On My Mind...

Today is Friday, and I'm going to be "hanging out" with some friends. By "hanging out" I mean my sister and her friend talking about college while I sit there being bored. Who cares if your dorm has a damn oven?

Hiding

During prom-making, I opened the new exact-o-knife box. When I tore it open, all the extra blades fell out, ringing against the floor. A boy from my class laughed and joked, "Look! It's emo heaven." Something about that comment got to me. I took a blade and slid it in my wallet, just in case I needed it.

Last night, I finally used it. I used it on my arm, because it always feels better on the arm. Only con: It's really hard to hide. And, well, I guess it made me feel more sad and small than I already did.

So today, I'm wearing my pretty, salmon-pink shirt over a black cami. The pink shirt has semi-long sleeves, which is why I chose it. I feel like Mulan, constantly pulling down her sleeve to cover up the Chinese notes she wrote down to help her with her meeting with the Matchmaker.

Except I'm not Mulan. And I'm not hiding notes to cheat on a test. I'm hiding my insecurity and shame. Melodramatic perhaps, but truth.

Letting Go

My fears of counseling and needles always stopped me from getting help. Even just the idea of telling all my secrets to a person I don't know throws me into a panic and a depression all of its own. But how can I not get help now... He hates me. He hates me because I'm sad. He's been waiting for me to get better, but I can't. I can't get better. The walls of insanity and depression are closing in, and trying to get better makes the walls close in faster.

I went to counseling yesterday. It was uncomfortable and awkward, which is exactly how I thought it would be, if not worse. I had been planning to talk about the cutting and the starving myself in a professional, controlled way. But that's not how it went down. What happened was me crying about feeling alone and abandoned when my best friend fell in love with my sister.

Pathetic.

I have another counseling session today. In about half an hour, actually. Pray for me.

Reality Ever-After

Once upon a time there was a tall lanky girl that lived in the middle of nowhere. She went to high school where she stressed about not being smart or pretty enough, and where she was used. She slowly wasted away into nothing, waiting for Prince Charming to come sweep her away.

But he never came.

The Prom Dream

Prom. You dress up. You take pictures. You dance. You go home.

That's basically all I thought prom was, and that's really all it is. BUT, if there's a romantic, handsome, popular senior to ask you to prom over the school intercom during the morning announcements, than maybe it will be more than a formal sockhop.

I'm one of those people who isn't unpopular, but not very popular either. I can fade into the background pretty easily, so the past few days have been interesting.

The morning announcements came on same as every morning. Then TJ came on and asked me to prom. Of course I said yes. It was the topic of conversation the rest of the day. Everyone in the student body talked about it to me, mutilating my "fade-into-the-background" routine. Everyone acted like he had asked me to marry him. The girl doing the morning announcements started to cry as she finished with announcing what was for lunch. "Sob...sob...sob...meatloaf."

I feel really happy. I have a big poofy prom dress and a hot date. One of my friends was asked to prom over a text, which looked even more extremely lame next to my dramatic, public invitation.

I was going to go laser-tagging with some friends for our annual "anti-prom". I hope they aren't pissed that I'm ditching them. They can get over it.

My best friend has been acting like he wants some space, so maybe going to something fun without me would do him some good.

Either way, all the girls are envious of me for getting the ultimate prom dream. We'll see how this sock-hop turns out.

I'll Be Fine

Breathe in, breathe out. Another day begins.
Same as yesterday. But perhaps, this one will be different.
I close my eyes and soak in the sunlight from the desert sky.

It's an emotional high. I'm feeling good. I feel like this whole day is mine.
I'm not the same. Thing's can change. I hear Hope calling my name.
And she says...I'll be fine.

Our Flight of Valor

"Flight of Valor" felt like just another song. More difficult, but relatively the same as the others. Just a series of notes played faster or slower, smoother or crisper, quieter or louder. The same thing that I had done many other times. Just another song.

But then came the story.

The director stopped everything he was doing, sat down, and told us what the story was about. He told us of the plane on 9/11 that was taken back by the passengers and crashed into a field, instead of in a city killing thousands. James Swearingen wrote this song in honor of those passengers; to tell their story with beautiful music. All of a sudden, it wasn't just any other song. It was a story. It meant something.

The hymn "It is Well" was a theme within the song, something I had noticed before he pointed it out. And this hymn and this story made this song mean something! I had never felt this way about a song. I don't know if I'll ever feel that strongly about another song ever again.

Before our final concert that evening. Our director told us one more story. It was about a girl named Megan who used to play in his band. She loved "Flight of Valor", and she told him how it had changed her life, and how she had never felt like that about a song. Soon after, she died in a car accident. They played "Flight of Valor" at her memorial service. With the emotion slowly overwhelming him, he told us that this song wasn't just about those people on that plane, but about the all the people we have lost.

I don't know if he told us the story to draw out our emotion even more, or just to kill time. But we did bring emotion.

As we played the song, I felt the "take-off" deep inside of me. I closed my eyes and listened to the low brass play the slow, somber, angry notes. My heart stopped when the one flute rang out the first notes of "It is Well". We all felt it. And suddenly "Flight of Valor" wasn't just one story. It was all of our stories.

Then it was over, and we got in the van and left. But I can hear the hymn. It is part of my story.

"It is well...with my soul. It is well, it is well with my soul..."