Tuesday, April 14, 2015

Sometimes It Lasts At Love...

If you’d ever visit our home, you’d instantly think we’re either lovers’ or hoarders’ of cars. We have four “classic” cars that line the side of our house. Three out of the four cars, anyone can see and admire their beauty. They’re not restored, but they’re gorgeous in their old age.

However, the fourth is not a rare model, it’s not made by a special company and it doesn’t have a fancy body. It’s small, blocky, has no leg room and it’s not that old (for a car). It’s just a car from the 80’s that’s covered in dirt and has degraded flat tires.

The other day we took the ’53 Chevy pickup truck for a drive (the ‘Twilight’ truck). Grumpy is slowly restoring this truck and we take it out from time to time to keep it in working order.

After our drive, I hopped out of the passenger seat and ran to the drivers’ side to place the cinder block behind the back wheel – just to make sure it’s secure. And that’s when I saw a little yellow card stuck between the Renaults’ driver’s door and window.

“WE BUY JUNK CARS”

The card was a business card from a local company promoting their removal services for old vehicles and machinery.

“Marty is NOT JUNK!” I shouted loudly as I showed the card to Grumpy. He looked at the card, chuckled and shook his head. Who knows how long that card had been there; and that I would find it a week from my mom’s birthday. But seeing that card on her old car – upset me.

Marty was my mom’s first ‘real’ purchase, at least that’s how she always told me the story. After her first marriage ended horribly, my mom was on her own and Marty was the first thing she bought by herself. She was always so proud of him.

My mom drove that car everyday till the day she died, for over 20 years. My dream is to one day restore Marty, better than he was, and drive him for another 20.

The next day Grumpy and I were driving home from a day of fun, when the song “Someone Like You” by Adele came across the speakers. Since the release of this song, my dad has always associated it with my mom.

“Nothing compares
No worries or cares
Regrets and mistakes
They are memories made.
Who would have known how bittersweet this would taste?

Never mind, I'll find someone like you
I wish nothing but the best for you
Don't forget me, I beg
I'll remember you said,
‘Sometimes it lasts in love but sometimes it hurts instead’”

There we were in front of the house, sitting in my car, listening to the song, singing along and staring at Marty.

“They thought Marty was junk.” Grumpy chuckled – and I laughed.

No. No, Marty isn’t junk.

Tuesday, April 7, 2015

When I Met You

April and July are hard months for me. April the month my mom was born; and July the month she died. This year marks 10 years that she’s been with God. It feels so much longer; I can hardly remember her. She’s been gone almost half my life.

My moms’ twin, aunt Stella (who I was named after), really struggled with my mom’s passing in the beginning. After years of therapy and healing, my aunt is finally on the “acceptance” stage of grief. I feel like I’ve reverted to the “depression” stage. I know grief can be a cycle; we can cycle in and out of the stages of grief.

It’s really hard for me to deal with this.

I did so well when my mom passed. I truly believed (and still do) that God had a purpose for taking my mom. It was easy for me to “work through” the stages of grief after she passed. I did it in one night actually.

One long, late, tear-filled night.

A week or so after God took my mom. I sat in my room, listened to music and with my emotions fresh, I unleashed all of my thoughts and emotions to God. I remember so vividly, sitting in a corner, the tears running down my face, hitting the floor and yelling at God. I’d randomly get up, pace my room, hit the closet, kick my bed, and scream into a pillow.

“Why God? Why did you do THIS?!”
“Why did you take her?”
“Why couldn’t I save her?”

I’ve struggled with the guilt of not saving my mom on and off since her passing; but that’s a story for another journal entry.

I remember staying up past 3am. I gave all my hurt, pain, anger and questions to God and He filled me with peace and gave me reassurance that I would be okay.

This is why cycling through the stages of grief is hard for me. I know God healed my hurt. I know God took my pain. I know God was in the room with me when I was grieving.

God hurt with me. God grieved with me.

And it’s not that I still don’t believe that. I know I’m healed. God took my brokenness and put me back together.

I am healed. But, I’m also human.

Just because I cycle in and out of grief, it doesn’t mean I don’t trust God. It means I love my mom.

 And that I miss her.

“I remember the moment, I remember the pain
I was only a girl, but I grew up that day
Tears were falling
I know You saw me

Hiding there in my bedroom, so alone
I was doing my best, trying to be strong
No one to turn to
That's when I met You

All this time, from the first tear cried
'Till today's sunrise
And every single moment between
You were there, You were always there
It was You and I
You've been walking with me all this time”



Song: “All This Time” by Britt Nicole

Friday, January 2, 2015

Just Keep Breathing

A couple of weeks ago marked the one year anniversary of me being self-harm free. I’ve said that three times in the last ten years.

So much has happened in the last ten years; so much happened when I turned 17. I started cutting a few months after my birthday. My mom was diagnosed and passed away from pancreatic cancer. I discovered my passion for music. The Internet became my world. And so many other things happened.

It’s so weird to think it’s been ten years. Ten years of me fighting the urge to place a blade to my skin. At moments, it doesn’t seem like it’s been that long. And at other moments, it seems like a lifetime.

It saddens me.

It saddens me that cutting has been such a big part of my life. It saddens me that I’ve only been able to stop three times; the first time for a year, the second time for two & half years and this third time for one year.

I was so lost last fall (Oct-Dec 2013). I had a fight with my dad, I packed my bags and left home; I couldn’t handle living in a toxic environment any more. I ran to the only place I could think of, my “sanctuary” became my trigger. The people who were supposed to help me, pushed me over the edge.

I knew what I was doing was wrong. And I knew if I gave in, it would be so hard to stop. But it didn’t matter, I was alone. Truly, and utterly, alone.

I cut more in those three months, then I had EVER done. I couldn’t stop. I was emotionally spiraling out of control. I was grasping for anything. It was SO BAD.

At one point, it finally clicked in my head to just stop and breathe. My thoughts were racing; I had to force my brain and emotions to stop. I needed a break. I was sitting in a Starbucks, writing in my journal and listening to music. I was hiding.

“2 A.M., too tired to sleep
When what you want's not what you need
And when these walls don't feel like home
Remember that you're not alone…

When heaven seems so far away
And dreams are just a memory
When love is all too hard to hold
Just take a breath and let it...

Go whoa oh, whoa whoa oh, whoa whoa oh
Just keep breathing, breathing, breathing
Whoa whoa oh, whoa whoa oh, whoa whoa oh
Just keep breathing, breathing, breathing”

I went to my dad the next day, we worked out our problems and I moved back in. I learned that sometimes being in a hard place is better than being in no place at all. And that good really does come from bad.

It was so hard to stop; almost unbearable.

I remember lying on my bed and forcing myself not to move. It took over an hour, but the urge finally passed. One afternoon I was walking in the hardware store with my dad, and we walked down an aisle with every type of blade ever made by man. And I craved them, like I never craved anything before. My skin ached and I became jittery. I was an addict hurting for a fix.

As the months have passed, the lust has subsided, but it’s always there. And I know it always will be. I will always struggle with self-harm and depression. But as long as I remember to breathe, I know I can make it to the next hour and to the next aisle and through my life.