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Titles are stupid.

In a sense, I wish I was having writer's block. I wish I didn't know what to say. 

In this moment, there is so much going on in my life and in my head that I cannot even write my suggested prompt.

I am a mess. I am a pile of words looking for a common theme, and I am a woman who looks too deep into my life that I am probably missing what needs to be written.

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My Selfish Tendencies

Today, I was informed that someone I've known since I was about ten-years-old has brain cancer. A man barely 2 years older than me is fighting for his life this very moment. Here I sit, day by day, and worry about things that do not matter. I worry that my hair looks stupid or that people will judge me for not counting carbs. I sit here, and I recite the words I've spoken wondering if I've sounded stupid. All while someone across the country takes 15 minutes to speak the words, "Dad, my brain hurts," because in order to save his life, he had to have pieces of his brain removed. 

I do not understand how I can go each day thinking I am entitled to walking, speaking and thinking. These are basic functions I take for granted each day. I know it isn't easy to remember constantly that these simple acts are amazing in themselves. However, it is easy to take a deep breath and remember I am blessed to have the ability to move one foot in front of the other.

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What People Don't Understand About You

Everything. I often think to myself how simple I am. I like to believe I am understandable and easy to read. But, oh how the truth lies far from that thought. I am complicated. The one simple fact about who I am is that people don't understand the raw me.

I have the innate need to make everyone else around me happy. People do not always understand why I work so hard to ensure the well-being of any other person in my presence.

I have a deep struggle with depression, and I find myself battling for my sanity on a daily basis. People don't understand that there is nothing they can do about it. 

I have this tendency to fall in love with ideas that only make sense after tremendous amount of effort. I make my dreams happen, even when it originally looks like a dead end. I work extremely hard for what I have. People don't understand that the sweat, blood, and tears that I pour into my life makes me happy.

People don't understand that I am a person with a light side and a dark side. I am a jigsaw puzzle dumped in the middle of table. I am pain, and I am calm. People don't understand that my personality is a decagon and I am perfectly content with allowing all sides to show. 

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The Art of Love

Love is art. Love begins with a blank canvas, a white piece of nothing we are forced to stare it. We are engrained that we need someone to come into our lives and paint this canvas with bright, vibrant colors. And what happens when someone comes in and finger-paints what was meant to be a masterpiece? We paint over it with multiple coats of acceptance, pain, heartbreak and new beginnings. Love becomes this endless cycle of painting over our past and mistaken mates until we stare at this canvas and feel complete. The problem with the art of love is you can never have a clean canvas twice. Our imperfections will burn through as we trade pieces of our heart for a perfect painting. Love is the most important piece of art. And even as our imperfections make themselves home in our artwork, our quest for love creates a beautiful masterpiece in itself.

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Fear

Ever since I was little, I have been afraid of mirrors. Maybe I'd see a ghost, or someone would scare me. Maybe my reflection wouldn't blink when I did, or maybe I'd be too scared to stare myself in the eyes. That's just the thing. Today, I looked at myself in the mirror and it wasn't that I didn't recognize the woman staring back at me, it was that I recognized her too well.

The bags under my eyes were blacker than I let myself believe. The dryness on my nose was allowing my skin to peel. My curly hair was defying gravity and spinning in every direction. And then, I saw my eyes. I looked into my eyes and knew I couldn't avoid myself any longer. There wasn't anywhere I could hide anymore. Out here, miles away from the nearest store, I knew I could continue to run but I would always end up running into myself.

I'm not afraid of mirrors because it could possibly be a way of paranormal interaction. I realized I am afraid of mirrors because I have to interact with myself and accept that it is time for me to accept who I am. I have to learn to accept the bags under my eyes, the few extra pounds around my midsection, and the internal insecurities that haunt me too often. I have to accept who I am and learn to love myself, rather than deface the very skin I have to live in for the rest of my life.

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I Wish I Was Drowning

A couple weeks ago, I wrote a post about how I felt I was drowning. I was grasping for breath and losing control of the chaos in my life. Well, I wish I was drowning. I don't feel like I'm struggling to breathe anymore. It's impossible to find the source of where my breath could even begin. I cannot breathe. I cannot escape the tears that have found themselves home in a face that once looked human. I cannot escape the fact I feel more alone than I knew possible. I wish I was drowning. I wish I remembered what it felt like to begin losing my breath. Because once I lost that last breath, I have made it nearly impossible to find my way home.

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Drowning

I feel as if though I am drowning. With every thought of what has continued to overtake me this week, I feel myself losing breath. I breathe out, yet I find myself unable to inhale. Instead I gasp and I thrash, inhaling a continuous flow of everything I cannot handle. One after another, problems inhabit my life and attempt to make home inside me. As I lay in bed tonight, I looked at my significant other and felt tear by tear trickle down my face. The more I thought about how unaware he was of the thoughts infesting my mind, the more I cried. Was I afraid to admit that I was not strong enough? Was I afraid he'd think I was ridiculous in a sense? Instead, as I finally admitted aloud that I was drowning, he lifted his hand into an ocean that had crushed my lungs and held my hand.

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Comfort

Comfort is laying in bed for those extra minutes after I hit snooze. Comfort is the way he holds me while I lay my head on his chest. Comfort is taking that first bite of macaroni and cheese. Comfort is looking in the mirror and knowing that whether I put on makeup or not, I am still beautiful. Comfort is trust that God will prevail through even the hardest situations. Comfort is lovely.

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Imagine yourself at age eight. What would you tell yourself?

When I was eight-years-old, my parents divorced. From that major life event on, everything I thought about life had been skewed. The day I watched my parents move apart, I stop being a kid and started being whatever anyone else needed. I allowed myself to let one moment shape who I became. If I could look my past self in the face and say anything, it would be this- "Don't be afraid to put down that dictionary you're reading for fun and play. Have fun and don't be in a hurry to grow up, because it gets harder and the days don't stop when you're not ready. Most importantly, don't let anyone let you feel like anything less than a masterpiece, because I have a hunch you'll have difficulty with that. You are beautiful, and you are worthy".

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What You Are Worrying About Right Now

I am a walking version of worry in human form. I worry about all things at all times. Yes, I know it's unhealthy, but I have yet to distinguish between suppressing and dealing. What am I worrying about right now? I'm worried that those closest to me will not support me in my future move across country. I could give decent argument for all the reasons it's good for me, but at the end of the day, it's simple-I get a fresh start in a new place. I get to be me without having to compensate for the past 4 years that I ultimately failed at. I need to get away more than anyone will understand. I was more than blessed to have received an offer allowing me to pay off my old debts while breathing in new, fresh air. For once in my life, I'm doing something I want to do and it worries me that at the end of the day, I lack support from those who I wish had my back. Instead of running from myself, I am given an opportunity to move across the country and face myself without family or friends consistently telling me who I'm supposed to be. I don't expect anyone to understand, but this is what worries me. These thoughts are what keep me awake at night.

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Much is said about the first kiss. What about the last kiss?

I could tell you in detail how my first kiss went. I could describe the setting, what I was wearing and how it felt. However, the last kiss I'm about to confess is missing a large amount of detail. As I mentioned in a previous blog, I dated a guy for 3 years and broke it off 2 months shy of our wedding day. He was my first kiss.

I don't remember what I was wearing, where we were or even when it took place. But I can still feel how dead our lips felt touching each others. We were already broken up and we were trying to see if we still had feelings for each other. We had been hanging out occasionally, and for some reason we were trying to hang on to what we had when our relationship first started. The last time my lips touched his, there was no magic or fireworks. It felt as if every feeling we once had for each other was dead. The moment my lips touched his I knew there was nothing left. The love we once shared was long gone and probably half way across the world. 

As dead as that kiss felt, it didn't fail to rip my heart in uneven pieces. Our last kiss was confirmation that I had the made the right decision. Never have I ever been so disappointed in being proved correct.

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Jot down a list of things that make you angry

I'm not the kind of person who gets angry often. Most of the time, I only become angry once my heart is too saddened. Nevertheless, I'll give this a shot. -High budget films with poor acting skills -Sex trafficking -The fact that I never had the chance to give my ex a piece of mind -Being killed by my boyfriend in COD -Having to pee in the middle of the night -Parents who ignore their children -Divorce -Death/Dying -Being ignored by those I love the most -People who undermine the necessity of important conversations -Not having the right words to say -Stupid people I have a feeling if I don't stop now, I could make a long list of things that ultimately make me angry.

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Share that embarrassing story your relatives always tell about you...

The moment I read this prompt, I knew exactly which story I would share. Thanks to my mother, the embarrassing story I'm about to share has already been told numerous times to the point I no longer care. When I was in preschool, I befriended a little boy. My mother also helped out in my class, not because she was one of those PTA moms but because, let's face it, she was obsessed with me. Therefore, anyone I talked to was probably closely watched. Well as our friendship progressed, I notice this little boy's tendency to pick his nose and eat it. Being the caring and nurturing person that I am, I knew he'd run out of boogers at some point. Eventually, my mother caught me picking my own nose and feeding it to him. Embarrassing or not, I argue that I had the best intentions of making this little boy happy.

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Imagine you were unable to speak for a year. What would you do to communicate, and what impact would it have on your relationships? What would you be saving up to say at the end of the year?

Being that I am one of the most vocal people I know, this would be one the biggest challenges I’d have to face. Not only am I am extrovert, I process all my feelings and thoughts through talking. I do not have a filter and it’s one of the things that make me who I am.

I would probably communicate through texting for the most part. Knowing me, I’d most likely carry a whiteboard, as well. As I said, I’m quite vocal; therefore, I know my relationships would definitely be challenged for the better and for the worse.

I know exactly what I’d say at the end of the year and I know it would probably continue for a good hour or three. I’d say a variation of “I love you, thank you and that sucked!”

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Something You Lost

I used to think I simply had a bad memory. Others have told me I have selective memory. I find that I have a mixture of both. But, unfortunately, when it comes to anything negative, I have lost my ability to forget.

I have lost my ability to forget the details of a marriage an 8 year old should never witness. I have lost my ability to forget the way he looked at me after he kissed me, a look of relief it was over. I have lost the ability to forget the countless hospital visits I knew weren’t leading anywhere. I have lost the ability to forget the blood and the tears I fought so desperately to feel. And I have the lost the ability to forget that I was once a person I wouldn’t be able to look in the eye.

Although I understand my memories serve a positive purpose in being witness that I am a changed woman, they never fail to pierce my progress. Thankfully, I am unable to forget how hard I worked to be able to look in the mirror and not hate myself.

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"We Need to Talk"

I have yet to meet a person whose stomach doesn’t turn when hearing this phrase. So one could imagine how I felt this morning at 6:30 am, when my boyfriend told me we needed to talk. But, much to my surprise, it went better than I could’ve imagined.

My boyfriend and I had a different beginning to our relationship. We had some major struggles I wasn’t prepared to handle. So, I’ve gotten used to telling him I was okay and pushing the rest away. It’s what I’ve done to every single person I’ve ever gotten close to. Today, he turned to me and told me he isn’t oblivious to what I’m doing. He took responsibility for his part in my hurt and made sure I didn’t think he wasn’t paying attention to who I am.

I never thought at the end of a “we need to talk” conversation that I’d begin to feel better and happier. Every couple has their issues, but it all comes to down to whether you’re willing to fight for the one you love.

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Spark Word: Recovery

Hearing the word "recovery" automatically assumes an addiction is attached. Well, my addiction was not one many people are willing to share, let alone admit. In April 2010, I assumed the role of girlfriend for the first time and puckered my lips for my first kiss. Despite the fact neither of us knew what we were doing, I was sold. Excited by this new whirlwind of hand-holding, hugging, kissing and love notes, I was blinded to the fact that I was running away from a childhood I cringe to remember into the arms of a boy who knew nothing of my innermost needs. I became addicted to this boy. Everyone I knew understood that the moment I gave this boy my first kiss, I gave him my personality, too. I was never the same. What he wanted, I wanted. I did things that make me shudder to this day because I was so addicted to making sure this boy never stopped loving me. Three years, an engagement ring and countless arguments later, I knew I had to stop my addiction. I was so addicted, I was willing to commit my life to this man. But at the end of every single day, I knew I did not love him. I called it off, but little did I know, the hardest part of ending this ugly journey was the recovery. There were days I felt free, but there were days where I could not breathe. My heart was broken, not from the absence of love, but from the fact that I now had to face all the issues I avoided for three years. Recovery is heartbreak. Recovery is hard. Recovery is inexorable.