here

I know I haven't been around much.

There are a lot of reasons for this. Not all bad. Not all good. 

Mostly just a lot of what Michelle likes to call unbloggable.

I know that’s irritating and vague, but that’s how it works.

Sometimes, right-now-times, I need my life to just be mine, away from the vast interwebs. The vast interwebs that I love dearly.

I am here. Shoot me an email.

Drop me a non-spamy comment.

I’m not sure how much I’ll be around here, at least for a while.

But I’m still here.

I’m still good.

I’m still living life. 

18

Eighteen.

Adult.

Legal.

I can do a lot of things I couldn't before.

Many of them I have no interest in doing.

But that's beside the point.

I can.

In the eyes of the law, I am now old enough to be a part of this society.

I get to help make decisions, and I'm also responsible for my own decisions.

I'm legal.

It's all on the record now.

This feels like a big one.

Some are just another year.

A good reason to celebrate.

This one, though, this one feels different.

Maybe that's just because I'm told it should be different.

No, but it is.

And that's about all I know.

I know I am so ridiculously happy for it to be my 18th birthday.

And really, what more do I need to know than that?

sustainability

Yesterday I was asking myself if this was sustainable.

This=everything.

The living this far away from home.

The being utterly responsible for my health.

The homework and expectations.

The workload.

The social aspect.

The responsibility for my life.

The everything.

Is it? Really?

Last night I wasn't sure.

Last night I knew that all I could do was stop. Continuing to stare at the page wasn't helping, neither was the pretending to work while reading blogs and Facebook and email.

Last night I made popcorn and sat in bed and watched Grey's Anatomy.

Yes I did.

And just now, when I asked myself the same question, it still didn't really have an answer. And I thought how nice it would be to have something to look back on and say "Yes! This will work! Because I survived that."

And then I thought to myself, well, I do have that. Not years or months, but I do have something. I have yesterday. And the day before. I've had good days and bad days. In-between days. But I've survived. 

That gives me hope for today, and tomorrow, and the next day. 

Here

I'm here!

And not only here as in still alive, but here as in here at college.

As in I am soon to be spending the night in my room for the third night.

As in all the upper classmen arrive tomorrow and it's a little scary.

Because I feel like I'm just starting to get the hang of things, and then tomorrow, everything's going to change. Again.

And classes haven't even started.

That's a whole new ballgame, I know.

As was registering for them.

I sit here typing this, at my desk that is next to my dresser, both of which are tucked under my bed. My desk is messy. Or at least messy in my book. I know that doesn't always translate to messy in other people's worlds.

My light is on, hurting my eyes a little bit.

The room is quiet, except for some people coming and going out in the hall. Not in a loud obnoxious way, but in a other people live here sort of way.

My alarm is set late, all things considered, for tomorrow morning.

I will try to sleep, even though I will probably sacrifice breakfast in the process.

And then I will fill the hours until 2, or whenever that one meeting that that one paper said I needed to go to.

Then I will ask directions to this new building, because as much as I feel like an experienced college student walking across campus to the dining hall, I know I'm not.

After all, I'm just a first year. And it's just my third day.

That one place where a title's supposed to go

I don't know what I'm feeling.

It's up down left right.

All over the place.

And changing constantly.

I've written a few posts and then promptly deleted them.

Because they didn't say what I really meant.

Which is funny because I don't know what I mean.

I graduated high school.

Don't ask me how I feel.

I don't know.

I had one year with these people.

These amazing, beautiful people.

Who, on the one hand, I may never see again. It was one year.

On the other hand, I feel like I really connected with some of them.

There are times where I feel left out and unknown.

Times when I'm grateful for this opportunity to have met everyone.

Times when I feel so loved and included I can't believe it's only been a year.

Times when I regret I didn't have more time.

I haven't written because I haven't known what to say.

But I miss it.

And I think while sometimes stepping back and just letting things be can be beneficial, I think in this instance, I've hurt myself.

Writing is my way to process.

Without it, I've only been spinning my wheels.

Let It Go

I think many times, the best thing one can do is to let it go. Whatever "it" happens to be. Because most of the time we won't get closure or a nice pretty bow with an "I'm sorry". So you have to find a way to deal with it and move on. Otherwise it will fester and grow and mutate and generally make things pretty miserable.

Trust me.

So you gotta let it go.

Which, yes, is much easier said than done.

Trust me.

And it is also the worst possible thing you could ever possibly say to anyone. Ever. If they're telling you all about their problems and you're sitting there thinking they should just get over it, resist the urge to say that.

Say nice, comforting things.

Just don't tell them to get over it.

I think that might be even worse than telling them to let it go.

You can only really let go once you've stopped thinking those three words over and over. Only once it's no longer a conscious action, the letting go.

Only after time. Lots and lots of time. And backward progress. Ups and downs.

Then maybe, one day, you'll realize that by letting go of making yourself let it go, you truly did let it go.

Suddenly

Somehow, I have my license. I am driving to school, with no one beside me. Really not sure how that happened. Paid $21 and stopped at a few stop signs and suddenly I can go anywhere I want. Within reason.

Somehow, I'm graduating in 22 days. Really, really not sure how that happened.

Somehow, I'm going to college.

Suddenly, I have more good days than bad.

Somehow, I have friends to say goodbye to.

Everything is happening so fast. Has happened.

And I've been here the whole time.

It's not like I was in a coma.

They're not bad things; on the contrary, they're amazing.

I'm not sad. Just, surprised.

Life happens so fast.

And they expect me to be an adult??

Birthdays have nothing to do with growing up.

I still have six months before that craziness is upon me, though.

grateful

Cells are filled with organelles, all with specialized functions and definitions. All of which must be in my head. So I'm all happy and bouncy and smiley.

It's just what naturally happens when I talk about any medical stuff.

And the random thought just passes through my mind that if I hadn't gotten sick, I might not have discovered, or might not even have, this love for medicine. It was this brief thought that just came in and then left.

And then I sat there for a moment and actually thought about it and went and dragged that idea back onto center stage. Because really.

What if?

What if I hadn't found this thing that I'm so passionate about and that makes me so happy? Sure, I probably would have found it, or something else.

Eventually.

But no, this is the path I'm on. And this path, right at this moment, is me ending the day smiling. And I found myself feeling grateful for my illness. Which just sort of stopped me in my tracks.

I've never felt that before. Nothing even remotely close.

I've recognized how it has changed me, but acceptance is a far cry from grateful. I mean, why the hell should I be grateful for something that took my health and freedom and happiness for three-plus years? Thing I am just now starting to get back.

But there it is: grateful.

I love the path I am on right now.

And tonight I realized that my illness has given me the insight and compassion and passion to pursue a difficult and demanding career. It's given me empathy and sympathy. It's put me on a path that I love, that makes me so ridiculously happy. And for that, I'm grateful.

College

Barring any failing grades next semester, I can now call myself a Grinnell college student. 

-Insert giggling and shrieking and giddiness here-

And this is the essay (the one my English teacher hated), that I think played a rather large role in my acceptance.

Mr. B opened my eyes to my own potential and taught me that there’s more to learning than getting a perfect score. His words are the little voice in the back of my mind telling me that I can do it and to never give up.

I hated writing with a passion throughout elementary school. The process of the five-step paragraph seemed a special way to torture me and the cursive script slowed me to a snail’s pace. I had so much to say, but I couldn't figure out a way to get it out on the page fast enough and in a way that would satisfy the strict requirements for the number of sentences and complex sentences, transitional words, and a color-coded final product.

The first assignment Mr. B gave our fifth-grade class was to compare a fan to a pencil. He gave us a sheet of paper and time, as much or as little as we needed, and off we went. The first few times I sat at my desk, paralyzed by my fear of being anything less than perfect. I couldn’t fathom the idea of writing without strict boundaries being set for me. Mr. B acknowledged my fear and then went right on smashing down all the boundaries by letting us throw paint, go outside, listen to music, or just sit in silence to find inspiration.

Mr. B knew that I had been taught to write within the lines, and here I was, scribbling furiously on the current assignment, without any lines to guide me. While I sat hunched over my desk, Mr. B walked around the room. He was ready with a joke if I was stuck or with a smile if I wanted him to give me the right answer, but he never interrupted me while the words were flowing.

The balance he struck between letting me figure it out for myself and giving me enough help so I wouldn't feel lost and abandoned was impressive. I had room to grow; to grow as far and as fast as I could, without the loss of my support system. If anything, I learned that sometimes the best kind of support a person can receive is to know that someone is there, but to have that person step back and let you take on the world by yourself.

During the nine months of fifth grade, I learned to do more than just write words; I learned to craft them into a final product that had significance and could clearly communicate my thoughts and ideas to the world. Mr. B gave me freedom to write, to grow, and to make mistakes by obliterating the idea that everything I wrote had to be perfect. After he had given me all the tools I needed to tear down the barriers around my mind, he stepped back as I discovered the amazing new world outside of perfection.

Worth It?

Saturday there was a doctor at the hospital.

At work at 6pm on a Saturday night. Looking tired, beaten down. Having a discussion with his wife on the phone. Deciding on pizza toppings. Not an argument, per se, but more thought and effort than it should have taken to decide against spinach.

They're both being noncommittal; she, knowing he's tired, not wanting to add more stress, he, just wishing that someone else would make a decision, just once.

They decide on cheese, pepperoni, and chicken and pineapple. I wonder how many kids are at home, waiting for their dad.

His light blue scrubs are wrinkled as he sits and dictates his report. There's a big sigh when he can't find the chart.

The huge stack of pre-made flashcards. To become board certified, just general surgery, he explains to the nurse. And this is just half of them.

"Well maybe that's why you look so tired."

He doesn't say anything, as there really isn't a response to this.

I watch him check something on his phone, wondering if it's worth it.

Do they pay him enough, to make up for the long, exhausting days? All that time away from your family?

And more than that--is it worth it?

Dedicating your career, your life, really, to helping other people. Learning and teaching and caring. Knowing that no matter how many times you run through those flashcards, you'll never know it all. You'll make a mistake, a costly one, at some point.

Is it worth it?

overwhelmed

I'm feeling rather overwhelmed.

It's just sort of everything that seems to be at the same time. There may be enough hours in the day to type all the words, but my brain cannot function for very long. I can't write quality words all the live long day.

I think I just need to start. Because that's all I can do--start, and give it the best I've got.

I know this, yet I can't help but freak out and go into the whole but if I don't I'll fail and won't get into college and end up working at the corner store pumping gas, all because I couldn't come up with the right words.

I don't know where to start. Somehow, talking with my teacher gave me less confidence in myself. (Although that's really not surprising, considering that he told me he wondered how he was ever going to teach me to write.)

(Those last two sentences are my compromise on this. Maybe more will come later, maybe not.)

My compromise was to start here. It might not be something I can send to a college, or have my overly judgmental teacher grade, but it's a way for me to get the words flowing.

To remember that I can write.

And that sometimes I'm even pretty good at it.

Again

The wind blows gently over her face, mussing her hair. She tucks it more securely behind both ears and turns to her right to check one more time.

She gets the go-ahead. She takes a deep breath, trying to calm her nerves. The metal is cold against her sweating fingers. She turns the keys. The engine catches and rumbles to life.

Looking down at her feet, she repeats to herself, "Clutch, brake, gas".

On her right, the stick is firmly in first. With hands glued at 10 and 2, she eases her foot off the brake. Oh! Wait. She forgot to release the clutch. Her right foot slams onto the gas while she yanks her foot off the clutch. The car splutters, protesting loudly, and then goes silent.

Again.

She breathes.

Positions her feet back onto the clutch and brake, prepared to try again. Looking right, she gets a quick smile. Turning her attention back onto the road ahead, she checks her mirrors.

Turns the key. Checks the mirrors again, just in case a car has appeared on the deserted dirt road behind her in the last 12 seconds. She's still in first.

Clutch off, brake off, gas on. Gently. Oh so gently. Carefully.

The car jerks forward. And goes silent.

Again.

The Cold and the Christmas Carols

I wish there was a way to capture the smell of woodsmoke. It is the one thing that really makes it feel like winter to me. I can picture people curled up safely in their houses, reading a good book, with something warm simmering on the stove.

It only works its magic when I'm outside in the cold. It makes me feel all warm and fuzzy inside.

I need to get better at taking gloves outside with me. I haven't quite gotten it in my head that it's cold. Despite the woodsmoke smells. Normally it isn't a big deal, but when I'm outside with my camera, my hands get cold very rapidly.

I am too eager to be taking pictures than to worry about the temperature of my hands. By the time I notice that my fingers are having trouble with the tiny little camera buttons, I'm too involved to care.

It is starting to feel like winter to me. And I like that. In general, I like winter. There is something so different about having to get bundled up before you dare poke your nose outside. Then being able to come in and drink hot chocolate with just the right amount of marshmallows.

I don't like Christmas being shoved down my throat at every turn. It's on the radio, (one station has started playing nothing but Christmas music), it's at the stores, it's in the catalogs. I love Christmas. I love having no school for two whole weeks, not having any agendas, decorating the tree, wrapping gifts, getting gifts, all that stuff.

I don't associate retail shopping or money with Christmas. Or really any holiday for that matter. I feel like it takes away the spirit. The spirit of caring and thought that can be put into a gift. I miss Thanksgiving being given it's own special time. It's as though it is completely worthless to stores because they can't make money off it. No decorations or toys your child must have. 

I don't really know....I'm trying to ignore it. To breathe in the woodsmoke and laugh at myself as I forget my gloves yet again. To enjoy seeing Smokey curl up on top of the heater. To revel in wearing hats and scarves. I'll focus on that.