The Long Process of Self-Forgiveness…

With tears in my eyes, I write this, simply because I’m having one of those days. 2016 was not an easy year for me from the start; it was one change after another, after another, and I realize I’ve started to blame myself for being human, and that has created an internal conflict that has slowly been devouring me since the beginning of the year.

I was in the shower a little while ago when I realized what it is that I need: To forgive myself. I’ve always been a forgiver, never one to hold a grudge. There have been points in my life where my parents thought that I was too forgiving and trusting (and, well, maybe I was with some people). However, I don’t think I have that same philosophy with myself. I’ve always held myself to higher standards than anyone else has held me to, and I think that is one major reason why I suffer from depression and anxiety; I am a perfectionist with myself.

I’m not saying that this is going to be easy. I’m not saying that this is an easy fix. Heck, I’m not even saying that I know how to do it. What I am saying is that I need to let myself off the hook about some things, especially the ones that I had no chance of controlling. Whether people blame me for things or not, there are just some parts of the universe that I can’t change, at least, not now.

I am saying that I need this forgiveness, and I shouldn’t have to earn it. I deserve understanding from myself and to know that God has a much bigger plan than any of those that I could come up with.

I am saying that if God can forgive me every day for every stupid thing I do, I should be able to forgive myself.

 

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A Look to the Future

Personally, I believe that I’ve grown quite a bit in my first few months of college. I’m living on my own, making friends, and not having to ask permission to go somewhere. It’s the life!
(That might be a bit of an overstatement. I’m still myself – I stress myself to the max most days, and honestly, when I’m not in class, 60% of the time I’m in my dorm room alone or at the gym.)

Either way, I’ve recently started thinking about summer vacation. After days of it being on my mind, maybe the only way to make sense of it is to write about it. So here I am! Trying that!

Since I’ve moved out, I’ve really started appreciating my home town. As much as I hated it when I was living there, when I was growing up, I really see how much it has affected me as a person, and I’m grateful for that. It taught me lessons that I’ve used everyday on campus. With that being said, I’m not sure that I want to go back to that for three whole months. I’ve escaped, and I don’t want to go back to that, to start depending on others again. Sadly, I don’t see a way around it.

I love my parents – seeing them, visiting, them visiting me – but I’ve gotten so used to being on my own that moving back in even just for the summer would be… weird.

What’s my answer? Summer classes? A job and an apartment? Going home and getting a job there?
I don’t know yet, but I’m sure that I’ll eventually find it.

The Art of Leaving

You’ve grown up being left behind. Everyone has because everyone leaves. Everyone leaves in one way or another, and they stay in small ways because of the marks that they make in your life.
They die, but they’ve left memories.
They break your heart, but they don’t take your feelings with them when they go.
They tell you they love you, and the words travel on the wind.
Then one day you realize: that’s you. You’ll be leaving soon and staying in some way, and it breaks your heart. You know how that feels, but to be the one to finally do it seems exciting. You mourn and rejoice at the same time. You realize it’s easier than you ever would have thought.

What This Blog Is

Clearly, I don’t have a set pattern for what I post here. I just kind of post what’s on my mind. Whether it’s my grandfather or a boy that’s not mine, it’s all how I’m feeling. I use writing to express myself, mostly because I’m not a big talker, but also because it’s the only way that I know how. It’s how I taught myself to cope with life and everything that it throws at me.

With that being said, I’m using this blog as a kind of record. How I feel at certain times, who has my heart, how many times it has been broken. It’s everything, yet when someone asks me what I’m doing, I’ll say nothing.

The Smallest Things are the Scariest

Last week I picked up my cap and gown for my high school graduation. All year I’ve known that this was coming, but I swear, this year has gone by so quickly. I remember it being October and teaching the new students in Journalism how to work the program. I remember learning my first chapter of physics and realizing that I had no idea what was going on (I still don’t most of the time, but I love it). I remember the first day of school, how the nerves were back, but not because I was scared, because I knew it would be the last first day of high school.

And now I have my cap and gown.

This is real.
This is happening.
I’m going to graduate and move away. The day is fast approaching.

And I’ve got to be ready.

Impending Doom

The thing is… I know how this is going to end. I’m going to be heartbroken again; I’m going to check my phone every five minutes to find nothing from you there. We’re going to go months without talking, during which time I will think about everything that I would have done differently – everything that I would have said if I had known.

I’ll think about all of the things that I found out after; I’ll find out the things that you  should have told me yourself. And people tell me that I should hate you, that I shouldn’t care whether you talk to me or not… But I do.

I care, and I don’t stop caring.

Then, just like this time, it’ll start again, and I’ll be happy. I’ll think that maybe this time will be different… Will it?

I Don’t Have Life Figured Out Yet

There are a lot of things in this life that I know. First and foremost I know that there is a God, and He is on my side. I know how to differentiate between sine and cosine; I can recite poems of Emily Dickinson from memory; I can tell you hundreds of facts from World War 2. I can tell you my honest opinion without bias.

But there are some things that I just don’t know. Where did we go wrong? What happened to making things work? Me writing you? You say you’re busy, and that’s fine, but did you really go from talking to me everyday to not having time to type me a few messages?

I think you gave up. You stopped wanting it because it was to big of a challenge; you were scared, and I was, too, because who knows what the future will bring?

I wish I could fix it- but here’s another thing I know: I can’t fix anything that involves another person that doesn’t want it to be fixed.

So, maybe… I do have life figured out. Or at least that part.

In all actuality, I don’t blame you. I never have, never will. Like I said earlier, the future? That’s scary. Graduating is scary. Going to college or the Army is scary. I can’t blame you for how you’re handling it.

But for a few weeks, I thought we could do it. Just so you know.

How Quickly Things Can Change

Nine days ago my grandfather died, the only grandfather I’ve ever known. (My dad’s dad died from a brain tumor when I was two years old.) I’ve spent the last nine days adjusting to this new life that the Lord has given me, and let me tell you, it’s not easy, and I don’t like it. Not one bit.

My sister told me three days ago, “We were just his granddaughters. Imagine what mom and granny feel.”

This was the man that picked me up from pre-school along with my grandmother everyday and took me out to lunch, letting me play in the Burger King playground while my grandmother was getting the food. This was the man that taught me that we can survive the present, and that means it will be the past one day. This was the man that fought in World War II, came home, and started working on the railroad again, where he continued for forty-four years. This was the man that lived for God and wanted nothing other than his family to do the same.

This was the boy that was abused by his parents. This was the boy that lived through The Great Depression. This is the boy that had a seventh grade education, yet was the smartest man I’ve ever met.

This was the grandfather that said things like, “Go to school and learn everything you can,” every time he saw me. This was the grandfather that slowly lost his appetite, his strength, and weight that he needed. This is the man that said he wouldn’t plant but a few crops in the garden this year and had more than ever. This was the man that had the best birthday ever on January 18, 2016, his ninety-fourth. This was that man.

“It’s funny how quickly we go from saying “is” to “was,”” my mom said the night of the funeral.

I miss him. Oh, do I miss him. My heart hurts every minute of every day because I realize that it’s more real today than it was yesterday. Sometimes I still forget to breathe. Sometimes I hear the screaming of my mom, my aunt, my grandmother. I’m living in those little moments of sorrow and the memories that make me smile.

I know where he’s at; I know he’s in Heaven. (If that conflicts with your own personal beliefs, I’m not sorry because they’re mine.) However, that doesn’t make it easier, I’m finding out. Every day is a struggle and some are better than others, but I’m sure of one thing: Eventually everything will be okay again. Not today, not tomorrow, but eventually.

And that’s how it’s supposed to be.

“6 For I am now ready to be offered, and the time of my departure is at hand. I have fought a good fight, I have finished my course, I have kept the faith.”
2 Timothy 4:6-7 KJV

Seeing the World

imageI wish everyone had enthusiasm for life like three year olds do.

I wish being sung Happy Birthday to was as exciting for everyone in the world as it is for three year olds.
I wish waking up every morning was a new adventure, something to be embraced not dreaded.
I wish people could see life through a three year olds eyes even as life slowly chipped away at them.
I wish seeing the same people over and over again was never taken for granted.
I wish everyone could live life with the enthusiasm of a three year old.