Breaking Up Is Hard To Do

No, this is not about a boyfriend. Sadly, I seem to have a particular lack of those over the past few years.

No, this is about a friend. Well... yes, friend probably would be the best word to describe things.

The amazing thing about college is that suddenly you are thrown in with a group of people who know nothing about you, have no expectations of your personality, and are just as scared as you are. This is a great chance to live up to your own hopes of becoming a better person and really cleaning off the slate. That was the first thing that really endeared college to me, if only because I had spent so many years before that building a persona and keeping good people away from me.

At school, I was able to make a group of friends who would shape the next few years of my life--and will have created a change that will last all of my life. Of the original group, though, I am only friends with two of them now. It's a very peculiar thing, to not be friends any more.

I suppose I'll go into storytime, if only for my own benefit. The stories, I don't think, will have as much impact on you.

The first friend I made at college was a girl who goes by the handle of Shematite online. I had moved in a little early (due to being on the Freshman Housing Board) and everything was... absolutely lonely. When I walked past her door, her nametag fell off. So, I picked it up and knocked, hoping she would be in. Shematite seemed amazed to see another person, and when I heard Nightwish blaring from her computer we got talking. It was wonderful, like I had found someone I could honestly relate to. We became such fast friends in that week that people assumed we had known each other for years instead of days. It was wonderful. She was a writer just as much as me, and we had a million things in common.

But there were times, though, when things didn't work. She would randomly disappear into her room for hours, occasionally days, and would never come out. It was heartbreaking, especially since we could tell something was wrong and she would never talk about it. Well, in the coming school year Shematite, Kit, and I decided to live together because we got along so well. We'd found the perfect place that had great rent--even if I would have to share a room for the first time in my life (Shematite couldn't stand to share a room, so I had to). When it came time for classes, though, Shematite finally sat us down and told us she wasn't registered. She couldn't afford school, but had moved down to Cedar anyway. We were hurt and confused, wondering why she hadn't talked to us about it. Then came the waves of sickness, which would follow anyone in the house getting sick and lasting for weeks after. It only got worse and worse until, at last, Shematite (we presume) got fired from her job because she never went. And then she was admitted to the hospital.

She was gone within the week, not really bothering to say goodbye or anything. I was hurt by it, hurt to the point that I did some stupid things. When she would bother to email, however rarely, I would be a bit snipey in return and never let her forget that she had run out on us. Eventually, thankfully, I did get past this point, and I tried to get her talking to me again. But she is the same old Shematite.

We invited her to come to Harry Potter, as a sort of reunion of the old gang, and she agreed to come. Two hours before the midnight screening we had tickets to, she texted to tell us her parents had taken both cars to Brigham. We wondered why she hadn't told them she was coming. I consider that friendship dead, though it has never officially been declared that in so many words. I figure it is for the best, though, because she clearly has issues she needs to work out and I have things in my own life I need to change. I wish Shematite the best, especially as far as her health goes, but I honestly don't think I will ever see her again. Consider it a gut feeling.

A more gruesome story concerns another person I counted a friend: Zach. He was a return missionary who came back for spring semester and lived on the floor below ours. I met him in my History of Theatre 2 class, and we immediately hit it off. Zach was a warm person, quiet and thoughtful, and remained my friend up until this past spring semester. Suddenly, it was like he had disappeared off the face of the planet. There is no chance of my talking to him again, though, as he attempted to murder two of his friends earlier in the summer. Honestly, I am just glad that it was not me or someone I was close to. It's scary to realize that a person can change and be so frightening without your knowing it.

Another, Mike, is really not to be blamed for our loss of contact. He went on a mission, and I am rather horrible at writing. Once in a while we still email, but it feels very much like I am talking to a suit and tie rather than the friend I knew. It's... disturbing, in a way, but he is having great success. Mike will do great things, I'm certain.

The last is probably the most painful. I met Rori at the college dorms, not too horribly long after I met Shematite. We didn't particularly hit it off at first--I don't really remember how we became friends at all. She was the outgoing blond with a plastic smile, and I was the surly brunette who somehow made the table crack up with laughter. But, we became close and even started to write together. For that, I will be eternally grateful. Rori helped me develop some of the greatest characters I will ever have, and she also helped me find the weakness in my own character. However, the discovery of my weaknesses came through the worst form: exploitation of them. Rori and I could bring out the worst in each other, everything from struggles with religion and sexuality to how anxious we could be. Most of the time, things worked very well. We would ignore the bad and enjoy the good while it lasted.

But, things just got to the point of being too much lately.

I recently prayed to find a way to work past all of the negativity in my life. Between my struggles with abuse, my horrid health, fights with friends, work, and religion, I felt like I was drowning. Then, out of the seeming blue, Rori stopped talking to me. I knew she was avoiding me, and I could feel the coming conversation--it was just a matter of how long it would take to break. Today... today was the day.

I don't know if you've ever broken up with a friend before, it is a rather strange experience. We agreed that we were not the best people to be friends at this point in our lives, and thought it would be best to... just not be in contact until things are better. I know that I need to clean my life up a great deal--I have struggles that are so personal only the Lord and I know about them. I also know that there is a lot she needs to do, which she can't do with me as a friend. So, for now at least, we're just... acquaintances with a history. It will be for the best, I know it. It just hurts like nothing else. Time and the Lord, though, will make things work out in the end. Everything will be okay as long as I do the work I am supposed to do.

And if Rori and I never get to being close friends again? Well, then it was not meant to be. I'm only twenty; there is a lot of life left to be explored. I am certain that I will make more friends in my life, and that things will get better. If nothing else, I am on the road to change.

I'm grateful that I got to have these friends at all, that they were able to come into my life. Because of them, I have a great novel that I hope to finish and publish, memories and stories that I'll gladly tell my kids, and knowledge about myself I otherwise would not have. Sometimes, that is all you can hope for when a friendship has to be put on the shelf.

I just hope I become the sort of person that is really worth being friends with. Things are not going to be easy in the midst of all of the coming adjustment, but I know I can survive it--I just may cry a little more.

I love you all, even those that have been put on the shelf. God bless you all, and may the path we walk be only as bumpy as it needs to be.

Catharsis In A Can

You know, there is something amazing about a can of paint and a roller. At first they seem like just simple things, nothing more than pigment and something to spread it with. But then you start to think about what you can do with paint: change the feel of a room, banish memories of someone who hurt you, make yourself feel better... It's magic.

Today I got a bit of my own catharsis by painting Phillip's former bedroom a bright shade of yellow. Oh, it's not too bright... more of a pastel yellow than anything. It was so wonderful, though. Suddenly it was not his room, but instead the room where Mom was going to do her painting. It was a room full of brightness and hope, and no trace of him. Even his furniture got pulled out. Do you know how much better that makes me feel? He has no room to come back to, now, and that means he is not going to be coming home.

I don't ever want him to.

Dad sometimes talks like he will, that it will just be a matter of time. If Phillip comes home, though, they simply won't see me again. I'll refuse to step foot into that house again.

As it is, I am considering doing something with my room, too. Right now it looks like the corner of the house where I was just slipped into as an afterthought. I plan on changing that. Moving a few bookcases, rearranging the room, adding some better lighting, and (of course) painting that walls will make it much better. Hopefully I will feel more like I belong with all of the changes, which is what I have been longing for. This house never really felt like home, but... it's starting to.

In other news, I got a new beta today. After Larry the Unquenchable Sea Monster died (after two wonderful years together) I did not get another fish, but today... Well, it just seemed like a great time to have a new beginning. His name is Katsu (meaning "victorious") and he is a dark blue, teal, crimson, and green crown beta fish. At the moment he is investigating the plant in his bowl, and looks as happy as can be. I'm very excited. Hopefully we'll have a great two years together. If I can manage it, I will try to get pictures of him up in the near future.

Love you all!

To Those Concerned

Some of you were offended by my last blog post, thinking that I was too harsh and too brash. I am not apologetic because I cannot censor the way I feel. To those of you who approached me with quiet concern and love, I thank you. Your worry is appreciated. Yes, I will be making certain to get into some sort of therapy since I do have scars from what the moron formerly known as my brother put me through. However, I will not be doing so until fall because there's no point in going to one appointment here and then moving in August. I had planned to do that before I was grilled by other concerned parties who just managed to hurt me. And yes, I do not intend to be at home very often during the school year because it is an impossible place for me to be.

That is the way that things are. Currently I am hurt, angry, and upset. I will get over it, forgive where I need to, and get on with life. Until I do so, I would request that I not be pushed on the matter.

I have feelings too.

Fear

Have you ever been so afraid that you can't feel anymore? Your head screams at your heart that it should be pounding, but the only answer it gets is the faintest shaking in your hands. Instead of running to hide, you stand there dumbly as your mind attempts to process what is going on.

I spent six years living like that. Home was like that.

My parents, God bless them, made my childhood a bright and happy one. I remember all of the fun things we used to do, and how much time we spent laughing together. It was a golden age, one since tarnished by the darkness of the years. I can barely remember what it was to see my parents being carefree...

Six years ago, just about, Phillip Peter came into our home and made life frightening. I would go to sleep every night curled up around the knot of numbness, that sickening twist of fear, all the while wondering if I was going to wake up in the morning or if Phillip would just off me during the night. My days were cold, walking on a feet-slicing edge of a knife while I waited for the latest explosion. Every day it got worse, the scenes more violent. It felt like I was in some sort of sick, twisted movie where the only ending could be a homicide-suicide combination tabloid cover. Birthdays, holidays, every day could not pass without my mother and father being beaten on by a little whelp of a boy.

Best part? No one believed me when I said I didn't want to go home. They told me "Your parents are too cool! Why wouldn't you want to go home?" Because I didn't want to be near the screaming, the swearing, the hatred that was Phillip. This year, though, things finally got better. The state finally realized that Phillip was dangerous, violent, volatile and ready to kill. They took him into their custody, pulling him out of our house. That's all it is now... a house.

You see, even with him gone I can't seem to escape him. I've told my parents that I never want to hear his name again. I've told them that I am sick of the entire mess. I just want to get on with my life. But how can you let go of someone who has dug his claws into the very cavity of your heart and left poison there to rot it up? Mom, for one, just can't let him go. I told her specifically that I didn't want to hear her rants on Phillip, that I just wanted him to go away.

She doesn't listen.

Everything ties back to him, and her need to talk about how bad he makes her feel all the time. My possible internship with the Folger's Institute Library of Shakespeare? Just tied back to him. My eight page paper on Shakespeare and the shifting moral systems in Western culture? Tied back to him. The weather? Tied back to him.

Why can't it stop?!

I don't want to hurt her feelings, but if she mentions him and how he makes her feel one more time I am going to start to scream, to cry, to stop feeling at all. Why can't she get that?

And then she and Dad insisted that I see "The Soloist." Why did they do that to me? It involves someone who behaves like Phillip does--they should know, they saw it more than a week ago--and yet she demanded I see that instead of "17 Again." All the fear, all the numbness? It's back, knotting and twisting in my stomach just like it used to. My hands are shaking, my head is screaming.

And for what?

All Rise For The Judge

I just figured that everyone would be impressed with what awesome thing I got to do today.

Yesterday I got an email from one of the professors saying that the high school drama competition needed judges, and I figured the $30 would be good. So, I sent the professor an email saying I could do it. Now, like any sane person, I thought that it was region drama. And then we got there. When I saw the sign that said "Welcome 3A State Drama Festival" I nearly died of shock. I was going to be judging state drama?!?!

Well, before I knew it I was judging kids that had been sophomores when I was a senior. First round was comedic monologues, second round was classical scenes, and third round was dramatic monologues. Oh my goodness, it was so much fun! The kids in my last round said I was the funniest judge they had had all day and that I pretty much rocked. :D I felt pretty cool just then. I remember being at State competition and admiring the judges, thinking of when I would be able to be wise enough to be one. Oh, it was just... Wow. I'm so excited. I'd do it again even if they did not pay me.

Hehe!

Epic Weekend Part 2

Sorry it has taken so long to get the rest of this up. Between classes, large papers, Spring Break, and conferences I seem to have been unable to really take the time to tell the rest of the story. But hey, here's the rest of it!

~~~~

Well, leaving at five o'clock was perhaps not the smartest idea, especially since there had been storms the day before. Alone on the freeway I was facing wind, ice, and the coming darkness. To keep myself calm, I ended up singing to myself the entire 52 miles of the drive, which (miraculously) worked rather well. Driving through the dark in a truck that old is not something I ever want to repeat, but I made it. My nerves almost didn't, but the rest of me was just fine.

That night Beth's parents were nice enough to serve me dinner, and (even though it was meatloaf) it disappeared from my plate faster than Smokee can twitch his tail.

Sleeping in a bed like that certainly was nice. I felt nice and comfortable, and slept like a log. The next day, Beth and I decided to have fun. We went to the strip mall, and our first stop was Sally's Beauty Supplies. I teased Beth that I should dye my hair purple, and it was amazing how fast we got out of there. She can't take a joke about my haircolor apparently (just because I like to do things to my hair when I get bored). We then walked over to Cold Stone's Creamery to get some ice cream. It happened that, while we were in there, Men At Work's "Land Down Under" came on. There's a common rule that exists in our apartment: Kirstin isn't allowed in public, stores especially, when hyper. I have a unique habit that tends to scare people, though I have never figured out why. When in stores, grocery stores especially, I tend to break out into song. Well, this time I had the music provided and could not resist the urge. Swinging my hips, I started to sing along. The shock came, though, when the guy behind the counter started to sing and dance along with me. Soon we had a sing-along going on, and even Beth got in on the fun.

The rest of the weekend passed with a good deal of laughter, sugar, and movie watching. Honestly, I can't remember everything we did, beyond watching "Howl's Moving Castle," but it was a great chance to bond with Beth. Fun, yeah?

Beth and Kirstin's Epic Weekend Adventure of Awesome

Brace yourself, my friends, for a tale so epical and wondrous that it needed a title that long. For this is not just a tale of a weekend. No, it is far more. This is the story of darkened canyons, cliffs, and strawberry blonds.

Friday morning there was a magical time where I was planning on going home. I was going to bake my godfather brownies for Valentines Day and pretend that holiday wasn't going on--it just tends to depress me when I think about it too much. But I got a feeling, you know one of those feelings, that it wouldn't be safe for me to go home. So, with a sigh, I let my parents and my ride know I was going to be staying back for the long weekend. I was expecting an affair of dullness and loneliness.

I was wrong.

Beth called me and told me she had been called into work, which I had expected. But then she told me that her parents had invited me to stay down in St. George with them for the weekend. If I went, I would get to enjoy the benefits of a big screen tv, a queen sized bed, and many other glorious things that words could describe in more sentences than I am willing to dedicate. There was one little problem: I would have to drive myself. The thought of driving Gandalf the hour it would take aaaaaall the way to St. George terrified me. I was just getting to the point of passable with the truck on the backroads: going on the freeway would be suicide. Around five o'clock I decided to take Gandalf for a spin to see how good a job I was doing that day at driving him. Suffice it to say, before long I was headed south with my laptop and dufflebag as my only company on the drive.

~To Be Continued~