Sweet Sixteen.

I guess I felt robbed.

I mean, turning 16 is a huge deal,

Or maybe I just wanted it to be.

I look back on it now,

and I wish it would have been a regular night.

I wish she wouldn't have been her,

Or

I wish she wouldn't have tried to be sweet. 

She could have just been one...

but being both was too much for me.

Mom was going to stop by for just a second,

long enough to wish me "Happy Birthday,"

watch me open the presents she got me,

and see me off on my very first date. 

She was late. 

And high as a kite.

I sat at the table and opened each gift,

becoming more and more angry with each tear of the paper.

Why had she gotten me everything I asked for?

How had she found this limited edition album?

What kind of game was this?

She sat across from me,

with a goofy drunken smile-

knowing that she had given me the perfect birthday.

I stared at her,

as tears welled up in my eyes 

I clenched my jaw and through my teeth said

"this isn't fair."

Helping her into the passenger seat of her car,

I buckled her seat belt, 

double checked to make sure she was completely in,

then slammed her door as hard as I could. 

As I drove her home-

my knuckles whitened from clenching the wheel,

Mom began to cry. 

She sobbed that she thought she got me what I wanted.

She cried apologies for not being enough.

She tearfully questioned my reaction.

I concentrated on the snowy roads.

Pulling into her driveway,

the tires spun on the thick ice. 

I turned off the car,

helped Mom out of the car and into the house,

still not saying a word.

Walking into the kitchen

I stood at the counter,

feeling my heart pound harder and harder

as I stared at the open prescription bottles on the stove.

I refused to cry.

I refused to yell.

I swallowed the anger.

I ignored the pain.

I waved goodbye,

and walked out the door.

I walked home in the snow storm,

feeling the tears nearly freeze on my face.

I stopped and punched a snow bank

 I guess to somehow to tell the universe

That I knew my mom had tried,

 but that she somehow had missed the point.

Without.

            More than anything, it’s the not knowing that eats at me.  Not knowing what she actually said, what I actually said, verses what I desperately hope we said to each other. Not knowing what happened. And now… not knowing what to do.

It was a Thursday evening when I found my mother lifeless on her bed. She was pale, ice cold, and bruised. I stood in her room screaming and shaking her bed for what felt like hours, turned out to only be about 15 minutes. Eventually I called 911, and they urged me to “not touch ‘the body’” and to “immediately go outside.”  Scared and confused I still managed to be offended at how impersonal the dispatcher was when referring to my mother. I hung up the phone and quickly tucked my mother in, trying to make her look more “presentable” for the strangers in uniform that were now on their way.

            I went outside and paced in front of the house crying and screaming, waiting for the police to show up. My cries were louder as I passed my mother’s window, knowing that I was still secretly hoping to wake her, that possibly she had only been in a deep sleep. Eventually the first policeman showed up. Grabbing his hand as we walked back into the house to show him where my mother was. As we walked back out of the house, I turned to the officer and whispered “she’s my only mom.”

            Eventually family slowly began to show up and congregated on the front lawn. I was able to stand and walk around occasionally, but for the most part, I just stayed crumpled on the lawn outside of my mother’s window. As I laid there in silence, listening to my family frantically make arrangements with the mortician, and the police declare that there was no foul play, I tried to remember each detail of my last night with my mother, which had only  been two days prior.

            This is where the first wave of unknown began. I sat up and continued crying, but now hysterically. I couldn’t remember if when I had said goodbye, I had also said “I love you.” My chest got tight, I was shaking, my body felt stiff and weak at the same time; all I could say was “I don’t know what I told her.”

            The funeral came and went; it was lovely, emotional, and very pink. She would have adored it.

            Roughly a month after the burial, I received a package in the mail containing my mother’s autopsy report. I was finally going to know why she didn’t wake up. I was finally going to know why she left without saying goodbye. So much was going to be resolved. My grieving was now going to have direction.

Cause of Death: Undetermined.

There’s my second wave of unknown. She wasn’t a picture of health, but she shouldn’t have died, not yet. So what was it? What did they miss? How do I move on from something I have no answer to? How am I supposed to act normal and under control when I have a heart palpitation? What if she died from heart failure? Or a brain aneurysm, she had headaches all the time. But they checked all that. Everything came up clean. I get nervous about the sniffles, and petrified by the stomach flu. I’ve become my family doctor’s healthiest frequent flyer, and my therapist’s most self aware hypochondriac.

And finally the third wave, being a single female in her mid twenties, with no parents, depressed, and scared. It’s been four years since I checked my mother’s frozen wrist for a pulse, and I still don’t know what to do without her. I panic during break ups, who am I supposed to call? I cry when I get a raise, who is going to care? I walk into classes pretending to have picked a major, when I really have no idea who or what I am.

It’s the not knowing that eats at me. It encompasses every fear I have since I lost her: Did she know I loved her? What happened? And what if I can’t do all this without a mom? There are so many things in this world that each of us will have questions about that will never get fully answered. There are times when these answers feel like they hold the key to our happiness, our direction, or our closure. I guess this is where growing up comes into play… the day that we realize the answers will never come, and we will simply have to live without.

Profile pictures.

I mean...

he did always want a brunette, 

and not just that,

but so many other things that weren't me.

I had never been with someone,

whose shame was so visible

Not a guilt ridden shame,

but an actual embarrassment of me.

Now so quickly he's doing it all,
all the things I wished he'd do with me,
We were both so scared,

Him to commit

Me... that he'd walk away.

I wonder if she knows everything,
I wonder why I did.

Clean Getaway.

There is just so much out there,

so many songs,

poems,

movies,

and books,

all dedicated to this one topic...

Love.

Searching for it.

Finding it.

Having it.

Losing it.

Missing it.

Moving on.

No matter who you are,

you're affected, majorly by this...

...this idea...

...this feeling...

...this desire...

...this need...

I've genuinely been in love.

Truly honestly wholey

mind body spirit and soul

been in love.

a few times.

And I hope I never do it again.

you see,

I never move on.

 I've loved 2 men.

1 is married.

1 is in a relationship.

My heart aches for both of them.

In the purest way possible...

I'm happy for them I suppose,

I'm happy they're happy.

That's what love is right?

selfless?

...I just wanted them to be happy...

...with me...

I've gotten really good at numbing myself though,

like most of us do.

I'm great with first dates,

I seem very dedicated to school and studying,

I've even convinced myself I'm moving soon.

I guess that's my clean getaway.

....good for me....

All Me.

We'll sit in his office,  

my therapist of course, 

Talking of all the things you've done,

and what it's made me become.

On a morning we're apart,

You over here, and me there.

At home, you fulfilling your itch

the doc, tying my last stitch

They gather to watch me drown

Simultaneously

your innocents that you've proclaimed

has only left me to blame.

We've all watched me lose my mind,

you helped it first hand,

You did your best, but I was lost

Lets end now and cut your costs.

Tired.

At age 11, 

sleepless nights had become a regular occurrence.

So, my mom wasn't surprised when she heard a knock on her door at 1 am.

She was surprised when I opened the door and made eye contact with her.

I hadn't started crying yet,

I knew it was coming though. 

I had been pacing the hallway outside her door for a while,

debating on whether to wake her,

or simply try and go back to bed.

Finally I paused in front of her door,

took a deep breath, 

and tried to think of what I was going to say.

I still had no idea what to say.

I couldn't find the words to express what I was feeling,

I just knew it was intense.

I reached my hand up and knocked slowly, but heavily on her door.

A sleepy

"Come in"

I opened the door,

right as she reached over to turn on her lamp.

I took a step forward into her room,

still desperately searching for the right words.

As I walked in and stood at the base of her bed,

I locked eyes with her

and stopped breathing.

This was absolutely terrifying.

And I know she saw the horror in my eyes

as she lunged forward at me screaming my name.

I tried desperately to remember how to make my lungs move,

I tried to contract or loosen my throat.

My body began to get weak and stiff at the same time

  my mom grabbed my shoulders and shook me.

My lungs finally inhaled like I had been drowning

and my body nearly went limp onto the bed.

My mom helped me lie down

and asked, understandably panicked

"What was that?"
I looked at her

honestly surprised that I wasn't crying

and said 

"I forgot how to breath"

I fell asleep within minutes of laying next to her.

As bad as our relationship was,

I usually fell asleep quickly when near her.

The next morning,

neither of us talked about what had happened.

Actually... we didn't even talk.

I think it freaked both of us out

She watched her daughter physically manifest emotions she couldn't express in words,

her daughter who had always used words,

now, it seemed, didn't have them.

I got ready for school,

and to my surprise when I came up stairs,

she still wasn't ready,

but on the phone.

I knew she was talking about me.

About her crazy emotional daughter.

I remember the air of shame that felt almost palpable.

She took me to school.

Dropped me off.

Still not saying anything.

School was ok.

School was never good, 

you needed to be smart for it to be good.

My teacher slipped me a note to stay in during recess,

this was a normal thing,

So I didn't think much of it.

I knew I was about a million assignments behind.

I figured I was just being disciplined.

Again... not unusual. 

The bell rang for recess,

and everyone went outside,

except me.

I watched my friends eagerly grab stuff to play with,

I watched with gut wrenching envy as I saw my classmates smiling and laughing.

My teacher,

Mrs. Hansen,

asked me to come over to her desk.

I walked over to her,

thinking about the smiles and laughter,

and that in comparison to my night the night before.

Mrs. Hansen looks at me,

and with a concerned look she says

"Your mom told me you forgot how to breathe last night?"

I nodded.

She asked for an explanation.

I shrugged.

She asked again.

I shrugged again.

At an obvious loss she looked down at her hands,

that I was already watching intensely,

We stood there in silence,

as she played with her wedding ring,

and I listened to the laughter and squeals of my classmates at recess. 

 She quietly said

"Hillary, I'm worried"

I shrugged and softly said

"I think I'm tired"

She exhaled, almost in an agitated way and began to say

"yeah, your mom has said you don't sleep well at night,

you should really think about..."

I cut her off,

sternly looking her in the eyes,

"No. I. Am. Tired."

I sat down and started crying.

she put her hand softly on my arm,

I looked back in her eyes and through trying to hold back my sobs

and whispered

"I'm just so tired. when does it stop?"

That was the first time I realized what that engulfing emotion was.

And the first time I recognized pity in someones eyes.

And when I realized there was no answer to
"when does it stop?"

Bullet.

Dating at my age in Utah is humbling.

Not humbling in the sense that I'm sure you're thinking though.

No, I don't have much shame for being single.

I know I'm "still so young."

I know there's "no rush"

It'll happen when it will happen and that's cool with me.

(look at me... accepting God's timing.)

It's humbling in the sense that most guys I date 

are late twenties,  early thirties

and

WITH

OUT

FAIL

 by the second or third, sometimes even the first date

 it gets brought up that recently, 

they "dodged a bullet"

This means that they were serious with a girl,

something happened,

and she went "crazy"

Whether he needed space and she broke down,

Or in a fight she acted "dramatic,"

Or worse,

she was damaged from her past and was still dealing with it.

but man.

did he dodge that bullet.

it was a narrow miss,

and she could have destroyed his life,

But luckily, he made it out!

I. hate. this. conversation.

This conversation is gut wrenching to me.

Not because I don't agree with the guy,

it probably wasn't a good relationship,

but I have been a bullet too. 

I listen to them describe these horrendous sences. 

  These acts of complete hysteria,

and I calmly listen and think,

"Have we dated? I've done all of that"

Ex boyfriends have "dodged" me. 

 I've cried in desperation as someone has needed space.

I've gotten mean in fights.

and we all know I'm still walking around with pain from my past.

I guess I shouldn't care,

and yet I cringe at the idea of my ex's talking about me like that.

I showed them that side of me

because at one point I felt safe with them,

I trusted them,

some I even loved. 

But them seeing me at my worst,

or simply my lowest,

now turns me into a thing that kills?

I struggle hearing guys talk about the 

"red flags"

of their past relationships.

Why are tears warning signs?

Why are disagreements scary?

How are you dealing with your past so well?

 Why is being what I am,

and feeling what I do,

why/how does that turn me into an object (or bullet) at the mercy of circumstance (or gun),

set, aimed, and only purpose is to destroy?

Please,

Better word choice gentlemen.

Ther-rapy

My First therapist was Susan.

Sweet Susan.

She had short dark hair,
like a bad pixie cut.
She was delightfully plump,
and awful barbie pink lipstick
that often would get on her teeth.

I was almost 8 when I first met her.
and 12 when we said goodbye.

She saw me through starting my period,

meeting my biological father,

 and moving between mom's house, grandparent's house, and aunts.

She held my hand through

 not being able to read,

fighting with my mom,

and battling a dangerously low self esteem.

She was with me while I lost people,

and helped me when they came back.

She taught me how to make cup-o-noodles,

and tie a slip knot for bracelets.

She was great. 

and

 I miss her. 

terribly.

I was in 3rd grade the first time I wrote

"Therapist"

under what I wanted to be when I grew up;

I didn't want to be a therapist,

I wanted to be Susan.

With a better hair cut...

and I decided lipstick just wasn't for everyone.

(including me or her)

Now,

I mentioned we said goodbye when I was 12,

but I saw her one more time when I was 14.

I was struggling with 

self esteem,

self harm,

and self image

(ya know... self"ish" teenager stuff)

I sat where I was supposed to,

her in her chair,

me on the couch across from her.

I could hardly look her in the eyes.

halfway through the session she had tears streaming down her face,

she got up and sat next to me on the couch,

put her arm around me

and we both sat there and cried.

She grabbed tissues, one for me, one for her,

looked me in the eyes and said 

"I so badly don't want you to be sad anymore"

We talked a few more minutes,

and agreed that she couldn't be the one to help me anymore.

She punched my arm as I walked out of the office,

and I forcibly laughed through the tears and walked away.

I had aged out of her scope of practice,
 We had grown too close,
And it wasn't ethically sound for me to continue with her.

This absolutely destroys my heart to think about.
The idea that people are that fleeting,
not always by choice,
but worse,
at times it's by necessity.

That at times,
it is necessary,
for the sake of them,
professionally,
personally,
whatever,
to leave.

People can't get too close,
people can't stay too long,
Everyone eventually will say
I'm too much,
I'm too old,
and They "can't."

 Then they say goodbye.

 

expectational

I'm not really a stranger to worrying about expectations.

worrying about whether my expectations are 

too high,

or

too low.

I've been stuck on the idea of just simply expecting,

what is reasonable to be expected. 

Example.

I was 16, 

and absolutely in love with a college boy.

He was 19, lived in a dorm,

and I was up there as much as I could possibly find an excuse for.

I remember stressing to myself

to not expect ANYTHING.

I knew the likely hood of something happening with us was slim,

and if I kept my expectations low,

I wouldn't get my heart TOO broken

anyway.

while up at his dorm,

we'd often wander the halls,

and usually stop at the vending machine.

This vending machine sucked.

it was rare when it'd give you what you'd ordered.

If it gave you anything at all.

once, though,

we ordered a twix,

and guess what it gave us?

twix.

We threw our hands up in the air and cheered,

like we had just won a game 

and the prize was a stuff animal the size of a small car.

But it wasn't.

The machine had just functioned the way it was supposed to.

We had gotten exactly what was reasonable to expect.

Yet we had been trained to be

disappointed, let down, or forgotten

and that that was our reality,

and to be grateful for whatever we got.

And that's how I feel like I'm living my life now.

I'm walking around,

putting my precious quarters, nickles, and dimes

into various relationships, items, and ideas

never. expecting. a. thing.

and cheering when I do get something.

this doesn't feel fair 

 this doesn't feel right

...this isn't how I thought it'd be...

...it's not what I expected...

Angel Mommies

 As you know,

My aunt recently passed away,

 and,

My mother passed away a few years prior.

My aunt passing away has been strange for me,

in the sense that

 it's amazing how much it's made me miss my mom.

Like I just lost her.

again.

 (which I find to be incredibly unfair.

I mean...

I already lost her.

I did these tears.

I did these stomach aches.

I did these panic attacks.

I "shouldn't" have to do them again right?

O Well I guess.

Cause I'm doing it all again)

Anyway.

Back to the point.

At my aunts funeral last month,

Just after the service,

I was holding my little cousin

Ellie

(aka, "L", "Ell-Bell", and my personal favorite "Bella")

We walked outside

following behind the casket.

As they were putting the casket in the hearse,

Bella looked at me and said 

"were are they taking her?"

I forced a smile and said

"to Springville. We're going to go down there too"

 She nodded knowingly and said

"Oh. That's where Angela is."

Before I had a chance to confirm,

she looked right in my eyes and said 

"That's your mom huh?"

I fought back tears and nodded.

Then she laid her head on my shoulder and calmly said

"We both have angel mommies"

I held her a little tighter and felt my heart drop.

Now, before this

The whole week I spent crying whenever I looked at my two other cousins,

Hazen and Corbin,

Because of the eery similarities there seemed to be

with my story,

and theirs.

I honestly hadn't put much heart into Bella yet.

I realize how awful that sounds.

Because she's so young.

But that's why I didn't.

Everyone else seemed to have that covered.

But.

As I held her tighter.

As my heart dropped.

As I thought about my "angel mommy"

I realized,

Ellie and I and the only granddaughters.

and

we. are. motherless. daughters.

While before this moment, 

I thought that my experience of losing my mom

would never correlate to Ellie's,

I've spent the last few days looking at pictures

from both funerals

And

Well

Whether you're 4,

or 20,

Heartache looks the same.

 

 

How we actually feel

Forced smiles for the camera.

 

I've spent countless hours with Bella since the funeral.

We usually sing and dance

[correction, I sing and dance and she giggles]

or color.

But sometimes we cuddle,

and talk about our moms.

Again, 

there are a million differences between our situation,

hers will never be mine,

and mine will never be hers.

but.

We have a connection that no one will understand but us.

Because we are the Ivie granddaughters

and we have angel mommies.

(that "walk on funky clouds")

Forever Young

9.27.13

"Forever Young"

Prom 2013

Age rage?

20-40.

Yeah. 

That's Right.

I threw prom.

It was so much fun, 

and I had an absolute blast.

Thank you to everyone that came,

helped,

and didn't talk me out of it.

I'm already looking forward to my next big dance

April maybe?

(it'll be formal)

Anyway. 

for  everyone whose been wanting pictures,

go to this website.

Love ya!

http://ysaprom.weebly.com/

Pervert.

I was 13.

I was 13 when I was sitting talking to my ballet teacher,

we had a while before class was supposed to start,

and her and I had a great relationship.

We always talked

and could talk about everything.

Friends.

Family.

but most of all...

boys.

We began talking about the boy I liked,

and she (like usual) gushed about her husband. 

Some how it came up how interesting it seemed that different guys

were attracted to different girls.

I remember this like it just happened,

she turned to me and said 

"yeah! some guys are more into pretty faces

and thin peitte bodies,

like my husband.

Then you'll find guys who like curvier girls like you;

unfortunately they tend to be more perverted"

She then back tracked a lot,

making clear that I wasn't fat,

Just significantly bustier than her 

(yes, even at 13)

and that my hips were bigger, 

not in a bad way though.

(and that I too, had a pretty face)

But she never took back the fact that guys attracted to girls,

that look like me,

tend to be perverts. 

This idea has been uncomfortably reinforced with 

"compliments" like:

"You have the natural body of a porn star"

or

"people pay a lot of money to get some of the curves you have"

I usually reply with

"that's the most offensive compliment I've gotten in a while"

They then explain why they're right.

And I stand there...

taking in the idea

once again

That my body is only appealing to a highly sexual mind.

Now,

poor me right?

Who is going to listen to me complain about this,

and take me the least bit serious...

probably no one.

But keep in mind,

after that conversation with my ballet teacher..

I started wearing clothes that were way too big for me,

and usually "boy" clothes.

While I've gotten a bit better,

I'm still really uncomfortable in anything

"figure flattering"

I'm writing all this because I recently stumbled on an ex boyfriends facebook page.

Now, when I say ex... I mean... like years and years and years ago ex.

His profile picture is of him and his new bride;

who is small,

nearly flat chested,

small hips,

and a very pretty face.

When we dated,

 I knew he struggled with an addiction to porn intermittently.

But as I sat there looking at this wedding picture,

I "heard" myself thinking,

"he's finally kicked the addiction.

good for him."

When I said/thought that though,

I was basing that completely on the fact that his wife 

didn't have a body like mine.

He was no longer a pervert.

I've spent most of my life walking around

(like many girls)

Hating my body.

picking apart every possible flaw,

noticing weight that "needed" to be lost, 

and 

 despising each blemish that showed up.

Now imagine that,

while simultaneously cringing whenever someone expresses 

that they like my body at all,

because I automatically think,

"that's because you're a pervert, and only want to have sex"

 

 

 

Funeral.

This post is going to be borderline morbid, 

kinda,

for some.

As you know, this last week my aunt passed away.

and I watched as my cousins, grandparents, and other family members

went through the painful process of planning yet another funeral.

A funeral that was a bit more expected,

but not much more planned for.

I watched my cousins become over whelmed,

when all they wanted to do was sit and grieve.

Planning a funeral is horrible.

There are a million and ten things that have to be done,

all while you're trying to be grateful to everyone who calls or stops by,

when all you truly want to do is lay in bed and cry.

The week of planning the funeral

is the most intense feeling of sadness,

and the busiest week you'll ever experience.

So. 

to avoid that for my family again,

I'm 23, in pretty good health, a safe driver,

and have my funeral planned out.

I have who I want to speak/play some part in the program,

(this is updated as people come and go in my life)

(Brother, Grandpa, Grandma, Dr. C, and a few others)

 

I have my favorite hymns listed to chose from

(Nearer My God to Thee,

Be Still My Soul,

and 

I Know My Redeemer Lives)

I have a list of songs saved that I'd like played/performed/sung;

Examples:

Tangerine: Led Zeppelin

 Golden Slumbers: The Beatles

Look at Me: Damien Rice

Annie's Song: John Denver

Close Your Eyes: Jump Little Children

Smile: Nat King Cole

(This list is actually really really long)

I've talked to a few people about how important it is to me

that my obituary is "real."

I've told them,

"I'm not the best at anything,

I'm not very sweet,

I'm not the greatest,

and not everyone I meet loves me,

So don't say any of that"

(I can't write my own. It'd be too depressing for people to read)

My headstone needs to have my middle name.

 I don't care that it's not legal,

put quotations.

I want to be wearing pearls.

and for heavens sake...

Will someone PLEASE make sure I don't have

a) a uni brow

b) a mustache

and

c) will someone put fake lashes on me?

(we put them on my mom, they looked amazing)

Well, 

I guess you don't even need to come,

You've just read the whole line up!

(there are no plans to die anytime soon.

But after losing my mom unexpectedly,

and working at the hospital and seeing so many unexpected/untimely deaths,

you... I guess just plan more than most)

Chanda.

Tuesday afternoon my Aunt Chanda passed away.

She had stage four melanoma

(skin cancer)

and had been living with that diagnosis for roughly 4 years.

Now, I'm not going to sit here and say that her and I were close,

That I think she was incredible,

and that I'll have to figure out life without a best friend.

While I didn't hate her,

nor ever wish death upon her,

her passing wasn't a blow to my system like losing my moms was.

I guess thats "normal"

right?

My mom was my mom.

was.

I hate that word.

Back to the point.

if there is one.

I went up to my grandparents on tuesday,

after I recieved the text that she had passed,

I walked in and her body was still in bed.

I looked at her,

and while I was sad,

I was okay.

I looked over at my grandma,

and my heart began to ache for her.

I began thinking about how this was her second daughter that she was going to burry.

Someone

(my grandma)

who has spent her life trying to be nothing but good and righteous,

has experienced a lot of heart ache.

I continued to scan the room,

and that's when I saw my little cousin

Hazen.

The strong silent type.

He's not someone who's going to sob in front of anyone,

and he'll down play every painful emotion he experiences.

I lost it the second I saw him.

He's the same age I was when I lost my mom,

and his high school sweetheart just left,

like mine did.

His whole world is changing.

Just like mine did.

After I stopped crying over Hazen,

my other cousin walked in.

Corbin.

The sweaty teenage male version of me at his age.

My heart shattered.

His relationship with his mom,

is what mine was with mine at his age.

 His relationship wasn't great,

and while finger can be pointed either,

He's a teenager,

who never got a healing relationship with his mom.

So again,

I'm not going to sit here and try to gain a sympathy vote,

by claiming I lost someone near and dear to me,

or someone I admired and looked up to.

But my cousins...

... Their faces simply stop my heart...

because besides the fact that I love both of them dearly,

I know how this feels.

Losing your mom... sucks.

no matter what the state of your relationship.

So please,

if you're still reading this,

and your eye has teared,

or your heart has ached,

don't pray for me,

pray for my cousins.

because, speaking from experience, it's a long next few years.

I love you Hazer.

Love you Corbina. 

Dating.

So- here I am,

one thirty ish in the morning,

sitting at work and thinking way too much.

It's weird thinking though,

I've struggled today with completing full thoughts,

and I've been making some really strange mistakes.

The kind that the second I do them I look up and say

(to whoever is around me)

"...I have no idea why I just did that..."

I feel like that's what I'll be saying the second I finish this post.

But.

Here I am.

And Here you are.

So let us continue.

So, you may or may not know,

but after a good hunk of time being out,

I'm back in the dating world.

and..

I can't figure out how I feel about it.

I mean, obviously things didn't work out according to plan,

and that makes me sad,

but even that aside,

I sit an I think about it,

and I'm not convinced I should ever get married.

I've spent a lot of time reflecting on my last relationship,

and on my relationship with my high school sweetheart,

and I've come to a really uncomfortable realization that...

holy cow, I'm a lot of crazy in one person.

I've sat with tears in my eyes talking about those two relationships

and said

I don't even blame them for leaving.

even that aside...

Is my idea of love and marriage just off?

completely and totally unrealistic?

I want to be in a love

(yes I worded that how I meant to)

where,

we're best friends,

who just happen to want to make out.

I want to be missed when I'm not around,

I want "him" to be excited/proud to be with me,

...I want a strong commitment and devotion...

I want an understood freedom.

I want to sit comfortably in silence,

I want to argue about uncomfortable things.

I want to hear

"I love you"

"I miss you"

"can I come over for a minute?"

and

"I love that you never wear anything but bball shorts."

(see... not realistic)

I read all these poems,

watch all these movies,

and listen to all these songs,

where the guy aches for the girl.

Where he feels like he's crumbling without her.

Where all of her flaws are there and apparent,

but the longing for her outways every bit of insanity.

But!

Here's the kicker...

I smother easily.

Yup.

Goodluck right?

I know.

I just want to know that the deep soulfull love that I day dream about exists.

I want to believe that it's out there.

But... I'm not sure I do.

I'm not sure that these songs, stories, and sonnets are nothing more

than beautiful wishes,

words expressing a painful hearts desire,

not a mirror of any actual reality.

I'm done with these thoughts for the night.

I hope you've found your love,

or that your hope for such is still alive.

p.s

to top it all off....

I recently found this gem.

I listen to it at least twice an hour.

This song is one of "those" songs.

(it's ruining my life.)

Hulk

For as long as I can remember,

The Hulk

has been my favorite super hero.

Like... my garbage can is "Hulk"

.... I have a giant framed picture of him snarling....

....I have binders for school that are covered with his muscles...

I HAVE ACTION FIGURES!

(sorry for yelling)

Needless to say... I geek out a little bit whenever I see his face.

It always fascinates me what people decide to be

Obsessed over..

Infatuated with..

Passionate about;

So, I've decided to share a small portion of why the Hulk is my Favorite.

Let's start with who he is,

He isn't "The Hulk"

He's Bruce Banner.

Bruce is a fairly reserved physicist,

who can easily come off as cocky or arrogant

because of his emense understanding of his line of work,

but in reality he thinks little of himself,

and is in a fairly constant fear of forming close relationships

with anyone,

fearing that they may one day see his "dark side"

his "Hulk."
He thinks himself a problem,
Basically... He's got a lot of confidence, but no self esteem.

I love that "The Hulk"

is never fully defined in the "Hero" catagory.

I like that he,

in many nerdy books about comic books,

He is RARELY defined as a hero,

but he's never (least not that I've found) labeled fully as a villian.
He seems to fit in this odd section where
he's a good guy... but causes a lot of harm.
(which only reinforces Banner's self loathing when he "comes to")

But more than anything,

I've always loved the idea behind "The Hulk"

The idea that Bruce hates "The Hulk,"

and equally, "The Hulk" hates Bruce.

Bruce's constant struggle and fight to be rid himself of his
"monster"... his "Frankenstein" 
And "The Hulk's" equally powerful determination to
overpower his "weak side."

I love the passion in the story.
I love how everyone can relate to it,
how every person I've ever come in contact with,
everyone has a demon in them that they hate,
that they fight,
and they'll fight till they die.
How when this demon takes over...
it's almost life consuming,
How huge and powerful it seems to us.
How we all feel...
".....if people knew....."
How this demon doesn't make us bad.
 Just makes us Green.
and like Kermit said...
It's hard to be Green.