The Hardest Thing to Write About

Someone wise once said "They say the best way out is through (and yes, it was The Fray)." But really? How is there even another way? Life is always, inevitably and irreversibly moving forward without any thought for our feelings. I once read this line from a book, and it made me stop and ponder a moment: "Fate makes no distinction between tragedy and happily ever after." I don't believe in fate, but I do believe in life. I do believe that there is no force that frowns upon the wicked and smiles upon the good. Evil comes to all of us. If we're going somewhere, we'll get there, and there's no stopping the bumps along the way. If I were to have said that line, I would have said "The road of life bears no distinction between tragedy and happily ever after." Because the simple fact of it is, if we are meant to feel pain, to head towards a sorrowful destination, we will. We really will.

I don't like to talk about when I was younger and unsure of myself, at least not in any substantial way. I talk about my hair back then, my third grade teacher, my reaction to 9/11, my favorite food, but I never talk about the currents of my life at that point. I've never been brave enough to do it. I don't feel very brave tonight, but I feel like I need to try, so I'm trying.

Among the many memories of my life, there just isn't one of my parents telling me that they were getting a divorce. I don't remember sitting down and hearing about it. I suppose if there was a moment like that, it wasn't surprising news once I understood the words involved. I'd already started closing myself off before that, I think. I don't really know. I just know that between my second and third grade years, my life changed, and I changed. I think when we're older, unsavory events hold a bigger impact in our minds because we have a greater capacity and understanding to make sense of them. It's only now that I'm older that I have been able to see the small ways that my life was changed. My third grade year was quiet and timid, characterized by a small little girl who felt like everyone was looking at her with disdain in their eyes, who leaned her head down on her desk when they announced the attack on the Twin Towers because she couldn't understand why she was feeling so sad, who lost a dad to something she didn't understand, a mom to a job because of that mystery something and herself to emotions she didn't understand. I wanted to make friends that year really badly, but I felt like there was an invisible cord wrapped around my ribs, squeezing them tight when I tried to work up the courage to speak. I cuddled my sister at night, not sure what to do with the hurt and guilt in my heart. I didn't know how to let it out and make it go away.

But I guess the real pain of it came as I grew up and had to live with the repercussions of it. There were times when I felt so lost. I'd stand in the doorway between two halves of my life--one that I wished I could keep forever and one that I wished would disappear while I blinked--and I'd feel the two halves of my soul squeezing in each direction. On the one hand, I had a beautiful family, a miracle Mother, and a Father who was certainly always supposed to be mine. They loved me and I loved them, and the happiness I felt with them was enough to make me feel so whole I could burst. On the other hand, I had a man who walked out of my life, who repeatedly rejected me, who insisted on turning me against those that loved me, who made me feel small, and who never loved me at all, I sometimes feared. It was the last part that hurt my heart so. If I couldn't make the man who was supposed to be my father love me, even if I had been given a Father who really did love me (and I've never doubted that he does), what good was I?

Every time he called, I'd seize up inside with panic. I wanted him to love me, but I knew that he didn't. I knew that I shouldn't care. I was torn between the want and the fear and the anger. Days like that usually ended in me twisting up all the feelings and shoving them down my own throat to fester in my stomach. Sometimes it ended in tears, in words I couldn't and still can't find, in shouts that hurt me worse than anything else. I just, I didn't like feeling so small and so hurt, so mostly I just hid those down as best as I could. I still do that, I think.

When I graduated from High School, he called. That was the last time we talked, and the conversation never really ended properly. When I got married, I deliberated quite a bit about sending an invitation. I didn't want to. The hurt and anger I feel towards him...wouldn't allow it. But I did it. I sent him one. I waited on edge, though I'd never tell anyone, to receive any sort of reply to it. I didn't want to talk to him, but I wanted him to care, to try, to congratulate me, or even to feel sad that he'd had no part in this changing of my life. A big part of me just wanted to move through this, the happiest chapter of my life, without any interference, without a reminder of the pain that I still felt. Instead of any of that, I got his invitation back in the mail three weeks after the wedding, and a lot of harsh judgments and words concerning my decision not to invite him (though I had). I wonder sometimes if God had a hand in helping that invitation go astray.

I just. I know that what I experienced wasn't terrible, really. People lose the ones they love to death all the time. It's painful, and it's difficult to live without someone you love so much, to walk a few more steps away from their memory every single day that you live beyond them. I've never had to do that. I've never experienced war or starvation. But when I think about people that do feel those things, and I match up their pain with the pain in my heart, I feel weak. I have a small burden to bear.

I know this in my head, but my heart won't feel it. It just, it just doesn't really ever go away. I live with the hurt still, and I expect to do so until I die. I manage to put it out of my mind most of the time, but it's never very far away. I feel so much anger, I feel so much hurt, I feel so much confusion.

I'm angry that he left. I'm angry that he decided that we weren't worth it, that I wasn't worth it. I'm angry that he hurt my Mother. I'm angry that he hurt my sister. I'm angry that he confused me and led me to question myself. I'm angry that something so trivial will upset me all my life. I'm angry because he gave me problems that I'll spend my whole life working through. I'm angry, I'm angry, I'm angry. It's raw and it's red and it's wild in my heart.

I'm hurt that he left. I'm hurt that he decided that we weren't worth fighting for, and especially hurt that he decided that I wasn't worth fighting for. I tried so hard to be good enough for him! It's all I ever wanted. I hurt because it feels like my fault sometimes. I'm hurt because I can't change him and because he sometimes distracted me from the blessings and the Father that was in front of me. I'm hurt because I want to stop hurting. I want to stop this aching and I don't want to cry anymore, but when I stop acknowledging the hurt it sneaks up on me and stays. It leaves me empty.

I'm confused because I don't understand why. I feel like I deserved this sometimes. Maybe I wasn't good enough. Maybe I should have tried harder. Maybe it was something I did before I was born! I'm confused because I don't understand why this had to happen. Not just to me, but to my whole family. It affects everyone I've ever met, whether they know it or not, and it especially affects my Mother. I'm confused because I know she didn't deserve it; I don't think anyone could ever deserve something like that. The confusion twists inside me endlessly.

I read a book about two people that fall in love--only she's haunted by a series of terrible events that shook her life to its frame and left her a shadow of who she could have been, and he doesn't know how to help her. When she loses her life in an accident, he finds himself traveling back into time, given the priceless opportunity to rescue her and stop the first terrible event from happening so many years ago. Remarking upon this difference between the girl she'd been and the girl she got to be now, he relates a story in which he is a young boy, driving through a forest with his uncle. He says to his uncle: "this forest is so beautiful," to which his uncle replies: "you should have seen it before the hurricane." Looking closely after these words, he notices all the small flaws that he hadn't noticed before. He looks at this girl and realizes that he's gotten this lucky chance to change her story; he's given her the chance to be, permanently, the forest before the hurricane.

After reading the story, I was left with this question:

Would I go back and change it if I could? 

I was left so unsatisfied by that story. I mean, sure she got to be the forest before the hurricane, and that is truly beautiful, but I think that the forest after the hurricane must have been equally as beautiful in its own way. I liked the girl just fine after her hurricane--it gave her the capacity to understand him in ways that she lost once she was changed. The point of the story, I think, was that he risked changing her life so drastically that she might possibly never meet him. He loved her enough to do what was best for her even if it took him out of her life. It was a happy miracle that they were able to meet again and be together.

I however, don't think that I would go back and change my life if I could. How could I ever trade the person I am now for a life free of pain? I would be so much less sure of the things I know now if I had never had to pass through adversity. I wouldn't be able to empathize. Well, I don't really know who I'd be. But I feel so protective of the me that I've been able to build that I don't think I'd want to change a single thing. But more importantly, I've come to peace with the fact that no matter how badly I want to change it or not:

I can't. 

And that's that. I have learned so much about my Savior's love for me through this experience. I have grown immeasurably closer to him through the ups and downs and pains and joys of my life. I really can't explain the miracle that this alone has been in my life. Like this post, my life has not been only characterized by pain and hurt and anger. There is peace that comes to my soul when I think to ask, and sometimes even when I don't.

The best way out, indeed, is through. I'm not through yet, but I'm working on it.

The Best Thing to Write About

I knew it the first time we went out together. My brain works like this sometimes. When it comes to little decisions, I stress out so badly. What should I wear today? This morning I put on a pair of pants, then a shirt, then changed my pants, then my shirt, then my pants again. Right before we left I put another shirt on. I have a hard time deciding what to cook for dinner (less so than clothes, because usually ingredients in my fridge are a limiting factor). I can never decide what to read next, or what to say to a friend, or how to fix my makeup.

But with big things, I know. My decision to go to BYU was stressful until I finally just said to myself "I know it's right. I'm going to do it, and the confirmation will come." So I did, and it did. Big decisions are a cinch for me! I don't understand why that is. But it is. I just know things. I knew I should stay home and not leave on a mission. I just felt it. I just feel things. I can feel them in a calm part of my soul, where the outside world and my self-doubt are kept out by the essence of who I am. I can trust myself when it comes time to make decisions. Those decisions and impressions are always right and good when I trust myself and don't waste time arguing inside my head.

That being said--maybe you'll believe me now. I knew the first time we went out that Alan and I would be together for a long time. Maybe it wasn't knowing specifically, but I felt it. I certainly wasn't thinking about marriage, but I felt something strong.  I opened the door and he was right there, smiling at me with his hands in his pockets and a new haircut. My heart got all warm and tried to jump into my throat as I looked at him.

I didn't know him very well at this point; we'd only had a few classes together, and I had only started talking to him a few weeks before this night, before our date. I called him on a whim. My mother insisted that if I didn't, I would always regret it, that I would always wonder if I should have. It was with her encouragement that I picked up the phone, dialed his number, and shakily left the worst message in the history of the world.

"Hey, it's Rachel, from your English class. Call me back when you get the chance. If you're free. When...just okay, bye."

Or something like that. He called back later that afternoon. My phone started ringing, and I never expected it to be him. Standing in between racks of skateboarding jackets, and shoes, my heart started beating at full speed and didn't stop as I answered. He was gracious and hesitated a few seconds before accepting my invitation, sounding almost surprised with himself. I was surprised.

As he walked through my door, I felt it. Mixed between the warmth of my heart and the uneasy butterflies in my belly, there was the feeling of right-ness. We walked to the museum in awkward-but-strangely-companionable silence. My heart was beating fast again. He asked to hold my coat once we were inside, and I declined, but secretly flushed in appreciation of the fact that he offered. We strolled through the exhibits, and the questions started. He would ask and then wait, stepping back and tilting his head, a studious but kind expression on his face, his hands clasped behind his back. I would look at him as he asked and then blush as I tried to answer the questions as best I could (I mean, it's my life--why wouldn't I know what my favorite book is and why?) while he was looking at me. His stare had the ability to melt my insides, even when he wasn't smiling.

Once, as I stood outside the room of a video exhibit, he stepped up right behind me, leaning his face close to my ear and whispering, the warmth of his words and breath transferring to my cheeks and then down to my toes.

"Do you want to sit down?"

I did. We did. Then came the whisper again, asking if I wanted to leave. I did. We did. He kept his hand on my back as we maneuvered through the small crowd of people. I wished he'd never move it. He did. We went back to my apartment and had ice cream and soda. He was gracious even when I spilled all of mine in his lap, jumping up to find napkins, leaving me in a puddle of my own embarrassment and the eternal smell of Sprite in my dress. He was gracious when my roommates began to talk about the dance the next night that he hadn't been invited to and I blurted out the invitation to him awkwardly. I hoped he would come, but felt a sinking fear that he wouldn't. We played games the rest of the night and he said he'd let me know. Finally, he walked out the door, turning to give me a warm hug and to whisper his thanks in my ear. I felt giddy all night.

It's difficult to pinpoint the thing I loved most about that night, the thing that made me feel it. It was the easy manner in which conversation flowed between us. It was the little, half-smile he gave me whenever I finished answering a question. I was enamored with the warmth of his hand as he rested it on my back, my shoulder, my arm. The perpetual dilation of his eyes made them look dark and so warm as he stared into mine. He moved shy and quiet that night around me, never teasing, never really laughing, but exuding a confidence so strong it made him seem several inches taller. I loved the curve of his fingers as they held onto his cup of ice cream, the way his hair hugged the back of his neck in such a straight line. I really couldn't have loved him that night because I didn't know him yet, but I felt the beginnings of it in my soul.

He came to the dance the next day.

There are no words to describe this post.

I've been skirting around this issue for a few months, trying to distract myself with all those "Meaningful to me" posts. I know I actually only posted 3, but I had 5 pre-written. I just got tired of dawdling around what the real issue is.

I'm feeling things. Not just like "Oh-I'm-a-Girl-and-once-in-a-while-I-need-to-cry-to-reset-my-hormones" kind of way. It's in a more serious way. So strong it makes it hard to breathe sometimes. Everything makes me cry! I listen to a dumb song and I start tearing up in the BYU Library thinking about how the artist probably really feels all those things I'm feeling just listening to this song. Sometimes I read things and carry this heavy sadness in my heart for people I've never met, some who don't exist, I carry it with me all day. I see people sad on campus and my eyes get watery and I just want to walk up and put my arm around them, but I'd rather not get arrested for attempted sexual harassment, so I don't.

And don't worry, it's not all sad--sometimes it's very happy. I read things and can't stop myself from smiling all day. I see parents with their new babies and my emotions get out of hand and oh look, there's the crying thing again because I can feel their happiness in my soul. I look at my husband and all I can think about is how much I really love him, and how lucky I am that he agreed to be stuck with me forever, and isn't that little piece of hair sticking up over his ear just adorable and then I just want to cuddle him and tell him I love him over and over through those dang tears.

But it isn't just that I'm feeling things. It isn't that I'm feeling these things so strongly, and that they won't stop. I stand around all the time with this ache in my soul--whether it be sad or happy, it aches--and I don't know how to express. Even just writing about it here makes it flare up and then I feel like I'm going to cry.

The point is what the feelings mean. Behind all these emotions is a little voice whispering at me. It whispers a lot of things. Those things are still confusing me, though I've puzzled over them constantly. The voice wants me to create--to put my emotions down in a tangible way. But clearer than anything else that the voice whispers at me comes the insistence:

"Write." 

And it scares me. It scares me so much. Write what? Write about who? How do I put my deepest feelings on paper? What if people laugh at me? What if it doesn't come out right? How do I work up the courage to be brave enough to open up my soul and write? It's already difficult to deal with so much feeling all the time. What will happen if I let myself get immersed in it?

These questions have been trapped in my mind, turning over and flip-flopping around, beating themselves against the invisible walls of my soul until they're bruised and tired. I just can't fight them anymore. It's almost to the point where not writing is just as painful as thinking about writing feels.

But what do I write about? I'm sorry, there's not going to be a point, a rhyme, or any sort of reason to this post. I'm confused, I'm full and I'm scared. I don't know what is going on, but it's going and I feel like I'm being dragged along.

Something big is coming in my life--I can feel it. I think that's why the voice is insisting that I write. Maybe my words will be powerful--not necessarily for anyone else--maybe just for me in my life. There are things in my journals that I still remember writing, word-for-word, years ago. I think it might be that I need the power of my own words. I wasn't made to hide my soul behind me. I have always needed to see it laid out in front of me to really understand it.

So I'm going to write. And I'm just going to be honest in it. I need this, I need to write. It'll probably be a lot. And about everything. But it will be my heart. It's scary for me to do it. Please be gentle with me.

Journal?

Today while we were cleaning up a little (you know, pre-semester preparations), I found some of my old journals from Junior High, High School and my first year of College. It was such a funny thing to sit and slowly turn pages, drinking in the words from someone who almost felt like a different person to me. Though much was strange and foreign to me within the pages, she still held familiar pieces in her and as I read, I could remember being this little girl, all full of hopes and dreams and love and hurt.

I read about the friends she was making at school--the unexpected ones, the hoped-for-but-never-achieved ones, the failed ones, the favorite ones--and I read about the boys she dreamed about under her breath--the bad ones she knew she shouldn't love but did anyway, the ones that everybody told her to love, the ones that she couldn't help loving even if she tried, and the ones that broke her heart. I read about her broken heart many times, smiling a little to myself at the innocence of her heart. I read about the things that really troubled her; I read about her real sorrows and troubles, the things that shamed her, the things that made her feel worthless. I read about her deepest wishes (to have her first kiss, to speak up for herself just once, to overcome her greatest struggles) and rejoiced to see her achieve some of them (the first kiss hadn't been what she expected, but the last first one more than made up for it, she slowly found her voice, and she worked so hard I felt tiny threads of pride in her).

What did I learn? I was surprised to find that I loved this girl, and I was surprised to feel how much I loved her. It was almost funny to see her as me. But I realized that I am not a bad person. I am not worthless. My thoughts are not silly. My struggles are not trivial. I mean something. Especially to my Heavenly Father. He was there for me in a lot of those pages when I didn't deserve him. He was patient with me when I moaned over my own stupid mistakes. But no matter how many times I cried to him, he was still there the next time I needed him.

For me, life has been a constant process of learning and becoming myself. Part of becoming myself has been to learn to love everything that I am. No, it doesn't mean accepting the parts of me that do terrible things that I know I shouldn't. But it does mean loving myself in spite of those parts of me. I am a reasonably nice person. I think I have a nice smile. I have pretty eyes. My hair is crazy and I wouldn't have it any other way. I feel deeply for other people and make friends quickly. I give good advice (sometimes) even though I can't keep my own  life together most of the time. I am good with babies and children (most of the time, but come on, who doesn't find it difficult sometimes?). I can cook, even if it takes me twice the recommended time on the recipe. I can write if I try, and I'm smart when I put my mind to it, even if I don't usually prefer to put my mind to it.

The point of this is that no matter what happens in my life, that my spirit is mine and I am me. I used to believe that silence was the best policy. Why defend myself and cause a fight if I could stay silent and keep all my hurt inside? I don't believe that anymore. I try not to be defensive, but I believe that standing up for myself, giving myself a voice and a light in the midst of all the confusion and darkness in this world is something desperately important to do. I still believe that forgiveness is the most important thing in the world, especially in forming and maintaining relationships, though I understand the why and how a little bit better now. I still dream of soft baby cuddles and tiny feet and hands, just like I did when my mom held her own little babies and cuddled their round bellies and kissed their cheeks. I used to hate my hair, consider it the enemy of everything I ever wanted to be. Now I pretty much just go with it. Taming it in any major way is for special occasions. I've even learned to appreciate it.

I can't ever be someone else, so why would I ever waste time wishing I was and complaining about who I am?