It is the pain endures.

There are worst things than breakups. For example, I'm sure a zombie apocalypse would be much worse, with all the brain eating and zombie slaying. Or I imagine getting kidnapped by evil, scurvy-riddled pirates would be pretty unpleasant. But when you're in the middle of a breakup, that's about the worst scenario you can imagine - you can't really see past your own misery. When it feels as if your heart has fallen out and you're walking around, nothing but a raw bundle of nerves and confusion, it's hard to focus on anything else.

I went to the doctor today because not only did I get broken up with, I am also sick. Hey, go big or go home right? Anyway, I went to the doctor, telling him I was coughing so much my chest ached. He listened to me breathe and said my lungs were inflamed and infected. He said he could tell breathing was difficult for me right now. Yeah, no kidding. I wanted to tell him it was my heart's fault. It must have irritated its two breathing neighbors while it broke out and made its hasty escape. I still had hope my heart would come back, but until then some medication might be nice, seeing as how breathing is necessary to life and all.

This reminds me of the time I prayed for God to "help me see" sometime last year. I should have been clear and asked him to help me see his will, but alas I left it at that. Then later that week I got an infection in BOTH eyes. Felt like I could relate to Tobit a bit after that, minus the birds and short-term blindness of course. But now as I'm coping with the reality of my lost love-life, it seems acute bronchitis is really just a manifestation of my missing heart, the physical pain reminding me of the very real absence of the man I love. As if I needed a physical reminder of the emotional pain I'm experiencing. Thanks body.

Seriously though, when I'm not shaking my fist at God in frustration at the seeming injustice of this week, I see that underneath it all it's making me realize my complete and total dependence on Him. He is my true light and true love. He is my everything. And at the end of another day of heartbreak, it's nice to know I haven't lost it all. Love is ever-present, and I will find it again.

"When my heart is breaking, I never leave Your hands." - JJ Heller

Dancing around the box.

So, I'm taking a class this semester called "Psychodrama". Never has one class ever described me so succinctly. I love it! Anyway, part of the course requirement is that I have to write about class each week... keep a journal of sorts. I decided that I would blog instead, because this class is bound to have some amazingly awkward, interesting moments that I really shouldn't hog to myself. I mean, we danced around a box while listening to "The Saints Go Marching In" on the first day of class. We also renamed ourselves and screamed in a circle. Not necessarily in that order (actually I can't remember what order that occurred in... too much peyote. KIDDING).

I really think this class will be invigorating. It's going to be fun to be free and silly and spontaneous inside the same room that I used to do case staffings last semester. Last semester the room was filled with food, paperwork, Tylenol, coffee cups, and our semi-faithful computer equipment. This semester, all the tables are gone, the ceiling lights have been replaced with stage lamps, the chairs sit in a circle and we don't use any computers. All we have are our voices, our thoughts and each other.

We'll see what happens...

Brand new start.

I just finished reading “The Zahir” by Paulo Coelho and it talks about an interesting idea… It says how sometimes we have to tell our story over and over until we can let it go, until we don’t need it to define us anymore. We need to get comfortable with it, find the resolution, and let it be. We have to stop allowing our old stories trap us into the characters we used to be; we have to let go of the old storyline and become who we were meant to be (also, I can't seem to stop typing 'to be'). Sounds simple enough, but I know it’s not. It’s about as simple as ripping my own heart from my chest, burying it, and growing a new one.

But all growth is pain, and any major change for the good is hard. I know this, yet I've been living my whole life as if someone guaranteed it was supposed to be easy. Where on earth did I get that idea?

Lie to me (honestly).

It's amazing the unspoken societal rules we live by today, especially in regards to relationships. More specifically, I'm referring to the rules we follow in the exquisitely tortuous social construction called DATING. And while there are certainly self-imposed, socially influenced rules within established relationships, I'm going to speak to the dating game that I so often get tangled in (mostly because I'm awkwardness personified, but also because I try to play by the rules that don't make sense, but we follow anyway).

Most of us have played the Dating Game, which is really more of a marathon with rules and uniforms and referees (yeah, I'm mixing sports metaphors, bear with me). You know this game - it's the one that goes, "Well, I want you to know that I like you, but only if you like me back, because if you don't, then I don't want you to know that I like you." And because of this rule, fear, whatever you want to call it, we do things like call and hang up, text and pretend it was on accident, flirt with them, but not too obviously, et cetera. When we like someone, we're consumed with the fear that they'll find us out, and at the same time, consumed with the fear that they won't. And if they do find us out, and don't return the feeling (which happens most of the time), we're completely and totally mortified, as if by our liking them we are issuing a grave and unforgivable insult:

"Oh my gosh, I can't believe I've told you that you're so wonderful you've caught my attention. I'm sorry to have made you feel so special by my innocent, heartfelt confession! You must feel terrible that you're so awesome people like you!" I mean, really?

I was talking to a friend the other day about this, saying to her how frustrating this whole game is. We both shared how foolish we have felt in the past for liking someone that may or may not return the favor. But shouldn't we be proud of our declarations? Are we really so self-loathing that we think it an insult to say we (who are wonderful just as we are) like someone? Shouldn't that person be honored by such a confession? But no, it doesn't work that. We're too scared, self-conscious, defensive or some other paralyzing excuse. Instead of being true to our feelings, we bury them so deep that not even a bit too much alcohol can pry the secret loose. We hold the feelings close to our heart, praying that if the person returns the favor, they will somehow find the courage to be honest with us... in the same way we wish we had the courage to be honest with them. But if our confessions never come out, if that person never pursues us, what then? Then the regret starts to seep in, nice and slow, pulling a couple dozen "What if's" behind it.

So why can't we just be honest with each other? Why can't we tell the truth, get our feelings out, be confident and see what happens? Because that would be breaking the rules. And what happens to rule breakers? They get disqualified. Or more realistically, we have a reeeally awkward moment with the person in question, and if that person happens to be a friend, then there are all kinds of continued awkward scenarios to be had if you stay friends. And so instead, we lie, or at least conceal the truth until we do one of three things:

1. Give up.
2. Find courage and fess up (perhaps motivated by the possibility that the love of a lifetime may be lost if you remain silent).
3. Combine 1 and 2, or create some other personal strategy that somehow gets the two of you to come together naturally.

And those that get to number 3, are truly blessed indeed.

How do relationships even begin? I can't remember. All I know is that they must begin out of awkwardness, nerves and disbelief. All I know is that I will continue to play the game, will continue to play by the rules, and will probably be grateful to all the men who let me down by lying.

"So lie to me once again
And tell me everything will be alright.
It's the same old story."
- 12 Stones

Regret.

I suppose everyone has regrets (if we're truly living).
Of course, it's easy to look back and see what you could have done differently (hindsight's 20-20 and all that).
It's not so easy to look at the present and scry all of the outcomes and options (though some of us try anyway).
When we're in the moment we generally don't write up the pro's and con's of every possible move, and then confer with a panel of ethical peers before making a decision (unless you're Donald Trump... Money can buy that kind of surety).
We do what we do and it's not until we've lived through the consequences do we realize how we could have done things differently (read: better).
This is the worst torture because you can't change it; you can't take it back (only in dreams).
All you can do is comb the wreckage for things worth keeping, learn from it, and let your past influence your future (change IS possible).
Besides, what's the point of history if you don't learn from it (and have the courage to try again)?
Regrets, when coupled with hope, can build our future (if we're truly living).

"Wisdom comes with winters." - Oscar Wilde

Passive aggressive coffee drinker.

Okay, I admit it: I am a coffee freak. I have been drinking coffee since the 9th grade, and haven't stopped since. I like (love) all kinds of coffee: dark, light, espresso, mochas, cappucinnos, you name it. I'm fairly certain coffee is the only reason I ever graduated from any institution or completed any difficult task. Ask me to live without it, and I'd ask you if you wanted a swift punch to the kidney. Seriously. Coffee keeps me alive. There was even one point in my life when I could drink coffee before bed and still sleep like nobody's business. Though I've toned down my habit a lot over the years, coffee still remains my breakfast of champions.

But before you begin to think I have problems (at least in relation to caffeine), please know that I do have some limits when it comes to coffee. A few examples:

1. Once while camping, we ran out of pots and ended up brewing coffee in the same pot we used to boil hot dogs in the night before. Somehow I didn't think meat-flavored coffee would be palatable (just ask Allison). So I skipped the caffeine until I returned to civilization.

2. When I used to fix books for a living, my coffee cup was always full. You try spending 8 hours with nothing but glue and paper backs and see how long you can keep your eyes open without the aid of legal stimulants. It's not easy. The one time I tried, I glued my fingers together and my paintbrush to my desk. Anyway, one day I placed a full, perfectly blended cup of coffee on my desk, only to discover a couple of minutes later that a freaking horse fly landed in it. Gag. I promptly dumped that sucker down the drain.

3. I'm pretty open-minded about different coffee types, except for instant coffee. Why? Because it's a poser, a liar, a weak imitation of what coffee should be. I don't care what you put in it, you can't hide the taste of cheating.

4. I'm one of those annoying people at Starbucks that will order the "grande-sugar-free-vanilla-latte-with-soy" with the practiced air of a true coffee addict. But I will never drink Starbucks coffee black. NEVER. I would like to keep my stomach lining intact, thanks.

These examples aside, I used to think myself a pretty hardcore coffee drinker; one who would drink under the most severe instances... But a visit with my dad proved to me just how far I have left to go.

While visiting my family last weekend, I put on a fresh pot of coffee while catching up with my dad, the man who introduced coffee into my life in the first place. Now my dad will drink coffee under any circumstance - I've even seen him drink Starbucks "dark roast", which resembles tar more than coffee, and which would dissolve the esophagus of a lesser person. But he does it like he's drinking water. It's amazing! Anyway, after pouring myself a mug, I turned my back on it for just a few moments.

Then I heard my dad said, "I think something just landed in your cup."

I peered in the mug, and was horrified to find that the "something" was actually two gnats. A wave of disgust and regret overcame my caffeine-stimulated senses. "Oh, gross! There goes a perfect cup of coffee."

My dad shook his head, "What? Just dig them out and drink it. It's fine!"

I shot him a grossed out look, "Ew... no thanks."

"Oh, c'mon Brittany. I do it all the time." And with that, my dad reached into my cup, scooped out the gnats, smiled and said, "Good as new."

I don't know what look was on my face, but it wasn't a pleasant one. Would I really stoop this low to save a cup of coffee from being wasted? Never! Hadn't I already had coffee at Kneaded Pleasures that morning? Well, yes, but... Would I let my tough dad persuade me to join the leagues of the truly hardcore coffee enthusiasts? Actually...

I seriously considered it.

My hesitation has led me to believe that I have fallen, no JUMPED, off the wagon of socially acceptable coffee addiction into the realm of "seriously, she has a problem" addiction. You will soon see me drinking the black tar coffee that has congealed at the bottom of Starbuck's coffee pots. I will give up sleeping entirely. I'll eat espresso beans for dinner. I might even begin drinking instant coffee.

Whoa, whoa now. Let's not go crazy here. Nothing is happening to me, really. I'm being overly dramatic, which is quite typical of me. Still... maybe I should consider giving up coffee?

Yeah, right.

Three years changes everything.

So, since I have yet to finish any new entries, I've been going through old essays and decided to post one of them while my tired brain tries to find inspiration for a new post. Yeah, I know I'm cheating. Anyway, I wrote this one three years ago (THREE YEARS AGO! How time does fly...) and I never really posted it because I was too chicken. But now, three years after that whole drama-fest, I'm in such different (read: better) place, and this writing doesn't bother me anymore. In fact, it was so long ago, and I've changed so much, that it doesn't even seem like I wrote it. But that's a good thing, right? Right. Anywho, without further ado, here it is...

"His Smile” - Fall 2007

I remember his smile the most.

Shining and brilliant, it never failed to inspire one of my own. His eyes would crinkle up at the edges and his entire face would light up like his joy was a heat coming from the inside. It was warm and intense, cool and easy, all at once.

That’s what got me in the very beginning. Every part of his face, his eyes almost more than his mouth, took part in his smile. It was a miraculous thing, and he wasn’t limited to just one.

Even now, I can pinpoint each of his smiles. I can tell you everything about them: what they looked like, how they felt, who he wore them for and when…

He had his fake smile, the one he put on with people he wasn’t comfortable with, or in situations he wished he wasn’t in. This smile didn’t reach his eyes. It was automatic, an immediate wall of defense. He wore it in public and it wasn’t until we were alone that he would let me coax it off of his face.

He had his sincere, completely ecstatic smile. This smile would burst into life without pretense or effort. A winning football game, a small kiss, or even just finding a new favorite song would elicit this smile. He could wear it for hours, and even when the intensity faded, the sweet feel of it hung in the air, leaving us both relaxed and happy.

He had his laughing-so-hard-I-can’t-breathe smile. His eyes would squeeze shut and he would clutch his stomach with his rough brown hands, shaking all over. The energy from it would buzz and giggle through me until I couldn’t catch my breath either. No matter what I was doing, there was a part of me continuously trying to find this smile.

He had his I’m-trying-not-to-be-angry smile. This was the smile I would see when we got lost because I wasn’t paying attention to the road, or when I reorganized his room without asking. This smile looked almost painful, and made his cheeks tight and frozen. It also made me laugh, which only kept it there longer.

He had his I-love-you-and-only-you smile. His eyes would soften and all the lines would smooth from his forehead. This smile could stop time, and often did. He would come so close that all I could see were the corners of his upturned mouth. But, I wasn’t looking for his smile then, not really. Locked into his gaze and the thoughts behind it, I lost myself in a world that only existed when he looked at me that way.

He had thousands of smiles, countless and ageless. But of all his smiles, there is one that stands out above the rest. It's the smile that I will remember the most, the one that is ingrained behind my eyelids. This smile I saw once and never again: it was the one he wore when we stopped existing. When he knocked on my door that night, he was already wearing it. It was a quivering smile, a wet and uneven smile, a smile that broke apart everything I thought I knew. It stripped the air from the room, pulled the life from within me, left me curled on the floor in a pain I didn't understand. He left me there and took his smile with him.

Now all of my memories of him, good or bad, are tainted with these smiles. Some of them have faded, others have haunted, and still others have left scars where love used to be. Though time has lessened their affect on me, I know they're affecting someone else... Someone new and different and beautiful in ways I never was. They have his smiles now, and I have only shadows.

That's it, and all it should be.

Vestiges of his memory are all that I want now; They're all I need to keep the parts of life I lived with him, the necessary parts I must carry.

So, I remember his smile the most, though it no longer remembers me.