I realize it's been awhile since I last posted. Also, I chose to change the URL to this blog to make it more difficult for my students to find it since I'm sure many posts will be about them, but with changed names, of course! I haven't posted lately because I've been too busy having emotional breakdowns about the fact that I'm an "adult" now. I'll be honest- I HATE transitions (unless, of course, they're blended beautifully in a student's paper...get it?). Change is a huge trigger for me, and let's just say I've reverted back to having the emotional maturity of a 16 year old, not a 22 year old, but, nobody's perfect, right? And thank the good Lord that my family and friends have patience. I'm really trying to trust God and am working on memorizing Scripture to combat the enemy's tactics of using my anxiety to get in my head and heart.
This has been a summer full of travelling around the southeast: Mexico Beach, Chattanooga, Athens, Lake Burton, Nashville, Chattanooga (again), and soon to Durham, NC to meet the latest member of the Rivard/Workmon/Theis/Lucas clan! I'm also literally up to my eyeballs in books, which I love, of course. Thanks to Allisa I have a very substantial classroom library, but I am sorting them by genre and making lists and all of the kinds of scaffolding that my 8th graders need. My mom is an angel and has been helping me sort them and hasn't once complained about the stacks and boxes of books constantly strewn across the family room floor (thanks, Mom!).
I'm at a very exciting and intimidating time in my life: I literally feel like I have the world at my feet. I'm happiest when I'm learning and planning for my classroom because I feel like it's something I'm good at, but then I spend a good 50% of my time thinking, "crap. Can I really do this?" Then there's the whole part where I've never lived anywhere other than a house or a residence hall, and to me being an adult means I'll have to buy my own toilet paper because I've. never. actually. done. that. I know, I know. Anyway, the whole point of this blog is to address the fact that EVERY PERSON I MEET is "entitled" to give their opinion on my chosen career. I'm constantly being asked, "What are you doing now?" Which I excitedly respond that I'll be teaching 8th grade Language Arts. Many people congratulate me for getting a job out of college or tell me they could never do that, etc. which is much appreciated; however, responding with, "Good luck with that." "Kids don't care about school." "Parents aren't involved." "Kids expect technology to do things for them." and more. Let me ask you a question:
Is that really what you think of for the future of the world?
That they're lazy, arrogant, un-involved, easily influenced and manipulated, and a plethora of other demeaning adjectives? Also, I'm pretty sure my grandparents said the exact same thing about the generation coming after them, and what our parents said about us, and now what we're saying about them. NEWS FLASH: these will be the young people paying our social security (if it still exists), furthering the ideas for cures for cancer, AIDS, and more. These kids mean something to me. I see young minds eager for someone to believe in them, to tell them they're capable, that they mean something to me, and that, believe it or not, their opinions and the way they view the world matter to me, and to the world.
I know education reform is greatly needed, believe me, I'm aware. Obama's new plan to put millions into schools is giving money to schools that already have it. I'll be testing my students 50 out of the 180 days of school- that's almost a third of the school year! I'm already reading fine print in my contract and reading lists upon lists of things I "can't do" and ways that I "have to teach" something. Fortunately for me, I have a lot of freedom at my school, which further proves that God has provided abundantly for me. I know that reform is needed: we don't have enough teachers, money, and class sizes keep increasing. Ask me where reform starts and I say hire more teachers and cap class sizes at 18. Oh, and the people making decisions about education shouldn't be so far removed from the system, but actually have teaching experience in today's age. But I digress...
People often give me their opinions and then ask, "Why Language Arts? Why English?" Well, gee, now that you've completely belittled my livelihood and passion, let me break it down for you: LITERACY. "What did you say?" I didn't stutter: LITERACY, as in, the ability to read, write, and essentially function as a productive member in today's society. We degrade our kids for their "text" lingo, but thank goodness they're reading something. Just because our idea of reading involves pieces from the canon doesn't mean our kids don't read. That's how you hook them. They say they "don't read" and that "reading is stupid," but don't realize they read all day long! You want to get your driver's license? How do you think you will be able to drive unless you read road signs? You have to read a manual in the state of Georgia to even get your driving permit.
This idea of literacy opens a whole new can of worms in conversation. Then people tell me what I should do, as if I haven't just gotten a four year degree, student taught, received my certification, and been offered two teaching positions, and am not constantly seeking advice from veteran teachers and reading informational texts. "You should make them read all nonfiction" (barf); "You should make them write every day" (no, my kids will step into my class and NEVER write, what?!); "You should be super strict since you're so young" (I'm young, I had no idea that I was closer in age to my students than my coworkers!), and the list continues. Now, don't get me wrong, I am grateful that so many people are willing to offer advice, but I would never give my doctor advice on how to treat someone else's illness, or a tell a surgeon where s/he should cut, or tell a construction worker how to fix the road I'm driving on, or inform an accountant on how to do my taxes. I can't teach my kids by constantly shoving "you should" down their throats, I have to show them, demonstrate, instruct, praise, discipline, and provide ways to learn.
I want to teach because I'm constantly learning. I picked English because books were, and are, my coping mechanism. I am so grateful to my parents for instilling the love of reading in me; I always had a variety of books to choose from. I was read to every night. I saw my parents read every day. When my dad died, I escaped into other worlds through reading. Not everyone grows up like I do, but my goal is show my students HOW reading and writing can be helpful and therapeutic. I watched alongside Allisa as our students from this last year discovered these things. I had students excitedly tell me about their books, read essays about books by students who never turned anything in, watched as students discovered they could write and enjoy it, and so much more. We live in a literate world, and if you're illiterate it's pretty hard to get around. I have this crazy notion that once we tell kids they can, that they can conquer a lot of obstacles. Am I idealistic? Yes. But do you think any change would happen in this world if people weren't dreamers? I sure don't.
Smile, God loves you!
Tuesday, July 1, 2014
Sunday, May 25, 2014
Give Thanks in ALL Circumstances
1 Thessalonians 5:16-18 tells us to "rejoice always, pray continuously, and give thanks in all circumstances; for this is God's will for you in Christ Jesus."
I've bolded certain words because it's not difficult to rejoice when things go well, but what about rejoicing even when things go badly, or certainly not the way you'd planned? It's also easy to pray in the evening when things start to slow down, but how many times have you been lying in bed and thought, "I haven't said one prayer today!" Even more, how many times have you been in that bed and thought, being a little ashamed, "I haven't even thanked God for one blessing today." The above verse tells us to rejoice in all circumstances. ALL. Not just when things go well, like when we get a good grade, someone comes out of an illness, we have safe travels. Of course we should give thanks in those circumstances! But what about when we lose a job? What about when we lose a loved one? When we can't find a job? When we have to take out that extra loan just to make things work? When we get in a fight with a friend or family member? When a relationship ends, whether it be romantic or a friendship.
Or when we hit a curb and pop a huge hole in our mom's car tire and make a gash in the rim, the AAA guy breaks the lug nut, and no where near you is open because of the holiday? Or when your sister has emergency gallbladder removal surgery and you're supposed to be in Tennessee to help? Or the fact that you can't afford to get the new tire and rim because that was going to be first month's rent for an apartment because you've graduated with $47,000 in debt despite working through school and receiving a scholarship? And your sister's A/C is broken adding another stress to the family you're supposed to be helping.
Obviously the above situation is my current life situation. Needless to say my first adult situation post-graduation is not fun. I was supposed to already be in Tennessee helping out with the Workmon kiddos. I just finished reading Ann Voskamp's One Thousand Gifts, and the main premise of the book is giving thanks in all circumstances, no matter how happy, angering, frustrating, or sad, but giving thanks because this is the life God has given us, and we can live this life because of the sacrifice Christ made for us. No matter what is happening in this earthly life, we know that we are guaranteed an incredible eternal life because of what Christ did on the cross, and we really have nothing to fear because of it. That's a bold statement for someone who suffers with anxiety and depression!
Another thing my mom always says: it could always be worse. So, in the midst of me tearfully realizing I'd done damage to my mom's car and couldn't get to TN in time and everyone having to rearrange because of a dumb mistake I made, I made a list of things I was grateful for. This list included:
-Andrew's expert knowledge of cars (I honestly pray I marry a man who knows cars like Andrew), and his willingness to help me despite everything going on in the Workmon household
- My mishap happening within 5 miles of Kristy and Luke's house so I was safe and didn't have to drive back on a spare tire in the dark
- The tire is going to cost less than I thought
- Despite needing to be in TN, it was a blessing this happened now and not while working
- No one was hurt and no further damage was done to the car
- I am about to get my last pay check from Housing which will help pay for this
And then I prayed, hard for a place to have an available, even if temporary rim, on Tuesday. I caught myself thinking how inconvenient it was that this is Memorial Day weekend, and then I shut myself up because that's another reason to be grateful- for the men and women who sacrifice their lives daily for my freedoms, including the freedom to openly pray and make this list of gratefulness in public.
I'm really challenging myself to be grateful and give thanks in every circumstance. I do not know what the future holds- I don't know where I'll be living next year, I just found out that my curriculum for my 8th graders is being changed because of standardized tests, I'll be on a shoe-string budget so I can pay off my student loans accordingly and responsibly, and I'm terrified of teaching on my own (and excited). BUT, God is good, because in every situation He is there. Praying continuously, which I feel I've done more of now that school is over, really lets you be "in sync" with God. As I drove down the freeway on the spare tire with people honking at me and flipping me off, despite being in the right lane with my hazards on, I felt the freedom and conviction to pray for them and pray patience and understanding over them because I realized how lucky I was in my current circumstance. And I basically kissed the ground in praise of God when I got home safely. This is a good "practice" run of being thankful in tricky and frustrating situations because I know this is nothing compared to what some people go through, but God will always be by my side, and that is something to praise about.
If you feel compelled to send up a prayer for my tire rim, I'd appreciate it! : ]
Smile, God loves you!
I've bolded certain words because it's not difficult to rejoice when things go well, but what about rejoicing even when things go badly, or certainly not the way you'd planned? It's also easy to pray in the evening when things start to slow down, but how many times have you been lying in bed and thought, "I haven't said one prayer today!" Even more, how many times have you been in that bed and thought, being a little ashamed, "I haven't even thanked God for one blessing today." The above verse tells us to rejoice in all circumstances. ALL. Not just when things go well, like when we get a good grade, someone comes out of an illness, we have safe travels. Of course we should give thanks in those circumstances! But what about when we lose a job? What about when we lose a loved one? When we can't find a job? When we have to take out that extra loan just to make things work? When we get in a fight with a friend or family member? When a relationship ends, whether it be romantic or a friendship.
Or when we hit a curb and pop a huge hole in our mom's car tire and make a gash in the rim, the AAA guy breaks the lug nut, and no where near you is open because of the holiday? Or when your sister has emergency gallbladder removal surgery and you're supposed to be in Tennessee to help? Or the fact that you can't afford to get the new tire and rim because that was going to be first month's rent for an apartment because you've graduated with $47,000 in debt despite working through school and receiving a scholarship? And your sister's A/C is broken adding another stress to the family you're supposed to be helping.
Obviously the above situation is my current life situation. Needless to say my first adult situation post-graduation is not fun. I was supposed to already be in Tennessee helping out with the Workmon kiddos. I just finished reading Ann Voskamp's One Thousand Gifts, and the main premise of the book is giving thanks in all circumstances, no matter how happy, angering, frustrating, or sad, but giving thanks because this is the life God has given us, and we can live this life because of the sacrifice Christ made for us. No matter what is happening in this earthly life, we know that we are guaranteed an incredible eternal life because of what Christ did on the cross, and we really have nothing to fear because of it. That's a bold statement for someone who suffers with anxiety and depression!
Another thing my mom always says: it could always be worse. So, in the midst of me tearfully realizing I'd done damage to my mom's car and couldn't get to TN in time and everyone having to rearrange because of a dumb mistake I made, I made a list of things I was grateful for. This list included:
-Andrew's expert knowledge of cars (I honestly pray I marry a man who knows cars like Andrew), and his willingness to help me despite everything going on in the Workmon household
- My mishap happening within 5 miles of Kristy and Luke's house so I was safe and didn't have to drive back on a spare tire in the dark
- The tire is going to cost less than I thought
- Despite needing to be in TN, it was a blessing this happened now and not while working
- No one was hurt and no further damage was done to the car
- I am about to get my last pay check from Housing which will help pay for this
And then I prayed, hard for a place to have an available, even if temporary rim, on Tuesday. I caught myself thinking how inconvenient it was that this is Memorial Day weekend, and then I shut myself up because that's another reason to be grateful- for the men and women who sacrifice their lives daily for my freedoms, including the freedom to openly pray and make this list of gratefulness in public.
I'm really challenging myself to be grateful and give thanks in every circumstance. I do not know what the future holds- I don't know where I'll be living next year, I just found out that my curriculum for my 8th graders is being changed because of standardized tests, I'll be on a shoe-string budget so I can pay off my student loans accordingly and responsibly, and I'm terrified of teaching on my own (and excited). BUT, God is good, because in every situation He is there. Praying continuously, which I feel I've done more of now that school is over, really lets you be "in sync" with God. As I drove down the freeway on the spare tire with people honking at me and flipping me off, despite being in the right lane with my hazards on, I felt the freedom and conviction to pray for them and pray patience and understanding over them because I realized how lucky I was in my current circumstance. And I basically kissed the ground in praise of God when I got home safely. This is a good "practice" run of being thankful in tricky and frustrating situations because I know this is nothing compared to what some people go through, but God will always be by my side, and that is something to praise about.
If you feel compelled to send up a prayer for my tire rim, I'd appreciate it! : ]
Smile, God loves you!
Monday, April 28, 2014
Streams of Mercy
While I was testing the water for my shower a few weeks ago, I stopped for a moment and watched the water pour off of my arm and separate like a fork in a river and then stream off of my individual fingertips. This is a vivid image in my mind, and I thought to myself, "this is like the Holy Spirit flowing from God to us on earth." Well, as you all know, I wasn't in the greatest places spiritually a few weeks ago and let that rest. Also around that time at the end of March one of the sermons at church was on God's mercy, and the pastor informed us that the translation of "mercy" means "the loving kindness of God." I was at such a dark place that I found it hard to stop rolling my eyes throughout this sermon (yes, I'm a Christian and have a really hard time believing sometimes). It isn't until these last 10 tens or so, since about Easter, appropriate I know, that I've felt my heart really begin to thaw (cue Frozen reference).
Mercy.
-An active dam in the wrath of God.
Oh, at the point I heard this sermon, I understood wrath. I had a felt like I had a wrath for God- I was so angry, so hurt, so upset, you know the drill. I felt God's judgment upon me wherever I went. I couldn't understand how someone who took the time to create me, who supposedly loved me SO much, could let bad things happen to me, could cast judgment upon me, could let me experience pain and heartbreak and so much more. I didn't get it. They say that your relationship with God is often a reflection of your relationship with your father, so it only makes sense that I have abandonment issues with God; I'm afraid He'll leave me. No, my father did not leave me by choice, but abandonment is the only way to describe that feeling. Well, back to the like father, like God comparison when it comes to God letting us see pain.
I vividly remember learning to swing on the monkey bars in the backyard one spring afternoon with my dad. I was about five and it was one of my coveted afternoons where it was just "Dad and Vic" time before my sisters got home from school that let out much later than mine. Anyway, he was holding my waist and instructing me to alternate swinging my arms on the monkey bars. He kept allowing me to swing my arm and swing my arm, and then he let go because I told him I was ready. He warily stepped back. Well, I did one bar by myself and then fell on my butt on the ground, knocking the wind out of me. I was ticked at my dad. He chuckled at the sight of me and then told me, in true Bob Rivard fashion, to "get up and walk it off." My anger and frustration grew and I snapped at my dad for letting go. "But you told me to," he said. I stomped off crying and he came over a minute later and explained that my behavior was unacceptable and that even though I was embarrassed, I shouldn't have been rude. Then he insisted I try again on the monkey bars.
How does this relate to my relationship with God? Sometimes I insist He let go. I pull away so quickly and God, like my dad, just has to stand and watch so that I can prove to myself that I can't do it on my own. God takes a step back and lets me get hurt, just like my dad did. My dad knew I wouldn't fall to a serious injury, I fell on my butt, a cushy surface, but I had been about to fall on my head, he would have stepped in to keep me from a really dangerous injury, just like God would have- just like He's always done. I've talked on here about my thoughts of suicide, and God steps in; my conscious and the Holy Spirit won't let me do it. I think it's God who comes back, but really I admit that I was rude and ask for forgiveness. My dad could have been mad at me for telling him to let go. He could have said "I told you so. That's why you always listen to your father!" but he didn't. God doesn't either; He could get really angry at me for straying and for saying I don't need Him, but He doesn't. His MERCY prevents Him from doing so.
Lord, like a tether pull me back to you. Show me how to feel welcome in your arms again. Lead me to where your love is without borders.
Tonight I realized I have one page left in my journal. I started this journal on June 21, 2012, just about 2 weeks after my gut-wrenching break up. The journal catalogs the darkest period of my life, where I clung to my faith like I had nothing left in this world, then shows how things got better, then I just stopped writing, but from June 21 to October 23 of 2012, I wrote almost every single day. I can tell in here when things are bad, because that's when I write the most. One sign of trouble and I go running back to God blaming him for "letting me get away." Each time, God opens His arms to me and lets me back in. It takes time because I might have to run a marathon to get back to where He is, but He's always there, because of his mercy. A lot of change is coming in my life, and I'm overwhelmed and anxious and stressed, and I'm not ready to tell the world about the decisions I've made, but probably will later this week. I've had more change and opportunities arise in the last 2 weeks when I've been diligently seeking Him and getting to know His heart more. Coincidence? I think not. His Word even says,
Draw near to God and He will draw near to you.
-James 4:8 (NKJV)
So now, despite how deep and dark of a hole you are in, remember that His mercy flows to us like the water in the shower. Remember this with me as times are tough and anxiety is high, and...
Smile, God loves you!
Mercy.
-An active dam in the wrath of God.
Oh, at the point I heard this sermon, I understood wrath. I had a felt like I had a wrath for God- I was so angry, so hurt, so upset, you know the drill. I felt God's judgment upon me wherever I went. I couldn't understand how someone who took the time to create me, who supposedly loved me SO much, could let bad things happen to me, could cast judgment upon me, could let me experience pain and heartbreak and so much more. I didn't get it. They say that your relationship with God is often a reflection of your relationship with your father, so it only makes sense that I have abandonment issues with God; I'm afraid He'll leave me. No, my father did not leave me by choice, but abandonment is the only way to describe that feeling. Well, back to the like father, like God comparison when it comes to God letting us see pain.
I vividly remember learning to swing on the monkey bars in the backyard one spring afternoon with my dad. I was about five and it was one of my coveted afternoons where it was just "Dad and Vic" time before my sisters got home from school that let out much later than mine. Anyway, he was holding my waist and instructing me to alternate swinging my arms on the monkey bars. He kept allowing me to swing my arm and swing my arm, and then he let go because I told him I was ready. He warily stepped back. Well, I did one bar by myself and then fell on my butt on the ground, knocking the wind out of me. I was ticked at my dad. He chuckled at the sight of me and then told me, in true Bob Rivard fashion, to "get up and walk it off." My anger and frustration grew and I snapped at my dad for letting go. "But you told me to," he said. I stomped off crying and he came over a minute later and explained that my behavior was unacceptable and that even though I was embarrassed, I shouldn't have been rude. Then he insisted I try again on the monkey bars.
How does this relate to my relationship with God? Sometimes I insist He let go. I pull away so quickly and God, like my dad, just has to stand and watch so that I can prove to myself that I can't do it on my own. God takes a step back and lets me get hurt, just like my dad did. My dad knew I wouldn't fall to a serious injury, I fell on my butt, a cushy surface, but I had been about to fall on my head, he would have stepped in to keep me from a really dangerous injury, just like God would have- just like He's always done. I've talked on here about my thoughts of suicide, and God steps in; my conscious and the Holy Spirit won't let me do it. I think it's God who comes back, but really I admit that I was rude and ask for forgiveness. My dad could have been mad at me for telling him to let go. He could have said "I told you so. That's why you always listen to your father!" but he didn't. God doesn't either; He could get really angry at me for straying and for saying I don't need Him, but He doesn't. His MERCY prevents Him from doing so.
Lord, like a tether pull me back to you. Show me how to feel welcome in your arms again. Lead me to where your love is without borders.
Tonight I realized I have one page left in my journal. I started this journal on June 21, 2012, just about 2 weeks after my gut-wrenching break up. The journal catalogs the darkest period of my life, where I clung to my faith like I had nothing left in this world, then shows how things got better, then I just stopped writing, but from June 21 to October 23 of 2012, I wrote almost every single day. I can tell in here when things are bad, because that's when I write the most. One sign of trouble and I go running back to God blaming him for "letting me get away." Each time, God opens His arms to me and lets me back in. It takes time because I might have to run a marathon to get back to where He is, but He's always there, because of his mercy. A lot of change is coming in my life, and I'm overwhelmed and anxious and stressed, and I'm not ready to tell the world about the decisions I've made, but probably will later this week. I've had more change and opportunities arise in the last 2 weeks when I've been diligently seeking Him and getting to know His heart more. Coincidence? I think not. His Word even says,
Draw near to God and He will draw near to you.
-James 4:8 (NKJV)
So now, despite how deep and dark of a hole you are in, remember that His mercy flows to us like the water in the shower. Remember this with me as times are tough and anxiety is high, and...
Smile, God loves you!
Friday, April 11, 2014
Talitha Cumi
Well, I just got back from a beautiful cruise with two wonderful people for Spring Break, and despite how relaxing and calming the cruise to Key West and Cozumel was, it made me realize how really unhappy I am. I've talked on here about how downright angry I am the majority of the time and how I've fallen into this pit of depression and I'm desperately trying to get out, but I'm kind of refusing to turn to God (I know that's dumb, but that's how it is).
Today I got really angry. As I left Ansley's apartment to drive back to Athens and first calling my mom to tell her I was headed home, I picked up my phone to call the one person I could count on to endlessly listen to the details of my trip-- G. It took me a second, just as I was about to hit "home" on my phone, that G wouldn't be there to answer. I miss him SO much and I feel like I don't give myself time to grieve. It's hard- it's really really hard. I took him for granted for so many years. Even just to have someone who would listen. He might "selectively listen" to what I had to say, but I knew someone was on the other line. He enjoyed being the first person to get all of the details; it made him feel special. I wanted to call him today, just to tell him how pretty Mexico was and how we had to run back to the boat because we almost missed it. I can hear him laughing and saying he was glad I relaxed. I can hear him asking if I put on sunscreen and asking if I stayed away from the sailors. Gosh, I really really miss my G Money, the G to my V. I know that when I go home for Easter next weekend he would have been the first one to see my pictures from the cruise and he would undoubtedly have funny commentary. It's hard realizing how much you'll miss someone.
I'm stressed about getting a job and graduating and all of the change headed my way. I got pulled over for speeding on Friday (the first time I've ever been pulled over), and the officer didn't give me a ticket or a warning- it was like he knew I was a poor student teacher. He made me promise to slow down, and G's voice came ringing back to my ears. What was it he told me every time I left the house after getting my license since I was 16? "Slow down, Vic." "Nothing is worth speeding through the streets." "You don't have to be in a rush all the time." And yes, I need to slow down while driving. The price of a speeding ticket is worth nothing in comparison to if I hurt someone while driving, but I realized that I need to slow down in life. I'm constantly rushing to the next thing I have going on that I'm not taking time to enjoy the last few weeks I have as a college student. I feel like I've let my fear, anxiety, and depression keep me from living a typical college life and I regret that, which also causes a sense of anxiety (yay cyclical nature of that beast).
This just adds to how unhappy I am right now. I'm unhappy with how overweight I am (almost 20 lbs since sophomore year, despite losing 8 lbs before the cruise); I have acne for the first time in my life- all hormonal from stress, so basically there's little I can do about it. I look at pictures and I just don't look like myself- I don't look happy and I can see it in my eyes. I don't like what I see in the physical mirror or the figurative one. I keep thinking I can fill this void- with food, with remarks from men, with clothes, with makeup, with teaching, with reading, with helping others, but I know the only thing that can fill that void, but I just don't want to turn there. I keep thinking that if I lose weight and figure out how to clear my skin, I'll meet a nice Christian boy that I will eventually marry and that will fill the void of the loneliness I feel. I know in my heart that's not true, but society tells me I'm almost 22 and the fact that I've only had 1 serious relationship is bad. The fact that I don't date means something's wrong with me. The Bible tells me the opposite- that guarding my heart is a good thing, but this is a battle every girl (and boy I'm sure) faces. I know that dating someone right now would fill the void in a wrong way. I heard a quote the other day from a married couple, and the husband said, "Two fulfilled single people make a fulfilled married couple. There's no other way to put it," and that's so true. I want to be fulfilled but I'm pretty ticked at God. And, like every other girl, I pray for my future husband. I pray that he leads me to Christ. I pray that he loves Jesus more than me, and Lord I pray he comes soon. So today I was thinking about how lonely I was and how it seems like guys don't notice me (pathetic, yes, but I'm always honest on this blog and I can't deny those feelings) anymore, and I prayed for my future husband or future relationship and I heard that still, small voice that I don't really let myself hear much and all it said was, "Me."
"Me." Him- the Holy One- that's where I need to turn for my fulfillment. I won't be able to lose weight if I don't fill the void with Jesus over food. The acne, well I can't really do much about that. I won't be successful as a teacher if I don't realize that my purpose is to glorify Him, not to be liked and admired by students. I can't change students' lives if I'm doing it to feel good about myself at the end of the day. Buying makeup and putting it on and playing with it won't mean anything if I don't let His light shine from within. I know these things, now it's just a matter of doing it. Ansley and Derek got tattoos at a non-shady place in Mexico. I was there for moral support, but Ansley got a tattoo of a verse she'd been wanting for awhile. It's from the story of Lazarus when Jesus says, "This sickness will not end in death." Ansley asked if I got a tattoo what it would say, and I was brought back to this blog post (here) where I talked about Jesus raising Jairus's daughter from the dead. (No one should be surprised that Ansley and I unknowingly have the same story for the Bible, just in different ways.) Anyway, the chances of me getting a tattoo in my life are slim to none, but "Talitha Cumi" is Hebrew for "Little girl, arise," and is probably what I would get if, in an alternate universe, I got a tattoo. That story means a lot to me which you can read about in that blog post. I bought Max Lucado's Fearless today to reread and take notes and read more of the Biblical stories in that book. I know I need Jesus to fill the void, now it's just a matter of swallowing the insane amounts of pride that I have at being able to fix myself alone and actually doing it.
For now...
Smile, God loves you! (Even when you're like me and try to deny it).
Friday, March 28, 2014
Dazed and Confused.
Sometimes it's really hard to make sense of life. And man, it's been a year in the life, and I'm struggling. Senior year of high school was hard on me, but senior year of college is one thousand times harder. I've never been this busy or this utterly exhausted before. This year I've journeyed through friends facing suicide, eating disorders, break ups, and "growing up," I've lost the 2nd most important man in my life (after my dad), and now I'm getting ready to graduate and the job search is on. For someone who is prone to anxiety and depression all of this is a recipe for disaster.
I've felt like a ticking time bomb. Sometimes I physically don't feel like I have the time to cry over G, and I know I'm still in denial that he's gone. My family of course checks in on me and so do my wonderful friends, but sometimes I get annoyed with people asking me if I'm ok. That's selfish, I know, but I do. A boy I knew from high school died a few weeks ago from a heroine overdose, and he happened to be my ex's best friend. I spent two summers with him and his girlfriend so his death came as a HUGE shock. I reached out to my ex, though we haven't spoken in almost two years. And it all put me back to that awful place where I was junior year. And I cried. And cried. And cried. The full magnitude of losing Grandpa finally hit me and continues to hit me.
If you've read this blog for awhile, you know I've struggled through suicidal thoughts, and with all of this pressure, stress, and anxiety boiling up, those suicidal thoughts have returned. I'm seeking the help I need, but gosh it's overwhelming! I miss Grandpa SO much and as I scrolled through old pictures today on my camera I found some of him and my heart just breaks a little. That's a lie- it breaks a lot. I don't do well with change, and my life is about to change big time as I journey into the unknown area of adulthood.
I'm still loving teaching, even when the kids frustrate me to no end, but I do love them. I will miss them all SO much when I finish student teaching on April 18th. I can't even talk about how much I will miss them and Allisa because I get teary eyed. I think this whole teaching experience has really saved me this year. Those kids...gosh I can't even say anything. So many of them have faced so much adversity at 15 and 16 and most days I don't know if they learn as much from me as I do from them. They are the world's best distraction. They give me purpose and I've seen what a difference just talking to them makes. When you see a student acting differently and you crouch beside their desk and ask what's going on because they're not acting as they typically do, they realize you care and are so much more willing to work and, more importantly, they trust you. They've really saved me this year.
I can't even really talk about my relationship with God right now because it puzzles me. I've been so so so angry since G died. I'm slowly getting back into my quiet time but most of the time I feel like screaming at Him. Slowly and gradually I feel these walls coming down, but this is a process.
For now though I'm so exhausted at 9:30 on a Friday night that I'm going to bed- Is it Spring Break yet?!
Smile, God loves you!
I've felt like a ticking time bomb. Sometimes I physically don't feel like I have the time to cry over G, and I know I'm still in denial that he's gone. My family of course checks in on me and so do my wonderful friends, but sometimes I get annoyed with people asking me if I'm ok. That's selfish, I know, but I do. A boy I knew from high school died a few weeks ago from a heroine overdose, and he happened to be my ex's best friend. I spent two summers with him and his girlfriend so his death came as a HUGE shock. I reached out to my ex, though we haven't spoken in almost two years. And it all put me back to that awful place where I was junior year. And I cried. And cried. And cried. The full magnitude of losing Grandpa finally hit me and continues to hit me.
If you've read this blog for awhile, you know I've struggled through suicidal thoughts, and with all of this pressure, stress, and anxiety boiling up, those suicidal thoughts have returned. I'm seeking the help I need, but gosh it's overwhelming! I miss Grandpa SO much and as I scrolled through old pictures today on my camera I found some of him and my heart just breaks a little. That's a lie- it breaks a lot. I don't do well with change, and my life is about to change big time as I journey into the unknown area of adulthood.
I'm still loving teaching, even when the kids frustrate me to no end, but I do love them. I will miss them all SO much when I finish student teaching on April 18th. I can't even talk about how much I will miss them and Allisa because I get teary eyed. I think this whole teaching experience has really saved me this year. Those kids...gosh I can't even say anything. So many of them have faced so much adversity at 15 and 16 and most days I don't know if they learn as much from me as I do from them. They are the world's best distraction. They give me purpose and I've seen what a difference just talking to them makes. When you see a student acting differently and you crouch beside their desk and ask what's going on because they're not acting as they typically do, they realize you care and are so much more willing to work and, more importantly, they trust you. They've really saved me this year.
I can't even really talk about my relationship with God right now because it puzzles me. I've been so so so angry since G died. I'm slowly getting back into my quiet time but most of the time I feel like screaming at Him. Slowly and gradually I feel these walls coming down, but this is a process.
For now though I'm so exhausted at 9:30 on a Friday night that I'm going to bed- Is it Spring Break yet?!
Smile, God loves you!
Wednesday, January 29, 2014
Hands
Allisa (my Mentor Teacher) and I do this thing with our kids called "powerful line writing" where we listen to a song or a piece of spoken word poetry and have the kids pick a powerful from the piece. They are then instructed to write the powerful line at the top of the page and then write about why that line is powerful. Our goal with this type of writing is for students to just write. There is no length requirement and what the kids write is completely self-generated. The kids turn these in and they go in their writing folders. Rarely do we grade them, but we do always read them, and let me say, I'm always humbled by what these kids write. We want to show them that writing can be therapeutic, and you often end with something you didn't have in mind when you started. The Common Core leaves little room for narrative writing, but one of the standards is to "write routinely over time" and so that's where our little powerful line exercise comes in.
Anyway, I got to pick the spoken word poem we did last week, and Sarah Kay is one of my favorites. (For those of you who are not familiar with spoken word, here is Wikipedia's definition.) I chose Sarah Kay's poem, "Hands," having no idea how much it would resonate with me.
To watch Sarah Kay's "Hands," go here. I also suggest you watch some of her other poetry, too.
I've thought a lot about this poem and the notions Kay presents in "Hands," and realized just how hand-oriented my family is. When I think about my grandma, the one thing I remember most vividly about her, other than the faint tick, tick of her pacemaker, is her hands. I remember her long fingernails that were always well groomed and how often she yelled at me for my dirty ones. She was always doing something with her hands: sewing, doing dishes, polishing silver, folding laundry, baking, cooking. One Christmas after she died I tried to make her famous pie crusts and while I was squishing the Crisco into the cup like she'd shown me, it was like her hands replaced my own. I looked down and saw her fingernails and her knuckles wrinkled with age. I remember standing back for a moment and looking at my hands to make sure they were my own. Her hands were the ones that rubbed my temples for over an hour when I had my first migraine at 11; the hands that patiently scraped shampoo out of my carpet when I spilled over half a bottle in my room; the hands that sat over a sewing machine for hours on end fixing my dance costumes or hemming pants; the hands that made my lunch each day with just the right amount of peanut butter to jelly ratio; the hands that clapped elegantly at every softball game and dance recital, and the hands that baked so many batches of cookies and cakes and pies that I couldn't count. I miss those hands.
And I think about G's hands. Grandpa's funeral was this past Saturday, and it was a hard day. I really haven't given myself time to cry- I try to stay busy so that the grief can't catch up with me, but we all know that at some point it does. Saturday was hard...really hard. I miss Grandpa so much, so much that my heart aches to have him back. I've been really angry lately- another stage of grief. I've found it hard to pray. It's not that I'm angry at God, I'm just angry at the way things work. I'm angry that life works the way it does and that people have to leave. I know that in time my heart will soften again and allow myself to hear God's faint whisper, but I'm angry right now, and that's OK.
Anyway, when I was driving back to Athens on Sunday I thought about G's hands. His hands that nursed people back to help as a navy corpsman in WWII; the hands that diligently washed chocolate out of the couch with me so that Grandma wouldn't know we both ate it before dinner when she told us not to; the swollen, arthritic knuckles from years spent hand-washing and peeling potatoes at his fast food restaurant, Jif Jiffy; the hands that build my wooden doll house piece by piece; hands that fixed every broken glass, every broken Christmas ornament; hands that figured out how to fix broken plumbing, that planted flowers and tomato plants; hands that laid each brick that lines the garden in our backyard; hands that diligently cleaned the stove when it had burn marks from Mom cooking for 14+ people each night; hands that in the last few years gripped a cane to aid his walking; hands that tickled just a little too hard, but left his grandkids and great grandkids giggling nonetheless; and hands that would grab my shoulder reassuringly, always letting me know that it would be OK.
When I think about G's hands, I think about the last moments I spent with him. He asked Courtney and I to cut his fingernails. A man of 92, whose hands had done more than I could ever imagine in his lifetime, finally came to the moment when he couldn't cut his own nails. This was 3 days before he died. At the time I did it while thinking his nails were kind of gross. After all, he'd been bed ridden for almost two weeks at this point- he couldn't wash his hands. I was struck at how swollen his hands were from his lack of dialysis. I look at cutting his nails right now and am humbled. G hated not being able to do things for himself. He yelled "ouch" once because I got too close to the skin, but then laughed after I apologized. When I finished cutting his nails he looked at me so humbly with those clear-blue eyes and said, "thanks, Vic."
Sarah Kay argues that hands tell a story, and I know they do. Every wrinkle in G's hands tells of the time he spent doing things that we take for granted- washing dishes, polishing silver, fixing a broken toy, car, or pipe, flipping pages of a newspaper, driving, brushing his teeth, playing with his kids, grandchildren, and great grandchildren. Every wrinkle had its own unique story.
Grandpa's hands were the one that taught me how to tie up a chicken to put on the rotisserie, how to check the oil in a car, how to screw in a light bulb, how to superglue something together without getting your hands glued together, or how he taught me the right way to squeeze the juice out of a grapefruit. I still feel his hand on my shoulder as he walked by or how many times he'd see my bare feet on the couch and walk by and tickle them, telling me to put socks on because I was making him cold. I see his hands giving me a reassuring squeeze each time I was upset or angry. Oh what I would give to feel that reassuring squeeze on my shoulder or arm. I would give anything to feel that gentle squeeze again.
Oh G, you are sorely missed. I know you're in Heaven now with your beautiful wife looking down on all of us with a smile. My only comfort comes in knowing I'll see you again some day and you can squeeze my shoulder again and tell me that it will all work out in the end.
Anyway, I got to pick the spoken word poem we did last week, and Sarah Kay is one of my favorites. (For those of you who are not familiar with spoken word, here is Wikipedia's definition.) I chose Sarah Kay's poem, "Hands," having no idea how much it would resonate with me.
To watch Sarah Kay's "Hands," go here. I also suggest you watch some of her other poetry, too.
I've thought a lot about this poem and the notions Kay presents in "Hands," and realized just how hand-oriented my family is. When I think about my grandma, the one thing I remember most vividly about her, other than the faint tick, tick of her pacemaker, is her hands. I remember her long fingernails that were always well groomed and how often she yelled at me for my dirty ones. She was always doing something with her hands: sewing, doing dishes, polishing silver, folding laundry, baking, cooking. One Christmas after she died I tried to make her famous pie crusts and while I was squishing the Crisco into the cup like she'd shown me, it was like her hands replaced my own. I looked down and saw her fingernails and her knuckles wrinkled with age. I remember standing back for a moment and looking at my hands to make sure they were my own. Her hands were the ones that rubbed my temples for over an hour when I had my first migraine at 11; the hands that patiently scraped shampoo out of my carpet when I spilled over half a bottle in my room; the hands that sat over a sewing machine for hours on end fixing my dance costumes or hemming pants; the hands that made my lunch each day with just the right amount of peanut butter to jelly ratio; the hands that clapped elegantly at every softball game and dance recital, and the hands that baked so many batches of cookies and cakes and pies that I couldn't count. I miss those hands.
And I think about G's hands. Grandpa's funeral was this past Saturday, and it was a hard day. I really haven't given myself time to cry- I try to stay busy so that the grief can't catch up with me, but we all know that at some point it does. Saturday was hard...really hard. I miss Grandpa so much, so much that my heart aches to have him back. I've been really angry lately- another stage of grief. I've found it hard to pray. It's not that I'm angry at God, I'm just angry at the way things work. I'm angry that life works the way it does and that people have to leave. I know that in time my heart will soften again and allow myself to hear God's faint whisper, but I'm angry right now, and that's OK.
Anyway, when I was driving back to Athens on Sunday I thought about G's hands. His hands that nursed people back to help as a navy corpsman in WWII; the hands that diligently washed chocolate out of the couch with me so that Grandma wouldn't know we both ate it before dinner when she told us not to; the swollen, arthritic knuckles from years spent hand-washing and peeling potatoes at his fast food restaurant, Jif Jiffy; the hands that build my wooden doll house piece by piece; hands that fixed every broken glass, every broken Christmas ornament; hands that figured out how to fix broken plumbing, that planted flowers and tomato plants; hands that laid each brick that lines the garden in our backyard; hands that diligently cleaned the stove when it had burn marks from Mom cooking for 14+ people each night; hands that in the last few years gripped a cane to aid his walking; hands that tickled just a little too hard, but left his grandkids and great grandkids giggling nonetheless; and hands that would grab my shoulder reassuringly, always letting me know that it would be OK.
When I think about G's hands, I think about the last moments I spent with him. He asked Courtney and I to cut his fingernails. A man of 92, whose hands had done more than I could ever imagine in his lifetime, finally came to the moment when he couldn't cut his own nails. This was 3 days before he died. At the time I did it while thinking his nails were kind of gross. After all, he'd been bed ridden for almost two weeks at this point- he couldn't wash his hands. I was struck at how swollen his hands were from his lack of dialysis. I look at cutting his nails right now and am humbled. G hated not being able to do things for himself. He yelled "ouch" once because I got too close to the skin, but then laughed after I apologized. When I finished cutting his nails he looked at me so humbly with those clear-blue eyes and said, "thanks, Vic."
Sarah Kay argues that hands tell a story, and I know they do. Every wrinkle in G's hands tells of the time he spent doing things that we take for granted- washing dishes, polishing silver, fixing a broken toy, car, or pipe, flipping pages of a newspaper, driving, brushing his teeth, playing with his kids, grandchildren, and great grandchildren. Every wrinkle had its own unique story.
Grandpa's hands were the one that taught me how to tie up a chicken to put on the rotisserie, how to check the oil in a car, how to screw in a light bulb, how to superglue something together without getting your hands glued together, or how he taught me the right way to squeeze the juice out of a grapefruit. I still feel his hand on my shoulder as he walked by or how many times he'd see my bare feet on the couch and walk by and tickle them, telling me to put socks on because I was making him cold. I see his hands giving me a reassuring squeeze each time I was upset or angry. Oh what I would give to feel that reassuring squeeze on my shoulder or arm. I would give anything to feel that gentle squeeze again.
Oh G, you are sorely missed. I know you're in Heaven now with your beautiful wife looking down on all of us with a smile. My only comfort comes in knowing I'll see you again some day and you can squeeze my shoulder again and tell me that it will all work out in the end.
Tuesday, January 14, 2014
Heaven gained an angel...
Heaven gained an angel this morning. Sweet Grandpa died around 8 am today. I woke up this morning knowing it was going to happen. I overslept, spilled coffee on myself twice, and got 5 minutes away before realizing I forgot my phone, and then my gas light came on while I was still 40 minutes from RCA. It was just one of those mornings, and I felt it in my bones that G was leaving us today. As I pulled into the school parking lot (17 minutes late), I stopped for a minute and amid the raining and cloudy day the sun broke through the clouds with the rays shining everywhere, and it was like G was in the car with me, "I'll never leave, Vic," and I just knew. My supervisors have all been very nice and let me leave school today to go home.
To be honest, I don't know how I'm going to do this. I'm somewhere in the "5 stages of grief" of being in denial and angry. Not angry at God or anyone in particular, but just a little angry about the way life goes. I don't want to have to grieve again. And I'm angry that Grandpa is gone. I really can't believe he's gone; there is an aching hole in my heart. For those of you who don't know, my grandparents moved in with us about a year and a half after my dad died. Grandpa wasn't in the greatest health at that point and my mom needed some help trying to get Kristy, Jackie, and I to our various extracurricular activities (Courtney was in college at this point). I'm happy Grandpa is with Jesus and my grandma, but I'm angry that he's not going to greet me at the door anymore, or yell out some random newspaper story to me while I'm in the other room. I'm going to miss walking into the house and seeing him sit on the front porch. I'll miss chastising him for feeding Maggie from the table, and then him getting mad at her for begging so much. I'll miss his ability to super glue anything back together. I'll miss his "In the navy..." stories and his at times inappropriate jokes. And yes, I will miss his stubborn disposition, because I have definitely inherited that trait.
About two weeks ago when things got really bad, I wrote G a letter in my prayer journal. I'm sad I didn't give it to him, but I don't know how he would have responded; Grandpa wasn't one for sentimental words.
To the man who helped raise me,
You came at a time when I experienced my first kind of heartbreak- losing my daddy. I knew you as Grandpa George, the man who survived cancer, was my mom's dad, served in World War II, read the newspaper, liked to garden, and played tiger with me. I was 8, and your timing was perfect.
For the first 5 years you lived here my relationship with Grandma flourished, and I think that's because at that point in my life I needed her most, but you were always there. You insisted on buying me treats at the grocery store, and you were never afraid to have a firm hand with me- which I often resisted but almost always needed. At some point we got a little closer, and you became just "Grandpa."
When I was in 8th grade, our relationship changed forever, from that of a grandfather-granddaughter, to a real friendship. It's when you were coined "G" because you thought G stood for Grandpa, not gangsta. You became my G, and I became your V. You started a game of tag by writing "you're it" in paint on the back deck. And then there was the "I love you" game of who could say it last.
Although you always let me put barrettes in your hair and put my wet hair in your face, everything changed on Christmas day 2005; it was your 84th birthday and the day Grandma died. I went to wake you both up and Grandma didn't wake up- I'll never forget the look on your face. She was someone special to both of us. In that moment, everything changed. I'd never seen you cry before that day and we both grieved.
Well G, we didn't think you'd make it long after she died, but you made it 8 years. You told me you'd see me get my license, then see me graduate from high school, see Courtney get her PhD, and watch me graduate from college. I told you earlier today that it was ok to let go. I'd be ok if you couldn't see me get my diploma. From that day on you and I ate dinner together, just the two of us, for almost 3 years when Mom had to work late. I think in that time we got closer. You were the first person I told about my day. You picked me up from the bus stop when it was raining or too cold. You left me notes for me to see in the morning, and I'd write you a note back- I still have some of those. Within just a couple of years you went from a somewhat stranger to more like my best friend. You made sure I did my homework, and always asked me to watch Wheel of Fortune and Jeopardy.
I know I wasn't always easy. I was bratty, disrespectful, and snappy. But G, I don't know who I'd be without you. How many 78 year old men volunteer to help to take care of an 8 year old? The only two words I can think to say are thank you. And, I love you.
-V
There's so much more I could say. G saw me through the heartbreak of my dad's death, losing Grandma, and my first break up (with the same boy twice). G told me what outfits looked good and always gave life advice, like "watch out for sailors," because he was one. More than anything, Grandpa showed me what it looks like when a man truly loves a woman. Not many people stay married for 59 years anymore, or uphold their vows of "till death do us part," but G did. My grandma died 8 years ago, and G died still wearing his wedding ring. I can't believe I'll go home and won't see him. I sat in his room today and cried. I know he's still with me, but it doesn't make this pain lessen. I have no idea where I'd be without him, or who I'd be.
G, I love you.
To be honest, I don't know how I'm going to do this. I'm somewhere in the "5 stages of grief" of being in denial and angry. Not angry at God or anyone in particular, but just a little angry about the way life goes. I don't want to have to grieve again. And I'm angry that Grandpa is gone. I really can't believe he's gone; there is an aching hole in my heart. For those of you who don't know, my grandparents moved in with us about a year and a half after my dad died. Grandpa wasn't in the greatest health at that point and my mom needed some help trying to get Kristy, Jackie, and I to our various extracurricular activities (Courtney was in college at this point). I'm happy Grandpa is with Jesus and my grandma, but I'm angry that he's not going to greet me at the door anymore, or yell out some random newspaper story to me while I'm in the other room. I'm going to miss walking into the house and seeing him sit on the front porch. I'll miss chastising him for feeding Maggie from the table, and then him getting mad at her for begging so much. I'll miss his ability to super glue anything back together. I'll miss his "In the navy..." stories and his at times inappropriate jokes. And yes, I will miss his stubborn disposition, because I have definitely inherited that trait.
About two weeks ago when things got really bad, I wrote G a letter in my prayer journal. I'm sad I didn't give it to him, but I don't know how he would have responded; Grandpa wasn't one for sentimental words.
To the man who helped raise me,
You came at a time when I experienced my first kind of heartbreak- losing my daddy. I knew you as Grandpa George, the man who survived cancer, was my mom's dad, served in World War II, read the newspaper, liked to garden, and played tiger with me. I was 8, and your timing was perfect.
For the first 5 years you lived here my relationship with Grandma flourished, and I think that's because at that point in my life I needed her most, but you were always there. You insisted on buying me treats at the grocery store, and you were never afraid to have a firm hand with me- which I often resisted but almost always needed. At some point we got a little closer, and you became just "Grandpa."
When I was in 8th grade, our relationship changed forever, from that of a grandfather-granddaughter, to a real friendship. It's when you were coined "G" because you thought G stood for Grandpa, not gangsta. You became my G, and I became your V. You started a game of tag by writing "you're it" in paint on the back deck. And then there was the "I love you" game of who could say it last.
Although you always let me put barrettes in your hair and put my wet hair in your face, everything changed on Christmas day 2005; it was your 84th birthday and the day Grandma died. I went to wake you both up and Grandma didn't wake up- I'll never forget the look on your face. She was someone special to both of us. In that moment, everything changed. I'd never seen you cry before that day and we both grieved.
Well G, we didn't think you'd make it long after she died, but you made it 8 years. You told me you'd see me get my license, then see me graduate from high school, see Courtney get her PhD, and watch me graduate from college. I told you earlier today that it was ok to let go. I'd be ok if you couldn't see me get my diploma. From that day on you and I ate dinner together, just the two of us, for almost 3 years when Mom had to work late. I think in that time we got closer. You were the first person I told about my day. You picked me up from the bus stop when it was raining or too cold. You left me notes for me to see in the morning, and I'd write you a note back- I still have some of those. Within just a couple of years you went from a somewhat stranger to more like my best friend. You made sure I did my homework, and always asked me to watch Wheel of Fortune and Jeopardy.
I know I wasn't always easy. I was bratty, disrespectful, and snappy. But G, I don't know who I'd be without you. How many 78 year old men volunteer to help to take care of an 8 year old? The only two words I can think to say are thank you. And, I love you.
-V
There's so much more I could say. G saw me through the heartbreak of my dad's death, losing Grandma, and my first break up (with the same boy twice). G told me what outfits looked good and always gave life advice, like "watch out for sailors," because he was one. More than anything, Grandpa showed me what it looks like when a man truly loves a woman. Not many people stay married for 59 years anymore, or uphold their vows of "till death do us part," but G did. My grandma died 8 years ago, and G died still wearing his wedding ring. I can't believe I'll go home and won't see him. I sat in his room today and cried. I know he's still with me, but it doesn't make this pain lessen. I have no idea where I'd be without him, or who I'd be.
G, I love you.
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