This is difficult. I mean, how could one album, with only one artist, describe my whole life? There are many different parts! But I think what would fit best is Ke$ha's first album, whatever that was called.
A great deal of my life was spent partying, something she talks about in her songs a lot. I can think of more than a couple songs that would be playing during my partying days.
Also, I spent a lot of time in my life dancing. I don't care what anyone says, her songs are good to dance to.
She also talks about love, but not a lot. I have had some dealings with the L word here and there, but not too much. Haven't really focused on it.
Overall, a majority of her music, at least what I've heard, is upbeat, and just like, to hell with it. I don't really let myself stay sad too long. I wouldn't say I'm overly happy all the time, but I just force myself to get over things and move on quickly. So an album with a bunch of sad songs on it, that wouldn't be for me.
There you go. Eventually I'll start feeling creative and actually writing interesting things in interesting ways in response to these questions, but right now I'm just not feeling it.
Friday, April 29, 2011
Thursday, April 28, 2011
Day Three: Name a Totally Useless Possession and How You Came to Acquire It
I don't really think there is anything I own that's truly useless. However, there is one thing I own which happens to be incredibly useful to some people, and absolutely irrelevant to my existence.
Introducing, the blow dryer.
This piece of hardware is used by ladies and gentlemen all over the world to style their hair, or just to dry their hair before they style it. I never use mine. You may wonder why? Well, my hair has two basic styles, curly and straight. When I wear my hair curly, I wash it, put some gel in it, shake my head around a little bit, and just let it dry. When it's straight I always just let it air dry. It's actually really bad for your hair to blow dry it. People think straightening it does all this damage, and it does, but blow drying it really really hurts it. I don't want dead, dry hair. Does that make me shallow? Nah. I think it makes me happy.
Introducing, the blow dryer.
This piece of hardware is used by ladies and gentlemen all over the world to style their hair, or just to dry their hair before they style it. I never use mine. You may wonder why? Well, my hair has two basic styles, curly and straight. When I wear my hair curly, I wash it, put some gel in it, shake my head around a little bit, and just let it dry. When it's straight I always just let it air dry. It's actually really bad for your hair to blow dry it. People think straightening it does all this damage, and it does, but blow drying it really really hurts it. I don't want dead, dry hair. Does that make me shallow? Nah. I think it makes me happy.
Wednesday, April 27, 2011
Day Two: Name Five Websites You Visit Most Often and Why
Gah. Two hours before my deadline and I don't really feel like writing. So here we go.
1. Facebook.
Why do I visit facebook? Why does anyone? Who cares? We all do it.
2. Gmail.
Email is like my facebook for the serious things in life. Here I communicate with professors about my classes, people in my classes about the crap I miss in classes, my managers from work etc. Also, I have the pleasure of receiving chain emails, mostly from my dad, most of which I don't really get the point of. In conclusion, I get tons of spam mail from secondlife, which I made the mistake of trying out for one day, and giving my real email address to.
3. StumbleUpon
Not really a site, but it takes me to a bunch of sites and it's super cool. I could stumble for hours.
4. Blackboard
Only when I have to.
5.Blogger.com
Obviously I have to write in this stupid thing every day. I'm tired. And regretting my decision to do this. Tomorrow will be a better day. Don't give up on me.
1. Facebook.
Why do I visit facebook? Why does anyone? Who cares? We all do it.
2. Gmail.
Email is like my facebook for the serious things in life. Here I communicate with professors about my classes, people in my classes about the crap I miss in classes, my managers from work etc. Also, I have the pleasure of receiving chain emails, mostly from my dad, most of which I don't really get the point of. In conclusion, I get tons of spam mail from secondlife, which I made the mistake of trying out for one day, and giving my real email address to.
3. StumbleUpon
Not really a site, but it takes me to a bunch of sites and it's super cool. I could stumble for hours.
4. Blackboard
Only when I have to.
5.Blogger.com
Obviously I have to write in this stupid thing every day. I'm tired. And regretting my decision to do this. Tomorrow will be a better day. Don't give up on me.
Tuesday, April 26, 2011
Day One : Name something irreplaceable that you lost.
Before I start blogging about this specific topic I'll briefly explain what I'm doing here. In conjunction with, or maybe in copyright infringement of, my old good friend Steph, who I've recently reconnected with and has similar hopes and dreams as me, I'm doing this 80 day challenge thing. Basically, I have this list of 80 topics, one to write about each day. Figured it would make blogging easier to have my topics ready and there it was! So here we go.
Just found out that the "enter" key doesn't work on this here typing box thing. Frustrating.
I for the most part, I don't believe that things are irreplaceable. Things are things. I'm like a Buddhist in that I believe too much emotional connection to things in the world is unhealthy. I can honestly say there is nothing (not to be confused with "no one") I could lose right now that I would really intensely mourn. My car? Yeah, I'd be upset, but mostly because how the hell am I going to get to work? My apartment? Yeah, but mostly because I know there's no way I'm living with my mom again. (I love you, Mom, I just don't want to live with you.) I could go on down the list. The only thing I could think of that I have right now is a necklace that my mom slash son gave to me on my first mother's day as a mother. It is a heart that wraps around into a circle, and engraved on it are the words, "A mother's love has no end". I keep it hanging off my rearview mirror, but not because of what it is, because of what it represents. If I lost that, I'd be a little upset, but it's not like I wouldn't still have my son, or I wouldn't still be a mother, or I wouldn't still have a mom that cares enough to do cute little things like that.
Therefore, I could only think of one thing that I've lost that I'm truly sorry for losing, something that IS irreplaceable. My bible. I have had lots of bibles, this one that I lost wasn't my first. It wasn't even the first bible I got while I was in Teen Challenge, although it was close, at one point in my program I had six different bibles in various places around my room. This was my first NLT (New Living Translation) bible, and I did receive it from my mom while I was in Teen Challenge. We needed that version to complete our PSNC's (Personal Studies for New Christians.) There were a few things that made this particular bible especially special to me.
I wrote in it. I had never written in a bible before, so all my previous bibles were filled with highlights and nothing else. I wrote in bibles after it, but here's the difference. I wrote in this bible before I came to God, when I came to God, and as my journey with God continued. I have no other bible with the lyrics to "40 ounces and chronic dice" written in the margins. I was confined and needed a place to be free and write my thoughts, and since I wasn't allowed to journal, I wrote in my bible the things I was forbidden to say aloud. This reminds me of where I came from, and how far I've come. It also reminds me that God loved me even then, even when I didn't believe in him, even when I didn't love him back. Of course, I also wrote of my insights and things as I first came to God and further along in my journey, and there is something extra wonderful about hearing anyone, including yourself, talk about God during that initial burst of awe and joy immediately following the acceptance of God. It's like how Jesus talks about the faith of children. Spiritual babies have inspiring eagerness to those that have known God for some time.
This bible is falling apart at this point. I mean, I don't know where it is. But the last time I saw it the cover was falling off, pages were ripped, taped, ripped again, there were random bookmarks everywhere, the binding was loosening, it was a hot mess. I love that though. I read that bible every single day, many times a day, for a long time each time, and you can tell. You can tell how much a book has been used by what kind of shape it's in. My bible was USED.
There are notes in that bible from some of my best friends at Teen Challenge. We weren't supposed to write each other notes, but we did in our bibles. On one page I have the contact information of a Jessica Krimmel, who also lives in Omaha, because we wanted to be sure we could find each other when we got out. Lots of friendly memories in there.
Maybe one day I'll find that bible, or maybe the bible itself will forever only be a memory to me. Though it's not a terrible sadness that I lost it, it is definitely something that can never be replaced, no matter how many bibles I buy and no matter how much I write in them.
Just found out that the "enter" key doesn't work on this here typing box thing. Frustrating.
I for the most part, I don't believe that things are irreplaceable. Things are things. I'm like a Buddhist in that I believe too much emotional connection to things in the world is unhealthy. I can honestly say there is nothing (not to be confused with "no one") I could lose right now that I would really intensely mourn. My car? Yeah, I'd be upset, but mostly because how the hell am I going to get to work? My apartment? Yeah, but mostly because I know there's no way I'm living with my mom again. (I love you, Mom, I just don't want to live with you.) I could go on down the list. The only thing I could think of that I have right now is a necklace that my mom slash son gave to me on my first mother's day as a mother. It is a heart that wraps around into a circle, and engraved on it are the words, "A mother's love has no end". I keep it hanging off my rearview mirror, but not because of what it is, because of what it represents. If I lost that, I'd be a little upset, but it's not like I wouldn't still have my son, or I wouldn't still be a mother, or I wouldn't still have a mom that cares enough to do cute little things like that.
Therefore, I could only think of one thing that I've lost that I'm truly sorry for losing, something that IS irreplaceable. My bible. I have had lots of bibles, this one that I lost wasn't my first. It wasn't even the first bible I got while I was in Teen Challenge, although it was close, at one point in my program I had six different bibles in various places around my room. This was my first NLT (New Living Translation) bible, and I did receive it from my mom while I was in Teen Challenge. We needed that version to complete our PSNC's (Personal Studies for New Christians.) There were a few things that made this particular bible especially special to me.
I wrote in it. I had never written in a bible before, so all my previous bibles were filled with highlights and nothing else. I wrote in bibles after it, but here's the difference. I wrote in this bible before I came to God, when I came to God, and as my journey with God continued. I have no other bible with the lyrics to "40 ounces and chronic dice" written in the margins. I was confined and needed a place to be free and write my thoughts, and since I wasn't allowed to journal, I wrote in my bible the things I was forbidden to say aloud. This reminds me of where I came from, and how far I've come. It also reminds me that God loved me even then, even when I didn't believe in him, even when I didn't love him back. Of course, I also wrote of my insights and things as I first came to God and further along in my journey, and there is something extra wonderful about hearing anyone, including yourself, talk about God during that initial burst of awe and joy immediately following the acceptance of God. It's like how Jesus talks about the faith of children. Spiritual babies have inspiring eagerness to those that have known God for some time.
This bible is falling apart at this point. I mean, I don't know where it is. But the last time I saw it the cover was falling off, pages were ripped, taped, ripped again, there were random bookmarks everywhere, the binding was loosening, it was a hot mess. I love that though. I read that bible every single day, many times a day, for a long time each time, and you can tell. You can tell how much a book has been used by what kind of shape it's in. My bible was USED.
There are notes in that bible from some of my best friends at Teen Challenge. We weren't supposed to write each other notes, but we did in our bibles. On one page I have the contact information of a Jessica Krimmel, who also lives in Omaha, because we wanted to be sure we could find each other when we got out. Lots of friendly memories in there.
Maybe one day I'll find that bible, or maybe the bible itself will forever only be a memory to me. Though it's not a terrible sadness that I lost it, it is definitely something that can never be replaced, no matter how many bibles I buy and no matter how much I write in them.
Wednesday, April 20, 2011
By Popular Demand : Love
You never mean to fall in love. If you mean to do it, it’s not really love. You aren’t going to fall in love with every other person you date either. If you feel like you do, it’s not really love. Just because you dated someone for a long time doesn’t mean you were in love with them either. Think people. Love is more special than that. It’s more than the butterflies, more than the attraction, more than the laughs and the good times. It’s more than the history you have together, or what you’ve been through together. Love is all those things, but it’s more.
I’ve been in love once, and do you know how I know it was love? Because I’m still in love with him. Since the day I met him, I’ve continually loved him more and more, and my love has grown.
It started as a fourteen year old girl, hopelessly infatuated with a fifteen year old boy. It continued through childish mistakes, fights and anger, jail and growing up. I call those the dark years, the years I think both of us would rather forget. This isn’t to say there weren’t good times. Just not very many.
Then, we went through two years of zero contact. Don’t get me wrong, I thought about him every day, absolutely, without fail. When I became a christian, I started praying for him every night, which led to dreaming about him every night, which led to thinking about him even more every day. It didn’t dominate my life as much, but even though he was nowhere near, he was never away from my heart.
Then we got to friendship. We had the best times. He made me laugh like no one else possibly could, it’s a purely joyful laugh that warms me from top to bottom. We could talk about anything, and everything, no matter how stupid and insignificant, no matter how private and personal. We were completely comfortable with each other in any situation. Once he just picked a booger in my car, and then couldn’t get it off his finger out of the window. But weirdly, I wasn’t that grossed out. That’s pretty much where we are now.
I’ve basically described the parts of love that I included in the introduction. I can’t explain the “more”. You’ll have to feel that for yourself. You’ll know. I promise.
Of course I have my bouts of heartache. Here’s why: I am in love with him. He is not in love with me.
So the only experience of love I have to go on, at least in the romantic sense, is completely one-sided. This is one of the most important things you people need to learn about love. Whether or not you love someone has nothing to do with reciprocity. What does that mean? It means the person you’re in love with does not have to love you back for your love to be valid. It’s sad, and it hurts when that happens, but it does. Here’s the other side of this point. Just because someone loves you a lot, doesn’t mean you love them back. Please don’t fool yourself into believing you love someone just because they love you. It’s not fair to either of you. The point is, being in love with someone doesn’t mean you’ll actually be with that person. It sucks, but there it is.
Another thing I’d like to point out about love. Young love is one hundred percent legitimate… sometimes. Don’t ever let someone tell you you’re too young to be in love, because you aren’t. You don’t have to know exactly who you are, and they don’t have to have it figured out either. That’s one of the ways you know you’re truly in love; as you grow and change, he grows and changes, and your new self falls in love with his new self. This is called growing together, and its essential in true love, especially true love resulting in marriage, because you will continue to grow your whole life. But don’t cling so tightly to the idea that you’re in love that you can’t recognize mere infatuation when it infects you. You don’t have to be in love to date someone, enjoy each other’s company and have a good time.
Sometimes even though you truly love someone, you’re not in the right place in your life to have them with you. Don’t be afraid to stop talking to them. If you’re really in love, that love will not die. Something very significant about love is that it means forever. If you don’t mean forever shawty, love isn’t the word you should be using. Try “adore” or “really really really like” or even “care about”. Love really is everlasting.
Have you ever heard the quote, “love is friendship, set on fire”? It really is. You should be totally yourself around the person you’re in love with. You shouldn’t feel self conscious or awkward, but totally at ease. At the same time, those certain glances, the way his hand brushes yours oh so slightly, these things should cause that nervous flutter, the insane butterflies that you swear are on crack. If you’re lucky enough to be with the person you love, their kiss should make you catch your breath, and their embrace should make your heart stop. All these things, while still feeling completely comfortable together.
Sacrifice. Love means sacrifice. It means you sacrifice what you want, to make the other person happy. In some cases that means you don’t get to be with the person, but you smile when they start seeing someone new. Sometimes it means smaller things, like giving up watching you’re favorite t.v. show so that he can watch his favorite team play. Sometimes its big things, like leaving behind all of your friends and family and everything you ever knew to move with him so that he can try his hand at polar bear wrestling. I’m just throwing ideas out there. Basically, they come first.
Aha! But before you get comfortable with that idea, let me holler at you with this one. YOU CANNOT TRULY LOVE SOMEONE UNTIL YOU LOVE YOURSELF. That’s right, I said it, and it’s true. You also can’t truly make someone happy unless you are happy. Make sure you take care of yourself and don’t go nuts trying to sacrifice your whole life for this person. It shouldn’t be something you mind doing anyways, if you’re truly in love.
Anyone could write about love for hours. I mean there are so many different kinds of love; all I was talking about here was romantic love and still I could go on and write pages and pages more. Maybe I’ll expand on this one day, but tonight I’m tired, and I want to go daydream about my love.
Positive Vibes.
I’ve been in love once, and do you know how I know it was love? Because I’m still in love with him. Since the day I met him, I’ve continually loved him more and more, and my love has grown.
It started as a fourteen year old girl, hopelessly infatuated with a fifteen year old boy. It continued through childish mistakes, fights and anger, jail and growing up. I call those the dark years, the years I think both of us would rather forget. This isn’t to say there weren’t good times. Just not very many.
Then, we went through two years of zero contact. Don’t get me wrong, I thought about him every day, absolutely, without fail. When I became a christian, I started praying for him every night, which led to dreaming about him every night, which led to thinking about him even more every day. It didn’t dominate my life as much, but even though he was nowhere near, he was never away from my heart.
Then we got to friendship. We had the best times. He made me laugh like no one else possibly could, it’s a purely joyful laugh that warms me from top to bottom. We could talk about anything, and everything, no matter how stupid and insignificant, no matter how private and personal. We were completely comfortable with each other in any situation. Once he just picked a booger in my car, and then couldn’t get it off his finger out of the window. But weirdly, I wasn’t that grossed out. That’s pretty much where we are now.
I’ve basically described the parts of love that I included in the introduction. I can’t explain the “more”. You’ll have to feel that for yourself. You’ll know. I promise.
Of course I have my bouts of heartache. Here’s why: I am in love with him. He is not in love with me.
So the only experience of love I have to go on, at least in the romantic sense, is completely one-sided. This is one of the most important things you people need to learn about love. Whether or not you love someone has nothing to do with reciprocity. What does that mean? It means the person you’re in love with does not have to love you back for your love to be valid. It’s sad, and it hurts when that happens, but it does. Here’s the other side of this point. Just because someone loves you a lot, doesn’t mean you love them back. Please don’t fool yourself into believing you love someone just because they love you. It’s not fair to either of you. The point is, being in love with someone doesn’t mean you’ll actually be with that person. It sucks, but there it is.
Another thing I’d like to point out about love. Young love is one hundred percent legitimate… sometimes. Don’t ever let someone tell you you’re too young to be in love, because you aren’t. You don’t have to know exactly who you are, and they don’t have to have it figured out either. That’s one of the ways you know you’re truly in love; as you grow and change, he grows and changes, and your new self falls in love with his new self. This is called growing together, and its essential in true love, especially true love resulting in marriage, because you will continue to grow your whole life. But don’t cling so tightly to the idea that you’re in love that you can’t recognize mere infatuation when it infects you. You don’t have to be in love to date someone, enjoy each other’s company and have a good time.
Sometimes even though you truly love someone, you’re not in the right place in your life to have them with you. Don’t be afraid to stop talking to them. If you’re really in love, that love will not die. Something very significant about love is that it means forever. If you don’t mean forever shawty, love isn’t the word you should be using. Try “adore” or “really really really like” or even “care about”. Love really is everlasting.
Have you ever heard the quote, “love is friendship, set on fire”? It really is. You should be totally yourself around the person you’re in love with. You shouldn’t feel self conscious or awkward, but totally at ease. At the same time, those certain glances, the way his hand brushes yours oh so slightly, these things should cause that nervous flutter, the insane butterflies that you swear are on crack. If you’re lucky enough to be with the person you love, their kiss should make you catch your breath, and their embrace should make your heart stop. All these things, while still feeling completely comfortable together.
Sacrifice. Love means sacrifice. It means you sacrifice what you want, to make the other person happy. In some cases that means you don’t get to be with the person, but you smile when they start seeing someone new. Sometimes it means smaller things, like giving up watching you’re favorite t.v. show so that he can watch his favorite team play. Sometimes its big things, like leaving behind all of your friends and family and everything you ever knew to move with him so that he can try his hand at polar bear wrestling. I’m just throwing ideas out there. Basically, they come first.
Aha! But before you get comfortable with that idea, let me holler at you with this one. YOU CANNOT TRULY LOVE SOMEONE UNTIL YOU LOVE YOURSELF. That’s right, I said it, and it’s true. You also can’t truly make someone happy unless you are happy. Make sure you take care of yourself and don’t go nuts trying to sacrifice your whole life for this person. It shouldn’t be something you mind doing anyways, if you’re truly in love.
Anyone could write about love for hours. I mean there are so many different kinds of love; all I was talking about here was romantic love and still I could go on and write pages and pages more. Maybe I’ll expand on this one day, but tonight I’m tired, and I want to go daydream about my love.
Positive Vibes.
Saturday, April 9, 2011
Today, I feel like a writer.
Today, I feel like a writer. I don’t know why I feel this. How does one “feel like a writer” anyways? It certainly hasn’t been long since I made the decision to become a writer, only four days ago I realized how passionate I truly was about this particular art form. Anyone who says writing isn’t an art form is a fool, by the way. But, whatever your interpretation of the subject, today, I felt like a writer.
It could have been the clothes I decided to wear. Dark grey yoga pants, skin tight from the buttocks to the ankles, covered at their base by shin high black boots. A lighter grey tank top underneath a solid purple, long sleeved, skin tight t-shirt. The outfit is completed by a gray sweater, lighter than the pants, but darker than the tank top, with two vertical stripes of black lace down each side of the front opening, which I did choose to leave unbuttoned. Yes, it could have been my clothes that put me in this mood.
However, maybe it was the glasses. I’m wearing my glasses today, a rare occasion to say the least. In fact, the reason I’m wearing my glasses is, because of my usual unwillingness to take out my contacts, I have developed inflammatory conjunctivitis in my right eyeball. It is very painful and I have wondered more than once today whether or not it would help to simply tear the sphere of torture clean out of my head. I decided against it, went with the glasses, and here I am, looking quite smart and sophisticated in my new spectacles. Certainly, the glasses may have played a role in this writer-ish sensation.
Perhaps it was my hair. It’s very artistic looking. I create this look by going to bed at night, waking up in the morning, and doing nothing to my hair. It’s a high tech process that has taken me years to perfect. It’s whimsical. It reminds people of Albert Einstein, which will give the impression of genius to the most important people. Definitely the hair may have had something to do with it.
Look at me, describing myself as a writer with such arbitrary characteristics based on outward appearance. Haven’t we all been taught our entire lives we should never judge a book by its cover? Someone shouldn’t be able to just glance at me and say, “You know, I bet that girl is a writer.” Writing is personal, its soul searching. Someone should be obligated to read my work, and thus, become acquainted with me, and then decide that I am indeed a writer.
So, I woke up today, feeling like a writer. Why? A more accurate answer may be that I very recently discovered my love for writing. That isn’t to say I haven’t always known I had a small talent for writing, or that I was unaware of the slight enjoyment I felt when writing papers for classes. But I had never really spent time on a paper before recently, had never really let myself become consumed by the words and emotions conveyed on paper. Once I allowed these things to happen, it became very clear to me that this had been my passion all along.
Perhaps I was in denial. I grew up with the implicit expectation to do something “great” with my life, which implied something highly profitable, and though I fantasized about committing myself to one of the humanities, it never seemed a true possibility, these interests I had were simply hobbies. I was lecturing a friend of mine on following his dreams, and doing what made him happy, and I thought to myself, “You’re being very hypocritical, Leslie.” Having a baby early in life, and going through the things I’ve been through, these aren’t excuses to spend my life doing something I don’t love.
I woke up today and I felt like a writer. Maybe you disagree. But, I know in my heart that this is my passion, and I’d rather spend my life being unsuccessful at something I’m passionate about than live a somewhat successful life with no fire to it.
It could have been the clothes I decided to wear. Dark grey yoga pants, skin tight from the buttocks to the ankles, covered at their base by shin high black boots. A lighter grey tank top underneath a solid purple, long sleeved, skin tight t-shirt. The outfit is completed by a gray sweater, lighter than the pants, but darker than the tank top, with two vertical stripes of black lace down each side of the front opening, which I did choose to leave unbuttoned. Yes, it could have been my clothes that put me in this mood.
However, maybe it was the glasses. I’m wearing my glasses today, a rare occasion to say the least. In fact, the reason I’m wearing my glasses is, because of my usual unwillingness to take out my contacts, I have developed inflammatory conjunctivitis in my right eyeball. It is very painful and I have wondered more than once today whether or not it would help to simply tear the sphere of torture clean out of my head. I decided against it, went with the glasses, and here I am, looking quite smart and sophisticated in my new spectacles. Certainly, the glasses may have played a role in this writer-ish sensation.
Perhaps it was my hair. It’s very artistic looking. I create this look by going to bed at night, waking up in the morning, and doing nothing to my hair. It’s a high tech process that has taken me years to perfect. It’s whimsical. It reminds people of Albert Einstein, which will give the impression of genius to the most important people. Definitely the hair may have had something to do with it.
Look at me, describing myself as a writer with such arbitrary characteristics based on outward appearance. Haven’t we all been taught our entire lives we should never judge a book by its cover? Someone shouldn’t be able to just glance at me and say, “You know, I bet that girl is a writer.” Writing is personal, its soul searching. Someone should be obligated to read my work, and thus, become acquainted with me, and then decide that I am indeed a writer.
So, I woke up today, feeling like a writer. Why? A more accurate answer may be that I very recently discovered my love for writing. That isn’t to say I haven’t always known I had a small talent for writing, or that I was unaware of the slight enjoyment I felt when writing papers for classes. But I had never really spent time on a paper before recently, had never really let myself become consumed by the words and emotions conveyed on paper. Once I allowed these things to happen, it became very clear to me that this had been my passion all along.
Perhaps I was in denial. I grew up with the implicit expectation to do something “great” with my life, which implied something highly profitable, and though I fantasized about committing myself to one of the humanities, it never seemed a true possibility, these interests I had were simply hobbies. I was lecturing a friend of mine on following his dreams, and doing what made him happy, and I thought to myself, “You’re being very hypocritical, Leslie.” Having a baby early in life, and going through the things I’ve been through, these aren’t excuses to spend my life doing something I don’t love.
I woke up today and I felt like a writer. Maybe you disagree. But, I know in my heart that this is my passion, and I’d rather spend my life being unsuccessful at something I’m passionate about than live a somewhat successful life with no fire to it.
Friday, April 8, 2011
The Essay That Changed my Major - "Bad Decisions and Band Aids"
This has been incredibly hard to write. Attempting to retrieve these muddled thoughts from my mind and articulate them in any kind of semi-cohesive way seems impossible. Different experiences bubble to the surface of my consciousness at completely inappropriate times and beg to be written, to be understood, but how can they be understood if they aren’t explained properly? My memory is corrupt, and thus irrelevant details may be improperly magnified, while the most important concepts are totally lost in translation.
They say that drugs will mess up your brain. I didn’t really believe they had messed with mine until I tried to sort out all of my memories. Like most fourteen year old girls, my experience with drugs started with marijuana, and my main goal was not merely to get high. As a matter of fact, I was almost exclusively concerned with impressing the ninth grader I had recently started seeing. The pipe was homemade, and appeared to be some obscure part of a toilet to my untrained eyes. Thank goodness my overly helpful boyfriend was there to explain the intricacies of pipe balancing and inhalation. I held it awkwardly, tilting my head back, unable to accomplish even the simple task of igniting the lighter. Though I tried to suck the sweet fumes into my lungs, I failed miserably, as most novice smokers do. I did, however, successfully smoke my first cigarette that night, and naively believed the consequential nicotine buzz was my first high. Even without experiencing true intoxication that night, the admiring glance I received from the older boy was rewarding enough for my youthful heart, and my pattern of drug abuse had begun.
Cocaine is a hell of a drug. Sometimes I still have dreams about my first time, though its debatable whether these dreams would be better described as nightmares. Naturally, I had moved on to an older, tougher boyfriend. His hobbies included gang banging, beating me up, doing drugs, forcing me to have sex with him, and stealing from my dad. What a catch, I know, but I was sixteen, I was a romantic, and I enjoyed most of the aforementioned activities also. He had hijacked sixty dollars of “our” money out of my wallet to buy a gram of “that white girl” which we split between us and three of “our” friends. I was trembling with anticipation; an overwhelming knot contorted my stomach into what I was sure were completely unnatural positions. I took a slow, deep breath to decelerate my heartbeat. Nothing to be worried about. I had tried plenty of drugs before and nothing bad had ever happened, right? I leaned over my center console, plugged my nostril with my left hand, positioned the tightly rolled twenty dollar bill with my right, and sniffed that toxic, white powder right off the CD case and into my brain.
This high was almost immediate. Lights shone brighter, the music caressed my eardrums, I could think a thousand different thoughts at the same time and make sense of them all. My mind was intensely focused in a way I previously wouldn’t have believed possible. I had never felt better, until about fifteen minutes went by. We had so little of my dream drug that each of us could only take one line that first time, and the comedown got to us quickly. It wasn’t long before we all headed home to sleep off what we called our coke hangovers. My stomach was convulsing, and it felt as if weights were pushing on my brain from every side, but despite the shitty after-effects of the drug, I was immediately hooked. I would go to any extreme to get enough money for more. Morals flew out the window. I did everything, from robbing my friends and parents to selling half of my belongings, and even occasionally trading sexual favors, to get just one more night of oblivion.
It shouldn’t have been surprising when my parents finally stepped in to put a stop to my out of control lifestyle, but I was certainly shocked. The day I went to Teen Challenge has been embedded in my mind like the Ten Commandments on Mt. Sinai. The whole trip to Kansas City I chattered and joked with my mom and my sister. I played them obscene rap music and taught them the words and arranged to get high with friends when I returned on Monday. I was completely ignorant of the fact that I wouldn’t be back in Omaha for exactly fifteen months. My understanding was that we were on a shopping trip. We would swim at a fancy hotel, die my hair blonde, buy me tons of clothes, and head back home. I have to admit, there was some confusion in my subconscious about why on earth the other two women in my family were doing this for me. My mother and I hadn’t been able to speak without screaming at each other for over a year. We hadn’t celebrated Christmas or birthdays together, but we were going to have a celebration now just for the fun of it. Though I had some slight nerves about the fishy situation, I ignored them for the free shopping spree. After all, I’d sold most of my old clothes.
Teen Challenge was a major shock to my drug ridden system. No boys, no talking to friends, no going home, no cussing, no television, no fast food, no piercings, no talking in line, no writing notes, no fun, no freedom. This place seemed so foreign, full of die- hard Christians, with chapel every morning and Personal Studies for New Christians every night. We were home schooled with an online Christ-loving school and we prayed before every meal. I wept silently for two weeks straight. I missed my friends. I missed my family. I missed my car. I missed my cigarettes.
It definitely took some getting used to, but eventually the lessons I was learning at this residential recovery program really started to sink in. I developed a strong, deep relationship with God, and an insatiable hunger to learn all I could about him and Christianity. I begged my director for more books about God, and constantly studied in my free time. We went to church every Wednesday and Sunday, and I drank up the words of the ministers as if they were the last drops of water for the desert of my soul. I went through intensive counseling both in a private and a group setting, and worked through my past, one problem at a time. By the time I completed the program I had also graduated high school, and I felt more than prepared to face the temptations of the world with my bible in my left hand and Jesus in my right.
It didn’t take long to find out that I was, in fact, less than prepared. I was two months out of Teen Challenge when I met Brandon, and, at first, I wasn’t attracted to him at all. He casually leaned over in the backseat of my car with an expression on his face that I can only describe as downright arrogant and said enticingly, “What’s up, girl?” I practically begged him not to hit on me. I told him he wasn’t my type. He said he was exactly my type. I assured him he wasn’t the guy for me. He insisted he was exactly the guy for me. Back and forth for hours we argued the issue. Honestly, it was flattering. By the end of the night I had succumbed to his charm and by the end of the week we were dating. Two weeks after that, we had broken up and I was sitting in the waiting room at Planned Parenthood.
My period had always been irregular, but as soon as I knew in my heart that I did not want to have a child with Brandon, I got the strong inclination that his seed had been sown, and I didn’t want to risk the error of a home pregnancy test. After an excruciating waiting period, I was ushered into one of the miniscule offices for my results. The worker, her name was Ashley, walked into the room and started to speak before she even met my eyes. “Ok, the results of this test are positive, so--” I interrupted her with a stutter. “P-p-positive? Like, as in, I’m pregnant?” It seemed so wrong that the result I didn’t want would be described as “positive.” I physically could not wrap my mind around the idea for what was probably a few seconds, but what seemed to me like an eternity. Ashley simply stared at me condescendingly and confirmed that I was, indeed, pregnant.
I lowered my head to my hands and though Ashley continued talking, it was as if I had hit the mute button on a movie. “Oh shit. Oh shit. Oh shit,” I repeated over and over. I heard the word “abortion” and snapped my head up, fiercely refusing that option. She sighed and handed me my proof of pregnancy paper, which I would apparently need to be approved for Medicaid, a program I had never heard of before that time.
I didn’t cry until I walked into the waiting room and my best friend’s boyfriend asked me what happened. My mouth didn‘t seem to work. I slightly inclined my head and salty water flowed down my cheeks as if my tear ducts had expanded in size. I have never felt so lost, hopeless, or completely desolate as I did that day. I knew I wanted to be a mother, but not now. Not any time remotely close to now. Not with some random guy’s child. Not when I was just about to start college. Not when I was just about to start life. I saw my dreams shatter, and my world shook. My mom cried and constantly argued with me. My grandmother thanked God I didn’t have AIDS. My brother got angry with me, and wouldn’t speak to me. Brandon didn’t believe me, and refused to be involved. My supportive staff at Teen Challenge withdrew, disgusted by my ungodly choices. My friends spoke sympathetically, but no one wants to party with a Prego. I certainly felt as though my budding relationship with God had dissipated. Loneliness washed over me, soaked into me, permeating my soul with its crushing weight like a tsunami, consuming my isolated island heart.
Though a few weeks of my life were dedicated to laying in bed staring blankly at the ceiling, willing myself back in time, Teen Challenge had taught me at least one thing, and that was how to keep on keeping on. I knew in my head that if I let my emotions control my life, things would only get worse. I worked hard through my pregnancy and saved up money. I studied hard, got good grades, and made the dean’s list. I eventually even patched up most of the relationships that were broken by my indiscretion. And I fell in love with the tiny child growing inside of me.
People always say that I’ve gone through a lot, and that I’m a strong person to have come as far as I have. My main response is to agree, I have been through a lot, but then, didn’t I put myself through most of those trials? My life has been a chaotic jumble of bad decisions and band aids. My son’s name is Oliver. He’s one year old now, and I feel as though I love him as much as humans are capable of loving, but each day I wake up and my love for him has expanded. I work full time at the Gallup Poll, probably one of the overall best entry level jobs Omaha has to offer. With half of a college education under my belt, there’s still no telling how many more times I’ll switch my major, but I do know I‘m on the right track for success. Despite all this, there are always more obstacles on the horizon, and, with my history, it’s safe to bet I’ll screw up again. The one thing I’m sure of is that whatever happens, you’ll see me holding on, staying strong, and persevering, with my son on my hip, God in my heart, and my family surrounding me with love.
They say that drugs will mess up your brain. I didn’t really believe they had messed with mine until I tried to sort out all of my memories. Like most fourteen year old girls, my experience with drugs started with marijuana, and my main goal was not merely to get high. As a matter of fact, I was almost exclusively concerned with impressing the ninth grader I had recently started seeing. The pipe was homemade, and appeared to be some obscure part of a toilet to my untrained eyes. Thank goodness my overly helpful boyfriend was there to explain the intricacies of pipe balancing and inhalation. I held it awkwardly, tilting my head back, unable to accomplish even the simple task of igniting the lighter. Though I tried to suck the sweet fumes into my lungs, I failed miserably, as most novice smokers do. I did, however, successfully smoke my first cigarette that night, and naively believed the consequential nicotine buzz was my first high. Even without experiencing true intoxication that night, the admiring glance I received from the older boy was rewarding enough for my youthful heart, and my pattern of drug abuse had begun.
Cocaine is a hell of a drug. Sometimes I still have dreams about my first time, though its debatable whether these dreams would be better described as nightmares. Naturally, I had moved on to an older, tougher boyfriend. His hobbies included gang banging, beating me up, doing drugs, forcing me to have sex with him, and stealing from my dad. What a catch, I know, but I was sixteen, I was a romantic, and I enjoyed most of the aforementioned activities also. He had hijacked sixty dollars of “our” money out of my wallet to buy a gram of “that white girl” which we split between us and three of “our” friends. I was trembling with anticipation; an overwhelming knot contorted my stomach into what I was sure were completely unnatural positions. I took a slow, deep breath to decelerate my heartbeat. Nothing to be worried about. I had tried plenty of drugs before and nothing bad had ever happened, right? I leaned over my center console, plugged my nostril with my left hand, positioned the tightly rolled twenty dollar bill with my right, and sniffed that toxic, white powder right off the CD case and into my brain.
This high was almost immediate. Lights shone brighter, the music caressed my eardrums, I could think a thousand different thoughts at the same time and make sense of them all. My mind was intensely focused in a way I previously wouldn’t have believed possible. I had never felt better, until about fifteen minutes went by. We had so little of my dream drug that each of us could only take one line that first time, and the comedown got to us quickly. It wasn’t long before we all headed home to sleep off what we called our coke hangovers. My stomach was convulsing, and it felt as if weights were pushing on my brain from every side, but despite the shitty after-effects of the drug, I was immediately hooked. I would go to any extreme to get enough money for more. Morals flew out the window. I did everything, from robbing my friends and parents to selling half of my belongings, and even occasionally trading sexual favors, to get just one more night of oblivion.
It shouldn’t have been surprising when my parents finally stepped in to put a stop to my out of control lifestyle, but I was certainly shocked. The day I went to Teen Challenge has been embedded in my mind like the Ten Commandments on Mt. Sinai. The whole trip to Kansas City I chattered and joked with my mom and my sister. I played them obscene rap music and taught them the words and arranged to get high with friends when I returned on Monday. I was completely ignorant of the fact that I wouldn’t be back in Omaha for exactly fifteen months. My understanding was that we were on a shopping trip. We would swim at a fancy hotel, die my hair blonde, buy me tons of clothes, and head back home. I have to admit, there was some confusion in my subconscious about why on earth the other two women in my family were doing this for me. My mother and I hadn’t been able to speak without screaming at each other for over a year. We hadn’t celebrated Christmas or birthdays together, but we were going to have a celebration now just for the fun of it. Though I had some slight nerves about the fishy situation, I ignored them for the free shopping spree. After all, I’d sold most of my old clothes.
Teen Challenge was a major shock to my drug ridden system. No boys, no talking to friends, no going home, no cussing, no television, no fast food, no piercings, no talking in line, no writing notes, no fun, no freedom. This place seemed so foreign, full of die- hard Christians, with chapel every morning and Personal Studies for New Christians every night. We were home schooled with an online Christ-loving school and we prayed before every meal. I wept silently for two weeks straight. I missed my friends. I missed my family. I missed my car. I missed my cigarettes.
It definitely took some getting used to, but eventually the lessons I was learning at this residential recovery program really started to sink in. I developed a strong, deep relationship with God, and an insatiable hunger to learn all I could about him and Christianity. I begged my director for more books about God, and constantly studied in my free time. We went to church every Wednesday and Sunday, and I drank up the words of the ministers as if they were the last drops of water for the desert of my soul. I went through intensive counseling both in a private and a group setting, and worked through my past, one problem at a time. By the time I completed the program I had also graduated high school, and I felt more than prepared to face the temptations of the world with my bible in my left hand and Jesus in my right.
It didn’t take long to find out that I was, in fact, less than prepared. I was two months out of Teen Challenge when I met Brandon, and, at first, I wasn’t attracted to him at all. He casually leaned over in the backseat of my car with an expression on his face that I can only describe as downright arrogant and said enticingly, “What’s up, girl?” I practically begged him not to hit on me. I told him he wasn’t my type. He said he was exactly my type. I assured him he wasn’t the guy for me. He insisted he was exactly the guy for me. Back and forth for hours we argued the issue. Honestly, it was flattering. By the end of the night I had succumbed to his charm and by the end of the week we were dating. Two weeks after that, we had broken up and I was sitting in the waiting room at Planned Parenthood.
My period had always been irregular, but as soon as I knew in my heart that I did not want to have a child with Brandon, I got the strong inclination that his seed had been sown, and I didn’t want to risk the error of a home pregnancy test. After an excruciating waiting period, I was ushered into one of the miniscule offices for my results. The worker, her name was Ashley, walked into the room and started to speak before she even met my eyes. “Ok, the results of this test are positive, so--” I interrupted her with a stutter. “P-p-positive? Like, as in, I’m pregnant?” It seemed so wrong that the result I didn’t want would be described as “positive.” I physically could not wrap my mind around the idea for what was probably a few seconds, but what seemed to me like an eternity. Ashley simply stared at me condescendingly and confirmed that I was, indeed, pregnant.
I lowered my head to my hands and though Ashley continued talking, it was as if I had hit the mute button on a movie. “Oh shit. Oh shit. Oh shit,” I repeated over and over. I heard the word “abortion” and snapped my head up, fiercely refusing that option. She sighed and handed me my proof of pregnancy paper, which I would apparently need to be approved for Medicaid, a program I had never heard of before that time.
I didn’t cry until I walked into the waiting room and my best friend’s boyfriend asked me what happened. My mouth didn‘t seem to work. I slightly inclined my head and salty water flowed down my cheeks as if my tear ducts had expanded in size. I have never felt so lost, hopeless, or completely desolate as I did that day. I knew I wanted to be a mother, but not now. Not any time remotely close to now. Not with some random guy’s child. Not when I was just about to start college. Not when I was just about to start life. I saw my dreams shatter, and my world shook. My mom cried and constantly argued with me. My grandmother thanked God I didn’t have AIDS. My brother got angry with me, and wouldn’t speak to me. Brandon didn’t believe me, and refused to be involved. My supportive staff at Teen Challenge withdrew, disgusted by my ungodly choices. My friends spoke sympathetically, but no one wants to party with a Prego. I certainly felt as though my budding relationship with God had dissipated. Loneliness washed over me, soaked into me, permeating my soul with its crushing weight like a tsunami, consuming my isolated island heart.
Though a few weeks of my life were dedicated to laying in bed staring blankly at the ceiling, willing myself back in time, Teen Challenge had taught me at least one thing, and that was how to keep on keeping on. I knew in my head that if I let my emotions control my life, things would only get worse. I worked hard through my pregnancy and saved up money. I studied hard, got good grades, and made the dean’s list. I eventually even patched up most of the relationships that were broken by my indiscretion. And I fell in love with the tiny child growing inside of me.
People always say that I’ve gone through a lot, and that I’m a strong person to have come as far as I have. My main response is to agree, I have been through a lot, but then, didn’t I put myself through most of those trials? My life has been a chaotic jumble of bad decisions and band aids. My son’s name is Oliver. He’s one year old now, and I feel as though I love him as much as humans are capable of loving, but each day I wake up and my love for him has expanded. I work full time at the Gallup Poll, probably one of the overall best entry level jobs Omaha has to offer. With half of a college education under my belt, there’s still no telling how many more times I’ll switch my major, but I do know I‘m on the right track for success. Despite all this, there are always more obstacles on the horizon, and, with my history, it’s safe to bet I’ll screw up again. The one thing I’m sure of is that whatever happens, you’ll see me holding on, staying strong, and persevering, with my son on my hip, God in my heart, and my family surrounding me with love.
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