The Numbers

I must bow to the peer pressure.

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Glad I'm worth more alive than dead...

The Hardest Letter

I've been trying to write a letter for a year and a half now. The instigator is a simple Christmas card from 2005. The intended recipient is the mother of my dead friend. Perhaps you can see why this is hard for me.
I only got to see Patrick once a week, at church, and every so often during an extra church function. He was one of the reasons I kept going to church every week during my high school faith-crisis stage. The youth group was phenomenal there, and not because of any adult leadership, but because we took charge of our group and did what worked for us. We didn't just hang out and have fun, either; we actually grew together, developed together, did the whole faith thing and helped each other out. We were active in the church, in every aspect. We went after each other for not showing up. It was important to us then.
We grew older, graduated from high school within two or three years of each other, went off to college. Patrick went to Oklahoma State, two years after I went to the mountains to study. Near the end of his freshman year, he went out running like he usually did one Sunday morning. He loved to run; he was in track throughout high school. He ran by the train tracks. Somehow he got caught on the tracks while a train was coming, tripped or something.
It's hard enough trying to tell your friends and family that a good friend died. It's worse when no one you have near you to talk to knows this guy since they didn't run in the same circle. It's even odder when you have to answer the question, "What happened?" with: "He got run over by a train." I felt so alone in the hours after my mom told me. I turned away from her; I didn't want Mommy comforting me like I was 12. I was 20, dammit, I needed a shoulder my own age. I went in search of my boyfriend at the time, but couldn't find him. He didn't answer his phone. After a while I realized he'd gone to class and wouldn't be out for another two hours, so I went back home and locked myself in my room, signing on to instant messenger to talk to my best friend back home. She didn't know Patrick either, and kept suggesting that he'd committed suicide. I knew Patrick; I knew he hadn't done that, wasn't capable of it, but still she insisted that it was a possibility. I turned off the computer and sat alone. My best friend didn't understand, my boyfriend was unavailable, my mom was not an option. My Patrick was gone, and there was no one to comfort me.
I nearly failed a class in order to go to the funeral. It was during the big military parade of the year, and I was in the band. I spoke to the other two guys in my section, and they both said the same thing: "Don't worry about us. Take care of your business." I went.
Patrick's mother was the strongest, most stable person in the dangerously overflowing sanctuary. She carried her only child's urn with the utmost dignity and simply radiated comfort to everyone there. I couldn't understand how she could do that... she was divorced and didn't have a real rosy relationship with her ex, from what I gathered from overhearing things, he was apparently in real bad shape over Patrick, her whole family was gone. Her husband, her son, her only child. I would have been in pieces. She wasn't. Far from it, in fact.
I think that the same thing that kept her together was the same thing that I ran away from after that: faith. I had been imagining my life spiraling down the tubes for a while before that April, then felt abandoned when Patrick died, then continued to feel sorry for myself for many months after that. I no longer attend church, for many various reasons, probably the biggest of which is simple laziness. I liked sleeping in on Sunday mornings during college, when I didn't have my parents getting me up to go to church every week.
She was the strength in that church that day, the anchor for everyone there. I admire her so much for that. But instead of telling her so, I've been putting it off... I don't know what to say or how to say it to convey what I feel. I feel guilty for not answering her earlier, or at least sending a Christmas card back. There's so much I want to say--how much I loved Patrick, how he helped me through some really tough times in high school, how I admired her and how she raised him what with their home situation--and so many things I want to ask her.
The wastebasket is overflowing with detached, broken ideas scribbled on notebook paper. I suppose it's time to add some more to the pile.

Boobie Traps

I burst out laughing when I read this at ArmyWifeToddlerMom:

AWTM: "what should Mom wear to church guys, pink or orange?"

Sir Rowland: "how about an orange boobie dohicky, and a pink shirt."

AWTM: "I do not have an orange bra."

Sir Rowland: "bra?"

Pink Ninja: "you mean a boobie trap?"

Sir Rowland and I collapsed in laughter, because she is right.

Her little daughter will find out soon enough just how right she is! I have such a hard time finding bras that don't itch, pinch, smoosh, lift too much, lift too little, slide around, or otherwise make my day an adjustment nightmare. Any suggestions from the peanut gallery?
I love reading other people's funny experiences. I don't seem to have enough of my own.

Are You Kidding Me?

Mingle² - Online Dating

Wow. Maybe I need to cuss more.

Let's Roll... In Wheelchairs

I found this at trying to grok. It makes me a bit ashamed of my own generation ("I had looked around the plane for help, and all the younger guys had averted their eyes."). Seriously, what's so special in their lives that they can't help out once in a while? Everyone's going to die eventually. Hurting is part of life. Why does this generation want to avoid it so badly?

I blame Disney.

More on that later.

Slippery Slope

I'm slipping.
Now that the excitement of wedding planning is over, DH and I are pretty well moved in and somewhat settled into a routine, and I keep getting turned down for jobs left and right, I'm slipping back into the depression I've suffered from since I was 11. My head says it's not really surprising, since I've had a major life change, know no one here, and have been off the meds for six months now, but it's frustrating. I went through years of therapy and pills, and now I need to get back on one or both.
What a short break.

In the meantime, I'm trying to catch up with friends and relatives in that old fashioned way... writing letters. By hand. With ink. I love the pretty paper, colored stamps, and all the other jazz that comes with letter writing, but I have a hard time putting anything on the paper. Once I'm sitting down, all ready to write, I blank. I have no idea what would be appropriate to tell these people. Thank you cards are worse. "Thanks so much for the _____! We use it every day." The end? I feel like there should be something more, but maybe that's why the cards are so darn small.

Apparently...

Your Personality is Very Rare (INFP)

Your personality type is dreamy, romantic, elegant, and expressive. Only about 5% of all people have your personality, including 6% of all women and 4% of all men You are Introverted, Intuitive, Feeling, and Perceiving.

How Rare Is Your Personality?

Bummed Out

I haven't quite fallen off the face of the earth, but I feel like it sometimes. This whole wedding debacle sure made it plain who my real friends are. Many who RSVP'd failed to show up... and then didn't even call afterwards. I still haven't heard back from two of them, even with several phone messages apiece. It might sound petty to some people, but the way I was raised, that's just common courtesy.
I'm still trying to find a job. This is probably the worst time of year to do that, since all the kids just got out of high school and are looking for a summer job. I'm rather bummed out at the moment.