The Silent Killer

My hometown suffered another tragedy at the hands of the Silent Killer this past weekend.
The girl was in my graduating class, class of 2014. We went from kindergarten to graduation together, though we were never really close.

 Two lines, parallel; running together but never intersecting.

Now I realize we have intersected. The Silent Killer has tied us together in a way I never thought it would.

The Silent Killer lurks in the shadows of your mind; you can never escape it. It waits until you think you've finally beaten it, and then attacks with a ferocity unlike any before. It drags you back to its depths, to remind you that you can never escape. Never.

She and I were not close at all. We knew each other, and had talked briefly in class, but outside of classes we had no communication. We ran in different circles, had different friends, different interests, different plans for our future.

The Silent Killer was the only commonality between us. Not that either of us knew about the other. Not until it was too late.

She was one of the happiest people I've ever met. On the outside.
She was always ready with a kind word. On the outside.
She was willing to talk to anyone, regardless of what social clique the were in. On the outside.

On the outside, she was untouchable.

But the demons inside her were tearing her apart.
We all have our own demons... Hers got too much to handle.

Two lines, parallel; running together no longer. 

Unconventional Poem

This poem was not one we talked about in class. I do not know the author for it, because it was written for a movie. In the movie, it was written for an English class as a sonnet example. They were studying Shakespeare and had to write their own versions.

It's from the movie "Ten Things I Hate About You". This is one of my all-time favorite movies. I own it on VHS and have seen it so many times I can quote the entire thing. Yet, I still love watching it. It's based loosely off of Shakespeare's "Taming of the Shrew". If you've never seen the movie, I highly recommend it. It's fantastic, though I may be a little biased toward it.

I hate the way you talk to me, and the way you cut your hair.

I hate the way you drive my car, I hate it when you stare.

I hate your big dumb combat boots, and the way you read my mind.

I hate you so much it makes me sick, it even makes me rhyme.

I hate it... I hate the way you're always right, I hate it when you lie. 

I hate it when you make me laugh, even worse when you make me cry.

I hate it when you're not around, and the fact that you didn't call.

But mostly I hate the way I don't hate you.

Not even close, not even a little bit. Not even at all.  

Edgar Allan Poe

Edgar Allan Poe was a wonderful writer. I first heard one of his poems, "Annabel Lee" when I was probably 10, while watching the movie "Holes". In one of the flashbacks within the movie, a schoolteacher is reading the poem to her students. The farmhand finishes the poem for her, and they share a look of admiration. Many things happen after this, and the two end up losing each other. But I believe they somewhat live the story that's told in "Annabel Lee". The schoolteacher is kept away from the farmhand by the rest of the town, as they are from different races and therefore cannot be together. Yet they try so hard to steal moments of peace together, even though the town forces them to be apart. The farmhand loses his life on the sea by their town, but the schoolteacher never forgets him. Their love lasts longer than their lives, longer than the town even. These characters pop up again and again throughout the movie, to add background to the present-day story.

"Annabel Lee" is such a beautiful story. While it seems somewhat tragic, that they lost their true love, it is also uplifting. The poem shows that the love you have for someone can transcend all problems. If the love you share is true, and you remember that always, nothing can stop you from being with them.

Edgar Allan Poe was a magnificent poet, and "Annabel Lee" has been my favorite poet even before I knew it was a poem or who Edgar Allan Poe was.

                                      "But we loved with a love that was more than love—

                                          I and my Annabel Lee—"

Nothing Left

I'm afraid I do not always fit into Charles Bukowski's vision of what a writer should feel.

Sure, sometimes the words come burning out of me, almost too quickly for me to write them down. The roar of writing will hit me from time to time, and I cannot stop writing for anything.
Not for food.
Not for drink.
Not for friends.
The words are threatening to burn me if I don't release them. Ink onto cream paper, line after line filled with the same 26 letters rearranged to create something potentially beautiful.

Yet at other times, the burning is gone. In its place, a pile of ashes. The words I was not quick enough to grab before they were incinerated by the burning within. Oh, how those words could have formed into memorable sentences, had I only been more alert, more prepared to take them down.

The burning comes when I least expect it, and leaves when I need it the most. It throws thoughts and stories at me, yet when I begin to write them down, they scatter.

So, according to Charles Bukowski, I may not be a writer. Maybe, according to him, I should stop doing it.

But, I can't. Even when I'm stuck and the burning has been swamped out, I cannot stop. Writing is a part of me, and will always come back to me.

Ever Enough?

Will there ever be enough?
Enough time... to go everywhere and see the wonders of the world.
Enough energy... to keep going day after day.
Enough passion... to follow our dreams.
Enough anything... to get us through life without dreading the waking moments.
Enough drive... to go for whatever we want, no matter how difficult or at what cost.
Enough happiness... to battle the despair that lurks in every corner.
Enough life... for all our memories.

How do we know there will be enough? Do we ever know? Or do we keep going through life, hoping everything will work out in the end?

Enough questions... never enough answers.

Relay for Life

This past weekend was the Trine University Relay for Life event. It was from 6pm Saturday-noon Sunday. We had been planning it the entire semester, and were hoping it would be a success. And it definitely was! We raised a total of $5,541 for the American Cancer Society, which is just under our goal of $6,000 but still an amazing amount.

Our theme this year was Relay for more Holidays to come! Our laps were themed in different events, from Halloween with a costume contest to Valentines Day with hearts decorating the lap. The events were a hit and definitely helped keep people there into the early morning.

I managed to stay awake through the entire 18 hour event, plus some more hours after. This past weekend I was up for roughly 39 hours straight! I don't know if I've ever done that before, and I'm not sure I want to do it ever again. But I'm glad I was up for the entire event, to help raise more money for ACS, and to relax and hang out with friends. The espresso at 3am definitely helped keep me alert also!

The few hours leading up to the event were stressful. Making sure everything was there and ready to go, and improvising a few things when we didn't have the supplies, added more stress, but once the event started and people came to relay together it was all worth it.

The event went very well, and we got to pay homage to those we know who have had cancer, both those who have beaten it and those who lost the battle. It was a fun event, with some somber moments mixed in. I am so honored to be able to help raise money to help find a cure for cancer and to be a part of Relay for Life here at Trine!

Why Sports > Fine Arts?

Today there was a press conference for the new hockey complex. Yay hockey for trine, it'll bring more money and students to the school. Then I found out where it's going to be located- right on the marching band practice field. Construction is supposed to start no later than June 1, which means we now have no place to practice.

Can't practice on the football field for obvious reasons. Same with the soccer field and practice field. Which leaves no grassy area for us to practice. Just another example of sports being favored over the fine arts.

Why is that? When did sports become more necessary than fine arts? Since always I suppose. I've never understood why. Yes I know sports bring a lot of money to the school, and some people move on into professional sports. Yet, so many more people make careers from the fine arts than from sports.

I will never understand why sports are so much cooler than the fine arts. The reason has evaded me for 19 years, and will continue to for a long time. Fine arts have helped so many people, and will continue to be an outlet for the outcast, those not gifted with sports skills. Fine arts accepts anyone willing to try, while sports cuts so many all the time.

Why Sports > Fine Arts?

Is there really an answer?

Connections

Can a relationship be built on one connection?
Can it thrive on one connection?
Can you be happy spending your life with one person, when there's only one thing binding you two together?

Or is it a series of random connections that help tie us to those closest to us?
Is it the mutual understanding that we're all a little broken, that we all need someone to look past the cracks and see the beauty in the broken pieces?

If only one connection ties you to your family, can only one connection tie you to another person?
Or is the connection with your family simply that you're family, and no other connection is needed to bind you together forever?

If that's the case, then why can't one connection tie you to your 'soulmate' forever?
Can it? Or is more needed than one simple connection?

If more are needed, how many more should there be?
5? 10? 100?
Who can say the correct number of connections needed with another person in order for you to make it through the cruel world together?

And could it be that the number doesn't matter, but rather the depth of the connection?
Could one connection of the deepest kind outweigh 50 surface connections?
Who's to say?

Asking for Help

Why is it so hard to ask for help? To admit to someone that we aren't doing such a good job at that point? To open ourselves up to someone, let them see our inner demons. Is it that we're too scared to allow someone to see that much of us, to see what we feel when we're alone and breaking down.

Or is it that we don't believe they'll stay around to help us. That once they see the true selves we keep buried down, they won't want to help. They'll leave to go find someone with a different true self, or someone who has a better handle on their problems.

Why is it too hard? What are we scared of? And will the fear ever go away?

When we find the infamous 'one', will the fear go away? When we find someone that has seen our true selves, the person we become at 3:00am when the world has chewed us up and spit us out, will we be fearless? Will we allow them to help us?

Or will we be stuck in an endless loop of fear; destined to be too scared to every truly open up, truly let the person in and hope they don't leave us.

What would happen, if we were brave enough to ask? 10 seconds of courage can take us so far.

The Outlier

I can remember the first time I was called beautiful by a boy. I was in college, it happened at the end of my freshman year. I was almost 19 years old, and had never even been called pretty by a boy. Various other names had been used for years, the ones I am used to hearing. The ones I believe because after so many years, so many people using them, how can you not? I struggle everyday to believe him when he tells me I'm beautiful, because how can he think I am when every other person doesn't.

My whole life, I've been a tomboy. I like jeans and sweatshirts, I prefer going barefoot to wearing heels. Playing in the mud, searching for bugs under rocks, never brushing your hair. Me in a nutshell. My mother said I'd grow out of it, just like my sisters had. They went through a similar phase, and came out of it very girly. They love wearing dresses and heels, spending an hour or two on their hair and make-up just to go to school. What my mother never realized is I am not my sisters. I have no desire to wake up earlier than I have to in order to look like a barbie doll to the people in my grade. I value sleep over looking perfect. If I can wake up, get dressed, and leave in 10 minutes then I will every time.

My older sisters dated from the time they were in eighth grade. They had scores of boys who wanted to be with them, wanted the chance to take them out. My brother was the same way, except with girls. All my siblings could get a date in a minute. I was not so lucky. The boys in my grade thought I was about as appealing as a crack on the sidewalk. They never considered me, not even for a second. Did it bother me? Not initially. For the longest time it didn't. All my friends dated, had fights and drama, and broke up. I was their go-to for help (though I had no experience I could give them some great unbiased advice) and through their stories I was 100% fine with not dating.

I was the outlier in my family. No boyfriends, no dates, no 3 hour phone calls. I spent my Friday and Saturday nights on the couch, watching a movie or reading a book. My parents never had to worry about what I was getting myself into; all the bad things I did were only done inside the pages of my latest story. While my friends were out partying, drinking, sleeping around, I was safely tucked between the covers of the scores of books piled next to me.

The older I got without ever dating, the more my family questioned if I even liked boys. My sisters asked me first, then my mother. My brother and father never asked, but  I could the question was on the tip of their tongue. My friends asked me, the people in my grade would ask my friends because they were too scared to ask me to my face. I am a 1000% supporter of the LGBTQ community; they are wonderful people who deserve to love who they love. I do like boys, and only boys, I just was't interested in dating throughout most of high school. They didn't seem to believe me, because all high school girls are supposed to be boy crazy.

My family didn't understand, though I didn't explain it to them very well. I always told them I just wasn't interested in a relationship at that time. That was only partially true. At times I did like someone, yet I never believed they could like me so I would push the feelings away until they disappeared. I had decided that nobody would want to be with me, so I had accepted that fact. I would be the outlier in my family, no boyfriend in high school, or college. Be a strong, independent woman who didn't need no man.

Freshman year of college, though, everything changed.

Haunting Names

For as long as I can remember, I've been the fat girl. The mean girl. The tomboy, the lesbian, the ugly one. The robot. My father has a saying "if you earn the title, you're going to get called the name". I don't know exactly what I did to earn all these, yet here they are. Most didn't come around until junior high, when everyone is insecure and takes their pain out on the other kids. The fat girl name has been around forever, though.

I cannot personally remember the first time I was called fat, but I've been told the story so many times I feel as if I can. The first time was when I was born, by my mother. I was a full term baby, 7 lbs. 9 1/2 oz. Yet I was placed in the NICU due to an emergency C-section. My mother always remarked on what a fat baby I was. When you place a full-term baby next to the pre-mature ones, the ones fighting every moment of every day to survive, of course they're going to look fat.

The only time I can remember when I wasn't fat was when I was dying. A part of my body, my pancreas, stopped working and my body couldn't do anything about it. I turned ghost white, my skin was stretched across the skeleton I had become. Looking back at those pictures, of the time when I was skinny, makes me somewhat angry. I was dying inside, and nobody told me. Not until I passed out at a girl scout outing at breakfast, my bowl of cheerios saving my face from colliding with the wood table. My best friend sitting beside me, only 6 years old, freaking out because I was laying in my breakfast. Not moving, not doing anything to help myself. May 16, 2003 was the last day I was skinny, the last day I was dying. I was diagnosed and starting getting healthy again.

After that day, the day my body almost gave out, I have never been skinny. I can remember at almost every doctor's appointment being told that while the average child needed 30-45 minutes of exercise a day, I needed more like 45-60 minutes. I remember my mother telling me to not eat so much, for I'd need to take more meds if I did. I remember her commenting on my sisters when they lost weight, yet never me. I remember not being able to fit in my older sister's hand-me-downs anymore, the clothes started going from my oldest sister to me, then to my other sister. I remember getting clothes from my brother and my cousin, because they were more comfortable than my sister's stuff.

I have struggled with this name for years, really since I was six. And I will always struggle with it. It's just another thing I have to deal with.

The Power

                                   "I am my problem and my solution."

This quote has been my go-to throughout this semester. I never truly understood the gravity of what it means until now, though I fear I still do not completely understand. 
 I am the only one to decide how my life goes, if I succeed or fail. If I allow others to dictate what I do, say, go, act, think. If I give someone else the power over me. 
I have the power to decide to go, to stay, to make the change or learn to live with it. To tell the truth, even when it's difficult. 
To help my friends, or make them suffer alone.
To reach out when I need help, or subject myself to the torture my mind endures. 
Only I can choose to change my life.
 

The Pieces of Me

I am from books. Countless pages filled with the words I long to hear. Shelves stacked with stories I may never get to read.
I am from messy tables and counters, the plans of the day being too full to accommodate cleaning.
I am from my corner of the room between my two sisters; all our stuff spilling into each others because the room just couldn't hold it all.
I am from long summer days picking mulberries and cherries from the rows of trees out back.
I am from dark winters, when the only light source were the candles spread throughout the rooms.
I am from the lake, spending hours watching the pontoons lazily flow by, as the passengers wave  good-bye.
I am from memories, each one heavily photographed so we can never forget.

I am from my mother's looks, my father's thoughts, my grandmother's attitude.




I am not from money, from getting everything you want simply because you asked for it. 
I am not from immaculate rooms, for both my parents worked full time and we were babysat by my grandmother.
I am not from perfect holidays; there's been an argument or disagreement at almost every holiday for as long as I can remember.
I am not from a doctor-free life; I've visited one every 3-4 months since I was 6, and will continue to until my demise.
I am not from a picture perfect family, where everyone laughs and smiles all the time.
I am not from failure, my parents have always tried their best to do what's right, as have I.
I am not from anger; though sometimes we blow our tops, the unconditional love of family is ever-present.

I am not from pettiness, from an artificial life, from a facade.




I am from real life, with all it's ups and downs. And I wouldn't have it any other way. 

Regrets

The older generations look at us and say we'll regret so many things.
We'll regret our tattoos, our piercings, our music, our lifestyle.
But what they don't understand is that these things- our tattoos and piercings, our music, our art- help mind us together as a generation who's breaking the barriers.

We are the generation to enact change. We stand up for what we believe in, we rebel against the unfair stigmas that have been implemented for centuries. We are here to change the world for the better. What the older generations say we will regret are the things we will rejoice.

Our tattoos are a symbol of our individuality
Our piercings are a symbol of our strength
Our music is a symbol of our voice that demands to be heard
Our lifestyle is a symbol of change

When we are 70 years old, we will not regret the infinity tattoo on our collarbone, the industrial bar pierced in our ear. We will not regret the music we listened to or the lifestyle we chose. We will learn from everything we do, say, experience, and take those learning moments to make the world better for generations to come.

You say we'll regret what we did, but that's not the case.
We'll only regret what we were to scared to do, to try, to say.
And who wants to look back on their formative years with regrets?

Not our generation, that's for sure.

Happiness

Happiness comes...
When you least expect it.
Out of nowhere.
Suddenly.

Happiness leaves...
When you need it the most.
When you're clinging on.
Painfully.

Can we keep the happiness we strive for?
Or are we fated to live in a state of perpetual contentedness?
Never to feel elation, but never to feel sorrow.
Destined to live in the grey area, never drifting too far one way for too long.

Or are we simply too scared to face the sadness looming around?
Too scared to realize that we're not happy, not really.
Too scared to make a change, make a decision.
Too scared to move out of the grey, into the light.

And are we every truly happy? How do we know when we are?
When our eyes sparkle as we talk, when we can't help but smile while thinking about it.
When it's the only thing on our mind, the only thing we want to do/be around.
And how long can this happiness persist?
For a day. A week. A month. A year.
Forever?

Happiness comes...
Happiness goes...
Does it every stay?

If the Studying Ends

Sit in class for hours upon hours
Learn this subject, learn that one; remember this, this, this, this.
Out of class, do these homework problems, write that paper, do that lab report.
On the weekends, don't forget to study for the test, finish your final draft, read the chapter.
When you don't have anything assigned, still look over the information for when there's a quiz
Over the break, review these subjects, finish that paper, don't forget about this obscure topic that was mentioned once and then never again.

Over and over, day after day. The studying never ends.
Even after you graduate, classes never end.
Six months of training, yearly classes to get updated on the new testing coming out.
Take a test every few years to make sure you know what you're doing.
Read this book of new tests, look at this website for the information.
Look up what the code means, search the diagnosis because you never learned it.
Ask someone what the doctor wrote in their atrocious handwriting.
Is that an "a" or an "o"? Maybe its a "d".

Is there ever a break from studying? A break from the stress that comes with learning?
Can we ever revert back to when learning was fun? When we ached for new topics to fill up our mind
When learning happened at school, with maybe 20 minutes of studying at home.
When the only focus was school, not every other responsibility on top of school.
When sleep is lacking because everything has to happen before we can allow our bodies the rest they are craving, aching for.
When you have to eat on the go, or just not eat, because there isn't time between class, lab, work, studying.

Will that moment ever come, when all the studying ends?
Only time will tell...

On the Outside

I see the people walking by, in their clusters of friends.
I hear them talking, laughing, arguing. Everyone contributing to the conversation, making it a noisy mess of words to an outsider.
I see them on their phones, calling, texting; oblivious to everything around them except their friends in the device.
I see all the habits of people; biting their nails, playing with their hair. Tapping a pencil while reading, listening to music to help them concentrate.
It's amazing what you can observe when you're on the outside looking in.

I see people at meals, sitting quiet and alone. Until their group comes along, and the talking, laughing, yelling begins again.
I can never quite make out the specific conversations from the various groups around me. It's all a mass of noise I am not involved in making.
Even at my group, I still notice the little things people do. The awkward laugh when someone says something uncomfortable, the rolling of one's eyes at an idiotic comment.
Even among people, I am still on the outside looking in.

All around me, people carry on with their conversations. They're oblivious to everything else, including me.
My friends are oblivious too, they carry on conversations I can't contribute to without a second thought.
I sit by them in silence, hoping the conversation may shift to something, anything, else. Yet it never does.
I am on the outside looking in. In every situation, I am on the outside.Be it strangers or friends, acquaintances or family, I am on the outside of every situation.

I wonder what the inside feels like. I guess I'll never know.

Days on the Lake

I stare at the lake and blink. Suddenly I'm 14 again, during the long summer days that we spent at the lake. Hours upon hours spent lounging on the beach, though there were so many we hardly took count. Oh how I wish I could get one day back.

Blink. I'm 10, awaiting my first night fishing trip. Sitting on the porch watching the sun set, the trip being the only thing on my mind. My hopes were high, my excitement spilling over. Little did I know just how boring that trip was to become.

Blink. I'm 8 again, sitting by my grandmother as we cross stitched the day away. We didn't talk, but rather listen to the sounds of the lake swarming around us. These were my favorite moments; the lake in its mysterious beauty, and us in our most natural forms.

Blink. I stare at the cottage, falling to shambles. The bathroom molding, the siding falling off, the porch con caving. And yet the memories come flooding back. The cottage was full for so many years, housing the memories from all the days by the lake. It has served its purpose; time to let it rest.

Everyone Leaves

Everyone leaves, it's a fact of life. People move away, people die. You can't stop it from happening; these are inevitable actions.
But you, leaving me when I'm still here, is a fact that I can change. A fact you could change. If you cared enough to do so. I want to fix it, do you?
You don't seem to care if we're together or apart. You've got your new friends, why should you need me? I'm not as important, not as much fun, as them.
So you leave. And here I am, left without one of my closest friends. Because I was too scared to try and stop you, and you didn't care enough to stop yourself.
I've lost friends before, they meet new people and forget I exist. It's been a fact of my life since I was little. It used to hurt so much, to be put behind the back burner in someone's mind. But over the years it's hurt less and less. I've pulled away from people so it won't hurt as much as it used to. If you don't get close to them, it can't hurt when they leave you. Right?
Wrong. It still hurts. It's just a different kind of hurt. When you're close and they leave, it's like ripping a band-aid off a wound. The abrupt distance is painful, but will subside. When you're not close to them, however, the pain is like a bruise. Dull, almost unnoticeable. But it stays around for a long time. The feeling of not having someone close enough to tell your secrets, your fears; no one there to help battle the demons you keep in your soul. Sure, you may not feel the sudden heartache of them leaving you, but you will always feel the throbbing of having no one on your side.
I thought this time it would be different. We're close, but not too close. The grey intermediate between the heartache and the throbbing. I thought being in that area would make the pain less intense, less apparent.
Turns out, I was wrong. The grey part hurts the worst. There's the dull pain of not being super close, but when you left the heartache was almost unbearable. The pain is always there, with the added burst of pain. And I don't know how to fix it. If I even can fix it. If you even want to fix it.
Have I lost my chance at being your friend? Have you replaced me with someone more exciting, more interested? Someone better than I ever could be? I've been replaced time and time again, but I never thought you would replace me. Guess the grey area is the worst place to put a friend. That's the area where you get hurt the most.

A Place for Me

I have always tried to be there for my friends whenever they need me. Throughout high school, I was the person everyone went to for unbiased advice on countless situations, from boyfriend advice (which I was surprisingly good at giving despite my never having had a boyfriend before) to family advice to a ranting session. I was their outlet, though I never had an outlet of my own. I suppose them telling me their trials and tribulations was somewhat of an outlet for me. As I heard their problems, my own became minuscule and insignificant. As nice as it would've been for one of them do reciprocate the action to me, I found comfort in being able to help them through tough times in their lives.
Looking back on those times, however, I realized that I may have spent too much time thinking about their problems and not enough time dealing with my own. I started many a bad habit in high school because of this process, like taking on my friends' struggles as my own. I would spend so much time trying to help them through something, that I always pushed my personal problems onto the back burner; sometimes even behind that, if I had a lot of friends coming to me for advice. 
 I never really noticed this as a problem until later in high school, after I had been doing this for so long I couldn't stop. I tried to pull away from peoples' problems, but everyone came to me with theirs and I couldn't stop trying to help them.
Writing has always been my outlet when times get stressful, and because of this habit I've developed an outlet couldn't be more crucial. So I think I have finally found my outlet: my blog.
I never thought about doing a blog until this creative writing class, and I must admit I was not excited to start one. By doing one, however, I have found the beauty and serenity of letting go of all your frustrations; putting them down on paper (even virtual paper) has been a key element to helping me sort through all the thoughts, feelings, and scenarios that race through my head everyday.
So here goes; my blog will become a place of serenity for me. A place to express everything going through my head, and hopefully make sense of it along the way.
For those of you reading these: my thoughts rarely make sense to anyone but me, so if it doesn't make sense sorry. If you find a post of mine silly or strange, that's fine. They mean something to me, and that's all that really matters. If they do help you in some way, I'm glad. Writing has always been my way of interacting with the world in a way I understand. So I hope that my writing can help anyone, if they need some help. At the very least, I know it's helping me.

Blank Page

I stare at the blank page, nothing worthy of being written coming out of me this time. The blank page could become so many things, so many stories.
          The prince and princess... The day they went to space... Vampires in the city... Witches...
So many possibilities, and yet it's a blank page. How can I choose what to write, what will be good enough to grab someone's attention and never let it go. Will I ever be able to write something of such extravagance? Such beauty? Such sadness, happiness? How can I even begin a story that will be compared to the great works of Shakespeare, of F. Scott Fitzgerald, of J. K. Rowling, and all the other timeless treasures we all know and love. Compared to them, all my stories are just blank pages.

While ominous, the blank page is also comforting. I know I can put anything I want down onto the page, fill it with the stories buried deep inside me. And if, after I write them, I realize they're nothing more than chicken scratch, I can delete them. Revert back to my blank page. Start the process over and over, again and again until I write something worth being shared.

The blank page is a comfort, a terror, an escape, a nuisance, a pleasure, a headache, a pastime. And everything in between. It is ever present, and though at times it is menacing, it is a part of me. An eternal blank page is by me, waiting for a story to be inked on its pages.  

What story will come out today?

Freedom

Is anyone truly free?
Free to do what they want, say what they feel, no matter the repercussions.
Free to be who they truly are, down to their very core.
Free to tell their family what they think of them, why they don't trust them with the secrets buried inside of them.
Free to speak their mind during class discussions, even if people don't agree and try to argue a different perspective.
Free to go wherever they want to go, whenever they want to, even when they have no reason to go.
Free to wear what they find comfortable, even if its not the popular style.
Free to go after their dreams with every fiber of their being, not to be afraid of failure.
Free from fear. Free from sadness. Free from anger. Free from people. Free from choices.
Free from life.
We claim to be free, to have the freedom to do what we want to do.
But do we really have that freedom?
I know I don't.

The Hanging Tree

This song has been playing over and over in my head for days. So, I thought I'd share it with you all to hopefully get it out of my head.
This song is full of sorrow and beauty. The meaning of this song can be so many things, depending on the person who reads it and the experiences they've been through. That's one of the beautiful things about music, and art in general; what one set of lyrics, paintings, words mean to me can mean something completely different to you.
To me, this song is about loss, death. Someone is waiting for their loved one to come home, though I don't think the loved one ever will. I think this song is about losing someone due to some type of self harm, be it suicide, alcoholism, drug abuse, etc. The pain and sorrow the family/friends are feeling is catastrophic, and all they want is to see their loved ones ones last time.
The midnight line always leads me to this type of feeling behind the song. Midnight can also be called the "witching hour", when spirits, demons, ghosts, and other supernatural beings can appear. If your loved one is dead, midnight is the perfect time to meet because that's when they actually can come and see you, and maybe help clarify why they did what they did. So many times, we never really know the true thoughts and feelings of the people we love until after they're gone; sometimes we will never know. Getting a chance to meet with them one final time, and find out what they were thinking/feeling/going through that led them to this would bring about so much closure.
Unfortunately, that is something we may never get to accomplish. We can speculate, but never truly know how they felt after they're gone from our lives forever. The beauty of this song, to me, is that it captures the sorrow we all feel after we've lost someone incredibly important to us. The shock that they're gone, sorrow of them leaving, the anger that they left so suddenly, the sadness/depression that lingers. Each stanza has a different emotion tied to it, and each emotion I've felt after losing incredibly important people in my life.
To me, this song is so many things. Sad. Beautiful. Emotional. Painful. Real.
What is it to you?

The Snow

The snow can be a wonderful surprise, or a painful experience. I had thought, hoped, that the snow would be done for the season. Oh, how wrong I was.
The snow was falling, cascading, down from the skies in an intricate, chaotic pattern. The wind howled its monstrous howl, and screeched the snow at us as we walked to class. Oh, how empty the wind can make you feel.
The amount that can fall in an hour; from as few as flurries to much more in inches, feet. The snow is an ever-changing mystery. How each snowflake can look so similar, yet is so different and unique from its falling mate. It is a wonderful, sometimes unbearable, mystery.
Yet last night, as I walked from building to building, I experienced the true beauty of the snow. Normally, I see the snow for its chilling appearance it takes most often. Last night, however, when all was calm and quiet I saw the beauty. There was no wind, no person out, so animal to disturb it. It was just the snow, like a fallen blanket across the earth, and myself, but a minuscule being in this vast expanse of a world.
As I looked around, took in the exquisite beauty of the fallen snow, I started to understand why some people love the winter. The snow, though sometimes cold and cruel, was in that moment peaceful and inviting. Looking across the patches of undisturbed snow, no wind there to blow it all away, it looked so serene. Though the beauty only lasted those few moments between the buildings, it was more than enough for me to start to appreciate the winter for the mystical beauty that it truly is.
And in the morning, when the wind was back and fearsome as ever, still I remembered the beauty of the night before. Though the wind may howl and the snow may freeze, always will I remember the peaceful moments of that night.

Eleanor Roosevelt

"No one can make you feel inferior without your consent."
"The future belongs to those who believe in the beauty of their dreams."
"Do one thing that scares you everyday."
"Never allow a person to tell you no who doesn't have the power to say yes."
"Justice can not be for one side alone, but must be for both."
"The giving of love is an education in itself."
"Do what you feel in your hear to be right- for you'll be criticized for it anyways. You'll be damned if you do and damned if you don't."

Eleanor Roosevelt has man more quotes than these seven, and they all seemed to be as relevant today as they were when she wrote them.

Perception of a Person

     It's interesting to think about how every person views the world, views their life. Even if we think we know their life, we will never truly understand because we are not them; we don't view the world through their eyes, walk life in their shoes. Though we can relate to experiences they have had that are similar to those we have seen, we cannot fully experience what they saw, touched, heard, felt at those moments. We will never know what they truly experience; we can only know for sure what we experience firsthand.
     No one can ever really know what's going on in your mind, what you think and feel on a specific topic. Sure, we can share our opinions on various subjects, how different topics make us feel. One can never know, though, if that's how you truly feel or if that's what you want everyone to believe you feel, because you're scared of how they would react to what you truly think and feel.
     Everyone has secrets, past events they don't feel comfortable sharing with anyone. Some could be things that happened as a child, or as a teenager, or as an adult. Whatever the event was, whenever it happened, it changed you. You may not notice how it changed you; to you, you still act the same as you did before it happened. Externally, you're like you always have been; inside, you're falling apart. Though you may not know personally what demons everyone is facing, everyone has them.

The elderly man at the grocery store, he fought for our country and still has nightmares of the things he saw and did overseas.

The single mother of two, she lost her husband and now works as hard as she can to keep food in her children's stomachs and a roof over their heads. 

The super jock, his father will only talk to him if he brings up sports. 

The head cheerleader, her mother won't listen when she says she prefers choir to cheer. 

The band nerd, he needed a place to be where he wouldn't be bullied for being different. 

The theater performer, she lives the lives of countless characters so she can pretend she's someone else for a while, rather than the outcast she has become. 

The girl with her nose constantly in a book, she grew up reading because she was the awkward youngest child who didn't fit in with her siblings. 

The boy who's constantly punching whatever he can, he needs to build up his strength so he can one day stop his dad from abusing his mom. 

The girl working a full time job in high school, she has to make money to provide for her younger siblings and her mother. 

The girl who always looks pissed off, she's still coming to grips with her grandmother's sudden death.

The boy who always talks in class, nobody at home will listen to him.

The girl, the boy, the mom, the grandparent, the child, the person...

He's angry, she's sad, they're overly preppy, they've never said more than two words in class...

     Everyone has a past. Events and catastrophes that have had a role in shaping them into the man, woman, child we see before us. The person on the outside doesn't always reflect the person on the inside. Rarely ever does it truly represent who we are; it's easier to put on an appearance of who we believe people want us to be, rather than being ourselves. Our perception of people may be right, and yet they may be incredibly wrong. 

Do your perceptions of people match who they really are?

Do peoples perception of you match who you really are?

What's behind your facade?

A Safe Haven

     Throughout my life, I have always striven to find a safe place. Before this past Christmas break, I had never had my own room. I've always shared with at least one of my siblings; whether it be all three of them, both my sisters, or one of my sister, there has always been someone else in the room with me. Most people feel that their room is their safe place to go and be alone; not so in my case.
     I am also a major introvert, and have slight social anxiety. Talking in class makes me nervous, giving speeches can give me panic attacks. So while some people find a safe place in people, I never have.
     Some people also find a safe place in their families. A lot of my friends from high school had really good relationships with their moms; when something bad happened, they went to her for advice. My mother and I unfortunately don't have that type of relationship. We're more comfortable sitting in the same room and ignoring each other than we are talking about sensitive topics. Some also find comfort in their siblings, because siblings stick together through thick and thin. Up until very recently, I haven't understood this type of closeness and still don't fully understand it. There is 2-5 years between me and my three siblings. My brother and I are 2 years apart, my sister and I are 3, my other sister and I are 5. They're all very close in age, 13 months between my brother and sister, under 2 years between my sisters, so they are all close. I, on the other hand, am the awkward younger one that doesn't have the same relationship with them as they do to each other. So while my siblings may find solace in one another, I do not.
     Even with my friends in high school I could never find one that I was especially close to above all others. Looking at all my friends I could see who they all went to for guidance, who they were especially close to. Most of the time, I was the awkward third wheel in the group of two best friends. I hopped from group to group, friends with them but not incredibly close. I kept, and still do keep, people at a distance. When there is so much isolation built up from a young age, it's hard to let people in.
     My one solace that I did find as a child was reading and writing. With reading, I could be transported into another time, another place. I took on the persona of the main character and dealt with their problems rather than my own. With writing, I could project my problems onto the characters and let them solve them in the ways I could never. These two activities quickly turned from hobbies of mine into my main passions. I value reading above all else, including sleep, food, and friend time. Writing, while challenging at times, is definitely something that has helped me through every problem in my life. Where others turn to people, I turn to characters. They have helped me in ways I don't think people ever could.
     So I suppose I have found my safe place, though I found it at such a young age I never really noticed I had it. Books and writing are things that have always been there for me, and always will always be there. They are my safe haven.

Formal Recruitment

     Tonight was the first night of formal recruitment for 2016, which made me think of when I went through formal last spring. Formal was a very scary process, yet I am so happy I went through it. In case you don't know what formal is, it's about a week process of meeting all the different sororities on campus, and learning about them to see if you fit well with any of them. I signed up kind of on a whim, because I was a commuter last year and didn't really know anyone on campus other than some people I met in band and in my classes. I wanted to experience more of college life, and so I signed up.
     Through formal, you meet so many people you never would have otherwise, and learn a little about who they are and why they chose their sorority. It was really cool to see girls from all areas, different backgrounds, finding a commonality in one group and becoming incredibly close. The relationships that sisters form is quite unlike any other. Having sisters behind you is comforting; knowing you always have someone to talk to about whatever is going on in your life, whether it be good or bad.
     Learning a little about each of the six sororities on campus was really nice, because until you talk to the sisters from each group you really can't understand who they are and what they stand for. Even meeting them and talking to them for the time that I had, I still can't tell you who all these fantastic women are, but I can tell you that they have found everlasting friendships within their sororities, just as I have. That doesn't mean we don't have our fair share of disagreements, because we really do. When life kicks you down and you just need someone to be there for you, you always have your sisters. No matter what, they're there for you through everything and anything.
     Through formal, I learned what groups were for me, and what ones weren't. In the end you can only choose one, and I found one that accepted me for who I am; nothing more, nothing less. I have made friendships with the girls in my sorority that I know I will cherish and keep for the rest of my life. The sisters have truly become my sisters; I trust them with everything because I know they've got my back. The sisters of Phi Sigma accepted me one year ago, and I couldn't be more thankful. They are my sisters, my family, my friends.

Once a Phi Sigma

Always a Phi Sigma

Coffee Makes the Day Better

     I don't think there's ever a day where I don't need coffee. Even if I get 10+ hours of sleep, I need the caffeine of coffee to function properly. The type of coffee needed changes depending on the day. On the days where I barely get any sleep, maybe 3-4 hours that night, I need straight coffee with maybe one sugar packet. The warmth of the coffee plus the bitter taste helps me get going when the day seems to drag on forever. If I get a decent amount of sleep for a college student, 6-8 hours that night, I'll go for some of the more fun flavors such as a peppermint mocha or a chocolate frap. The sugar in those plus the coffee gives me a little boost to get through the day. The days that drag on and seem to never end require coffee for every meal. Even late at night sometimes I make coffee, because I still have homework and can't get though it without the bitter taste and caffeine of coffee.
    I never used to be a fan of coffee, until I got into high school and my schedule started to get jam packed. Even then, I had mostly sweetener with a little coffee added. Throughout the years, I've started to invert the ratio to where it's mostly coffee with a dash of sweetener. I'm not to the stage where I can drink it black, unless I have an all nighter or I get maybe 1-2 hours of sleep that night. Those rare occasions warrant the bitter taste of hot, black coffee.
    Going a day without coffee is bearable, though I don't really like to. Going two or three days without coffee is no longer possible. Coffee gives me the motivation to keep moving and actually participate in school. Without coffee, I become sluggish and can't focus. The sleep deprivation is heavily apparent when I go without coffee for more than a day, and it's too hard to function when I haven't had any for two+ days. Coffee makes my days bearable, and I get more done with it in my system.

Beth Ann

My grandmother's birthday was yesterday, January 20, as well as my half birthday. Yesterday, unfortunately, I was too swamped with school things that I didn't have time to post. Today, however, I thought it would be a nice tribute to the woman who helped raise me, and make a list of all that she taught me.
      She taught me:

• How to cross stitch- a hobby I keep up with today; it helps me calm down when I get too stressed
• To appreciate a good book and to never leave home without one- I now carry a book with me everywhere I go, no matter the situation, just incase I find myself with some extra time and nothing to fill it
• That soap operas are the best thing to fill up lazy summer afternoons- the story lines are so predictable, yet incredibly addicting
• Shoes are only necessary when leaving the house- if you're inside, they serve no purpose
• Having a sink full of dishes is not important as reading- dishes won't fill your mind with the same complex thoughts that a fantastic book can
• Having an immaculate house only shows people how boring you are- if all you have to fill your time is cleaning, you need to find a hobby, or twenty
• Genealogy is fascinating- she got our family line back to my 14-great grandparents and found how our ancestors traveled from France to Quebec, and then settled into Indiana
• Mowing the lawn is much more fun when you cut it in fun ways- though my grandfather was strict about straight lines, my grandmother and I found it was much more fun to cut it in a large circle; as long as it all gets cut, who cares how it's cut
• You will eat half the berries you collect while collecting them- in their yard, they had two large mulberry trees and 9 cherry trees; a majority of the time we came in with stained fingers and toes, with barely any berries in the buckets. Oh well!
• History is so much more fun to study in your free time than in school- over the summers we would research various things from the civil war to the supreme court justices, and it was a lot of fun; learning it in school is torture
• Families are crazy, but you love them anyway- my family is one big mess, but they're always there for you
• Cheesy popcorn is the best morning snack, and ice cream is the best afternoon snack- everyday in summer, this was the routine food to eat between meals
• Say what you want and stand up for what you believe in even if people disagree with you- my grandmother would say whatever she wanted, whenever she wanted, and didn't care who she offended; she was outspoken and stuck up for herself and instilled these values in me as well

My grandmother was a fascinating, intimidating woman. Unfortunately, she died in August of 2011. Though she can no longer teach me other values and ways to live a great life, I am grateful for what I was able to learn from her in the 15 years I spent with her. These values I will cherish for my entire life, and I will always be thankful for everything she taught me.

My Book

Why must I put down my book?
I long to finish the lavender hardback beauty that has caught my attention and refuses to let it go.
Page after page, chapter after chapter, I fall further and further into its grasps.
From the character progressions to the storyline developing, I am hopelessly addicted to its exquisite cream colored pages detailing the events of Raven and Mikhail.
Their lives have become my own; I relate to the struggles they must deal with.
The words burn pictures into my skull; the sentences transporting me into another time, another place, completely different from this world and yet, also very similar.
One hundred pages from the end, I am so anxious to read what happens next.
Fifty pages from the end, will the book end happily or leave me aching for more?
Twenty-five pages from the end, the agony is killing me.
Ten pages from the end, where did the time go?
Five pages from the end, I don't want to finish it; please don't end!
Last page, last sentence, last word.
The book has ended, Raven and Mikhail's lives eternally inscribed on both the pages of the novel and my brain.
Books are my everything; they are my life.
On to the next one...