my dreams consist mostly of mountains these days.

Feburary is the worst month.

A Dear Friend

My dear friend, Amy, was on the news last night for a really cool reason.

Look at her: http://www.foxtoledo.com/dpp/news/local/One-dress-six-months

I'm looking forward to joining her for the month of March. Only a few weeks away.

Yours

Yours

Her lips are like moths
fluttering around the light blub
that hangs over the dusty stair case
that leads to the basement that no one really goes into.
Unless,they're trying to find something
they had forgotten about for the past three years
or need a quiet place to cry.
But her teeth are like chainsaws,
you have to watch the kickback
but, they chatter motions of the moon
and big the Grand Canyon is.
They chatter stories of when
clouds took shapes of fossils,
and how seahorses carry their babies.
They chatter songs of open veins,
and the f-word during prayer.
But, she swears her heart beats faster than a hummingbird's,
at even the sheer mention
of how a blue whale is as long as three school buses.
And how every time she thinks of school buses
she remembers the time you sat next to her,
and told her you couldn't breathe
when you thought about breathing.
She doesn't look anything like photographs of herself, though
Because not even the greatest of cameras could capture
the crowbar jammed under her beating heart
nor the terror built behind her eyes
from twenty some years of
the train ride home
The funny thing about home, though is,
it's never too far away
but, damn, it takes forever to get there.
But not even the weight of that
could keep her from climbing to the top of mountains,
gliding brushes across canvas,
or crawling inside of God.
Because she explodes when she hears His name,
even though sometimes she can't hear it
or it sounds more like dust collecting on picture frames
or a the last breath from the lungs
hanging by a noose in her closet,
she knows it's there.
And if there's anything left to know
it's this: while her words aren't rational
and her actions and reactions don't apply to any rule-
she's got a pair of working man hands.
And they were created for one thing and one thing only.
To be held.

When God is teaching you patience a lot of times it feels like something scraping up against your paper thin bones. The only cure is for your skeleton to jump out of it's skin and run far, far away. I think it's because I don't quite understand God's timing yet. Or, at least, refuse to because you know the story- my timing is better.. blah blah blah.

India has a distinct set of colors and smells that can pluck even the un-pluckable heart strings. I want to go back, and I want to go back now. There's no time for patience when you've left half your heart thousands of miles away in a different country. It's where I'm supposed to be again.

And, God is going to give me the desires of my heart. My desires say, "go to India. Be with the women in the brothels." I believe he knows the words that dance around in my soul, and I also believe he takes them seriously. I also believe, that he will deliver when the time is right. And oh, the time never seems right, does it? It seems far away. Or too soon. Or something wrong. The right time always seems like a mythical story. One in which the right time is this beautiful bursting light-gospel choir-dancing sunshine thing. It comes right into your open hands- you knew it was coming and you had been waiting all day. But, it always seems to come when your in your pajama's watching re-runs of the Golden Girls and perfectly content with your bowl of frosted cheerios.

I get it. I have to wait for it. India cannot come this summer and it breaks me in two. I talked about patience with my friends Jacintha and Lori tonight. Jacintha said something I think I'm going to rest on for a while. She said, that God doesn't want us to attach ourselves to something [India], but instead to attach ourselves to Him. I like this idea. I like the idea of taking out my proverbial needle and thread and sewing myself to my God who never fails, and always has it right.

And there's comfort in that. So, while my heart continues to break and mourn over a loss of an Indian summer (no, for reals..), my heart is preparing for the excitement of a possible summer in Vail, Colorado.

more to come about that...

mmmm

Not much to say. Other than break was OK and I'm not ready for school tomorrow. But I did make my notebooks look fun.

beautifully unbalanced.

Or maybe innapropriately crazy. Or downright absurd. I don't know. My life, though, as I've come to accept that I'll never accept - is sort of a wreck sometimes. As I come to terms with the "highly moderate to severe depression" (as my doctor calls it) and figure out what my medicine means for me, I still suffer bouts of horrendous saddness, where I think I'm going to die. Many situations and circumstances will bring this on. Most of them are arbitary or obscure and make no sense. Like television commericals, or finishing a book. Some are real. Like feeling insecure. Or unworthy. Or not close to God. Or thinking about my Dad. I want to take this chance to open up to anyone who reads this thing (anyone?) a look into what depression is like. I want to be open about it. Sorry if it makes you uncomfortable.

Here is something rare that I more than likely will never do again. These are journal entries.

December 6th
Why is it me who is sad? During Christmas time? Why aren't I laughing with my roommates? Decorating the tree? Why am I empty? Lonely. Unlike anything else that exists on this planet?

I check the inside of my bible to see the words are still inside and that I am not in hell.

They are.

But I don't read them. Instead, I imagine what a relief it would feel to slice open m veins and watch the blood pour out. It is itching to come out, I am certain. It needs air.

Christmas time. While I hope every year it is the other way around, the lonely just feel more lonely. The lights are beautiful, the snow is magic. Yet, I still manage to be dying.

They don't understand. "Follow Him" they say. "Life is what you make it." "YOU choose to feel this way."

Oh, if it were only that simple.

Oh, if I could stich my life back together, transform the texture of my heart, and feel God again, I would. They don't understand.

So they keep their distance. Afraid of me. I could snap at any moment, right? Fuck. What do they think I'm going to do?

I just need to be held like any other child. Like any other little thing who has fallen down on the pavement is and is just certain they have ruined their whole life.

It feels like falling apart.

But don't take my word for it, I am dramatic. Delusional. Selfish.

I. JUST. DON'T. CARE.

Now, to be honest. I am a little embarassed by this. But it was SO real. It was the realest thing I have ever felt. I freak out like this, sometimes. I lose it. I get very, very sad. But there was some redemption. My roommate Katie prayed for me, and told me she had a feeling I'd feel better soon. And she was right.

December 7th
Things get better. (A letter to me.)

Remember the night after the night you lost your shit. You ate starbursts and wrote a letter to Kate. You loved a Christmas tree and you are about to read the bible. You had genuine laughs at your lifegroup's Christmas party. You got a Rugrat's pillowcase. You did your homework. Please remember this. Remember that you don't want to kill your self and that you love your bed and your room is warm and that you are warm.