finally read my friend Rachel's memoir. She sent it to me the other day and forgetful me didn't realize until last night that I hadn't read it yet. I was able to read it this morning.

My friend is a very talented writer. I've always known this, but with us attending different schools and now only seeing each other a couple times a year, writing is usually only brought up when we're venting about school and how we can't wait for it to be over. Fortunately last week when we met up with another friend at Starbucks she told us about the memoir she was writing and asked if I could look it over for her before she turned it in. Although I dread editing others work (mostly because I don't think I'm very good at it) I wanted to read her writing and I was flattered that she wanted my feedback.

So I read it. And I loved it. Rachel has a way with words I've tried to mimic but have always failed in doing so. She's poetic and has a great way of describing events, people, places, etc. I on the other hand, well, I don't know how someone would describe my writing. But unlike poetic, I feel like I'm very blunt. I think it's fair to say I do my fair share of butchering the English language. Just because you want to be a writer doesn't mean your grammar doesn't suck. Trust me, after seeing plenty of read on my papers from my magazine class, I became very well-aware of the improvements I need to make with my writing.

What's ironic though is she and I are both facing similar problems with telling our stories. With her draft she said she feels she doesn't have a good ending for it. It needs a sense of completion. But how can she complete the story while the problem still exists? She's still in the middle of the story. It hasn't ended yet.

I can relate. As I'm trying to write about my story from high school, I too feel as if I'm still in the middle of the story. But the story is over. What's done is done. But it's missing a sense of completion. My big struggle isn't how it ends though; that's already been taken care of. My problem is, what did I take from it? It's the reason I've been hesitating on writing about it. In the back of my mind I keep thinking, "Is this really that important? So some drama happened a few years ago and your coach got in trouble. Big deal. What's the point in telling this story?"

I still don't have a definite answer for that. All I can say is that if you feel compelled to write about something, then it's worth writing for a reason.

So what am I going to tell her? I'm not sure either. Storytelling is still a craft that is going to take a long time to master. I have no expert advice to offer. I'll give her the best feedback I can and what I think might work for the story. Let's just hope I help her story instead of hurting it.

In the meantime I have to her thank for this blog. After reading her work I felt inspired to get another blog out of the way (since I'm still behind...fail). So what have I learned this morning? When facing writer's block, read your friends' work. Seeing how great of a writer she is encourages me to continue trying to be one as well. I guess if you believe in what someone else is doing, it may give you the confidence to keep trying yourself.

Ready? Set? Go! (6/90)

Procrastination. Something I'm very familiar with. Yes, procrastination and I have been great friends. For as long as I can remember actually. In fact, I'm sure my first homework assignment was the first time I was introduced to Procrastination. While my mom told me to go work on math or social studies, Procrastination told me to go watch Brace Face on ABC family. You can guess which one I listened to. Besides, elementary homework doesn't take long to do. 15, 20 minutes tops (or so it seemed). I thought Procrastination was great.

That was until I made it to high school. Where assignments suddenly became tougher. Where projects take more than an hour or so to get done. Where studying for tests was more than just reviewing some notes right before the test is handed to you. Freshman year of high school I had what I think can be defined as a panic attack when I realized I had a track meet, work, and an entire history project to finish before the next day. That was when I realized Procrastination has a dark side.

I've been good and bad since high school when it comes to procrastination. This year I've actually been particularly good. I've been working on my assignments as soon as I get them (usually because I have nothing else to do). Starting projects early. Studying way in advance for a test. As far as grades go, this might be the best semester I've had simply because I decided to put procrastination on the back burner.

Until last week.

Silly Laura, what were you thinking when you said you'd get so much done over Thanksgiving break? Why did you decide to go home a day early when you even contemplated showing up at the library and getting stuff done? Did you honestly believe you were going to go to the library at home everyday? Did you really think that you would get it all done and these last two weeks would be smooth-sailing?

Sadly, yes.

I don't know what it is but there's something about going home that puts me in the mood to do anything and everything but the things I actually need to get done. I would rather clean the entire house than sit and work on Spanish. Fortunately into my third hour of my Big Bang Theory marathon I pulled out my Spanish homework and got most of it done. Of course, I didn't completely finish it all until today. A couple of hours work was all it took. I could've easily sailed through it had I gone to the library at home and glued my ass to the seat for the day. I would've accomplished even more actually. The stress I'm starting to feel build would be non-existent.

You want to hear a secret though? I actually love it.

I know that sounds ridiculous, especially since I'm the one giving everyone else crap about being too stressed, doing too much, never having time to just breathe. I'm a hypocrite. I love it when I have a lot to do. I love being under stress. I love the pressure that comes with it. The deadline. The feeling of "you have to get this done or you will fail!" I love working under a clock and accomplishing a thousand things in one day even though I know I won't get any sleep. Although usually somewhere in that day I still have that moment of "Why didn't you work on this when you had the time?" It doesn't matter. I procrastinate. I stall and enjoy doing nothing. Then when it's time to get cracking, I'm completely focused. All or nothing. Do or die.

These next two weeks are going to be stressful. Projects, papers, everything coming to an end. And then when those are done, guess what's next? Finals!!! Oh the joy.

I guess I should get back to my work. Do or die. All or nothing. Last three weeks of fall semester 2010? Bring it.

Weep not for the memories (5/90)

Yesterday morning I had an appointment at my new doctor's office. I arrived, and after filling in the necessary paperwork and signing over whatever the doctor's office requires, I made my way over to the magazine stand. I was only in for a mere check-up and physical exam. I discovered that a "new patient" appointment was needed before any actual doctor's appointment, you know, the one time you really need to see a doctor, when I called a month ago with a virus infection. Thank goodness for Urgent Care.

So there I was for my "new patient" appointment. Since I was not dreading seeing the doctor I for once felt comfortable perusing a magazine (in most situations I just sit there nervously twiddling my thumbs as I silently count the seconds before I have to see the dreaded physician). What was I going to check out today? There was a beautiful cover of Bazaar. Did I want to read up on the latest fashion styles that I can't afford? Or what about Fitness? I'm sure there was something in there about getting flat abs and a smoothie recipe that's going to help me a lose weight. I continued to scour over everything until suddenly there it was. In that bright red border I saw the only story on the cover, interesting enough that I immediately grabbed it and whisked it with me to the nearest seat in the waiting area: Alzheimer's.

I have been curious about Alzheimer's ever since my grandma was diagnosed with it a few years back. My mother was the first to pick up on the signs. She noticed my grandma was not acting her normal self. My grandma started to realize it too. My mom encouraged my grandma to go to the doctor but she refused. By the time she did go, it was already too late.

Of course it didn't help that the doctor who saw my grandma didn't believe that she had Alzheimer's. You see with alzheimer's patients, they seem to have episodes or incidents. Sometimes they appear normal. That's why I never picked up on the signs until later when the alzheimer's had progressed. But my mother, a nurse I might add, who was very close to her mother and was able to witness things that were oblivious to the rest of us, knew that something was up. She called the doctor and begged him to put her on some medicine. It took the doctor awhile before realizing my mother was right. Every time my grandma went to visit she seemed fine. But soon enough the disease made known its presence and the only thing the doctor could really do was put her on meds that would hopefully slow down the progress.

And in reality that's the best thing he could've done anyway. Alzheimer's is like cancer. There is no cure, and there's really no way of understanding how it happens. The best you can do is try to live a healthy lifestyle, exercise your brain, and hope and pray that something will come out that will prevent you from receiving this death sentence.

In fact, dare I say, I do believe that Alzheimer's may be the worst disease out there right now. I know I'm biased because I witnessed the horrific events of watching someone I loved die from it. There doesn't appear to be any pain, physically at least. Emotionally? Terrifying. My grandma no longer recognized me. Didn't know my name. Couldn't remember memories. This isn't The Notebook where they portrayed Alzheimer's in a way in which your entire life can flash back to you. No. Alzheimer's patients soon forget how to take care of themselves, and remembering happy times is a thing of the past.

The last, happy moment I had with my Granda was one of the times I visited her in the nursing home. It was just my mother and I and we were leaving. As I said goodbye, I leaned over, hugged her, and told her I loved her. She looked up at me and said, "Oh sweetheart." And for a split second, one little moment when I looked in her eyes, I could swear that she remembered me. That she remembered who I was. And that she somehow knew the situation she was in and sympathized with me. I know it's crazy. It's illogical to believe that someone with advanced Alzheimer's could have a moment like that. But I don't need logic to explain what I experienced. I fully believe that for that one moment in time, she remembered.

The first time I saw her there I freaked out. Literally. I ran out of the room, down the hall, back to the front desk and locked myself in the bathroom to cry. It didn't help that I had just been to her husband's memorial service that morning. The husband she didn't remember. The husband she would never realize was gone. Once I was able to calm myself down and face reality, I went back and kept my cool. Then before we left we put a vase of flowers from the memorial service on a table and my grandma went and looked at them. She admired their beauty and found them lovely. I was horrified that she was admiring the flowers from her own husband's memorial service. But perhaps for her emotional health, her unknowingness was for the better.

Needless to say, her Alzheimer's was an experience I witnessed that I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy.

So when I saw the Times magazine with Alzheimer's on the cover I had to read it. I plopped myself down and immediately began flipping through pages until I found the story.

Unfortunately I barely got a page in when my name was called. I put the magazine back and followed the nurse into the exam room. I decided I would ask my doctor about Alzheimer's.

The other day I was driving in Muncie when radio talk show host Kim Ireson came on Indy' station 99.5. She talked about Alzheimer's disease and mentioned a blood test that could predict if you had the gene that would develop Alzheimer's. And she asked the listeners if they would get the test. Would you want to know if you could, or were going to, be diagnosed with Alzheimer's disease?

I thought about this. Would I? Would I really want to know if I was going to end up like my Grandma? Would I want to have that terminal sentence hanging over my head? Would I want to know that one day I was going to forget my family, my loved ones, my life, even myself?

The answer? Yes. I would want to know. I would want to know as soon as possible. I would want to know that I needed to cherish every memory. All of my friends know how often I dwell on them; it would make appreciating them even more. I would write more about my life. I would take more photos. When I got married and had children I would tell them what I would want them to do if, or when, I am diagnosed with the disease. I would want to be prepared. They would know I would rather take death over deteriorating away in a nursing home. Lord, if any thing ever happens to me, I do not want to spend my last days cooped up in a place like that. Life, in that state, is not worth living.

So naïve and paranoid me asked my doctor about this test. I learned that this test is still being developed; it's not completely ready. I also learned that this tests for a gene that causes alzheimer's; there are other factors that can trigger it that can't be tested for (at least not yet). And last but not least, I embarrassingly learned that I, a 21 year-old, should not be worrying about getting this test done. No one would pay for someone my age to find out if she was getting Alzheimer's. In fact, if I am ever to be tested for it, it won't happen for at least another 30 years. My deep contemplation on getting this test done was apparently a waste of my time.

In the meantime, all I can do is try to live a healthy lifestyle. Work out almost every day. Get my fruits and veggies. Read and do other things that'll exercise my brain. Other than that, there's not much left to do. I won't know until I'm well into the majority of my years on whether I will have the disease. And by then hopefully more research will be done. Hopefully they'll know more about preventing it, and may have developed some better medicines for fighting it. Hopefully.

Until then, cherish your memories. Be grateful that your forgetfulness is usually limited to "where did I put my keys?" and "what was the homework for tomorrow?" Not staring at your brother and wondering who he was. And keep in mind that there are people struggling with this disease and have loved ones fighting with them as well.

You can learn more about Alzheimer's here: http://www.alz.org/index.asp

I also encourage you to check out this: http://www.alz.org/shriverreport/about.html
It's about how women, the primary caregivers, are taking on the fight against Alzheimer's. My mother, who did her best to care for my grandma, is a testament to what women are experiencing with this disease.

Black Friday? Bah Hambug! (4/90)

Eek! Somehow I always forget to write! Good thing I have all day today to make up for, um, I think three blogs haha.

So yesterday was the Friday after Thanksgiving. Black Friday: the biggest shopping day of the year. Stores open at times when most people are in the middle of their REM cycle. Crowds of people swarm local malls and outlet stores, all in the spirit of savings and getting a start on holiday shopping.

I used to think Black Friday was a great idea. Some sort of American tradition; let's get fat on turkey, go to bed early, get up and go shopping. A perfect transition into preparing for the next big holiday. I used to be one of those people getting up before the sun (or just staying up all night) to hit the stores early. That was of course until I had to work it.

I started working at Steve & Barry's collegiate retail store my junior year of high school in 2006. I was essentially hired for the holidays but luckily they kept me around afterwards. But hired for the holidays I was. I got to see firsthand what it was like to be on the other side of the holiday craze.

Luckily for me Steve & Barry's was not one of the stores that opened ridiculously early or had ridiculously low sales. But that didn't mean we still didn't experience the craze. With our already low prices we still a saw a slew of people coming and going from the minute we opened up to the minute we closed. And as bad as Black Friday sounds, I quickly learned that it's only the beginning of the madness. From Black Friday to about two weeks after New Years we were as busy as ever.

When I was hired in early November of 2006 one of my managers asked me if I had ever worked in retail during the holidays. Answer? No. I don't remember verbatim what he said after that, but it was definitely along the lines of "You'll hate Christmas."

I was skeptical of this. I knew that it was going to be stressful and we would be working a lot, but I didn't think that working in retail during the holidays would suck the joy out of them.

Boy was I proven wrong.

The second year came and I was prepared for the madness. I knew I'd be dealing with bitchy customers and long hours. My joy was focused on the fat paychecks I was receiving. Other than that, I felt nothing of the Christmas spirit.

Working in retail showed me a different side to this holiday season. I was bitched out at for things I had no control over. I saw customers grouch at each other, loved ones included. I saw their stress and anxiety. All over buying some clothes? Really?

Yes. And that's when my love for this holiday began to die. When I saw what Christmas is really like. Everything I heard about the true meaning of Christmas being dead was proven true. No one seemed grateful or happy. No one seemed humble. On the contrary, almost everyone I saw was in a rush to buy the best gifts at the best prices and damn you if you stood in their way. Greed and selfishness were what I mostly saw. Their greed killed my love for Christmas.

Even after I was done working in retail I still found it difficult to get into the Christmas spirit. Shopping for gifts suddenly became a stressful chore and every time I set foot in a store I was reminded of the greed I see this time of the year. I had no desire to decorate the tree or ice the cookies. Even the Christmas jingles on the radio were of no avail. I felt like the grinch.

For the first time since then I think I might actually get in the Christmas spirit this year. I'm too poor to buy gifts so I'll be making them, helping me surpass the annoyance of wandering stores in search of perfect gifts. I think I'll actually make gingerbread cookies. I think I'll decorate the tree and I think I'll listen to my Christmas playlist. I think.

In the meantime, I still hate Christmas shopping. I still hate Black Friday. I see how people get this time of the year and it angers me. It's frustrating to see people get so upset over material items at a time when we're not supposed to be materialistic. The purpose of Christmas, the true meaning behind it, is non-existent in America.

This should come as no surprise to anyone. It's obvious the true meaning of Christmas has been lost for some time. I think it's funny that I have friends who have no belief in any sort of God but they fully believe in sharing gifts, decorating a Christmas tree and being a part of the Christmas season. Christmas obviously has become more cultural than religious.

So what does this mean for those of us who still believe in Christmas for what it really is? What does this mean for those of us who find more joy in going to a Christmas Eve service than opening gifts on Christmas morning? Those of us who just want to be with family and enjoy icing cookies, decorating trees, and still being a part of all the hoopla while keeping in mind the whole purpose behind this holiday?

I can only offer you one piece of advice: Never work in retail.

What are you thankful for? (3/90)

Perhaps this is cliché, but in the spirit of Thanksgiving I feel it's appropriate to do at least one blog on being thankful (since I already missed one day and now need to write two today). At first I began writing a list. Then I realized how boring it was. Friends, family, the same stuff everyone else is thankful for. So then I began thinking, what am I thankful for and how is what I'm thankful for different from everyone else? And then it dawned on me, that it's not the things I'm thankful for, it's why I'm thankful for them that make them interesting. So I'm going try to compile a list, a list of memories and specific events in my life that have brought me to realize why I'm grateful for all of these things.

Hmm. Where do I even begin?

(In no specific order)
1. I was in sixth grade when I realized I no longer wanted to be a gymnast. I was tired of showing up to the gym and practicing the same routines over and over. I wanted to learn new stunts and try new routines; my coaches wouldn't let me until I had perfected the ones I was working on. Seeing that competitive gymnastics was not the sport for me, my dad encouraged me to take up running. So I signed up for the cross-country team for seventh grade and that summer was when I began training. Every week my dad would take me to the track and we would run whatever the coach had said for me to run. Stride by stride, my dad helped me go from running only one lap to twelve laps. Cross-country season started and I was hooked. From that moment on, I loved running.

My dad was no longer my coach, but he was always there for me. He made it to almost every meet, track or cross-country, from seventh grade until my senior year of high school. He was there to hug me when I did well and talk to me when I did poorly. My dad never once discouraged me. And this doesn't just apply to running. Every goal and endeavorer I have taken on my dad has been supportive. Now every time I come home we talk about running and he encourages me to go after my journalism dreams. I'm thankful for my dad for introducing me to the sport I love, and for always, always being there for me.

2. It started with making spaghetti and ended in a nursing home. Seeing my grandma's alzheimers progress was one of the hardest experiences of my life. From watching her lose track of time and seeming forgetful to forgetting my name and being unable to recognize my face, I lost her long before she died.

She was the grandma on my mom's side, so we would trek to Pittsburgh to see her. Each visit got harder and harder to take. The nursing home she lived in became hell on earth. The only way I can describe what it was like being in that place is that it felt like life was being sucked out of you. Literally. There is no joy visiting a place where everyone is waiting for their turn to die. It was a living nightmare.

Time after time I would visit with my mom and it never got easier. I watched my mom spoon-feed my grandma, brush her hair, hold her hand. My last visit there I suddenly realized the strength it took for my mother to visit her mom in such a state. To watch her slowly deteriorate and be unable to do anything about it. To be able to muster up the effort to drive 5 hours to care for her for only an hour or so opened my eyes to a side of my mother I had never seen before. My shy, conservative mother was suddenly the bravest person I knew. I am thankful for my mother for being the strong woman that I know and for showing/giving me her selfless love.

3. When I first arrived at Ball State one of the first things I did was go run. I didn't venture too far off-campus for fear of getting lost, so I didn't have a good idea of any places to go run. At one of the first run club practices I asked one of the members where I could get a good hill work-out in. He laughed. I said I was serious. He said he was too.

Muncie, Ind. is the flattest place on earth. Every time I come home now I never take the hills that we have around here for granted. I am thankful for any chance I have to run on hills.

4. This past summer I went to England for six weeks. It's the farthest I've ever been from home. With an ocean separating me from my boyfriend, my family, and my friends, I relied heavily on technology in order to stay in touch. It was one of the few times I didn't take having a cell phone or internet for granted. As much as I hate to admit it, I am thankful for technology.

5. This one could, and honestly, deserves its own separate post. There are so many memories I don't know if it's possible to pick just one to write about. So I won't. I am thankful for the amazing boyfriend I was able to snatch. Rarely does a day go by where I don't think about how lucky I am to have him.

6. At the end of my six-week endeavor in England our group hit a minor bump in the road. Continental airlines accidentally switched all of our flights to one of the girls in the group who extended her stay. Instead of leaving Birmingham on August 3rd, we were scheduled to leave Scotland a week later. Finding a flight back to America was a true pain in the ass, and considering I was homesick enough, this was not helping. Three days later I woke up at 3am England time and didn't arrive at the last airport until 10pm EST time. Almost 24 hours of being up and traveling. As much as I loved England, arriving in Newark, NJ was one of the happiest moments this summer. Although England wasn't a huge culture shock, I did miss America a lot. I am thankful to live in this country. Travel all over the world? Yes please. But at the end of the day, this is where I want to be.

7. Sometime when my friends and I get together we play a 20 questions game. But unlike original 20 questions, this game is just asking one friend 20 random questions we want to know. Usually the question, "What is one moment you wish you could live over?" comes up, or similar, "What's the happiest moment of your life?"

In 2006 I went to San Antonio with my church group for a one-week retreat. At the very end of the trip we went to the top of the Hilton hotel where you can stand on the roof. The trip itself was a blast. Few memories can compare to everything that happened. Sad that it was over I was incredibly grateful for everything the experience. As crazy as it sounds, being on the top of that hotel I had a moment of complete peace. I felt pure happiness. I felt the closest I had ever felt to God. I don't know how else to describe it. But I do know, that I am thankful for my relationship with Christ.

8. ABC parties. Movie nights. Ice-skating. Get togethers at starbucks. Getting chased by cops. Girls nights. Late night road trips. Pulling pranks. Shopping trips. Race weekends. Concerts. Hugs. Talks. Lots of laughs. I'm thankful for all of my amazingly awesome friends.

9. Soft kitty, warm kitty, little ball of fur. Happy kitty, sleepy kitty, purr purr purr. I'm thankful for my pets.

10. All the other things I need to mention: my car, running, writing, Ball State, Fairfield, New York, coffee, the people that inspire me, photos, music, memories, traveling, new opportunities, love, Big Bang Theory, and a gazillion other things.

Happy Thanksgiving. What are you thankful for?

So Right (or not) (2/90)

I'm always flattered when one of my friends says it to me they wish they had what I have when it comes to a relationship. Which happened today when I received an e-mail from a friend who needed to talk about what was going on in their love life. I read what they had to say and gave my best response.

The key word here is response.

I think this friend was asking for advice. They didn't say it, but they explained what they planned on doing and wanted a reaction out of me. Whether it be reassurance or something else, I know this friend wanted to at least know what I was thinking. And I told them.

But I didn't give them advice. I don't believe in that.

I've only had one boyfriend and it's serious, so for starters I don't think I have too much advice to offer. I can only give my perspective on what I've experienced. I've never dated any other guy for an extensive period of time and I have no idea what it's like to go through a break-up. I can only go off of what I know and that's only what I've dealt with in my relationship with Joe.

Some would say that means I have great advice to offer. That if my first relationship has lasted this long and is going strong, then I know a thing or two about relationships. As much as I would like to believe that, quite frankly I find it bullshit. Yeah, I know what works for Joe and I, and I know what doesn't. And maybe it's ridiculous to pull out the "fate" card, but I do believe a certain amount of luck and just the right timing played a part. But I certainly don't think that I am in any position to offer love advice.

And to be honest, I really don't think anyone is.

I've been asking for advice about guys since probably the sixth grade. And as crushes have come and gone, friends have changed, and I've gotten older, I've realized one thing is for certain: Everybody has a different piece of offer. And usually every person thinks they're right.

And I mean this in all areas of dating someone. From pursuing a guy, to dating him, to the L word, and more. I've had friends tell me that "he's a jerk and you're right to be upset" and other friends say "you're overreacting, it's not that big of a deal." I have friends who believe a guy should always pursue a girl and other friends who think if a girl wants a guy she needs to step her game up and go after him. I have friends who will save themselves for marriage and others who believe if you love someone you should be able to express that as soon as you feel it. I have friends who will go on date after date to find the right guy, while others remain carefree and enjoy the single life. To sum it up, every person is different.

I know I'm stating the obvious, but with that said every relationship is different as well. There is no single piece of advice that can be applied in every situation. I can't tell a friend what to do because I am different from him/her, and they're situation is different from mine. I'll try to find similarities, something that can be related to, but in a nutshell I'm usually just offering perspective. I'm trying to no longer offer advice. There is nothing I can say that is better or worse than anyone else's.

To my friends who read my blog, don't take this as me saying that I won't talk to you about your relationship dilemmas. I'm always willing to talk about relationships and if you want my perspective, I'll certainly give it to you. But I also hope you know that I'm not right. No one you listen to is right. Your situation is always going to be different than anyone else's. The solution to your problems is only something you can figure out on your own. But I'm always here to talk and listen. Lord knows I'll always be turning to you guys for your thoughts and opinions.

I hope for the best for my friend who is having this relationship issue. While I can't tell them what to do or what will work, I'm flattered that they feel comfortable coming to me to talk about what's going on and that their goal is to be in that kind of relationship I'm in. Joe and I aren't perfect, and our relationship certainly will never be, but hey, we must be doing something right.

Not Ready to Make Nice (1/90...third time's the charm!)

I got in a fight with a friend yesterday.

Not just any friend. A good friend. Or at least someone I used to consider a good friend.

The fight itself was ridiculous. What we got in an argument over was stupid. But the aftermath of it feels detrimental to our friendship. And I really don't think that's any exaggeration.

What I'm most upset about is how it all happened. A little bit of confrontation on his part. And I'm fine with confrontation. In fact I like it when people are very blunt and honest with me. Trying to sugar coat things does no good. I need to hear exactly what you think and how you feel and why. If you can't give that to me, we'll have issues.

He was blunt. And I appreciated that. But he was blunt in a text message. And that's pretty much where it all started.

I received a really rude and disrespectful text from him. I don't deal with confrontations via text. I don't even like confrontations on the phone. If you have an issue with me, approach me and talk to me in person. Because sending a message from your cell phone shows 1) You're not comfortable with talking to me in person, which means 2) That makes me question our friendship and how close we really are, and 3) You're being immature and rude.

Don't get me wrong. I like arguing with people through technology. Usually over stupid things that really don't matter. But confronting someone? No. There's never an acceptable reason to confront someone through a text.

I went to the house where this person lives, the same house my boyfriend lives in. They're roommates. And if you're thinking that has to do with the whole reason he confronted me, then you're right. I wanted to talk to him in person but he wasn't there. And with fume begin to pour out of my ears, I decided to call.

That's where I went wrong. I should've cooled off and waited until he got home to talk in person. But I couldn't resist. I was too angry to stop myself from calling. I called and got his voicemail. I left a message.

I don't remember what I exactly said in that message. I tried to keep my words as polite as possible. But I could not help my tone. So when he called back about twenty minutes later, there was no surprise we ended up yelling at each other.

The conversation lasted for ten minutes. He vented about all the things I had done wrong and how there is no good way to confront me because I always get upset. Excuse me, when have you ever confronted me before? Apparently he has dropped "hints". Sigh...We're both 21 years old, haven't we learned by now that if you try to be subtle it usually doesn't work? And he thought I was smart enough to pick up on those hints. I told him I wasn't going to blame myself for not getting his subtle hidden messages. That it's not my fault he waited til the end of the semester to confront me and had to do so through a text because he was too immature to talk to me in person. There were a few other things, but you get the gist of it. Needless to say we ended the conversation with "I can't talk to you about this anymore!"

I haven't been this angry or upset with anyone in a long time. And it saddens me that this is with someone who I used to get along with so well! I don't even know how this happened. But I sense it's something greater than what we talked about last night. What that is? I don't really know. I don't even think I could guess. But it has something to do with my boyfriend and I because our friend has been passive to us both for more than 2 months now.

So what now? My friend is angry at me, I sense there's something else bothering him, but I'm still too pissed off to even try to talk it out. That'd be the solution right? Sit down, apologize for getting upset, talk about the issue, figure out what's going on, end knowing we've made our peace and hug to seal the deal.

But when? And how? He's studying abroad next semester. I'm done with classes after next semester. He'll be back in Muncie next fall, I'll be who knows where. There's a very good chance these last few weeks of this semester may be the last we'll see of each other. Are we going to continue on in awkward silence or go back to the way things were before? I don't know. All I know is I'm still upset. And until this anger can subside, our friendship will probably remain on the rocks.

Enough for Now

Nostalgia is a weird thing.

The past, when you think about it, is a weird thing. Recalling events that took place in your life, but happened so long ago, is weird. It's weird thinking of something that actually happened but now feels more like a dream. Especially memories that you've forgotten about, or have pushed away. Bringing them back up, reminiscing on them, is weird.

Especially when they're memories you'd prefer not to remember.

The memories I'm pulling back up to write about aren't actually all that horrible. I didn't witness a murder. I wasn't abused. I didn't survive some horrific event. I didn't experience something that you'd hear about on 20/20 or that would have Harpo Productions calling you up for an interview. No, actually most of the memories I'm reliving are happy ones. Good ones. And that's what makes them so damn difficult.

These memories are happy memories gone bad. Like food gone stale. At one point you loved them. They were delicious and you enjoyed them. They made you happy. But now they've lost their flavor. They're no longer good. They're moldy and gross. They disgust you and you want nothing to do with them. So you do what you normally do with something that goes bad; you throw it away. Except when it comes to memories, it's very difficult, almost impossible, to empty the trash. They sit there and they rot. You don't bother with them anymore. You forget about them. But they're always there. And you can pull them back up at anytime.

Wow. Ignore that horrible analogy. What I'm trying to get at is that it's strange thinking about these memories and writing about them because I am reliving them. I'm having to go back in time and let specific scenes play over in my head. I kept a journal on my computer in high school and I pulled that journal up today and started reading it. That was even creepier. Because suddenly memories I had forgotten about were right there for me to remember. Very specific details. And more importantly, very specific feelings.

I think that's what makes it tougher, and stranger. Here are these memories that I'm replaying in my head and at the time I was happy. And I can still recall those feelings of happiness, even though today I don't associate happiness with these memories. Does that makes sense?

I'll be a little more blunt. I'm writing about my coach. And in high school I liked my coach. A LOT. I can remember moments and feelings and that rush of liking this man I was not allowed to have. But my coach is not who I thought he was. My coach turned out to be a liar. A selfish manipulator. And it's the creepiest thing to be able to go back and read my thoughts when I was head over heels for him, knowing what I know today.

Although my story is slightly more dramatic, I think everyone experiences these feelings. Isn't that what happens when you break up someone? You start remembering all the memories where you were happy, and you feel torn because you know there's not a happy ending?

So why am I doing this? Why am I in this limbo of the past and the present? Why I am pulling up feelings of happiness towards my coach when in today's reality I hate him? Why put myself back in the moment of all these memories that took me so long to repress?

I don't know. But I have a guess.

I think I owe to myself. I think I owe it to high school Laura. High school Laura spent two years liking this man only to realize he's a douchebag. High school Laura looked up to him and admired him. High school Laura cared about him and wanted the best for him. High school Laura may have been stupid and naive, but she was genuine and had good intentions.

High school Laura also loved running. High school Laura poured her heart and soul into this beloved sport. High school Laura had so many great times as a runner, and most of those times her coach was present. And once she found out the one person she felt understood her passion the most was not on her side, many of those memories were tainted. And her love of running slowly began to die.

Running has been a part of who I am for as long as I can remember. And high school was the time I was most passionate for it. My coach helped me learn that passion, and my coach was there for most of my best races, practices, times, etc. My coach fueled my love for running. Once my view of my coach changed, my view of running unfortunately changed as well.

But I still love running. I may not love it as much as I once used to, but it's still a major part of my life. And I want to feel as passionate about it as I once did. I want to get excited for races. I want to train hard and see improvements. I'm not ready to slide into recreational running. I still have a spark in me that wants to compete.

I need to tap into the emotions I felt in high school. I need to tap back into that passion. That means tapping back into memories dealing with my coach. So while I'm rediscovering my true love for running, I'm going to let my other passion take care of the rest.

Again, that's just a guess. I don't completely understand why I have this desire to write about it. But I guess I can't worry about that. For some reason I want to write. And unlike the times I've tried writing about it in the past, this time the words are actually coming. This time I don't feel like stopping. And when it does get too creepy, when it feels too weird, that's when I'll stop and say "that's enough for now."

Failure is not an option

I didn't know what to tell him, standing there in the kitchen as he explained to me his doom. For the record, he's not doomed. He is my boyfriend and he is one of the smartest people I know. He's incredibly bright and a hard worker. He spends his days and nights working on math problems, talking to math professors, doing whatever he can to ace his classes and understand these difficult concepts I can't even begin to wrap my head around. I know I'm biased, but if you ask me he's one of the best math students in Ball State's program.

If you ask him, he's doomed.

I did what I've done in the past. Coach Laura suddenly appeared to give him a pep talk. To convince him that he is not doomed, but if he doesn't find some confidence then his attitude is going to affect his GRE performance. He has what it takes, he just has to believe it. If he walks in there with the same hopeless expression that I saw standing there in the kitchen, he's never going to succeed the way I know he can.

It reminded me of a saying my coach used to tell me when he knew I was having issues with my confidence with running in high school: "The body is willing but the mind is weak." I hated it at the time, but since high school has passed I've seen the truth in that statement. How we let pressure and our lack of confidence get in the way of our performance. How we have the ability to do well, but our inability to believe in ourselves is often times our great downfall. It doesn't matter if we can or can not, if we don't believe we can do it, then we probably won't.

I looked him dead in the eyes and tried to transfer my belief in him to his belief in himself. Looking exasperated he said to me, "It's not going to be good."

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Volleyball practice was the last thing I needed. Another sport that I ultimately suck at. I love volleyball, I always have. But I love volleyball in the way where you just grab some friends and head to a sand court and just start playing for the heck of it. You might keep score, you might not. But you play for the fun of it and that's all.

The volleyball team I signed up for is not in it for the fun. Well, I'm sure they're having fun, but they'd have even more fun if they won. They wear spandex shorts and knee pads, two things I certainly don't own. Short little running shorts? Absolutely. But tiny little spandex shorts? I don't think so. They practice spikes and servings. They have a game plan on the court. They know where the setter needs to be. They play with a smile on their faces while I try to hide on the corner of the court, hoping the ball doesn't come towards me. This fun little game I used to love so much has suddenly turned into a personal nightmare. It's the same with ultimate frisbee. I'd probably love it if the guys I play with weren't all about winning. But they're men. And as a friend used to say, "I don't play for fun. I play to win and winning is fun."

But I play for fun. I can be a very competitive person but I've learned that usually just provides unnecessary stress and pressure and if I don't win I usually get pretty upset. I don't like that. So I try to play for fun. But when everyone is playing to win, it's hard to keep the "just have fun" concept in the front of your mind. Sure enough that slowly drifted away and all I could think about was how I suck at serving, blocking, spiking...basically anything that has to do with playing volleyball.

I left volleyball practice before it was actually over, plopped myself in my car, turned on the radio and started crying. Seriously? Over volleyball?

Yes. And not just for volleyball. I started crying for all of my other failures as well. My failure to find a job and support myself on my own. I had to call my dad that same day and tell him I needed more money. Crying because I bought chicken thighs instead of chicken breasts and my chicken parmesan was not up to par; my failure at cooking. My room's a mess. I don't think my roomies like me much because I'm never here and therefore I barely clean the house. Crying because I don't know if I'll find a job after college. Crying because my abs aren't flat and I ate a huge gob of cookie dough. Crying because I'm scared. Crying for a thousand reasons that I think I just needed to cry about. I'm a girl. Sometimes we just need to cry.

The voice of reason started getting to me and telling me to stop feeling sorry for myself. But I chose to ignore it. I couldn't shake the feeling that I was failing and that I'll continue to fail. The pep talk I gave my boyfriend I needed to give to myself.

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Tomorrow is a big day. My boyfriend will be taking the GRE in hopes of getting into grad school and continue moving forward with his plan of becoming a math professor. I will be in Bloomington with the blessed opportunity of interviewing people in person. It's my chance to try to get the best stories possible for the article I'm working on for Running Times, the one thing I feel like I'm not failing at (well, not yet). While he works out some differential geometry problem I'll be pushing the record button and asking these older runners to describe to me their story with club running and why this all came to be.

I have this gut feeling tomorrow will be great. I have this feeling my boyfriend will do much better than he anticipates. I have a feeling I'll be on some journalism high all eager to start transcribing interviews and figuring out what to do next. I have a feeling that we both have the ability to succeed.

But if we don't? What if we let our lack of confidence get in the way of what we're capable of doing? What if my boyfriend sees a problem he can normally solve and draws a blank? What if I ask the wrong questions or talk to the wrong people and royally screw up my big chance at getting published? What if our biggest fear becomes our reality: what if we fail?

If we fail then we fail. We'll know what we did wrong and we'll learn from it. He'll retake the GRE and maybe grad school will have to be put on hold for a bit. I'll eventually stop crying about not being published and find a new story to start working on. It'll suck. We're so eager to move on with our lives, to continue moving forward with our goals. But we both know it won't be smooth-sailing. We both know we might have to face some setbacks. There's not much we can do about it. Failure is just a part of life.

Failure is not an option. But if it happens, it happens. It won't be the end of the world. We'll pick ourselves up and move on. And fortunately the one thing that I am most confident about, the one thing I'm not afraid will fail, is our relationship and support for each other. If we fail, then at least we're going down together.

It's a Love Story

2005: Sophomore year - Homecoming Dance

I don't know why but I let it slip to my friend that I want to go to homecoming with this guy I sort of know. And being miss independent, my friend encourages me to ask him myself. I don't mind the idea actually; it wouldn't be the first time I would put myself out there for a guy. How hard could it be to ask a guy to the dance? It's not like guys have any guts to do that sort of thing anymore (since most guys I know who are girlfriend-less aren't really trying to find a date to the dance). So okay. Yeah. I'll ask him to homecoming.

End of the school day and I see him by his locker. My friend is with me. "Go!" she whispers to me. I freeze. "You know what, I don't know if I really want to..." she doesn't let me get away with it. She promptly pushes me in the direction of the boy and I realize I have no choice but to explain why I am suddenly in his personal bubble. I somehow spew out the words, "was wondering if you wanted to go to homecoming with me?" and he blushes a deep red. He says he's not sure (code for no) but will get back to me later. I remain hopeful.

The next week I find out I was not the only girl to ask him to homecoming (apparently a lot of girls have the confidence to ask guys out) but it doesn't matter. He likes another girl. And after telling the rest of us no, he will not even be going to homecoming, I find out he asks her to the dance shortly after.

I'm offended and pissed. I act angry. But really, I'm not that upset that he said no to me and asked another girl instead. I am upset because I don't understand what's wrong with me. I don't understand why he didn't want to go with me to homecoming. I don't understand why no guy has asked me to homecoming. Even when I try to give myself the change, no one is willing to give me one. I go home, lock myself in the bathroom, and cry.

2008: Spring/Summer - Evil Coach

I'm exhausted and confused. I have just talked to my high school about my coach hitting on me and I don't know what to feel. It needed to be done, but he's still my coach. I still have this mad crush on him. I am still somewhat hopeful that if he wanted to hook up with me, he must like me. Maybe this was his attempt at making things work.

It takes me awhile but as time goes on I realize my coach had no intentions of being with me the way I had hoped: a relationship. He wanted me like a booty call. It really sinks in when his fiancee calls me wondering what had happened. He had told me he had told her and she was infuriated. Instead he tried to continue the relationship with her and every time she questioned him about me, he said that she was crazy and nothing happened. The latter is true. Nothing happened. Yet all summer I wondered if I had let something happen if maybe my dreams would've worked out.

I'm happy nothing worked out with us. I'm happy I didn't go over. But I feel miserable. The one guy I trusted, the one guy I admired and respected, saw me as nothing more than a booty call. He only wanted to use me. Not even the guy I think is the best wants to be with me. I feel hopeless.

2008: First year at Ball State

He would be transferring. Right as I'm getting to know him, it would be the last time I'd probably see him. At least for a long while.

His name is Collin and he's a Christian, a musician, and one of the sweetest guys I know. I met him on a Cru retreat earlier this semester but didn't get to know him until December. Right when I learned that he was transferring to IU.

We meet for breakfast on the last day of finals and our conversation lasts for a few hours. We talk about everything. I tell him my dream to write for the Rolling Stone; he tells me his passion for music. We talk about Eric Clapton and God. But our conversation comes to an end because he has one more final to take. Unwillingly I leave.

My friend Joe texts me and begs me to have lunch with him. My mom will be here at one to pick me up for winter break; I won't see him for three weeks. I agree, even though I really just want to go home and feel sorry for myself.

We sit at lunch and I let it all out. I gush to him about how great Collin is, how unhappy I am that he's leaving, how much I wish it could in some miracle turn into a relationship, even though we still don't know one another that well. Joe sits and listens. He doesn't say much.

So I turn the topic to him. "Who do you like, Joe?" "A few people," he says. I'm nosy; I want specific names. We're both on run club so I figure it has to be some girls from there. I take a guess at our friend Liz; I knew he liked her before. He says he still does like her, but there's someone else. I start naming every girl I can think of. Erica? Chelsea? Rachel? Bobbi? The list goes on. He responds with "she's pretty" and "she's really nice" but they're all inevitably no. I dwindle the list down to everyone but one: me.

It suddenly dawns on me that the other girl must be me but I'm too afraid to ask. I keep pushing him, hoping he'll spill the name and especially hoping that it won't be mine. Eventually time runs out and I need to return to my dorm before my mom arrives. We say our goodbyes and I walk back.

On my way back I get a text: Hint #1: She has blonde hair and beautiful blue eyes. Hmm. I am blonde. I have blue eyes. Oh boy.

Another text: Hint #2: It's you!

It's cute. But it's Joe. He's nice and we get along and all, but he's just a friend. He's not a musician; he's a math major. I just don't feel that way. A phone call a week later and I explain: we're just friends.

2009: May - Last day of school

I'm sitting in my J102 class listening to the final presentations being given and I swear it can not go any slower. I have a limited time table and I'm in a panic. This needs to end because I'm on a mission. And I must succeed.

This semester has been one hell of a roller coaster. Joe and I have become best friends; and while he remained crazy about me (his own words) I could not make up my mind about him. I wanted to kiss him on his birthday. But I didn't like him sitting next to me on a car trip cause I didn't feel comfortable around him. All semester I couldn't make up my mind. 2am texts were sent to his phone telling him "I think I like you", while the next week he'd get a 2am text saying "We can only be friends." I've put the boy through emotional hell and I hate myself. Especially now.

Six weeks before school ended I decided I would put an end to the misery. I told him I wanted to be single during the summer. I told him to move on. And after changing my mind a thousand times, he listened. He's pursuing another girl. And up until now I have been fully supportive. Until 3am last night when I realized: I want him to be with me.

Class finally ends and I walk as fast as I can without running to his dorm. This time I'm the one begging him to have lunch with me. We go to one of the campus dining rooms and buy food, but I can barely eat. I start rapidly talking. Talking so fast that I can't keep up with myself. Joe laughs at how fast I'm talking. I'm failing. I'm trying to explain that I change my mind, and it won't be changed again but why should he believe me? I'm begging, literally begging, for a second (or more like 15th) chance.

He can't give it to me. We made a deal we would not date each other. We made a deal we'd wait until fall. He can't trust my feelings. If we feel the same way in the fall, well, we'll take it from there.

He walks with me back to my room and as a pathetic attempt to get him to change his mind, I try to kiss him. He pulls away (how embarrassing). And I panic. Because I realize I really have fucked things up this time. There is no remedying the situation. I pushed him away and he's over me.

Until he changes his mind, and kisses me. And while we stand there in a hug, I can hear his heart pounding through his chest. And I think to myself: "I still have a chance."

Today

Summer of 2009 was by far the worst summer of my life. I lost 10 pounds, not because I'm a runner (I barely ran at all) but because I slept all day and ate nothing. I would stay up til 3am and cried almost every night. I felt sick to my stomach all the time. I literally hated myself. I realized I lost the one person I actually thought I should be with and it was my own fault. Not to mention, I was losing my best friend.

I don't regret that summer though because I learned what my true feelings were. No more changing my mind. No more chasing other guys. I tried dating over the summer, only to end every night on the phone with Joe.

By some miracle things worked out in the fall. There was one odd night where all but two of our friends were gone. And when those two friends left to go to parties it was just us. With nothing to do but to have the same conversation we'd had a thousand times before. This time around though, we would both be on the same page.

One year since then and I swear I'm the happiest girlfriend alive. He doesn't play the guitar. He's not a writer (in fact, he hates it). He has no desire to live in NYC. But he treats me like gold. He makes me laugh. He doesn't freak out when I cry (which happens more than I'd like). He's nothing like the man I once dreamed of dating; but he is more than I could've ever imagined.

I owe God a big fat THANK YOU because I'm finally living what I was once afraid I would never experience. It took some time, tested my patience and drained me of many tears, but here I am. Maybe I'm ridiculous. I am only 21. What do I know about love? Only what I've experienced. And I hope what I'm living only continues. And I hope others can have the same experience.

So there you have it. After a blog full of hatred, here is my blog about love. My little love story. Hopefully this is only the beginning of it.

Only Love Can Conquer Hate

I hate someone. I know, what a cheery way to start off a new post. But it's true. I know you're not suppose to hate. I know most people like to sugar-coat it by saying, "I don't hate anyone, but I strongly dislike (so and so)." And I used to say that because I know it's a terrible thing to hate someone.

But I'm not going to lie: I hate him.

If my close friends were to take a guess at the person they think I hate, they'd be surprised to learn that it's not who they're thinking of. Yes, the person they're thinking of is not one of my favorite people. He falls on the "strongly dislike" list. But I do not hate him. And it's interesting because these two people are similar in a lot of aspects. But there is one very specific reason why one falls under hate while the other does not.

I guess I should begin as to why this even comes up. Pretty simple actually; I came across his facebook. And I looked at it. Reread his bio, thought about how there was truth to it while the rest was complete bullshit, and remembered why I am no longer friends with this person. Which inspired me to vent about it.

I could give you details as to why I hate this person, and maybe I should because there does need to be some proof, some reason, some truth as to why I have come to hate this person. But honestly, what good will it do? You're not me, you haven't had the interactions with this person the way I have. And I have no idea how anyone aside from myself defines hate. I could tell you the whole story in great detail but it doesn't mean you'll agree with me. So I'll skip all that. Just trust that I have my reasons and hate is what has resulted.

But why him?

Truth is, the other person caused a lot more personal harm than the person I actually hate. The other person stressed me out, angered me, brought tears to my eyes, left me vulnerable and inspired revenge. For a long time, I did in fact hate person B.

Until earlier this year. Person B subtly popped up on my facebook (I hate technology) and although it wasn't enough to call for communication, I jumped on it anyway since I was dying with curiosity to understand why he was even looking at my facebook (because I'm a girl and we overanalyze EVERYTHING. If someone merely "pokes" you on facebook it's enough to get your mind going with all sorts of theories and thoughts that this person is trying to catch your attention). So I messaged him. He responded. He, for the first time ever, apologized. Cool. But when he tried to keep the communication going, I stopped him. This is weird, I remember thinking. It's like we're trying to get back to being friends again. And I don't want to be friends. I don't even want him in my life.

So to avoid the "I never want to speak to you again" message, I blocked him. That should send the message loud and clear, right? Of course, little did I know that I would later receive a nasty e-mail from him saying that if I didn't want to talk to him all I had to do was say so. I didn't have to block him.

And there, right there, is actually what draws the line between dislike and hate.

Person B is a straight-up douchebag. No doubt about it. And I have even more proof to back that up and I doubt anyone would disagree with me if they heard my story. But the difference between Person B and Person A, is that Person B doesn't understand that he's a douche bag. He doesn't understand that he hasn't changed at all. That one simple message he last sent said it all: He's the same guy from two years ago and I doubt he understands what could've been the consequences of his actions. All I'm saying is, if someone blocked me I would get the hint that they didn't want to talk to me. And if I was mature enough, I would respect their wishes. I would not go out of my way to bitch at them for doing such a thing. I'd let it go.

Maybe it was immature of me to block him. But then again, if you heard my story I think you'd understand. Plus, in my defense, I was 20 when I blocked him. He was 30. Don't you think someone ten years older would have a little more maturity?

Maybe once again I overanalyzed. But when I think of Person B, I no longer feel anger. I just feel sympathy. Sympathy because he hasn't changed. Sympathy because he doesn't understand just what's he done, mostly to himself. Sympathy because I don't think he grasps what he did wrong.

Person A on the other hand? He knows. I don't know how to explain that he knows, but he does. I just know it. He knows his actions, he knows how his actions are going to affect other people, and he goes ahead and does it anyway.

And that's why I hate him. I hate him because he intentionally hurts people for his greater good. Person B hurt people, and I'm probably the person who felt the least of it. And yes, he hurts people for his greater good as well. But Person B doesn't seem to grasp how he hurts other people. He doesn't seem to be able to wrap his mind around how his actions really affect others. In his mind, he is the victim.

Of course, I don't like either of them. I really don't like Person B any more than Person A. But I can forgive Person B because I understand his ignorance. I don't want to forgive Person A because he had it coming.

This was all just a rant. In fact, I don't even know why I had the desire to write about this. Maybe it's one more piece of guilt that I needed to flush out my system; the guilt of knowing I hate.

Marvin Gaye said, "Only love can conquer hate." And I agree with him. But how do you love someone who has hurt you? How can you possibly love someone you know you hate?

I know the answer to this. I don't like it, but I know it. It's called forgiveness. I've forgiven Person B, because I understand that he doesn't understand. I haven't forgiven Person A though. And trying to forgive him will be difficult.

And that's my prayer for tonight: That God can show me how to love, so I may conquer my hate.

Baby Steps

Let's start small.

That's the best I can do right now and I think it's the most I can handle. After feeling insanely guilty for my lack of obedience to God, going to church yesterday, and then reading my friends' e-mails today, I realize I've somehow jumped the tracks when it comes to being a Christian and having this relationship with the Lord. I'd ignore it but that's just an easy cop-out. Not to mention, it's also because I've been ignoring it for so long. I can't ignore it anymore.

The truth is, I miss it. I miss turning to God for help. I miss how calm I feel when I do go to church, and pray, and read the bible, and talk to others about God. I miss that feeling of "everything's going to be okay." I miss having God a part of my life.

I know how this happened and as much as I hate to say it, I could've seen it coming. Instead of putting my faith and love and trust into God, I put it in other people. I specifically put it into my boyfriend. Now, I am by no means blaming him. It's just that I found comfort in his physical presence that I've lost the comfort of being in God's spiritual presence. And let's face it. It's obviously a lot easier to run to my boyfriend crying and have him wrap his arms around me than it is to run to God. I think that's the point though. You're suppose to turn to God even though you can't see Him, or hear Him, or feel Him, in the physical sense. That's the whole point of faith. To trust in what is unseen.

And I still do trust in what is unseen. I still believe in God, I still believe He can help me. But I've been carrying around this guilt of sin. This sin that I don't know what to do about. Because I still live in it and I don't think it will stop. Sin that has me torn up because I don't even feel guilty except when I think about the fact that it is all sin. I'm not sure what to make of it.

And that's what's been separating me from God. Sin. This guilt, this shame, this knowing that I have failed because I did not obey. Why should God listen to me when I don't listen to Him? It makes sense, does it not?

But I also have to remember that God was well aware of this and fixed it. You know, Jesus dying on the cross. So that our sins would not separate us from God. I know that Jesus' death was more so that we would go to heaven instead of hell even though we are sinners. But I think it applies to our lives here on earth. I think, and I am by no means any expert on God or Christianity or anything for that matter, but I think part of being a Christian is that you know God loves you in spite of your sin and you don't allow your sin to come between you and God.

If you can't tell by now, I am trying to work out this puzzle of religion and faith in my head. Bear with me.

To let my sin separate me from God is only what is making this worse. To allow guilt to keep me from going to Church, from praying, from doing the things that will bring me closer to God is going against what Jesus did for me in the first place. God knows I've f'ed up. God knows I will f up again. But I don't think God would want me to stop talking to Him because I keep f'ing up. At least I hope not.

So where do I start?

And that's what brings me to the whole point of this blog: to start small. I can't expect myself to dive right back into Christianity like it's my job because as history has taught me I'll only feel overwhelmed and confused, and when I fail I'll go back into my same cycle of ignoring God and letting time pass until I'm right back to where I am right now. No, I can't put pressure on myself to be the perfect Christian. It'll never work.

So I've decided I will start with a small goal. This week: pray every day. Whether that's for just a minute or for an hour, I need to get into the habit of talking to God. That's the first step in remedying a relationship, right? To start talking. Letting it all out. And more importantly, to be completely and utterly honest. Even about the things that I know God won't be happy about.

My first prayer is that God will listen.