how the friendship ended.

It was like being hit in the face. Staring through her mirror at a face I didn't recognize.

But after I got past my anger and pain and shock, I started reading between the lines, to the heart, which we so often miss--and it's so surprising, what you'll find at the heart of anything. Hers felt unloved. She hid it beneath her own anger, but there it was.

It's easy to hate yourself without understanding your own rationale, but this time I didn't. I just stopped, and started digging back in the dark for the box that had all the memories of that time. I wanted to know why I had done what I did, just as much as she did. Because I've done this before, and I don't want to do it again.

If you don't value yourself, then walking away from somebody else doesn't mean much. You aren't important enough to matter, and as soon as the ripples die on the pond, life will go on as usual, as if you'd never existed. If you don't see yourself as that person, the one who attracts other people, as a necessary piece in other people's lives...you can walk. If you don't see yourself as someone that people love. Not romantic love, just, love. Unreservedly. I walked, three years ago.

And underneath her anger and dismissal, I finally got the real picture of what I am to her. She loves me. Unreservedly. And knowing that changed everything in how I answered her. Because even though that affection made it possible for me to hurt her without realizing it, it's also hope. There's nothing you can't do when you have love, hope...and faith.

My faith is fighting for what is important to me. And so, I fought. I mean, I don't have that many people who love me that much--and each of them are precious. I told her the truth and that I was sorry, and that she was worth too much to let go. I refused. There are few other creatures on this earth as stubborn as I am. In fact, I think I told her that we'd already argued about it at least a dozen times in my head, and I'd won every time--so the friendship wasn't ending.

It turns out that she still had some hope hiding inside as well. And I know it doesn't always turn out this way. But forgiveness is a beautiful thing. I should warn her, though, because now that I know she loves me that much, I'll feel free to squabble with abandon, because friends--they can argue without being afraid.

So in the end, I'm glad she told me.

Eternities and instances are beautiful.

mirror on the wall

Someone I care about just held a mirror up to my face, from 3,000 miles away, and showed me how they saw me through the other side. It was ugly. It broke my heart. Not only to find out that I am not what I thought I was, but that I caused someone pain.

I don't know how to fix it. But it hurts.

And I'm caught now. Because I realized, as she poured out her anger, that this person, and others like her, were hurt because deep down inside me, I felt like I and the friendship I had to offer wasn't worth much. So now I'm stuck between my pain, and the reverberations of her pain, which is much harder, and self-loathing for my flaws that damage others.

And I don't know what to do. I'm throwing empty words into emptier space because, let's be honest here, how do you talk about this? I tried. But it didn't work and I'm sitting alone in my head, knowing that I'm not a good person. Good people don't hurt their friends.

First

Restless evening tonight, keyed to wander. I didn't think about it very hard--I never do. Not until I'm already out and gone. No fear on these nights, moon or no moon, storm or not. But it doesn't work that way here.

Grabbed the keys, headed out the back door. Dark, you see, and the front stays locked most of the time. I'm not sure what the plan was, but I was headed towards the pool, when I actually listened.

Not like home. Not like school, not like anything else. No welcome in these nights. Too bright, and the shadows where I walk are too dark. Cars, and passing planes on the outer edge of the world, and...I felt nervous.

How ridiculous is that? Like the short walk to the pool was dangerous. Like I didn't know who could be around and what they were. Like...I'm not home anymore.

Turned and headed back indoors. There are good things and bad, about Loma Linda, but the one it's going to take the most getting used to is staying indoors when I'm restless.

This is tomorrow.

Did I say depression? I meant despair. And tears.

Progress

Pulling these chains around gets so exhausting, but today, at least, they won't be easily shaken off. I shrug my shoulders sometimes, just to try and stretch the droop out. When I lift my arm to grasp something, the weight is enough that I just let it fall again. But, this is the way today is going to be. Too short, too long, too hard to enjoy at all. I'm tired and unhappy.

Change isn't easy. I get excited about it, but my joy follows a progression--and today, as I'm trying to pack up my life, is my day to be genuinely unhappy. Tomorrow, when I actually pull out, I'll be somewhat depressed--but by Saturday, I'll have picked up again, and Sunday, when mom and I pull away from Chattanooga to drive to California, there will be very little but excitement and the inherent love of adventure that is in there somewhere.

Adventures used to be so simple when I was eight or nine. Up early, maybe 6 am, make myself soup for breakfast (I've been strange like that since I was born, basically), pack a sandwhich and a bottle of juice, stick it all in my backpack, and walk down through the fields to the small wood and the creek. Dams to build, tree houses to start, baby rabbits to find. And then home when it started getting dark, to sleep in the same bed I got up out of that morning.

But, if I talk about it much more, two things will happen. First, I'll get depressed now, instead of tomorrow. Second, I won't get anything done. Because I now have...eight hours. And I have not yet begun to pack!

:-D

Hoarders Anonymous

My name is Alyssa, and I'm a hoarder. *

Hello, Alyssa.

I've been this way ever since I can remember. I supposed I could blame my parents for exposing me to the idea at an impressionable age...but my therapist says that assigning blame is only an excuse for what is really  my own fault. A blunt man, is my therapist. **

Most of the year, the urge to store and collect is kept under wraps. At least, I can keep it to a manageble level--enough that not many people notice, or if they do, they don't seem to understand what a compelling thing it is, how I can't control it.

But summer begins, and I lose it completely.

Once that garden is freshly tilled, I itch to get seeds in the ground. Everything grows, the squash and zucchini start to multiply exponentially, the tomatoes get red. I fight the birds for the sweet cherries in the orchard. I lead forays into the black raspberry patches, with the battle cry, "No berry left behind!"

Then there's the actual canning and freezing process, which is hot and sticky and wonderfully tasty. I can't say enough about how much fun it is, even though my feet hurt at the end and my hair needs jam scrubbed out of it.

But the true expression of the Hoarder Complex is the intense satisfaction I feel when I see all of the shiny, colorful jars of food stored against the winter. The shelves in the cellar are sagging in the middle from the brown beans, green beans, dilly beans, peaches, pears, blueberries, strawberries, squash, potatos, tomatoes, tomato juice, spagetti sauce, jams and jellies, and so many other things.

So yes, Hoarders Anon., I am a proud member of this society. And I think I always will be. And you know what? that's ok. I'll always have enough to eat during the winter.

*This may sound somewhat psychotic. I'm not really a hoarder, you know. I just like canning food. Just so you know.
**And no, I don't actually have a therapist. I wouldn't know what to do with one if I did have it, except feed it.

paper cuts

Dear Alyssa,
Thank you for entering our poetry contest. Our judges love your poem "Sing for You" and it has already been moved into the semifinals. You are in position to win our $1,000 grand prize, and we will let you know the results the minute our contest has been judged.
Also as part of our 18th Anniversary Celebration we are publishing Famous Poets of the Heartland, comprised of our favorite Alumni authors. We're also including new poets like yourself who show amazing literary promise, and so we're publishing your poem in our book--on a page by itself--as well as recording it on our Audio Book CD, narrated by the great Shakespearean actor John Campbell...

I'm somewhat bemused, but pleased. The thought that I could get money for scribbling is cool.

(Actually, let's be honest, I know this isn't that big of a deal, and I don't have any money out of it yet and I may never, but still, I was off-the-wall excited when I tore open that letter. Getting noticed is a big deal to me. And so I wanted to share, because I immediately thought of one person I wanted to tell, and this is as good of a way as any. You said I should publish my scribbles. This is a good start.)

Also, the editor's name is Lavender Aurora. I think these poetry people may be a little doofy.