I’m sorry…

I’m sorry that I’m not them,
I’m sorry that I’m not what you want,
And I’m sorry that I’m not what you need.

I’m sorry that I mess everything up,
I’m sorry that I keep hurting you,
And I’m sorry that I’m not good enough.

I think you should just cut me loose,
Honestly. It’s not worth the trouble.
I’m a burden and nuisance, honestly.

I’m an extroverted lone-wolf, just standoffish and cold-hearted,
so I’m sorry.

I’m sorry.




Saturday Changed Everything Too

Remember when Thursday changed everything? I felt ashamed, stupid, tainted, and cowardly. I was confused about what had happened that night, and maybe I will always be. But five hundred and forty-five days later, my life is still very contingent on that specific moment in time; it consumes my thoughts and actions and has nearly compromised my faith. Following Jesus makes life so incredib…ly difficult 90% of the time, especially when we are confronted with the reality of how broken we are on a daily basis. And if we really want to dig deeper, we enter into conflict with how the brokenness and sin consequentially impact the rest of our lives.

To preface my anecdote, let me explain what happened after that Thursday night a year ago. When I returned to campus for the school year, I spent the night nearly two weeks in a row with a friend because I couldn’t sleep alone. I ignored that guy for six months and pretended that our encounter never happened. Sometimes he’d send me a snapchat, but I usually didn’t reply. I was so thoroughly disgusted at myself for “letting” that happen, so I was in denial and depressed about everything. On the first day of February, I impulsively sent him a text message describing every feeling I had about him and that night, hoping that I could finally move on with my life.

Instead, we made up and decided to pursue our friendship again. We were snapchatting and talking about how he was coming home for Valentine’s weekend, and he casually mentioned visiting me. All of my friends had plans and my roommates were out of the apartment, so it seemed perfect. I was ramped up on hormones and decided that I wanted that. He (also being extremely hormonal) convinced me to send him pictures. I’ll never know why I did, but it felt good to feel desired by someone. I’m not “that girl,” yet somehow I am in every way. Of course I felt convicted afterwards, but that doesn’t change the choice I made.

Typical to his character though, he bailed at the last minute and left me hanging. I distinctly remember sitting on my bedroom floor, alone in the darkness the day before Valentine’s Day, feeling unloved, unwanted, and undesirable. I looked and felt like a crumpled, soggy wad of paper, heaving and sobbing as loudly as I could muster. For a moment while I was staring at the number glowing on my phone screen, I strongly considered calling up a douchebag guy that I hardly knew to hook up. Wouldn’t that make my friend wish he’d been with me instead? Rather than that, I took a dozen Advil and a long, hot shower to numb my heartache. Honestly, it was a miracle I didn’t die that night. I texted him later that week and said I was glad he didn’t visit, because it would’ve been a huge mistake on my part. I tried cutting myself off from him but couldn’t do it completely. I was ambivalent towards him in the sense that I equally felt addicted to his attention and hateful for constantly hurting me.

Fast forward to May, we’d “moved past” him hurting me again, and I thought for sure that he actually cared about me. He’d ask for pictures, and I’d send them. He wanted me again, so that meant he cared, right? After speaking with someone older and wiser about what I’d been going through, it was becoming unquestionably clear that what I had been doing was not only wrong but very damaging. So again, I attempted to cut ties with him by texting him and telling him that I was done. Of course later I couldn’t stand not receiving his attention, so we cleaned the slate (AGAIN) and tried pursuing strictly a friendship  (AGAIN).

October came around, and he mentioned graduating from basic soon. Since February, I had been scheming to hurt him in ways he’d hurt me. I was obsessed with this new desire for revenge and sought out zero positive outlets to help me manage those feelings. I wanted to take back the virginity he stole from me, and why did celibacy matter if I’d already lost it to him anyways? What would be so bad with doing it a second time? When he messaged me and said he wanted to visit as soon as possible, I have no freaking idea why, but I gave in and agreed. I’ll spare the graphic details of my demise, but I was a hot mess; I got myself a little tipsy with some  liquid courage, had sex to supposedly prove a point to myself, and sent him packing the next morning after he bought me breakfast. October 29 was the Saturday that changed everything too.

I tell this story because I royally f**ked up, because I’m inherently royally f**ked up (mankind = sin). So yes, Christians mess up ALL OF THE TIME. I guess that’s why the Gospel is so unfathomable to the world, because anyone that puts faith in Jesus is guaranteed salvation in Heaven… after lying, sneaking around, having sex, sending degrading nude pictures, or hurting others (and oneself). I have no idea why Jesus would save someone like me, but that’s why it’s called faith isn’t it? Faith is believing when something is beyond your control or understanding. I realize how damaged I am now, so I’m going to counseling this time. The thoughts that ran through my head belonged to a version of me I’d never seen before and contradicted everything I believe in, but nonetheless was still me. I don’t want to be “that girl” anymore, but now it is a part of me. I want to learn from all of this and try to change. I want to honor God with my body, but I can’t do it on my own. And if you are reading this and can’t either, know that other people are going through this with you. I am going through this with you.

Moral of the story: sometimes you just have to swallow your pride and ask for help, even if that means professional help. It wasn’t worth taking matters into my own hands and acting impulsively, and I have no excuse for the way I acted. I nearly forfeited everything I stood for to enact revenge on someone that hurt me, and all of it could have been avoided if I would have dealt with my anguish a year ago when it all began.

You are never too tragic for the love of Jesus, I promise.

And trusting that phrase is a journey that I’ve only just begun. Life is a fight to the death, but we have to believe that we are worth the fight to stand a chance.

If I Were Darkness

You’d finally see me
But you wouldn’t have all of me this time
I’d be able to rest
And dance as a shadow near a flame
Because my soul would be unburdened
And my hands washed of this damned spot
I’d fill every cavity and crevice of your body
To suffocate you and let you know that
You’re drowning in loneliness too
Then I’d leave as quickly as I came
Without uttering any sort of goodbye

The Holly Trinity

My heart is stuttering, my palms are sweaty, and I’m convinced I’ve swallowed a kaleidoscope of lead butterflies; yet at the same time, I feel disembodied. The past, present and future versions of myself are all completely different beings right now.

Past Me is in a coma, overdosed on heartache and anesthetics,

Present Me is sitting at the bedside, shamed into a state of paralyzing confusion and silence,

and Future Me is lost in the space-time continuum, weeping, trying desperately to find Present Me and shake her back into reality.

What have I done?

But that’s just it, it’s done.

So what will I do next?

Just a Concept

That’s how I feel about love. It’s just a glorified concept that alludes me, always just out of reach. I don’t believe it to be a tangible feeling, but rather a legend we tell around the campfire to help us sleep at night.

I’ve heard it said that God’s love is enduring and forever, the only of it’s kind; we should feel it and know it to be truth. To me, love seems just beyond the next hill or maybe around the next turn, the perpetual chase. But today especially, I feel too overwhelmed and exhausted to chase it. I don’t feel God’s love and I definitely don’t feel any other kind. All I feel is the injustice of love’s interactions.

We tell ourselves that love is worth it, right? That one day there is a happy ending somewhere in the midst? Like when the nicest girl you knew in high school lost her father to cancer, or when your best friend gave everything she had to a man she loved, but he changed his mind? Happy ending, right? Or when a friend of yours just wants the beauty of marriage, but her boyfriend of two years is too afraid to commit so they break up. Or when her roommate wants to date someone that shares her values and beliefs, but she’s stuck in a whirlwind of hurt and disappointment from the lack of evidence that such a man exists. Tell me love is real. Tell me why, after confronting the man that broke my heart and stole my virginity apologized, I don’t feel any differently; not relieved or happy, just numb. Tell me love is real.

I need to know that one day pain isn’t going to twist the knife in my heart anymore, or that shame won’t tighten its grip on my throat anymore. I want to feel that love is real, and I want to be able to breath again when I think about my chances of having a happy ending. I want my friends to know the riches of love, and I want to believe in it again. But for now, it’s just a concept.


The Almanac Of Life

I wish to slip away all from my life, all that I have known of it. To hide, in the comfort of darkness.
It’s an inexplicable notion of solitude which pulls me into itself. I crave it.

To leave and depart, away from friends, family and mindless acquaintances. Live a life alone among strangers. Maybe in the echoing mountains. They aren’t too far from here.

Its sometimes gets too much, running the rat race, failing to even excel despite pushing myself to, incessantly We have stopped living for ourselves. Our lives have crumbled away, leaving a simple, meaningless existence.

I hate to put on different masks for different situations, places-school, home, road, friends. Every day. Every moment. Mentally taxing, emotionally draining events being repeated in a monotonous note.

We photograph not to capture memories, but to make our lives seem better than they are. We are making our lives shallow…

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Thursday Changed Everything

I don’t have the time or money to see a therapist, so my next best option is to write what I can’t say out loud. I don’t know what happened on Thursday night exactly. It started out so innocently. He picked me up at nine, and we drove around the countryside watching the sunset. I had been told that our other close friends were going to watch the stars a little after ten in an old ball field, so he and I parked his truck near it in an attempt to scare them when they got there. We had large fireworks we were going to set off, so the plan was going well… until it got dark outside and our conversation started to fade.

He scooted closer to me, so naturally I ignited nervous chatter until I got a text saying that our friends would be an hour late to the ball field. I read him the text message when he leaned in and kissed me halfway through my sentence. I didn’t mind it, even though kissing my best guy friend threw me off guard. He’s a good kisser. But then it started to escalade. He pulled me over onto his lap, and the kissing got heated. He asked if I wanted to go to the backseat, and all I could think of was relieving the nerve in my hip that was starting to pinch from sitting on him. Now I see how naive that was. So we crawled into the backseats and continued making out, when he suddenly ripped his shirt off. Again I didn’t think anything of it, the truck was getting steamy. So I unbuttoned my shirt and kept kissing him (I did have a camisole on under my shirt, for the record).

I was perfectly content just kissing him until he pulled me on top of him and whipped his penis out. I sat back confused, and he pulled my hand onto it. He was getting aggressive and I should’ve said no or pushed him away or something!! But I just did it, and I don’t know why. I mean we were in the middle of nowhere next to the woods at night, and he was my only ride home for at least an hour. Maybe I didn’t think I had a way out, I don’t know. I stopped and just tried kissing only, but he pushed my head down and made me do it until I started gagging. He turned me around, pulled my back to his chest, and started running his hands up my shirt. I’m not gonna lie he knew what he was doing, but I wasn’t ready and he didn’t ask. He shoved his hands down my pants and I knew it had to stop. But all I could say was that I was on my period. And what did he do? He asked if I was sure I was on my period, stuck his hand down my pants again, and kept doing it to the point where it hurt me. I’d gasp from the pain, but I think he thought I was enjoying it. Then he pushed me onto my back and started humping me. It was so uncomfortable, and the pain in my hip was unbearable. I just wanted it to end. Instead, he told me to roll onto my stomach so he could hump me as hard as he could. I just stared into the darkness until it stopped, then he got off of me and opened up the door to let air in. I opened my door too and hopped outside. Luckily it was almost eleven and our friends would be there soon. I pulled my camisole back down, buttoned up my shirt, and fastened the buckle of my belt. I felt like a slut, I felt dirty, but I didn’t feel mad at him. After all, I was too scared to tell him to stop, and too scared to say he was hurting me. So what happened to me was my fault. Even though I didn’t say yes, I definitely didn’t say no. And I hate myself for it. So I won’t call it rape. I wasn’t a victim, I was a silent coward.

We lit the fireworks off when our friends arrived, talked to them for a little while, and left. He apologized on snapchat after he dropped me back off at home, because I seemed upset. So I told him that I could’ve said stop but I didn’t. And that’s the cold, hard truth. I got in the shower and scrubbed my body until my skin was red, but two days and two showers later I still feel like a slut, I still feel dirty, and I can’t tell anyone what happened. I mean, I didn’t technically have traditional sex, so that’s another reason why I won’t call it rape. All my clothes stayed on, he just found his way under them. I won’t see him for a while anyways, he’s going into the army for basic in a week or so. But that’s the story of how I half-lost my virginity and haven’t told anyone, and that’s how Thursday changed everything. The shame is too much to handle.

Fast Cars and Parties

When you break the rules, that either frightens you or feeds your fire— maybe a little of both. Isn’t it better to feel a little scared than feel nothing at all? Unless of course you break the rules until you lose the feeling of fear too.