The day-count doesn't matter.

Because maybe it’s not your heart screaming.
It’s just one small, shocked whimper echoing in the emptiness.

Maybe it’s not the lack of love.
It’s that love can be so quickly redirected.

Maybe it’s not the nightmares of being held by him.
It’s that someone else lives in those arms.

Maybe it’s not the things left unsaid.
It’s that the things said are whispered to someone else.

Maybe it’s not that he doesn’t love.
It’s that if such deep love can change its mind then any love can. And every love will.

Maybe it’s better to just be alone.

Day 44

It comes with the feeling of suddenly being alone.

You look around, thrilled to find yourself with newfound freedom, and your spirit bursts forth in a fury of wild dancing and singing at the top of your lungs.

With one fell swoop you bound across and over the couch, gliding through intricate maneuvers you would never have the confidence to accomplish were someone looking.

Your heart is becoming what it is when no one is looking, and when pain is absent. The contrast startles you into being okay.

Until you have been alone too long. Quiet moments come, and you realize the emptiness. There's no dancing away from it. You realize it's not freedom, it's your soul reaching out to the heavens, trying to find just one bright spot in the darkness.

He's not there anymore. And it's not freedom, it's your soul trying to fill the void.

Day One

A bird outside my window woke me up.

Though it was before 4am its alertness roused me in an annoyingly perfect manner. Suddenly stricken with consciousness, I had a resounding feeling of sadness that I couldn’t understand, until, as if I were watching the dots physically connect before me, I realized. And all at once I remembered how heartbreak is notorious for keeping me awake at obscene hours, determined to pair my already puffy eyelids with a real reason to be exhausted. Laying on my back I attempted to fall back asleep, yet as 4am came, then 5am, then 6am, the only thing that came was the resounding feeling that there was a searing pain in my eyes that was determined to wash over my face in waves, as if each feature thereon were a rock with pained ripples connecting in geometric lines to one another until they ran out only to be started anew. All the while my mind tried to grasp my situation, though it was too confused and tired to do much more than echo thoughts through an empty chasm that just wanted to sleep and forget.

Awake, tired, heartbroken, and sorting through the night terrors that were about three dream levels deep, I decided life was absurd.

The Retroactive Resonance of Feeling

Listening to the new Switchfoot album. I'm having strange flashbacks to the last time I did this.

Senior year of high school I found myself up far too late because just as I wearily let my head rest, a sudden thought found me blindly scrambling for my glasses: Jazz band theory homework.

Life wasn't good. I was in the musical. I was in cross country. I was in a night class for college. I was taking physics. I had a full 12 hours of college classes with my high school classes. My mom was flipping out over college and my 'stupid' yet 'brilliant' mind's inability to get enough scholarships, and took it out on me. I was an introvert for pure necessity. Because I had weeks on end in which I felt the way I do now- yet I would escape to my room and finally become myself. I could let it all out, whether that was pain or exhilaration at having shaken the pain off.

And it just so happened that I noticed Hello Hurricane was streaming on last.fm or some other such site before its release date.

My solution?

I listened to the entire album repeatedly, desperately trying to comprehend the music theory homework, constantly getting lost in drawing elaborate sketches in a not too bad style of a heart mended with boards and a faceless person declaring Hello Hurricane, You Can't Silence My Love. The sketch was on the back of my homework and I even dared write "How can I possibly concentrate on homework on music when there is new music to listen to?!" Which for me was brash.

As I recall, I, nor anyone else, got a good grade on that assignment. But I still have that picture. And I still remember the lighting in my shabby room as I sat on my horse comforter and danced while sketching on my homework.

Being yelled at, being under pressure, being nearly friendless, being imperfect perfection was my life. My life was pressure, and I let out the steam in absurdly whimsical fashion. I still do. Yet when it's not a constant the presence of it prolonged just... makes me remember how dark things were. Makes me wonder where the strength went.

Yet I suppose that elasticity is a strength. I recover from my lapses. Working constantly throughout the day does not help, yet I do recover. Though is it a cover up for the stress, or is it my soul winning? That I do not know.

I'm a peculiarly joyful, whimsical person. I strive to make others smile. My eyes are always on the starlight and breeze that caresses me. Yet I'm only that way because when one is as far down as they can manage, when you look away from yourself the only place to look is up. It's impossible to see how bright life is if you're not seeing it from a dark angle...

Today as my weight fell in the theater, as I rolled my windows down and loudly sang along to music, opted to take the long way home, and smelled the gorgeous nature around me... I rather realized that the strange oscillation of dark and light, the self medication of music and nature and God, the lack of people... it made me who I am.

Certainly I knew this. I know this. Yet I didn't quite realize what a cycle it was. Nor quite the strength it takes. and the weakness. I do care too much, but I care too much because the whimsy explores and carries the hurt with it.

Regardless, as I sit here, at the end of a long day, typing instead of sleeping just as I used to, listening to a new Switchfoot album much in the same style as I did that night 7.5 years ago... I find it astounding that one does not get any better at getting hurt.

Though I suppose I spent too long being an unfeeling rock now didn't I?

Perhaps I shouldn't be surprised when the cracks reveal a geode.

Why?

All my life I have felt you.
In the breeze, in the trees,
In my beloved seasons you are there,
You draw me near and touch my face,
And through you I'm never afraid.

For years I hoped for him.
You held my dreams as I fell asleep,
I felt my heart made prepared.
Now he is here.
We laugh, we cry, we live, we love.
And yet he says you are not there.
The wind, the trees, he does not hear, he does not see.

Love will grow
Strength will fade
He will go
And I will stay.

And now, my God, I am afraid.

Holding on

A few memories:

• "Hey Linni-lou!"
• how many times he called be his pretty girl
• him making me a martial arts belt holder
• "Well hi there!"
• the doll cradle he made me with my name on it
• the large cradle he made for me to use as a baby
• the table and chairs he made for me when I was little
• Maddie and I making a crazy 'soup' concoction outdoors one day, sand and grass in a pink bucket. Grandpa put some of it in his mouth.
• Grandpa asking me at age 8/12 to go into the gas station and buy chew for him. Dad didn't let me.
• I forgot to give him that 'x University grandpa' keychain. For two years. 
• I hope they got my thank you note from graduation.
• I never got to go fishing with him.
• we were going to go fishing yet then I got those nine stitches.
• never got to talk guns with him.
• he gave me his uncle's marbles
• Going to hardware stores and lumber yards with him
• When he would sit me up on the counter of the hardware store and everyone would come over and look at my pretty blue eyes.
• I hate that I can't think of more. I'll keep adding things. Granted, I haven't seen these grandparents as much... Because of mom and other things... but there's no need to lay blame.

I think my brain, in relation to myself, intrinsically links crying or the showing of any emotion as weakness.
This shouldn't be a new revelation, however as I'm thinking of how I've never, ever been able to receive comforting or even comprehend comfort from any living being... It just makes sense. I'm okay with it from others. Yet from me? Years of being yelled at by mom rather got rid of emotions in front of people. Now I've gotten to the point where I just can't handle them. Or perhaps I'm just normal.

Texted my dad that I love him, these are things my family never ever says, yet recently dad and I have been able to say it every once in a while.  Said it to him yesterday when he called, just as he was saying bye he said it and I hesitated and said it too. First time I'd said that to either one of my parents. First time. Ever. Really, first time I'd said it to anyone buy my grandparents or campers. Or minions.
Even when I'm upset myself I enjoy making others smile. I hope it worked. And I dearly hope mom isn't going to yell at him anytime soon.

I was always worried that when any member of my family died I'd be guilt ridden under the weight of what I should have said, what I hadn't done, how much I hadn't seen them as much as I'd wished... but really, I'm going to see him again. And he had gotten so bad, it just... yeah.
If I feel as if there should have been more I love yous and hugs, there's an eternity for that later. And he knows. So there's that.

Not long after I heard, I had this intense moment of clarity, softness, and comfort because I knew that it wasn't over. That's not just it. There's more. While it isn't time for goodbye, it is rather "I wish I had" time. Time to appreciate. Be sad. But not quite goodbye.
So, I suppose while I cannot for the life of my comprehend being comforted by anyone here on earth, I have always been able to count on those small moments of clarity and trust. No matter the situation.

It's odd and ridiculously comforting, especially with me and my constant fight with the passage of time.
Mom also had enough sense to just let me know and then let me get off the phone. She texted to make sure I was at home first, so I knew something was up... And with him being as he was... I just didn't realize how bad. However he's going to be cremated, so no funeral, somehow the thought of not /seeing/ him again makes it worse. You would think it would be better, I mean not seeing them dead, yet they're not really there anyway.

While I'm unsettled and feeling genuine grief, something new in my repertoire of emotions, I'm marveling at how I am not cursing the passage of time as I so often do.
Why am I at peace with this?
Let's pray that I remain so...
No matter what comes next.

Lord, I know that I've been too busy and burned out to really speak to You as I used to...
yet it's kind of frightening and painful to think you may love someone that doesn't have a relationship with You... or at least that you haven't pressed to ask point blank... yet can deduce as much.
Not because of their point of view or anything, but... You're You.
I'm always independent and on my own, yet I can't imagine being alone and You not being there.
And when you care about someone... and when you hold on like I do...
I like forever, and...
*sigh*
Well, You know.
and You're the only one that does.
You understand me... and I do miss You. I miss me with You. Then again, I still have who you've created me as and the wonder you planted so deep...
and speaking of love, what the hell is that anyway? *confused*

#thestruggleisreal

Time is a heartless bastard.

There you go.
This will be the subject of our discussion today.

Time dances about us, embraces us, whisps a curl to our face where it lingers and disappears just as we lean in to its touch. And it feels nothing, only continues in it's long slow dance that passes us by in a blink of its eye.

Okay, perhaps some backstory...
When I was a small child I didn't go to anyone for emotional troubles, if I was sad I dealt with it unless it was asked of me. As I got older I didn't (and scarcely ever, even now) even mention them then, if I even realize I have any. Yet there was one concern that would occasionally, namely on my birthdays, send me on a slow walk from my bed down the stairs to where my mother was sitting while gaming, typing, socializing, or whatever on the computer. I would sit with my head on the arm of the old brown sofa next to the desk and explain that I didn't want to grow up. Not so much that I didn't want to grow older, I just didn't want time to pass- I didn't want the moments I lived in to pass by without being able to revisit them or hold on to them. This basically troubled me from the day I was three and my mom told me I could only have a dalmatian puppy when I moved out on my own. The idea that the moment and life I had right then would be snapped up and away without my consent was quite too much for me to bear- and to compensate I would keep most everything I owned. While nowadays I'm more of a minimalist, back then I quite literally never got rid of anything unless I gave it to a friend that needed it. Holding on to things and the memories tied to them was my way of keeping those moments.
I don't remember what my mom said, she laughed mostly and still mentions it with laughter to this very day, yet just telling her helped me to go back to bed with a calmer feeling. (...I would then proceed to cry myself to sleep, but whatever, ha!)
and for the most part I was reconciled to the passing of time. To things growing older. I even came to be enamored of it. In fourth grade I sat in a swingset at the country home of my babysitter- beautiful evening, grass was green, sun was at the stage of setting in which the shadows are long and cool yet the sun is still warm on your face, sky not yet given to any color but blue yet it's washed over in a warm tone that blends perfectly with the rays of light. Was the sort of evening you breathe in deep and hold onto the air for as long as you may. Being the odd sort of solemn kid, you know, the sort that says things as if they mean something instead of spitting out sayings as if I'm apologizing in case they seem pretentious as I do now, I said something to the tune of"You know, there will never be a moment like this again. This day, this hour, this minute! Even as I speak it is changing, it will never come again, there will never be another like it. And the more you try to hold on... the quicker it leaves." My babysitter's son, a five years younger than me, sat opposite me in the swing, and didn't understand a word of what I said. As such I had to explain the phrase multiple times thus ruining the moment. I wonder if things only seem deep the first time they are realized... I haven't found anything 'deep' in this world for years, it's all been realized before. I have given way to a new sort of wonder, yet still... *wish* <--- that, believe it or not, was a typo, I meant to type "*sigh*" ...I chose to keep the typo. Freudian wish? moving on, some wonders can never be relived, ideas cannot be unlearned, and a well once dug cannot be filled.
Regardless, I went from frightened and despondent to enamored. Such an elusive thing as time possesses all the charms of any novel mistress and we're forever stuck with a one-night stand- yet instead of being hurt we chase after it even harder.

Years pass and my feeling side is locked away hardcore. Goes with the INTP personality, feeling so intense that it becomes buried and protected rather than dealing with it. Just as well, I needed the ability to move through the day with a cold logic and will to survive. And that I did, that I did. Or thought I did. But that's another story. Yet I forget the issue and think all is well.
Until college.
Last december (the last time I posted) I remember distinctly the realization that things grow older when you're not around being the instigator for homesickness in general. I never get homesick. I always wanted to leave home. Wanted to be there, yet wanted to leave as well. Yet my parents aged- more gray hair, more wrinkles. My beloved pets aged. And aging means that time is running out. My grandparents and entire family is aging without me there to hold on to every minute of their life and cherish it.

what brought on this onslaught this time around was snooping about in the blue bedroom of my grandparents' house this evening. I found a biography my cousin had written of my grandmother in 2005- I laughed at the stories, at the way my young at the time cousin wrote it, and regretted that I didn't know many of the stories that were mentioned in the biography. Even with my own grandmother I am shy about asking things such as "how did Papa propose?" or "how did you meet him?" and other such things. I just don't want to be a bother. And even though I'm here for the full week my to-do list from school is stacking sky-high and the weight of it is beginning to crush me- I feel as if I can't move and every moment spent breathing is one spent procrastinating. I want to say 'SCREW IT!' and toss my macbook out the window along with my italian-english dictionary (DAMN. That's the other thing I have to do this week...) my script for the play and any hope of becoming a graphic designer. Even then my mother is here and my mind still wouldn't be as exposed as to ask grandma such things in front of her.
...this really makes no sense.
...yet it's sadly true.
Moving on, I was already a bit on the "...well, here we go again with time passing and so on and so forth..."
...then I found a notebook with my cousin Katie's name in it. I opened it up and found memories of her grandma had- while the first date in it was marked 1999 the first page was all about Katie (who is now 25) when she was a baby. I looked down and saw another for Libby. I picked up Libby's and... there was mine. While it's only about 30 pages of the notebook, reading about moments I barely remembered and that grandma had referenced many times just... Well, I try to hold on. And here was a notebook filled with holding on. Grandma held on for me. As I read the pages I was filled with such love for her and the care she put to it, the stories, the memories...
And then, as close as I come to it nowadays, I just lost it.
Okay, exaggeration. Yet I cried. And in such instances hot tears just start to come, I look into the nearest mirror, and ah, begin talking to myself.
...because when it comes to it, I'm the only one I can be me too and not feel like I have to apologize.
My friend Rachel I can go to, yet sometimes feel as if I have to apologize to for my wordiness and thoughts. I have a boyfriend now, yet caring about what he thinks still leaves me waiting for him to text first or worrying that I'm being a bother. Ha, certainly do not need to worry him with this onslaught of feeling, relationship is only a month in, and I'm still at the stage of being nervous about if he likes me or not when he's not around. Yet when he is around I feel safe in that instance... I just can't quite perceive someone staying interested in me. I fought to gain my self worth and I have it, I love it! Yet I cannot perceive other valuing me... Anyhow, that's a learning process.

I am now too far from the initial reaction to give an adequate ramble...
so...


...perhaps the double post of bothers with time will help express what sort of worry this has been and undoubtedly will be on my life. Has been. Seems to have always plagued me. I wish I could be rid of it. While it does seem to be lifting I can't help but wonder if it will be replaced by and by- with new moments and new stages of life. At the moment I'm fully reconciled with moving forward...
...yet not with everyone else moving with me. While my time can pass I suppose I will never want the time of others to pass...
Yet I shall learn, as I always do.

However still, this has been an issue for the past...
I only hope I can be rational about it in the future.