Do you ever forget to breathe?

I do.

Not exact exactly rhetorical

How am I going to tell my kids they can't get that toy because mommy's medical bills cost too much?

How am I going to tell my husband that if he wants to be able to talk to me in the future, he better learn ASL just in case?

How am I going to raise kids in this terrifying world, convince them that it's not me that's the bad guy?

How am I going to explain to my husband why I was breathing so hard and crying for no reason?

How am I going to be able to tell my kids it'll be okay?

How am I going to tell my future husband that our kids might be just like me?

Can I just freeze time?

Hi

You know those conversations you rehearse in your head for years? Just waiting to see the person who hurt you, way back when, and tell them everything you've accomplished since then. Tell them just how okay you are now, no, better than okay. Tell them that, despite their best efforts, you rose. You won.
And then the time comes. You actually see this person.
And you freeze.
You forget everything.
All you can do is smile with surprised eyes and comment on how long it's been. And the moment is gone. Your chance is gone.

I haven't seen my gymnastics coach in four years, and it's felt like an eternity. And here I was this morning, face to face with her on a temple trip.
Did you know I had back surgery? I wanted to scream at her. Did you know I suffer from ptsd and anxiety because of everything you put me through?
And yet.... I smiled. I gave her a hug. Told her life is so good and I missed her so much.
Maybe someday she'll know. Maybe someday, I'll be brave. But for now.... I'm doing great, Jana. I'm so glad I got to see you again. You didn't leave any scars.

I remember....

I remember when the scariest thing in the world was nightmares.

I remember when Christmas morning turned into Christmas afternoon as we waited for my brother to wake up.

I remember what it feels like to be liked by a boy. It was nice.

I remember when hurricane Katrina hit and my dad was sent to help with relief efforts. I didn't understand why he had to go.

I remember when I slept over at the gym with my team. It turned into an all-out war between me and the new girl over who was really wanted there. I lost.

I remember my first time behind the wheel of a car. I remember my first panic attack. I remember how those happened on the same day, at the same time.

I remember my first time on the top of a mountain. The crisp air breathed new life into my lungs and suddenly my life had meaning. Suddenly everything I struggled with was worth it.

I remember every time on top of a mountain, on top of the world, since then. I wish I had more time to spend up there.

I remember my friend wearing mascara to school for the first time. I don't know why it bothered me so much.

I remember seeing my crush walking out of the school and me walking in and me blushing and wanting to say so much more than 'hi'. I'm sorry I didn't.

I remember my eyes being blurry, the pinch of an IV in my arm, and my mom telling me the surgery went well.

I remember when I actually ate breakfast in the morning.

I remember every second of getting my ears pierced. But I'm fuzzy about the details of my baptism.

I remember telling my dad I needed to lose weight. I was six.

I remember wearing a neon monstrosity of a coat every day during the winter, years ago.

I remember the taste of homemade mac n cheese and trying not to laugh during the prayer.

Soon, all high school will be is a memory.

I hope I'll want to remember it.

Grey Elephants eat soup: Combover Mike

Combover_Mike wrote this song in his post  called I swallow Soup for breakfast. Shout out to Tanner Horan (The real author)--- he's amazing and hilarious and freaking talented. This was probably the most fun/funny thing I've ever done in my life.
Also can you tell that I don't actually play the piano? k. good.

An Original Song
by Combover mike

I get on with life as a Scuba diver,
I'm a Sexy kinda person.
I like Bird watching on Sundays,
I like Dove shoving in the week.
I like to contemplate Soup .
But when I start to daydream,
My mind turns straight to Salmon.

Shala la la la la la!

Sometimes I look at myself and I look into my eyes,
I notice the way I think about Salmon with a smile,
Curved lips I just can't disguise.
But I think it's Soup making my life worthwhile.
Why is it so hard for me to decide which I love more?
Soup or...
Salmon?I like to use words like 'Neato,'
I like to use words like 'Sparky.'
I like to use words about Soup .
But when I stop my talking,
My mind turns straight to Salmon.

Shala la la la la la!

Sometimes I look at myself and I look into my eyes,
I notice the way I think about Salmon with a smile,
Curved lips I just can't disguise.
But I think it's Soup making my life worthwhile.
Why is it so hard for me to decide which I love more?
Soup or...
Salmon?I like to hang out with Rick ,
I like to kick back with Mike,
But when left alone,
My mind turns straight to Salmon.

Shala la la la la la!

Sometimes I look at myself and I look into my eyes,
I notice the way I think about Salmon with a smile,
Curved lips I just can't disguise.
But I think it's Soup making my life worthwhile.
Why is it so hard for me to decide which I love more?
Soup or...
Salmon?

The girl I knew

She was brave. She was daring. She was strong.
Her plan in life seemed so simple.
Do the gymnastics.
Do it right.
Win a medal.
Compete in college on scholarship.
She was so good, too. That's what kills me.
She kept winning.
She still has the medals.
She still holds the state titles in her heart, somewhere.

The girl that I knew didn't see the problems.
She didn't think anything of it when her coach told her to work out at home
because she was heavier than everyone else.
She thought it was normal to need knee braces, ankle braces
to walk normally at school
She popped more pain pills than an addict
because being hurt is no excuse for not practicing

The girl that I knew didn't know how to quit
until a doctor had to tell her her back was broken,
that if she didn't stop
she could end up paralyzed, ruined for her whole life.
The girl that I knew stayed strong that day for her family
but fell apart every night.
That girl had to wrap a back brace around her middle
every day
and tried to ignore the looks in the halls at school.
She visited her family teammates after the doctor made her quit
they acted sad for about five seconds-
but she wasn't the first whose body gave up
and they forgot about her within a week.
After eight years...
one week.

The girl that I knew tried to fight the pain, tried to ignore it
but when the MRI showed that her spine never healed,
that part of her vertebrae was worn down to nothing
She had to admit something still had to be done.
And when a doctor literally told her he sees this problem in old people all the time,
there's nothing that can be done
that she finally found a doctor who could fix it, but
that the only option was surgery
she had no way out.
a full year of recovery.
a full year of depending on others for everything
and no running, no dancing, no jumping, no sitting for long periods of time.
That year changed her.
For the better, I'm sure, but her life will never be simple again.

The girl that I knew was happy. The girl that I knew was naiive, but happy.
That girl is gone.
And I am left in her place.
Two rods, four screws in my spine,
plagued by anxiety, perfectionism and PTSD
from the sport I love hate loved.
I'm stronger now, different now,
but I still daydream about doing my routines again
and I wonder if my own little girls will want to do gymnastics
and I wonder if I'll let them

Whiteout

I blacked out once in a choir concert. I almost hit my head on the piano. Sometimes I just sit and remember that feeling. It scared a lot of people, including me. Ever since then every time I stand in front of people, for a split second I think I'm going to black out again. Which is hard, because I stand in front of people a whole lot of the time. Sometimes I perform in front of hundreds. Thousands. Because I sold my soul to theater.
why the freak did I do that.
I blacked out once in a choir concert. I almost hit my head on the piano. Sometimes I just sit and remember that feeling. It scared a lot of people, including me. Ever since then every time I stand in front of people, for a split second I think I'm going to black out again. Which is hard, because I stand in front of people a whole lot of the time. Sometimes I perform in front of hundreds. Thousands. Because I sold my soul to theater.
why the freak did I do that.


I went on a date today. We saw a movie- don't get me wrong, I like movies, but not on dates. We bought a whole bunch of candy and snuck it into the theater in my boots (You know how fun that is! ). I was not totally there though, because I haven't slept in like three days. I should probably do that.
I went on a date today. We saw a movie- don't get me wrong, I like movies, but not on dates. We bought a whole bunch of candy and snuck it into the theater in my boots (You- know how fun that is! ). I was not totally there though, because I haven't slept in like three days. I should probably do that.


Once upon a time, there was a really shy girl who didn't know how to be mean. She didn't hate anyone and was very patient with people who treated her unfairly. She was self-conscious, and worried that no one liked the sound of her voice. She didn't know about the real world, all because she lived in Utah and loved her church too.
Once upon a time, there was a really shy girl who didn't know how to be mean. She didn't hate anyone and was very patient with people who treated her unfairly. She was self-conscious, and worried that no one liked the sound of her voice. She didn't know about the real world, all because she lived in Utah and loved her church too.

I don't even really know me, so I don't expect you to.

If you really knew me
you'd know the first time I used the back of a page in my journal was to write this.
If you really knew me
you'd know that I hold on too tight
that I'm not afraid of the dark but
I still sprint up the basement stairs.
That I wear big sweatshirts
and no, I'm not depressed...
well maybe I am sometimes, but I just like to wear huge sweatshirts
If you really knew me
you'd know my hair is incredibly soft
and yes, please stroke it, play with it, no it's not weird I promise
if you really knew me 
you'd know I'm a theater kid through and through
but I do have personal space
and I'm at least semi-normal
and have yet to be a lead in a show.
If you really knew me
you'd know I'm sick of people thinking
I'm too young or innocent or kind
This summer, a director didn't cast me as Belle in Beauty and the Beast
because I wasn't mean enough.
not mean enough to play a Disney princess..... ouch.

Hi, I'm Tiffany. Part of my brain is still named Korra.
I'm 5'4 and a half, but every nurse that measures my height tells me a smaller number.
I won't tell you my weight,
but know that it's average, despite the world telling me the number is too big.

If you really knew me, 
you'd know my hearing loss is only a disability
to the people I'm begging to pay for my college tuition.
If you really knew me
you'd know I'm waiting for my chance to show who I am
but that I'm not patient.
If you really knew me,
you'd know I have old lady hands, dry and shaky
and yes, I did try lotion. Thank you for the suggestion.
If you really knew me,
You'd know I blush a whole heck of a lot.
Actually, you know this even if you don't really know me.
Yep. I'm aware that my face is the precise shade of a tomato.
It's not exactly under my control.
If you really knew me
You'd know my eyes look brown from far away
but but if you look close, you'll see they're full of green and have flecks of gold.
If you really knew me
you'd know that if I wasn't so worried about being sensible
I'd be a zoo veterinarian
I'd dye my hair black
I'd wear bright red lipstick every day
if you really knew me
you'd know that I'm anxious
and I physically can't let a cut heal without pulling the scab off
and I've had my license for a full year now
and have used it maybe twice
and had a panic attack both times
but that I'm hopeful.
If you really knew me
you'd know I love getting asked on dates
but I don't mind being the one to ask if I have to
If you really knew me
you'd know I'm the bishop's daughter
but as long as you like football or Monty Python,
you two will get along just fine.
If you really knew me
you'd know I hate talking about myself
but when I start it's hard to stop
because there's a whole lot to tell.
My personality takes some explaining.
And if you really knew me,
I guess you'd know that.

That would be nice.

So... now what?

Now that popularity is nonsense
and everyone is so much deeper than we thought
and names are just names; it's what's written that resonates
now what?

Now that we're meeting people for the first time
all over again
and now that we're expressing just how much we all love eachother
and now that the blogs finally mean something again

Now what? 

What will happen when we see each other at school? 

What will happen when we pass in the halls? 

What will happen when we meet in person? 

How will things be different? 

How will they be the same? 

What do we do now? 

Well... this is it.

Korra is my stuffed Koala. She's huggable, happy, and gets to lay in my bed 24-7. Living the dream!!!

And I... I am me. No, I am more than me. You have shown me that.

Thank you.

I'm too Motzart to wear plaid anymore

When everyone was listening to indie music,
I was waltzing to opera.
When everyone was rocking out to rap music,
I was belting along to show tunes.
When everyone was screaming over boy bands,
I was crying while listening to ballads.

My music is different.
I am different.
Slower, calmer, less sure
but maybe more sure at the same time.

When everyone was analyzing hip hop videos
I was watching contemporary dances.
When everyone was krumping on the dance floor
I was practicing my ballet positions.

Standing apart from everyone,
I can appreciate and enjoy their music
but mine is usually too boring for them
and that's okay.

When everyone was writing metaphors
I was writing rants
and when everyone was getting 'mm's' and snaps
I was getting nods
and when I read what you guys write I get so jealous
at your handle on language and imagery.

I don't write like everyone else.
I write like me.
And that's totally okay.
Because I waltz to opera
and ballads make me cry
and I will always love show tunes.
and my writing will always be mine.

When somebody loved me... everything was beatiful

Sooooo...... yeah. I can tell I might regret posting this. But yep. Music. Is my soul.

Music is my life.

Music is my reason.

Music saves me every day.

Every day.

WHY IS FUTURE A THING??????

Do I choose the school of my dreams, my childhood, my parents? The one all my friends are going to? The one I didn't even have a plan B for until two months ago? The  one I don't even know for sure if I'll get into?

Or do I choose the one who has offered to pay me to go there? The one I applied for hastily and then already earned a full-ride scholarship for?



I'm so confused.
Help.

My Paris is under attack too.

My heart broke when I heard the news.
I think it's a given but I'm going to say this anyways:
Keep the victims in Paris in your hearts and prayers.
The world will continue to be a terrifying place
and not even Paris is safe.
Sorry, Nelson.



I'm a victim of attack in my own Paris.
And I'm also the attacker.
Funny how hearts and brains get along that way.

The heart's just a muscle lead by electrical pulses

You say you like it when girls have soft lips

but mine are just so dry, no matter how much chapstick I put on

maybe that's why I didn't go in the last 10 when you went 90 that night

I want to love you with all my heart

but I think my heart's not as soft as it should be either

because it's missing some pieces

it's raw and it's bruised and it's bleeding

but maybe

just maybe
each piece is still capable of loving you
and maybe

it can love you with more than it has

I can love you with more than I have

because my heart may be broken

but when I look at you it doesn't ache anymore.

Baa. I'm a sheep.

One senior year bucket list item I have to get out there:
I want to go on a date with a football player this year.
Just once.
I know, I know, popularity is nothing
and look for the guys that are really genuine and different
and wanting to fit in is for sheep and tourists
but that doesn't stop me from wanting it.
Because I know who they are.
They're not just mindless jocks.

Because I know Talmage Gunther is the sweetest, smartest, kindest guy.
He has an incredible testimony.
and maybe he doesn't remember my name
but he still says hi to me in the hall.

Because I know Nate Bennett is a freaking genius and is so uplifting.
He has an incredible testimony.
and maybe he doesn't remember my name
but he still says hi to me in the hall.

Because I know Michael Cannon is hilarious and driven and brilliant.
He has an incredible testimony.
and maybe he doesn't remember my name
but he still says hi to me in the hall.

And that's just three examples.

so maybe I'm just a background color in a sea of colorful jock fish
but they still say hi to the tiny little krill below them.
I applaud their ability to be more than they are.
I wish I could be more than I am.
I wish I could be noticed.
I wish I could be courageous.
I wish I could talk to guys like that.
I wish I could be...

YOU KNOW WHAT?????

Tal, even though we haven't talked since English last year, will you go on a hike with me? And thank you. For not ignoring me.

Nate, even though you don't know me super well, will you go to a movie with me? And thank you. For getting me through math sophomore year.

Michael, even though we have never had a real conversation besides 'did you do the homework?'- will you come get a Roxberry with me? And thank you. For treating me like a real person.

-Korra

Red Alert: It's Real.

Anxiety is not just fear.
Anxiety is not just stress.
Anxiety is not just perfectionism.
Anxiety is not just fatigue.
Anxiety is not nice. or pleasant. or bearable.
Anxiety is REAL.
Anxiety is crushing panic
that swallows you whole
and doesn't let you
think
straight
for
one
second.
Anxiety is when breathingspeedsupsomuchit'snothealthy
Anxiety is when your chest physically hurts from your heart beating so hard
Anxiety is too many or too few chemicals in your brain
Anxiety is REAL.
Anxiety is all those nights sobbing in the middle of the night because
life
is
so
hard
and there's next to nothing that can be done to make it easier.
Anxiety told her that those people whispering must be talking about her
Anxiety told her that she was inadequate
Anxiety told her she should give up.

Anxiety is REAL.

Anxiety
is
me.

To Perfectionism:

You told me that my worth is equal to my accomplishments

But gold medals and state titles are too heavy 

and my neck might just snap under all your expectations.

I push and try and scream silently

because no one can see just how imperfect my mind is.

all they see is perfection.

no, all they see is what should be perfect

because 2 + 2 can't equal 5 but somehow I still got an A on that test

because you told me to.

My math notes must have an error somewhere,

because my handwriting is worse than yours

but you know what?

I like silver medals better anyways.

how to write poetry good.

Poetry used to be whatever it wanted to be.
it used to be whatever you felt.
it used to be what your heart went down your arm and controlled the pen to be.

and then came the day when the English teacher with too much makeup and too-cheerful disposition told you that this poem has ten syllables
and this one rhymes in this pattern
and this one is this many lines long
and this one is written by a robot
and this one has no feeling
and this one, here in the corner, this free-verse... doesn't matter.
Isn't worth it.
too messy, too unorganized and too immature.

all the sudden,
writing didn't help speak your mind.
all the sudden, that problem your dealing with
has too many syllables.

roses are red, violets are actually purple, and poetry became a score in skyward.

not anymore.
thanks, Nelson. For reminding us when poetry
was whatever it wanted to be.

Dear ACT...

What right do you have to determine my future???
I'm pretty dang smart, thank-you-very-much and you don't get to tell me I have no potential.
And so help me if I get rejected from the school of my dreams just because of you...
You. Will. Pay.
(me back all my money cause I've paid like fifty bucks each of the five times I've tried taking you.)
 

I'm not ready.

Life is a gigantic puzzle.
Each piece snaps into place as we learn and grow.
The pieces that don't fit get tossed away and the correct piece is searched for.

That guy wasn't the one for you? Toss the piece away. There will be a piece to fit perfectly.
Got injured, can't play that sport ever again? Toss the piece away. There will be joy to be found.
Rejected from that college? Toss the piece away. Some other college will be destined just for you.

but.

sometimes we hold on to the pieces too tightly. 

sometimes we physically can't let go.

sometimes we can't just toss the piece away.

sometimes we fear losing those pieces so much it cripples us.

What's my greatest fear?

Failure.

Losing control.

Not living up to expectations.

Losing pieces of myself

to the box of could-have-been's.

And I'm not ready to grow up.
I'm not ready for life.

Hey, um, can someone teach me how to feel? My heart must have gone on vacation or something.

My body aches

my chest heaves but no sound, no soul can escape my lips

they're clamped too tightly together

in fear that even one crack left exposed

would leak a noxious, deadly substance; fatal grief and remorse

poisoning every living, happy thing in a ten mile radius.

My eyes blankly stare

as I try to feel,

plead my body for some response

but everything seems shut down

the shutters are closed, windows barred, lights off.

They ask how I am dealing with things.

Somehow the muscles of my face are so attuned to this farce

that they can pull into a hopeful smile on demand

only to drop like puppet strings cut halfway through the act

as soon as the interrogation is over and done.

My eyes betray me in the night

bone-dry in the only setting they're allowed to feel

the only time I allow myself to feel

I physically can't.

I'm too accustomed to acting, lying, smiling

unfeeling

numb

that when the only thing in the world I want to do

IS LAY IN MY BED AND SOB...

i can't.

the tears won't come anymore.

not until I'm surrounded by people,

buzzing with tedious life and work and drama and blah

at the worst possible moment

two small waterfalls begin.

You know I love waterfalls

but only in seclusion.

But it seems the time for convenient, satisfying, fulfilling waterfalls

is over.

just as the sun sets, 

just as a plane flies halfway around the world, 

just as dreams of waterfalls turn into dreams of taking the final leap,

just as dreams and hopes and chances and moments disappear all to quickly

waterfalls are for dreams

and tears will stay hidden

and hope will remain 

(but only if I can muster the strength for it).

These are the reasons

The chilly air seems to freeze in my lungs but all I notice is the 360 view of the entire valley

and these are the reasons

The little boy giggles, paint covering his chubby hand and face. I stifle a laugh myself and see the mother looking almost as pleased as her son

and these are the reasons

I walk home with him and conversation flows as naturally as the air that fills my lungs

and these are the reasons

My family sits together for the first time in so long in our pew, trying and failing to stifle our laughter as we shoot each other looks because we all hear that woman singing at the top of her lungs

and these are the reasons

I feel a hand pulling me out of my sadness, my self-pity, with a welcoming smile on their face

and these are the reasons

I sigh and bend to pick up my pencil and bump my nose into it because they got to it first

and these are the reasons

His smile lights up the entire room and suddenly my life doesn't seem to suck so much

and this is why

I am alive.

Multiple subjects= brain vomit

Do I like you because I think you like me?
Or do I like you because I really do like you?
(Update... it was because I thought you liked me. I'm sorry. I just can't think of you that way.)

I look into their eyes
and I think (and hope) they're made of broken mirrors
because somehow I feel uglier.

Why am I disintegrating into a pile of dust
like too-old bricks
under too much strain?



Dear you: (or should I say Dear John?)
yes, you. you know who you are. I can never thank you so much for everything you did for me this summer. I had been so down on myself and so stressed and worried no one would ever like me... and you came along. That being said... I hate being thought of as 'taken' and 'your girl'. You've got other things to focus on and so do I. The last thing you need right now as you enter the mission field is me distracting you. I keep having flashbacks of the times we had together and it was amazing. truly. but I don't want them anymore. I want to date other guys without feeling guilty and still attached to you. Thinking about you makes me sad because I miss you so much. I have too many things going on that make me sad besides you. I don't want to be sad anymore. I hope you understand. I still think you're the best. I still support you. But I'm done thinking about 'us'. I want to move on because being stuck in this dark, sad place is bad for me. I'm sorry. Thank you for the hike to the waterfall and all the memories that came afterwards. I still want to see you when you get home... as a friend.

I'm still praying for you- you're going to be such a great missionary.

-me

Aww Yeah.

I like studio c too much.

I can't think of a clever title.

I don't know how it's possible to sit alone at a crowded table

but I do it every day.

I'd rather sit alone on the floor against a brick wall

and eat my lunch in solitude 

because being alone is better than being ignored.

...I think...

okay... what just happened???

I looked into your eyes a millisecond too long.

Oh my gosh, they're so brown. So, so, so, so brown. Deeeeeep brown.

I got swallowed by them before I could even cry for help.

I probably would have stared longer than two milliseconds, if I wasn't trying to suppress the hysterical giggle trying to escape my lips.

You know how sometimes you feel your stomach fill with butterflies?

mine doesn't do that. It flips inside out.

And it did just that

when I looked into your eyes a millisecond too long.

Did your stomach flip inside out too?

I mean, mine aren't sooooooo brown... they're just... brown... hazel, maybe... green-ish sometimes...

And I could be wrong

but did you look into my eyes for two milliseconds too long?

wow. your eyes are... so brown. so deep. so friendly. so kind. so... familiar.

...........

*ahem*

Sorry, could I borrow a pencil for a sec? Thanks, man :)

homesick for heaven

LaLuna's post hit the spot. Everything I feel and more is here.
but here's my take.


Have you ever felt homesick? Not like summer camp is a drag I want to go home homesick but like I miss heaven homesick? I know I'm not alone so I don't need to feel this way. But I do. All the time.

I just want to go Home. Real home. I want to cradle into His arms and cry. I want to be done because this life has been SO HARD and I've only been on earth for 17 years. What happens when there's responsibility on top of the fact my body is determined to rebel against me in every way possible? I don't want to grow up and be in charge of things. I don't want to raise a child, afraid every day that I'm doing something wrong and that he'll end up like my oldest brother, a drug addict with no control over his life and no desire to change. Because my parents are amazing and he still ended up like that. I don't want to get a job or graduate. I don't even want to try to look in someone- anyone's- eyes tomorrow morning because I know they'll just look away, just like always.

I have dreams about dying in car accidents or in fires or from cancer that aren't nightmares. They're happy. Because I finally get to go Home. I could never commit suicide because I don't have the courage to, and I would never do that to my family, my friends. I know the hurt it causes. But can I tell you something scary? I often wish something would happen. Die in a car crash on the way home tomorrow. Diagnosed with an untreatable cancer. Get out of here in a way people could at least accept. Not my fault. Not hurting people, but relieving them from financial burden and worry. And finally being free. Going Home.

That's so selfish of me. And lazy. And cowardly. But I still wish for it all the time. I pray almost every night not wake up in the morning.

Now you know. I'm broken. Messed up. Tired. But alive.

Maybe someday I'll learn why I need to stay here.

ps: as LaLuna said, this is not a suicide post. I'd never even think of that. This is just me zipping my soul open just a little bit wider for you guys to see. It's something I hope I will learn to overcome.

Some advice would be nice

How do you stop being seen as a little girl
And start being seen as a beautiful young woman?

How do you stop being seen as someone's little sister
And start being seen as someone who could potentially be asked on a date?

How do you stop being seen as just nice, just sweet, just there
And start being seen as so much more?

How do you stop being overlooked an ignored
And start being thought of and even perhaps... envied?

How do you get the love you deserve
when you already give away all the love you have?

Can't... shut out... the voices...

Was it love?

the nasty voice creeps into my head...

'dear, that was LUST. Not love.'

'Ew! I would never! No, I loved him! We can't have been 'in lust', and have him be on a mission now.'

'lust isn't just the desire to be intimate.'

'Well yeah, I know... but it wasn't his body or whatever either. it was him.'

'dear, sweet child. really think about it. was it him? or how you felt?'

'It's how he made me feel. It was real. It was love. Wasn't it?'

'did you talk to each other much? About important things?'

'Well, we talked...'

'what do you really know about him besides the feel of his hands - and lips - on yours?'

'That's not me. I'm not like that.'

'but tell me. what do you know about him?'

'I know his favorite color...'

'anything else?'

'I know he wants to be an engineer. I know what college he wants to go to. I know...'

'was it really love?'

'I... I think so....'

'does he know you at all?'

'He... he knows I love hiking...'

'ah, but does he know YOU?'

'Well... no... maybe... he knows some things about me...'

'does he know about your anxiety? your fears? your hopes?'

'Why are you doing this?'

'do you even know anyone in his family? did he even tell his family about you?'

'well he must have, if we spent so much time together...'

'face it. it was a CRUSH. it was LUST. you fell for him because he was the first one to care about you.'

'Well that's not true. others have liked me.... so I've been told....'

'you don't know anything. he held your hand and kissed you and it was new and exciting and fun... but he only did it so he could have someone to write him through his mission.'

'No! No, he'd never do that!!!

'you crushed on him for a year before he finally reciprocated his feelings... why else would he stage the netflix-esque first kiss scene two weeks before he left for the MTC?'

'you're confusing me...'

'yes, that's it... it was a summer fling. nothing more.'

'summer fling... nothing more... doesn't mean... anything....'

'and while you're at it, eat more vegetables and less of everything else.'

'no... no more food.'

'good girl. now go to bed without dinner. i love you'

'i hate you too.'

Discover, Decide, Promise.

The Central (I'm Nervous) System

 I. Am. Human.

I have two eyes.
I see all my flaws. I see every crooked picture frame and every bruise-like shadow under my eyes. I see everyone around me pretending that they're happy. They never are.
I have a nose.
I smell cigarette smoke on my oldest brother's clothes as I give him a hug. I smell chalk and sweat and fear, everywhere around me. I smell something delicious I try not to eat for fitness's sake- but always give in.
I have two hands.
I feel how warm your hands are. Were. How warm they were. I feel my hands shake and try to take deep breaths so no one around me worries. I hope they don't worry. I would never purposely do that to someone.
I have lips.
They are chapped, dry, and lonely. They either whisper too softly or scream too loud (but somehow only I can hear it). I have to remind them that it's good to be this way. It's better for all of us. Who needs memories. Who needs flashbacks. Who needs........ him..............
I have a heart.
It beats 115,200 times a day- and it hurts worse every time. Except for those days it beats twice as fast, pumps twice as much blood. It happens more and more often. I try to stop it from overriding my brain, to no avail. Dang it heart! Stop loving things that hurt you!
I have a brain.
It does too much. It never takes a break. It is on overdrive every day, as if I'm a computer as opposed to a human being. It worries. Always. It shuts down from worry. Every day. It can't be stopped. Someone find the off button, quick! Save me from my mind!
I have blood.
It flows through my veins. Sometimes it collects just under my skin in bruises... and I relish it. I love bruises. Does that make me inhuman? When I was little, I would press on my bruises when they began to fade to keep them fresh, keep them visible. Sometimes I get scratches on my legs when I hike off the trail. Sometimes I feel like I'm finally living, because I have scratches. Look, that one's bleeding. So's my heart.

And yet-
I go through the same mechanical motions day after day, month after month, year after year. Go to school. Go to practice. Come home. Eat. Regret eating. Don't sleep. Wake up. Repeat.
I am human.

but I'm not really living.

two pairs of tears on my pillow

I cry myself to sleep, sure I won't get asked to homecoming.
My friend asks me the next day if she can do my hair for homecoming, because she knows someone who's going to ask me.

I cry myself to sleep, wishing my friend would just answer one text.
I wake up to find a novel via phone, apologizing, full of love.

I cry myself to sleep, wishing all my food allergies would just go away.
I go to a new doctor who tells me I can eat normally again, that the previous doctor made a mistake.

I cry myself to sleep, thinking I'm worthless and I'll never get my shining moment. Thinking I'll never get a solo because I'm too 'ensemble-worthy'. Too good in groups. Not good enough alone.
I get a message, apologizing that it took so long but I have one of the two solos; and that I was one of the first that came to their minds when initially planning.

what.

I feel foolish. I feel vain.
But I feel so blessed. So grateful.

Guys. I know that a lot of you are resistant to listening to testimonies or any mention of God in Paris. But I don't care if you stop reading my blog. Because I'm what going to tell you means SO MUCH to me. It has changed me, completely.

God knows me. Me, someone who I don't even know that well. He cares about the stupid, silly things that I care about that have no eternal value whatsoever. He hears me crying every night and sends His Son to weep with me. 'Jesus wept.' Not because Lazarus was dead (He let it happen and knew he would be saved), but because everyone around Him was suffering and mourning.

God knows you. Knows you better than your friends do, better than your parents do, better than you do. And He cares about you more than you can even imagine.

Prayers are answered, always. 
Things get better, always.
Maybe not how we want them to; 
but much, much better.

 

Notice! If anyone finds half of a soul lying around... it's mine

you saved my life.
you're the closest friend i've ever had.
no, you're the closest sister i've ever had.
you made that recovery bearable.
you made that class bearable
you made living my life bearable
you were the first one i told about my anxiety.
(oh yeah, guess what. i have crazy anxiety.)
you moved to byu.
you promised to keep in touch;
i promised to visit you.
i don't blame you.
but part of me does.
because i feel so empty.
you took half of me with you
and you don't even want to reply to any of my texts anymore.
i know you've moved on.
i know high school is behind you.
but so am i
and i ache, ache, ache because
being forgotten is not doing good things to my sanity
and neither is being alone again
i thought we were so close
but you're all mature now
and i'm still in high school
and please answer my phone calls
and i miss you more than i can even say
and i feel so alone.

so
alone.



*ahem*.

Yeah, I'm doing just fine :) I'm so glad to hear you're enjoying BYU. Love you!!

One more go at the crayon post

Sorry. I just had to. This is beautiful.

This is for the boys. LISTEN UP.

Now that I've ranted about being too #same, let's try something #different.

Guys, I'm going to tell you the do's and don't's, from a girl's perspective.
Want to understand how girls think? Read on.

DO smell good. Believe me, we notice.
DON'T go for our friend if you think we are showing interest in you. Or if we break up. Or if a friend tells you we like you. NEVER, ever, go for the best friend. You will be hated on so many levels.
DO ask us on dates! One of my #1 pet peeves is having to be the one to ask and plan a date!
DON'T try to kiss us on the first date. Please, just don't.
DO tell us what you're thinking! Be open! Communicate! Sure, making out is fun... but what really builds a relationship is trust. That comes with honesty.
DON'T talk about your ex girlfriend. We don't want to hear it.
DO kiss us eventually! I know. You're preparing for a mission. You're nervous. Or my favorite... this is Utah for crying out loud! Kissing is unholy! Well here's a news flash: you don't have to confess to your bishop for kissing a girl. If you two are close, and you really like her, and she likes you back *which is the most important part... if she doesn't like you back then don't you dare kiss her face*, go for it! Be open about wanting to. My brother literally asked his girlfriend if he could kiss her the first time. It made a big difference in their relationship. #endofkissingrant.
DON'T make us plan what we do. I know it sounds like I already touched on this, but this is different. When you pick us up, have a plan in mind! Don't let it turn into the 'I don't care what we do... what do you want to do?' game. I have played that so many times. Be creative. Be flexible to what we want to do, of course, but doing something creative or different is way more fun than watching a movie that neither of you really wanted to watch.
DO ask us about ourselves. No, not 'what color is your toothbrush.' Ask us about things that matter. Our interests. Our quirks. It means so much more to us when you genuinely want to get to know us.
DON'T always plan things that cost money. It's so uncomfortable to stand there while you pay for us all the time. I'm not saying make us pay or never pay for us but we don't want you to eat through your paycheck just to buy us food or stuff.
DO be a gentleman. Open doors for us (but if we get there first and try to open it... don't yank it from our hands. That's awkward.), get us home on time, be kind to our siblings and parents, and wait in your car until you see us walk in the door to make sure we're not locked out. Simple stuff like that.
DON'T assume anything. Ever. Don't assume we like chocolate... find out before you buy us some!
DO listen. This should be a no-brainer. Listen! Respond! We wouldn't be telling you something if we didn't want you to know it, especially if it's something serious about ourselves or our family.
DON'T be impatient. Being a girl is really, really hard sometimes. I know it's hard to be a guy too. But... hormones are not to be messed with. If she needs time to hang with her girls, let her! If she cries, don't get uncomfortable! Often, just listening and perhaps scratching her back or playing with her hair will help the storm pass, and greatly increase your brownie points in relationship heaven.
DO watch Hitch. I know, ha ha, but most of his advice is pretty dang concrete.
DON'T be possessive. She has other friends too. No, that guy she's talking to is not a threat to you or your relationship. It's gonna be okay.

and lastly...

DO remember that every girl is different! That's why being open and communicating is so important. Learn what drives her crazy. And don't do it. Learn what comforts her. Allow her to learn those things about you. Be confident- chances are, that girl you want to ask out has been staring at you for months. :)

#same

I wish I could say I was #different. But I'm freaking exactly the same as the majority. I do my work quietly just like everyone else. I smile too much and laugh too little and make mistakes and am too passive, just like everyone else. It's all the #different people I envy. They walk down the hall and turn heads. They color classrooms with their clever wit. They get in trouble. But no, I'm just like everyone else. I keep my nose clean and stay out of trouble, just like I'm expected to. If I was #different I would've gotten chosen to clap the chalk erasers in elementary school. If I was #different, I would get asked to homecoming. But no, I'm too #same to even come to your mind. If I was #different, my friend wouldn't have had to convince someone to ask me to prom last year. Some boy would have wanted to ask me on his own. If I was #different, you'd want to actually know me. ME. Not my pen name but the real me.

but I really am just Korra, it seems. Just too... monotone. Too background. Too #same. I seem insecure because I don't put myself out there. They always say 'be yourself', right? Well what if I am being myself. What if 'myself' is #same. What if I was just born to be the face that you skip in the crowd when you look for your friends at lunch. What if I don't even have the capacity to catch anyone's eye, to make them want to look at me, not just through me. What if I've tried to be #different but I'm so #same that even my wild attempts were ignored. What if no one will ever think I'm any #different than the next girl, than the next blog, than the next hopeless romantic, than the next hopeful BYU student. What if I'm so #same that I'm about as interesting as the quotes on the walls above the lockers.

Perhaps the way I'm #different is how extremely #same I am.

Blood Sample

The only thing worse than testing positive for Celiac Disease, autoimmune disorders or even stomach cancer

is testing negative

and no one but God knows what's wrong with me.

I wasn't a crayon girl.

I was a marker girl. A colored pencil girl.
I never liked crayons.
As soon as they wear down (and the favorite colors always do so soon),
The point is gone and
it's impossible to color between the lines.
And staying in the lines was really important to me.
still is.

I always hated that the blues and greens (my favorite ones)
would become rounded nubs while the tan, peachy color stayed perfectly pointy. 
because who wants to use the tan, peachy color.

I am the tan, peachy color.

I am the white crayon that only shows up on black paper
and most people don't own black paper.
I am the too-light almost-yellow green that children quickly got bored of
because at first sight, it seems like a pretty fun color
but once you use it,
it's not nearly as pretty as you want it to be.
I am the tan, peachy color only good for coloring in stick-figure faces
but who colors in stick-figure skin?

So I get left alone in the box with all the rounded-nub, beautiful, popular colors.

I never liked crayons. Especially not the tan, peachy-colored one.

I hate you.

 (I would apologize for double-posting in one night if I was sorry. But I'm not.)

Dear Pills,

I hate you.
I don't hate very many things in my life but I hate you.
I know you're prescribed and I need you to get through the day
and I've seen what happens when I forget
but I hate that I have to rely on you. All of you. There are so many of you.
Why do I have to take so many of you, anyways?
Right. Because nothing in my body works the way it's supposed to.
I'm broken, remember? and you're supposed to fix me
just enough to get me through school, through homework, until the next morning.
I hate camp-outs and vacation and tour when I have to bring all of you
and I hate that at this point, all of your different bottles have to be put in
a gallon-sized bag instead of a sandwich bag
cause there are too many to fit in a small cranny of my suitcase anymore.
You demand the giant front pocket.
and I hate you for it.

I hate you. I don't hate many things in life but I hate you a lot.
I hate that nurses always ask me to rate my pain on a scale
so they can decide if I'm really in pain or if I just want to take you for a good time
and I hate that my mom has to answer sometimes because I'm incapacitated
and I hate that you make me woozy (especially the kind for pain) but we have you stockpiled from all the surgeries
and I hate that we have to hide you so my brother can't steal them
and I hate hospitals and how they smell and how you bring the smell home
and I hate visits and awkward silences and I pick at my hospital wristband until they leave
and I hate not even being able to swallow you and instead getting a needle in the crook of my arm
and I hate being broken.
and I don't blame you because I can't
but I do hate you.

I hate you.
I don't hate very many things in my life but I hate you so much.
I know it wasn't you that landed my brother in a jail cell,
it was his choices...
but I hate that he came straight to you again once he got out.
What does he see in you, anyways?
All you ever do is cause harm, make him sick
sick to his stomach, sick in his head
but you torture him back into your demonic embrace every time
forcing him to steal expensive things and sell them
just so he can afford to love you.
he doesn't even see what you're doing to him.
and I hate you.
I hate you for ruining his life.
I hate you for being a part of his life.


Dear pills...
I HATE YOU.

Dear you...

You know who you are.

Don't you dare give up.

I can't even try to say I know how you feel because I don't.

But one thing I do know is that my life sucks too.

In a different way,

but it does.

I literally can't catch a break. I know you can't seem to either.

But one thing I have learned over and over again is that

every bad day comes to an end.

Everything does get better.

Yeah, it gets worse again.

It will always get worse again

because that's how life works.

But every injury heals (even the ones that the doctors say won't ever get better).

Every panic attack subsides (even if you're left with residual panic that follows you everywhere.)

Everything does get better.

And you'll be stronger when it does.

Things WILL get better.

I PROMISE.

And I can't promise it'll be soon.

I can't promise you'll be happy about the resolution.

I can't promise anything

except for that 

it 

will

get

better.

If not now, then tomorrow.

If not tomorrow, then next week.

If not next week, then next year.

And I know that if you give up now,

Things will have gotten better tomorrow

And you'll wish you'd have held on just one more day.

please.

please.

don't give up.

You are never alone.

You are so loved.

By me, by your family, 

by others you don't even know about,

by your ancestors,

by your future spouse and unborn children,

and by your Father.

keep going. hold on. stay strong.

you won't regret it.

-me

I'm a walking grenade, Gus... and one day I'm going to explode.

And it's going to obliterate everything in it's path.

Me too, Hazel Grace. Me too.

I had to tell you. I just had to. I don't care if it reveals who I am to some, because it might. But this is something that is so ingrained in me, a really high-up 'I am'...



I am going deaf.

 
I'm in the canyon. I sit by a roaring fire, surrounded by my family, my parents, my siblings. I hear Dad laughing loudly like he always does and my older brothers singing a campfire song. The fire cracks loudly, sending a shower of sparks into the twinkling night sky.
I am going to be deaf
I'm walking to the bus on my first day of second grade. My new shoes are squeaking and my backpack is full of fun pencils and new notebooks. I make an effort to step on every single leaf because I love the crunching sensation and relish the noise. My friend giggles at my silliness.
I will be deaf
I'm in the car on the way home from a date. It has been pouring all day long, and my arms and hands ache from my first rock climbing experience. He is gushing about how cool some of those precarious leaps to far-away hand holds were. I laugh as he tries to sing along to Adam Levine. The warm feeling of friendship (and more?) fills the car and I can hear every raindrop on the roof.
I am going to be deaf
Fast forward ten years. A doctor is screening the progress of the little one growing within me. I feel a kick and my eyes meet my husband's. He is almost to the point of tears. The doctor smiles up at us, and says "Listen!" It's quiet, but the soft, steady thrumming tells us that our child is alive. That our child will be in my arms soon. Ours.
I am going deaf
When he called me by name and asked me on a date. When I'm called to the stand in sacrament meeting to accept my young women's medallion. When my mom yells my name after I get home from school and asks me how school was. When I hear my name and I walk to accept my diploma. When I hear my soulmate ask for my hand, and see the tears in his eyes when I say yes. When my own children yell for me from the next room over, tears streaming down their fat little cheeks. When my daughter calls me from across the country to tell me she's engaged. When I hear my own heart monitor and grasp every word my children say to me, just before I depart.

But I'm so afraid.

What if I won't be able to hear any of it?

I have never passed a hearing test.
I was born with Brachio-oto-renal syndrome, which is an extremely recessive genetic birth defect that causes, among other things, hearing loss.
In second grade, I had to carry around a special speaker with me while my teacher spoke into a microphone. I was teased for carrying the 'stupid box' around because I couldn't hear.
In sixth grade, I got my first pair of hearing aids. I had a really hard time adjusting to how loud everything was, and kind of made a way to big deal of it. My whole class knew they had to be quiet in class, or I'd go home with a huge headache. One kid in the class says my ears were so bad because I was an 'old lady.' (And this is risky because some of you were in that class. Yep. It's me. But it's something I HAD to write about.)
I got a new pair of hearing aids two years ago. But I never wear them. I hate the attention it gives me. I hate attention. (Then why do I crave it?) A test revealed that my hearing had taken another dive off the deep end. We don't know how long I'll be able to hear anymore, and there's not enough information on the defect to give me an estimate. It could be in the next few months or the next few years or never or tomorrow. I could just wake up deaf tomorrow morning. I've heard a story of a girl about my age with progressive hearing loss, like me. She went swimming one day with her friends. She jumped in the water and all the sudden, all her hearing was gone. In the blink of an eye, she was deaf.
And it terrifies me so much that this time next year, I could be deaf. I wouldn't be able to hear my name at graduation. I would need an interpreter to follow me to all my classes. Guys won't go on dates with me because they don't know ASL. Or because I'm the freaky deaf girl that everyone's afraid to talk to.  (right, like they totally go on dates with me right now)

I wouldn't be able to sing anymore.
Music completes my life. No, music IS my life. Music is my soul, my coping mechanism. It is how I express myself. It's one of the few talents I feel comfortable sharing with others. I need to be able to sing.


What if no one wants to marry me because of it.
Because my children have a 50% chance of going through life with this too.

Guys, I'm so scared. If this is His plan for me, so be it.

But I don't want it to be.
I don't know if I would be able to deal with it.

Can we not write about hats?

You said, Nelson, that hats may be our next prompt.
And I really don't want to write about hats.
Because if I write about hats, I'll have to write about him.
And if I write about him, I'll be like every other tourist in Paris.
'Look, hun, let's kiss under the Eiffel Tower!!'
'I remember when we kissed under the Eiffel Tower...'
'*sob* now that he's gone I can't even look at the Eiffel Tower!!!'
That's not me.
But somehow in the last few months it's who I've become.
If we had to write about hats I'd have to talk about how the only time he didn't wear a hat
was when we had to say goodbye in front of his grandparents in the church building.
Except for that one other time when he didn't wear a hat
and I learned the new definition of VL. Veteran. Lips.

I used to always steal his hat.
He would wrestle me to the ground (no mercy!!!) to get it back, laughing.
One day he let me keep it on my head.
That's when I knew.
I think that's when he knew too.

*shudder*

did I really do that?
Did I really say that.
well, crap.
I am a tourist.
I am.
I must be,
if I'm writing about why I don't want to write about him. And his hats.
But I desperately want to find more in Paris than the good food.
I want so badly to deeply enjoy Paris, even though seeing the monuments alone aches, aches, aches...
How can I stop being so pathetic and how can I truly enjoy it
when I have to curl into a ball to hold myself together
just because someone passed me in the hall today
wearing the same hat as he did on our last date?

I'm not like this.
Well....
I guess I wasn't.
But I am now.
sorry.

the thing is... he's the first person that made me feel like more than just me.
And now I'm crawling blindly on the floor, desperately searching for that feeling again.
because going back to being just me...
sucks.
It really does.

Here's to being just Korra.
Maybe someday I might finally be able to be me without the only or the just attached.
Because maybe,
just maybe,
I'm worth more than 'just'.
To him,
to them,
to myself,
maybe even to you.

I hope I can become more than 'just me' to you.

What's it like to really be known?

She's the girl that you see but don't notice as you walk in the classroom.

She's the girl that has been in that class with you for years, and you literally had NO IDEA. 

She's the girl that was at the cash register that one time who handed you your order with a smile and called you by name.

She's the girl that won second place (but never first) for that one thing but you just can't remember her name.

She's the girl that people ask who you're texting and you say 'oh, it's just Korra.'

She's the girl you asked if she was either a Freshman or a Sophmore, to which she mumbled 'Senior, actually.'

She's the girl dancing alone at that stake or black light dance; looking like she's having the time of her life...

while inside she's aching to be asked to dance just once.

She's the girl you stopped asking 'what happened?' and started saying 'seriously, again????'

She's the girl that is painted into the background of every single picture and production and story
but has never once been the subject of the painting.

She's the girl who can be a nerdy awkward geek one second, and a crazy senioritis-plauged mental patient the next.

She's the girl that you've called 'Molly Mormon' to her face, and she didn't take it as an insult.

She's the girl you don't even believe can be mean, she's so 'sweet'. And it drives her CRAZY.

She's the girl that had never even held hands and swore she'd stay VL forever...

until summer came.

She's the girl that is definitely NOT waiting for her missionary but yes, she has one.

She's the girl that doesn't want to be THAT girl, ya know? because

She's the girl that still wants guys to ask her on dates and has seen her friend never go out because everyone knows about 'her missionary'.

She's the girl who hates the word 'perfect' almost as much as the word 'failure'. The girl who grew up being EXPECTED to be perfect. The girl whose life was ruined because she could never live up to those expectations.

She's the girl who walks daintily and speaks softly and hikes mountains in her spare time.

She's the girl who is a walking contradiction.

She's the girl who is just dying to share the song playing inside her heart
because it has such a beautiful, heart-wrenching melody
that no one seems interested to hear.

She's the girl who's so tired of being second. Of being ignored. Of being overshadowed. Of being misunderstood. Of being seen as broken. Or taken. Or too sweet. Or too good. Or too much. Or too perfect. Or not perfect enough.

She's the girl who never gives up, even though she has gotten so close, so many times.

Korra is not me. 

Korra is the piece of my heart that I've kept guarded for so long.

The only difference between her and me

is that she is willing to speak up.

She WILL be heard.

 Thanks for letting her be free at last-

I hope you like the melody she wants to share.

-Korra. Just.... Korra.