It’s Killing Me

I feel like Alice falling down the rabbit’s hole, and it is a long way to the bottom.

The lady in front of me is tall. Her hair is white from both age and stress. Clearly, at this moment, she is the rabbit. Although, these halls are so familiar, I feel that this is my hole. Everything from the waiting room to the computer in the small alcove are all mine. I have them all precariously placed on the ledges of my hole, distant memories begging to be reviewed. Everything is about to crumble.

I see me, about seven, twisting and turning in the green and gray patterned chair, stalling on the next math equation my uncle is begging me to finish. I’ve been doing school in the waiting room for so long; I’m tired of playing with all the toys set out for kids ages two to five. Aside from my sister who is too young to care, I am the only one who hasn’t been allowed to see Grandma. I have been told what she looks like, but I can’t imagine her with tubes hooked up inside of her.

I want to drink the elixir that makes me shrink. If I could disappear I would, but I turn right, following the rabbit’s quick paced steps. To the left is that computer and straight ahead is the nurse’s station. To the left of the desk are two halls I’ve been down a hundred times. I close my eyes and remind myself to breathe. I don’t remember drinking any shrinking potion, but now it feels like my lungs can’t or won’t expand to their full capacity. Now I want to eat the cake and grow. Right now I would give anything to grow to climb out from this place.

We are at the nurses station. Please, turn right.

We turn left.

Please don’t take the right hall.

We take the left.

I am led into the ICU. There is no secret key I have to retrieve or keyhole I have to climb through. The rabbit steps right up, and the doors open at her presence. The place smells heavily of antiseptic. I want to tuck tail and run.

“Here we are,” says the rabbit.

I wish we were late.

I see me in my black turtle neck. (I hated that shirt.) I pause in the doorway, not sure if it is safe to walk in. There’s the tube in her throat, and she is barely aware of what is going on around her. None of the descriptions mom gave me before could have prepared me for this moment. The moment my lungs stop and my heart can decide whether to speed up or to slow down. I’ve skipped to the end of the book, and before me is the jabberwocky.

“Hello, Grandma,” I say. She turns her head toward me, and she moves her mouth, and a frog croaks instead. I grab her hand, and rub my thumb in circles. Her skin is wrinkled, bruised, and feels like velvet. I look up and smile. “I love you too.”

“She was t-boned,” the rabbit says. “This is her second time being in a coma, and she doesn’t want to be revived. She doesn’t want to fight to live.” I muster my strength and respond back in a controlled voice. The conversation is short. It is clear I am eager to leave. The trauma of being in the hospital for eight years struggles to resurface. The memories try to cave in and burry me alive.

I am relieved once I leave the rabbit hole, this not-so-wonderful land

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Let’s go back….

Elizabeth:

It’s a little to get sappy, but I was just thinking back on the summer we graduated. Summer of 2015. Honestly, that has so far been the greatest year of my life. I was motivated and doing things. I was routinely taking my vitamins, running outside (almost) regularly. We went on our first vacation by ourself in another state. That summer I was so happy. I took on the world that summer. We both did.

I dunno. I still am. I still can. But now, I just feel a little less motivated.

A lot less. Everything has fallen so perfectly into place, even with the hardships. I’m so thankful for everything God has done in my life. He has blessed me so much, and I know Hew will continue to do so. But now I don’t feel like I have anything to work hard for. The world has already been conquered. There is no Sherif for me to fight, no poor to give back to. Naturally, I want to si I’m lost, but I’m not. I know what God has called me to, but I don’t feel like there’s much to do if, anything to reach that now.

I’m just kind of really restless.

I want to go back to 2015 and feel that rush of excitement and success as we go down the highway in your sketch van with John Farnham and Ed Sheeran blasting through the speakers. If just for a moment, I want to feel that rush again.

~~~~

Abby:

I get that. I dearly miss that summer with all my heart. But it’s normal to feel restless. I know that’s a cliche thing to say that doesn’t help much, but it’s true. Feeling restless doesn’t mean you don’t still have adversity to face and opposition to conquer, it just means you’ve gotten used to it. You’ve gone through the training period, like in all those movies where the hero trains, and is finally ready for the battle. You’re ready now to face what’s been planned, so look forward to that. There is still so much unknown and I’m very excited to see how you excel in everything God throws at you.

No matter what age you’re at, it’s easy to feel restless. I think what my friend said applies to all of us. There is still so much unknown that God has yet to reveal to us for us to adventure into. Don’t give up.

Dream Big

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This is one of my favorite poems. I don’t know how many times I would tell my mother all of the crazy things I planned to do. She would get all skeptical and look at me out of the corner of her eye while she cooked. She never discouraged me though (maybe about becoming a world famous singer.. kind of gotta be able to hit a note for that one). All she ever told me was to dream big, and so that’s what I did. I dreamed bigger and bigger every night.

Mamma always said, “Dream big, baby.”

So I did.

I dreamed that one day I would be happy.

Now here I am,

And I can’t imagine being sad.

“Dream big, baby.” Mamma always said, “Dream big.”

My Forest

I am really pushing it on this one post a day thing.

Here is a poem I wrote at three in the morning back in December of 2015.

 

Green dollar bills

Silver nickels

Copper pennies

Rusted leaves

Dying trees

Where soul isn’t currency

 

I sold my heart for a little bit of love

And I traded my mind for little bit of trust.

All I had left was my soul

Covered in dust

Blackened by bruises

Hours of untamed lusts

Hidden in corners

Covered by night

Untouched by light

Breathing

But not living

Hoping

But not dreaming

Slowly

Losing

Sanity

 

outdated

over-rated

Just say it

Metal buckets

Molded books

Fraying shirts

Ripped hems

Muddy boots

Broken hearts

Shattered glass

Shredding statements

To pretty nothings

 

I am nothing

Not worth keeping

Not worth selling

Not for petty green slips

That forfeits morality

pays for pleasure

gives a sense of stability

making for silence

That creates cruelty

 

No longer

I will not listen to your kisses

I will not bed on your roses

I will not willingly lie to cover your inconsistencies

I will not compromise my worth

For your sake of guilt

That you built

On zero monetary value

 

Take your green bills

Silver nickels

And copper coins

Ruin your leaves

Kill your trees

But sure as hell stay away from my forest

I grew it from broken pieces of mismatched hearts

I watered it with mismatched blood types

And I built it with scattered dreams

Cracked trust funds

And my own damn hands

 

I’ve already lost my heart

And I’ve already lost my mind

I will not lose my soul

It cannot be sold

I will fight with desperation

Searching for restoration

Grasping for redemption

In a place of desolation

 

It’s not pretty

But it’s all I’ve got

And I will fight for everything I have

With everything I have

I will fight

Empowerment

I was at the gym last night, and went for a 20 minute run. I had just come around the track and finished a lap when three other girls were just getting on, and as I passed them one of them clapped and said, “Keep going! You got this!” That pushed me to run just a little bit further.

That’s not the first time that has happened to me at the gym, but let me tell you, it doesn’t happen nearly as often as it should: from me toward other people, and from other people toward me. In fact, I should be hearing it from someone at least once every time I’m there, whether it is directed toward me or not. I know some people go to the gym with headphones and use that time to get alone and to think, but I hear groups of friends there all the time, and instead of encouraging each other, they tease each other and make heavy competition, as if that’s going to make a person work harder. I get a little competition is good, sure, but sometimes a person needs to know they’re doing well or that they can do well. Even my sister and I, while competing, always encourage the other saying how good she’s doing or by telling the other we’re proud of her.

With that in mind, I want to challenge you to encourage someone today, tomorrow, and this week. Whether it is at the gym or at Walmart, let someone know that they’re doing a good job, that they’re beautiful (you too men), and that you believe in them. Sometimes that is all a person needs to keep going.

Memories

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Memories are shifty things. They’re from your perspective and a lot of the time can’t be trusted. For example, my family has moved around a lot. We lived in the trailer, moved to Grandma’s house, went to the apartments, lived in the duplex, moved into Grandpa Willsea’s house, and then we moved into the house my family is in now. At the time we lived in the trailer, my family owned a pizza restaurant. In my memories, we lived in the pizza restaurant before we lived in the trailer. Like, I know we didn’t live in the restaurant, but I don’t ever remember being in the trailer because we were always in the restaurant. I asked my mom where we lived while we ran the pizza place, and when she told me the trailer, I didn’t believe her at first.

The whole reason I’ve been running back through all my memories is because I’m trying to find my earliest memory. Right now I think my earliest memory is from when we opened the pizza place and I went on a delivery run with my dad. It was late at night and I remember the man at the door giving me a wad of cash. (At least, that’s what my memory says happened.) I remember sitting in the car with dad and thinking all the money was mine and had been given to me. Although, now that I know my family lived in the trailer at the same time we had the restaurant, I don’t know if that really is my earliest memory.

Through doing this, I have begun to remember a lot of things I thought I had previously forgotten. It’s been fun reminiscing on all the things from my childhood until now. Even more amazing, is seeing how much God has redeemed me from my past. I remember having many anger issues growing up, but I only remember very few moments of when I was angry. I know there were many more, because I screamed and yelled my way through middle school and most of high school. The fact that I don’t remember many of those moments, I think, goes to show that my mind is healing itself and that God is redeeming me.

To think, all this started because I began watching a Turkish show that started with the main character recalling her earliest memory.

Now, let’s create some dialogue. What is your earliest memory?

么么哒!

Red Boy

**This is a poem I wrote for a friend who’s grandma has Alzheimer’s.

 

Red hair from Scottish ancestry

Red plaid, button up shirts

Vaguely she knows me, but

She can’t remember me

Lost between worlds

Wandering among tangled strings—

Tangent thoughts

She can’t find that one red wire

The one that tells her who I am

 

I am the red

The boy that

Sits by her side

And tells her stories

Of the world she forgot

I tie strings to her fingers

I weave ribbons between her toes

Unfortunately she is not Queen Grenadine

With magical whispering knots

She can’t remember what

She is supposed to remember

 

Me

The boy

With red hair

With red shirts

Me

The boy always there

When she’s off exploring somewhere

That’s not with

Me

Trust is an ongoeing decision.

Before I type anything to make a new blog post, WordPress tells me, “Share your story here….” My story about the last two weeks is long and really isn’t worth sharing. There is probably a lot I could tell you, but rather I am going to leave you with a short encouraging note.

Do you all know the sotry in the Bible about the disciples on the boat in the middle of the storm while Jesus is sleeping? Well, I feel a bit like them. I’m shaking Jesus’ shoulders, begging him to wake up and stop the wind and waves. What does he do? He turns over and says, “Nah, you should take a nap too.” I say, “Great! We’re gonna drown.” (And because Jesus is funny,) He says, “The only way to walk on water is by looking at me.” I reply back sassily, “That’s like combining to different Bible stories, but okay, whatever.”

There is always an end to a storm, whether that is Jesus stopping it or whether that is us tying ourself down to the rail so we don’t get blown off the ship while the storm rages on and eventually peeters out. We pray that the storm stops before it can get really nasty, and sometimes Jesus does “wake up” and calm the wind and waves. A lot of the time, though, we think God is late. We went through the front of the storm, the eye of the storm, and now we’re in the worst part, the tail of the storm. However, God is never late. His timing is always perfect. What we might call premature, is on time. What we might call late, is on time. 

In each part of the storm (the beggining, the eye, or the tail) it is our choice to trust God. Sometimes we have to choose it several times in the beggining, several times in the middle, and several times near the end. Trust isn’t a one time decision. It is ongoeing. We choose to choose it everyday. 

You can tie yourself down and freak out, or you can nap. And think, even if the ship does go down, you can still walk on water if you look at Jesus.

“Dude, if the ship is going down, I might as well go with it. I don’t want to live through a storm anymore. End it while I can.” Harhar. Sure, but you’ll never know what you could have had if you stuck it out and had a little faith. God doesn’t allow us to travel through stormy seasons just so he can have fun watching us struggle. He wants to watch us grow, and with growth comes rewrad. Who knows, maybe this is the rain you need to water your dry ground.

My advice? Choose trust.

She Sits *Edited*

She sits in her pocket of the world unperturbed by toxic kisses

With her eyes closed she carves designs into her skin—

Swirls and lines—

With her fingernails on her thighs

 

She sits in the quiet atmosphere half asleep

Tired from sleazy men and their slimy words

She rubs her hands along the fabric of her skirt

Trying to remove the remains of the cheesy pick-up lines

Texted to her

 

She sits and she breathes

Trying to forget the reality prying at her dreams

All too aware of the blisters on her heels from her heels

Bullet Journaling

I mentioned this in a previous post, but now I want to breifly expand on it. Bullet Journaling is keeping an organized planner with various spreads of your own design. It does require a little creativity, but you don’t need to be good at drawing or anything at all. I find it fun because it keeps me being creative, and since I’ve writing everything down and designing it all by myself, I tend to remember things a lot better.

These are some of my spreads:

The one you saw on Monday would be the one I have for keeping track of my blog posts.

                                                                                                                   
I do different different designs for each of my weekly spreads.


I have a spread for keeping track of my Bible reading, and I have a mood board to see how each day went. 


Finally (certainly not my last spread, but the last one I am going to show you) is my sheet for keeping track of all of my homework and my sheet for keeping track of my money.


These are fun for me to work on and create on Saturdays and then I just fill them in with whatever needed information I retain through the week. I get to make them colorful and do whtever I want with them. Each spread is unique. I really enjoy making them. For me, this has really helped me keep things organized and clean. I find that if I can get things organized on paper, it helps keep things organized in my head. I don’t stress out nearly as much now that I have this.

How did I get into bullet journaling? … Buzzfeed Nifty? It was one of hundreds of videos I came across on Facebook. After that I just watched a lot of youtube videos. I encourage you to do the same: watch youtube videos or ask questions!