I don’t really know how this works. My current opinion of religion is based on the first 6 seasons of Supernatural. So…here it goes.

How are you? I’m okay. Life is happening. Things are working out. When they need to… most of the time. That picture you took on my phone? Yeah, still my screen saver, so I guess you’re still winning the contest. School is going well. I never thought I’d say that. Remember when we walked to the bank downtown talking about what we wanted to do with our lives? Counselors. We decided to be counselors. Can you honestly see me trying to help with other peoples’ problems? I mean seriously. I can’t even fix my own problems. I can’t even fix myself. I’m still broken.

I forgive you. Obviously this is more for me, but I’m not mad at you anymore. God. That feels so good to say, I was angry for so long. I’ve decided that was okay. Apparently this is a coming to terms letter. Bear with me.

I dream almost every night, so if you ever decide to drop by again, you know where to find me.

When we first met, you told me that I belong on a stage, because I have the voice for it. Well here I am, on a stage, feelings and all, in the same building, at the same time, on the same day that I was one year ago sitting on the floor, leaning against a wall that no longer exists, crying because I couldn’t make myself wake up.

It’s been almost a year and I’m just now realizing how many people lied to me. It hasn’t gotten easier and I’m not getting stronger and I just wish someone would have told me that it was going to hurt forever. I’m never going to stop missing you, and I’m okay with that too. It means something was worth it. It means that we loved.

Amen.

(Source: iamthekj)

July 7, 1940
Richard Starkey, drummer of The Beatles, is born in Liverpool, England.

July 7, 2011
A group of college friends in Columbus, GA gather to eat a cake with the words “Happy Birthday, Ringo!” written on it sloppily in yellow icing.

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We were walking down a hall. Lots of people, and I’m not sure where we were going, but no one was in a rush. Some people were going in and out of doors that were on the side of the hall. Some people were sitting on the chairs and couches to the side. I don’t know what group of people I was with, but I was just as comfortable as everyone else.

I heard a familiar voice laughing and talking to someone else. They were to the right of me. In the middle of me turning around to look, they put their arm around me. It was Joel, just as happy as could be. He was wearing a teal shirt with some small white words on it, khaki pants, and the “jesus” sandals he wore when he was in Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat. I was shocked. He just laughed.

We sat on a tan couch and held hands. I told him how much I missed him. How much we all missed him. He told me that we’d all do fine without him. Then he chuckled and said “And you can watch Harry Potter without me too.” But I know I can’t. Not yet at least. He asked how everyone was doing, and I updated him on our lives. He had somewhat of a proud look on his face, like he was so happy for all of us. Like he’d only moved to Nebraska and was reading my letter and couldn’t wait until the next visit.

I asked him why he did it. I must admit that part of me was angry, the other part of me wanted him to tell me what we’d all done wrong. Or what we could have done. He just looked up to his left, shrugged, and said “I just…it just had to happen, I guess.” I don’t know what that means, But it wasn’t something he wanted to talk about. The subject changed back to how much I missed him and he told me he missed me too. Then he told me that everything is okay now. I told him that I felt funny and he told me that I was about to wake up. But I told him that I missed him too much and that I wasn’t ready to wake up yet. He laughed and said “I love you.”, the he hugged me.

We exchanged goodbyes during our embrace and he was smiling the whole time. We didn’t cry at all. There was no sadness. We were just happy to be together at that moment.

Maybe there’s a God up there trying to give me closure, but I choose to think that I really did get to say goodbye. It was really him. It had to be. Some fake Joel wouldn’t have laughed that much, or told me to Watch Harry Potter. And he would have told me that it was an accident. 

But he didn’t.

I don’t really care who believes me. I got to hug him one more time and I got to say goodbye.

He hugged me.

On Wednesday, Alex was taking me home. When we passed the smoker’s bench on the 3rd floor of the parking deck, I saw Joel. I rolled down the window and yelled his name in the silliest way I could come up with. He jumped and waved. When we drove up to the same spot on the second floor, I saw Joel standing there. He had run down the stairs to talk to me, waiting with that giant smile of his.

We still need to watch Harry Potter!

I know! What are you doing this weekend?

How about Saturday?

Sounds good to me! I’ll see you on Saturday!

I went home, and went to sleep just like I do every night. 

On Friday, Brian walked into the apartment, where Alex and I were playing video games. He seemed frantic, saying that there was an ambulance at Joel’s house, 3 blocks away, and that Joel was on an oxygen machine. I didn’t think much of it, assuming an asthma attack or something else treatable.

That night while sitting in the Springer Opera House, and RA and one of my closest friends, Tyrell, texted me.

Are you okay?

Yes sir. Are you…?

Yeah…I’m just making sure because of Joel.

Oh. I haven’t heard any news recently about the situation. Other than he was being treated by the EMTs.

He didn’t text me back.

Has something else happened?

He died.

That’s when everything stopped. My world hasn’t started turning since then.

On Saturday I woke up. I didn’t watch Harry Potter with Joel. Instead I came to the most painful realization of my life.

He’s really gone.

I’m waiting for a call telling me it was a joke. I’m waiting to wake up from this terrible nightmare. And I don’t think I’l ever stop waiting to see him again, with that giant smile of his. To hear him singing whatever had just popped into his head. To hear him ask me to dance. To pull the curl that grew above his forehead right before he needed a haircut.

Save a dance for me, Joel. I’ll be seeing you.

In an effort to waste some time this morning, I decided to take my dog on a walk. It’s usually an unpleasant thing. He wants to sniff every blade of grass and annihilate every feline, but the weather was so nice today that I didn’t even care. We walked around the first block and then crossed over a sidewalk that goes through a small tree bunker thing that some guy in my neighborhood who still lives with his mom complained to the local news about enough to get placed there and block my neighborhood from the main road. Jerk.

Once we got pass the giant bushes, I saw an elderly couple riding their bikes together. The gentleman was obviously in better shape than his wife seeing as she was going much slower and was riding more of a tricycle. He was wearing a blue helmet that matched his blue sweat pants and she was wearing a red sweater that matched her red “bike”. The man slowed down and said, “That is a beautiful dog!” I thanked him, he nodded, and then we went our separate ways. A few minutes later, we reached the end of the street, about to make our usual left, when I heard wheels behind me. The same old man stopped, greeted me again and then asked what kind of dog Nash was and where we got him from. I told him, then we talked about pet adoption, he pet Nash on the head, and then turned around to meet back up with his wife.

We continued our walk as we do every other day, passing the house that I first lived in, circling the court, and then heading back towards home. As we came out of the cul-de-sac, I noticed that the couple weren’t too far behind us, but had stopped and the husband was knelt down beside his wife. At first I thought something was wrong and was about to offer some help, but then I saw that there was no problem. Well, no serious one.

In order to keep her feet on the slow moving pedals, the husband had tied red ribbons over her shoes and around the pedals for her. He knotted the bow and raised himself up off of the ground then asked his wife if that was alright. She answered “Perfect.”

He got back on his bike and then said, “Just like you.”

Sometime, especially recently, life makes me question whether or not heaven is real, but after today, you can’t tell me that there’s no such thing as angels.

(Source: iamthekj)

I mean, if you can’t take care of yourself, what makes anyone think you could care about anything else?

That’s probably the wisest thing I’ve ever said. No. It definitely is.

        Think of your best friend. Now think of what you would want to say or do to anyone that hurt them. Unpleasant, right? You could punch said bully in the face, tell them off, slash their tires. Want to set their house on fire? Completely possible. But let’s add a little twist to this hypothetical situation of ours. What if the only thing keeping your friend from sleeping at night, from being happy, from being healthy at all is themself. Changes things, right?

       So often do we read blogs, reports, and watch the documentaries on eating disorders. You’ve seen the books in the stores and heard the celebrity sob stories. No matter how many times I see the bones, vomit, or single piece of celery they’ll eat for the next 24 hours, my mind can’t justify it. I’m slowly coming to the conclusion that anorexia is just as toxic for the onlooking loved ones as it is for the one battling with it.

       Part of me is angry. I just want to take them by the shoulders and shake them and yell at the top of my lungs every obscenity I know; curse them for their destruction. 

You are ripping skin of porcelain

and dulling eyes like glass.

You are so beautiful.

You are destroying an exquisite piece of artwork.

But the rest of me knows it’s a psychological problem. Unfortunately, that’s as far as my understanding goes. I’m not at doctor. This is completely new to me. I don’t understand the concept of being hungry, having available food, and not eating it. I just don’t get it, and until recently my idea of treating anorexia was shoving a sandwich down someone’s face. Not because I was trying to be a jerk, but because I just didn’t know. I’m ignorant when it comes to eating disorders. That doesn’t make me a bad person, does it? I get annoyed when people with ED are bitter towards the rest of the world for their ignorance instead of trying to help them understand. I can’t help you if I don’t know how.

I’m sorry for eating when I’m hungry. I’m sorry for not crying myself to sleep every night. I’m sorry for only vomiting when I’m sick. I’m sorry for not thinking about calories every second of every minute of every hour of every day. I’m sorry for liking my body. I’m sorry I’m not medicated for anxiety problems. I’m sorry I can eat cake without regret. I’m sorry that I love carbs. I’m sorry for having “fat days” and I sincerely apologize for occasionally describing parts of my body as fat without cringing. I’m sorry I’ve never been raped. I’m sorry I don’t have any negative feelings towards the male gender. 

Is that what you want me to say? 

Too bad. I don’t mean it.

The only thing I’m sorry about is not being able to help you.

       No one thinks about us. And by us I mean the onlookers: the ones who are watching their family member, friend, and/or classmate deteriorate. The ones who cry for someone else. I feel helpless. I am watching my friend die. I’m watching them kill themself. And sometimes I feel like I care more than they do. What a selfish thought. Yeah, I feel selfish too. I think it’s because I am trying to convince myself to stop caring. I don’t want to see the tears anymore. I don’t want to see your hair is falling out. I don’t want to know that you’re constantly dropping dress sizes. I want to forget your problem exists. I want to get as far away from anorexia as possible. I’m trying to protect myself from what I know I’m not strong enough to handle.

I’m afraid to earn the title of innocent bystander of murder. 

con·ceit·ed

Pronunciation: -ˈsē-təd\

 Function: adjective

1 : ingeniously contrived : fanciful

2 : having or showing an excessively high opinion of oneself

Why do people use this word as if it’s negative? As if conceited and condescending are interchangeable.

Conceited.

       It’s one of those words my acquaintances like to use to describe me, followed by an explanation usually containing the words and phrases “you love yourself too much”, “egotistical”, and “vain”. First of all, I didn’t know it was possible to love anything “too much”. Are we putting a limit on love, people? As much as I’d enjoy being like most females, crying about how fat I am and how no one will ever love me, I’d much rather focus on the progress of life and bettering myself and, believe me, there’s plenty of bettering to do.

       I’m not perfect. Eh, maybe I am. Perfect is subjective. I am beautiful, not to be confused with more beautiful. See the difference? That’s how I feel.

       My eyes are squinty. My eyesight is terrible. My hair is unruly. I have a keloid on my right ear the size of a pea. My chin breaks out when I get stressed and my forehead wrinkles when I raise my eyebrows. The horizontal lines around my neck look like fat rolls in the right lighting. My shoulders are speckled with a darker shade of brown-black. I have to wear prescription strength deodorant so I don’t sweat through t-shirts. There are stretch marks on both sides of my waist. My wrist bones are so big, wearing a watch is awkward. I have fat hands. The scars right below my navel resemble a happy trail. My thighs touch. My thighs jiggle. My inner thighs are covered in discoloration that looks like stretch marks. Two days is the maximum I can go without shaving my legs. My ankles are so big that they used to knock together when I ran. I have wide feet and short toes.

       I’ve never been out of the country. I was never close to being a straight-A student once I started high school. I didn’t learn how to ride a bike until I was 12 or 13 years old, but I’d always had one to learn on. There’s nothing I’m exceptionally good at. I am a college dropout. I haven’t found my passion in life yet and have no idea as to what it may be. I’ve never been on a plane. I’m not good at sports. I graduated from an arts academy and have no extraordinary talent to show for it. I never understood football until February of my senior year of high school. I don’t like to read.

       I’m impatient and indecisive. My dislike for planning interferes with my ability to stay organized. Making an F in a class barely phases me, but losing my hairbrush makes me want to punch something small, cute, and undeserving. I get cranky when I don’t get enough sleep or don’t get my way. My sarcasm hurts feelings, I’m sure of it, yet I have no desire to change it. I have no regret for the hearts I’ve broken. I’m a procrastinator. I hate extremely serious situations. I cry easily. I am deathly afraid of rejection. 

Want to know the worst part?

I love every bit of it.

So call me conceited. It doesn’t bother me. In fact, I kinda like it.