I suppose it would do to pay tribute to this past year and what it has shown me. If I were a smarter blogger, I would have begun this tribute twelve days prior to the New Year, like a prayerful devotion, lamenting on each month of 2013. I am not, however, and instead am focusing on moments that I feel have truly changed me, left me wanting, waiting or feeling loved. Because it is the small moments that turn your world upside down.
Recently, I have been led to question exactly who I am.
All in twelve months, I have questioned my faith, who I am, what I am doing, what my major is, the degree I'm graduating with, who my friends are, what my family means to me... everything that you could possibly think of--every bad thought, good thought, terrible thought, positive wishes, desires, and expectation has gone through my mind.
And all of it--all three-hundred sixty-four days--have led to this single day, the last day of 2013. I woke up this morning to so many poignant, thoughtful statuses about what the year has brought each individual on my Facebook newsfeed, where their journey has taken them and where they believe they are going to be. All the statuses, they are joyful, optimistic, full of life and sheer delight. I think that's what strikes me most deeply on these final few hours of 2013:
That as much as I am filled with hope, I am also filled with trepidation.
These next few months bring on a new era of exams, of decisions and of goals that are either achieved or pushed to the wayside. Every decision has the potential to change the course of my life as I know it. Every decision has the potential to bring me closer to my family, places me further away from them, to allow me to keep friends or lose them, but most of all...every decision has an impact on the way I want to live my life. And I don't even know what that is yet!
But looking back... having done what I have done this year, from attending conferences to speaking at events, to failing a class and sacrificing a summer, traveling to Chicago (on a whim!!), finally making it through my final content-based semester of nursing school and NOT getting cut, my heart has decided that it is ready. Nervous, but ready. And through every hardship, every high, low, trial, tribulation and every moment of beauty...I take comfort in the realization that no longer do the changing of seasons carry the weight of the world because, my friends, there are some things that time has no effect on.
Time can change the color of my hair, straighten my teeth (with the help of Invisalign), age my skin, wear out my bones, muscles and joints, give me wrinkles, and change my taste in clothes, colors and style, but it will never take away the memories I have made, the lessons I have learned, the family I was born with and the friends who have stood by me day after day after day. Nervous, I am, but uncertain is not the same thing as afraid. For there are few beautiful things left in this world and tonight, in these last few hours, I will relish in the knowledge that I sit before my laptop screen a changed person, who loves many and is loved by many, all of us standing outside the touch of time. And here, I leave you with my final thought of this beautiful, crazy, devastating year.
We live outside the touch of time.
Tuesday, December 31, 2013
Wednesday, December 18, 2013
Without Purpose
These past few weeks have been filled with finals, friends and more finals. Now, we're all trying to stave off the natural anxiety that comes with the purposeful waiting for grades, the final piece of the puzzle. I'm a nursing student, you see, and while for many majors, grades are important...in nursing, they are essential.
Let me explain. Nursing students are trained in a hierarchical system. They let a large amount of students in at the beginning of your four years in the program and then, begin snipping away at the masses beginning at the end of your first semester. You are allowed one strike--one failed attempt in any of your coursework--before you are released from the program aka kicked out. Every semester, then, you can imagine, is fraught with tension as students fight to stay on top of our passing grade (a 77, anything below that is failing), allowing them to make the cut.
I, personally, already have one strike, as do many of my fellow classmates. While I'm devastated about the failing grade, I'm still trying to wrap my mind around the idea that it does not determine my worth or value as a human being. We'll talk about that another time. Back to grades.
This set of final exam grades will determine whether or not I walk at graduation in May 2014 (aka this coming May) and if, by some terrible stroke of misfortune on this path of life, I do not make the cut...I will not only be unable to graduate--I will have to change my major. Seven semesters of being a nursing student only to lose it because of one measly grade. It's unthinkable and it's terrifying, believe me. There are days when I don't understand why I put myself through this kind of pressure. I would have been perfectly fine just majoring in a science that I enjoy and minoring in something obscure and completely useless like Latin or 18th century literature in England, but I chose nursing. And I think it comes down to that I would have been "perfectly fine" doing anything else... but I wouldn't be happy.
A long time ago, I was talking to a friend of mine. We were both in high school discussing our future career goals (nerd alert) and I said to him...I am going to work in the medical field. There was not a doubt in my mind and my voice didn't waiver a bit. He looked at me, surprised, and asked me if I was just going to give up playing piano, then. You see, at this point, I was a competitive pianist, taking lessons every week and practicing almost three to four hours a day. And I looked up, equally surprised, and told him that playing piano was just something that I loved and I would never be good enough to play professionally. He shook his head at me and said "Ten years from now, you're going to tell me that you wished you majored in piano...in Julliard instead of in a hospital, on stage at Carnegie Hall instead of in an office."
I was honored by his honesty. But he taught me something very valuable that day, a lesson I didn't learn until about a year ago. Ready for this?
You choose what you love.
I'm not going to dishonor him by lying to all of you and saying that I don't miss playing the piano. I've been playing since I was four, I played on stage at some wonderful places and I know, in my heart of hearts, that I was at least a little bit better than mediocre and I loved it. God, do I love it. But when I think back on this conversation and feel the pit that has settled in my stomach for the day, waiting for my grades to come back on December 20th at 2am...I am reminded that I didn't choose this path because I loved it more or because it was better or because I would make more money. I chose this path because I knew that I was willing to sacrifice everything I loved for a big, big dream.
Whatever these grades bring me, I'm ready. But now, after seven semesters of blood, sweat, tears and laughter, I have learned that no matter what hardships your choice brings you, your life is not without purpose.
You create that, too.
Let me explain. Nursing students are trained in a hierarchical system. They let a large amount of students in at the beginning of your four years in the program and then, begin snipping away at the masses beginning at the end of your first semester. You are allowed one strike--one failed attempt in any of your coursework--before you are released from the program aka kicked out. Every semester, then, you can imagine, is fraught with tension as students fight to stay on top of our passing grade (a 77, anything below that is failing), allowing them to make the cut.
I, personally, already have one strike, as do many of my fellow classmates. While I'm devastated about the failing grade, I'm still trying to wrap my mind around the idea that it does not determine my worth or value as a human being. We'll talk about that another time. Back to grades.
This set of final exam grades will determine whether or not I walk at graduation in May 2014 (aka this coming May) and if, by some terrible stroke of misfortune on this path of life, I do not make the cut...I will not only be unable to graduate--I will have to change my major. Seven semesters of being a nursing student only to lose it because of one measly grade. It's unthinkable and it's terrifying, believe me. There are days when I don't understand why I put myself through this kind of pressure. I would have been perfectly fine just majoring in a science that I enjoy and minoring in something obscure and completely useless like Latin or 18th century literature in England, but I chose nursing. And I think it comes down to that I would have been "perfectly fine" doing anything else... but I wouldn't be happy.
A long time ago, I was talking to a friend of mine. We were both in high school discussing our future career goals (nerd alert) and I said to him...I am going to work in the medical field. There was not a doubt in my mind and my voice didn't waiver a bit. He looked at me, surprised, and asked me if I was just going to give up playing piano, then. You see, at this point, I was a competitive pianist, taking lessons every week and practicing almost three to four hours a day. And I looked up, equally surprised, and told him that playing piano was just something that I loved and I would never be good enough to play professionally. He shook his head at me and said "Ten years from now, you're going to tell me that you wished you majored in piano...in Julliard instead of in a hospital, on stage at Carnegie Hall instead of in an office."
I was honored by his honesty. But he taught me something very valuable that day, a lesson I didn't learn until about a year ago. Ready for this?
You choose what you love.
I'm not going to dishonor him by lying to all of you and saying that I don't miss playing the piano. I've been playing since I was four, I played on stage at some wonderful places and I know, in my heart of hearts, that I was at least a little bit better than mediocre and I loved it. God, do I love it. But when I think back on this conversation and feel the pit that has settled in my stomach for the day, waiting for my grades to come back on December 20th at 2am...I am reminded that I didn't choose this path because I loved it more or because it was better or because I would make more money. I chose this path because I knew that I was willing to sacrifice everything I loved for a big, big dream.
Whatever these grades bring me, I'm ready. But now, after seven semesters of blood, sweat, tears and laughter, I have learned that no matter what hardships your choice brings you, your life is not without purpose.
You create that, too.
Monday, November 25, 2013
What I Want Now
Ever have a moment in which you realize that everything you've ever wanted has been staring at you in the face?
Today was one of those days for me.
Today was one of those days for me.
Thursday, October 31, 2013
Exam Days
Fear is so. annoying.
I checked my midterm grades yesterday and I'm doing just fine in my classes--in fact, it's the highest set of midterm grades I've had in quite some time, so I'm pretty excited about the entire prospect of feeling like I'm on top of the world--I want to be able to breathe a little, you know? But despite knowing that I'm okay, I'm still quite wary of being the senior who rests on her laurels only to fall short and fail in the final semester of the final year of this ridiculously strenuous nursing program.
Just when I think I'm okay, though, like really, just when I think this is the semester that will be less stressful, the semester that I'm finally confident in my abilities and the semester in which I no longer am throwing up about exams for days before and can finally keep a meal down...I'm wrong. Because in the back of my mind, I know that there's still a small chance that I could fail; I'm only human after all.
But it's the realization that I'm human that's freaking me out today. My grade is alright--it's not fantastic, but it's perfectly solid for a one-exam only midterm grade and yet, I'm sitting here, sick as a dog and can barely keep anything down because I keep looking at the clock and waiting for 1pm, when this stupid exam on respiratory, gastrointestinal, genitourinary and pain management in pediatric clients is going to take place.
I am so nervous.
And I need to forget how to fear.
I checked my midterm grades yesterday and I'm doing just fine in my classes--in fact, it's the highest set of midterm grades I've had in quite some time, so I'm pretty excited about the entire prospect of feeling like I'm on top of the world--I want to be able to breathe a little, you know? But despite knowing that I'm okay, I'm still quite wary of being the senior who rests on her laurels only to fall short and fail in the final semester of the final year of this ridiculously strenuous nursing program.
Just when I think I'm okay, though, like really, just when I think this is the semester that will be less stressful, the semester that I'm finally confident in my abilities and the semester in which I no longer am throwing up about exams for days before and can finally keep a meal down...I'm wrong. Because in the back of my mind, I know that there's still a small chance that I could fail; I'm only human after all.
But it's the realization that I'm human that's freaking me out today. My grade is alright--it's not fantastic, but it's perfectly solid for a one-exam only midterm grade and yet, I'm sitting here, sick as a dog and can barely keep anything down because I keep looking at the clock and waiting for 1pm, when this stupid exam on respiratory, gastrointestinal, genitourinary and pain management in pediatric clients is going to take place.
I am so nervous.
And I need to forget how to fear.
Monday, October 28, 2013
Good Mornings
There are days you get out of bed and you can feel Murphy's Law coming along to wreak havoc in your life. Today is not one of those days and I can't tell if it's because I'm just having a good day, I'm excited about my mini weekend getaway, or because I'm choosing to have a better week.
These past few weeks have been a bit turbulent, to say the least. There are many things that have been taking my focus away from what's important--namely the people who love me and my schoolwork--both of which are very, very important, especially when it comes down to the fact that I'm graduating in a handful of months and no longer have any academic strikes to spare before I'm unceremoniously kicked out of this rigorous nursing program. However, today just feels different. I'm a very sensitive and emotional person and tend to feel very deeply, so lately, I've felt so burdened by what's going on around me and I have pushed it to the side in favor of studying, practice tests and soccer games, but when I told myself yesterday that it was okay to be sad and I allowed myself time to wallow in the sadness, it was like all that weight went away.
Sometimes, you just have to be there for yourself, I guess.
And this morning, after taking forever to fall asleep and waking up after three of my alarms had gone off, I was cozy, nestled in the little shelter I make for myself each night in my giant fuzzy blanket and all of my pillows, eyes closed under my silken eye-mask (a gift from my cousin) that reads "Breathe." There is nothing better than waking up comfortable, than realizing that you were in such a good sleep that its difficult for you to even stir. There's nothing better than knowing what you are going to wear, exactly how you want your hair that day and sliding on a pair of battered converse sneakers to face the day right. There's nothing better than realizing that you are sad, but also realizing that you have done all you can and that there are times that call for selfish action and self-love.
So I breathe, feel a little of the sadness and realize I'm surviving and I smile. All may not be right in the world, but I'm definitely still here. My family loves me. I can read books for pleasure and have no problem reading textbooks for business. I have all my limbs and the leaves are turning color. I'm beginning to finally be happy with the way I look and I am exuding confidence by embracing the fact that I truly know more than I think.
And after all of that, I think I'm going to take myself to get a milkshake tonight. And I am so. excited.
Being mildly selfish doesn't seem so bad, after all.
These past few weeks have been a bit turbulent, to say the least. There are many things that have been taking my focus away from what's important--namely the people who love me and my schoolwork--both of which are very, very important, especially when it comes down to the fact that I'm graduating in a handful of months and no longer have any academic strikes to spare before I'm unceremoniously kicked out of this rigorous nursing program. However, today just feels different. I'm a very sensitive and emotional person and tend to feel very deeply, so lately, I've felt so burdened by what's going on around me and I have pushed it to the side in favor of studying, practice tests and soccer games, but when I told myself yesterday that it was okay to be sad and I allowed myself time to wallow in the sadness, it was like all that weight went away.
Sometimes, you just have to be there for yourself, I guess.
And this morning, after taking forever to fall asleep and waking up after three of my alarms had gone off, I was cozy, nestled in the little shelter I make for myself each night in my giant fuzzy blanket and all of my pillows, eyes closed under my silken eye-mask (a gift from my cousin) that reads "Breathe." There is nothing better than waking up comfortable, than realizing that you were in such a good sleep that its difficult for you to even stir. There's nothing better than knowing what you are going to wear, exactly how you want your hair that day and sliding on a pair of battered converse sneakers to face the day right. There's nothing better than realizing that you are sad, but also realizing that you have done all you can and that there are times that call for selfish action and self-love.
So I breathe, feel a little of the sadness and realize I'm surviving and I smile. All may not be right in the world, but I'm definitely still here. My family loves me. I can read books for pleasure and have no problem reading textbooks for business. I have all my limbs and the leaves are turning color. I'm beginning to finally be happy with the way I look and I am exuding confidence by embracing the fact that I truly know more than I think.
And after all of that, I think I'm going to take myself to get a milkshake tonight. And I am so. excited.
Being mildly selfish doesn't seem so bad, after all.
Sunday, October 27, 2013
Swallow.
I promise that this post isn't awkward or gross or sexual in any way. That's my only disclaimer. The rest of the interpretation is obviously left up to you wonderful people.
Recently, I've been faced with many changes in my life. There are a lot of things going on that could make your brain spin and trust me, my brain is a top, spinning circles and circles around nothing. First, there's graduation. 203 days left until I graduate college, and that's including all the weekends, holidays, breaks and everything and anything else in between. 203 days separate me and the real world. Normally, that wouldn't be something that bothers me. I'm lucky in the sense that I've already got plans for post-graduation and am basically set for the next year after I leave this wonderful establishment, but what I think is really getting to me is the fact that the people I'm used to seeing--the people that I live with all the time, every day--they're leaving too. We're all leaving and it's gonna be weird because the in-between class lunches and the late-night runs to McDonald's and half-apps at Applebee's with our Strongbow ciders are going to go from spontaneous to meticulously planned weeks in advanced, written onto our master calendars.
Friends are engaged, married or pregnant. I am not even dating. Again, not something that bothers me on a regular basis, but in the middle of midterms, it's something that I'm feeling more and more often because everyone else has someone to stress-snuggle with and I have my eyemask and body pillow. I'm not really bitter; I'm just sad. And I am oh-so tired of hearing that the right person will come along because it's almost a pity statement nowadays. If I don't hear that, I hear that I'm young and that I still have time. Last time I checked, I'm a female and I have a biological clock that ticks, not stalls until it's the "right time," but whatever.
Friends are changing. I hate to say that people come and go, but people really do come and go. I think that's something I'm learning all too well at college. Sometimes, the same people come and go, and that's even more confusing because then you're faced with the awkward stage of whether or not you're actually friends...and then you think about whether or not you're a friend of convenience or just a friend and then you wonder what actually happened, whether or not you're in the wrong or they're in the wrong or you're both in the wrong. Sometimes, people are only meant to bless your lives for a short amount of time. Other times, you'll make friends that last a lifetime. It's a painful and funny cycle, but it does have its merits. Every time you're hurt, you realize you're just that much more capable of loving. Every time someone leaves you, you realize how much you've changed. Every time there's someone different that comes along, you realize that you're a better person for having known each person that's walked in and out of your life. That's when the real change happens.
Then I look in the mirror and think about the person I see. Do I love them? Do I hate them? Do I know who they're becoming or have they become lost in the shuffle? Are they capable of growth? And I swallow my pride; no one has ever choked from swallowing their pride. I admit that I am vulnerable. I admit that I am caring and that I have faults that cause others pain. I admit that I am hurt, that there are people in this world that I love so much that they affect the way I feel. And I admit that I am afraid and lonely and anxious about the days to come. I cry and can't stop. I get angry at my inadequacy. I get angry at everyone else and then, I am angry at myself for being too prideful to be honest with the people I love. I am hurting. I am stressed. I am sad.
I may not have choked, but I definitely felt that one coming down.
Recently, I've been faced with many changes in my life. There are a lot of things going on that could make your brain spin and trust me, my brain is a top, spinning circles and circles around nothing. First, there's graduation. 203 days left until I graduate college, and that's including all the weekends, holidays, breaks and everything and anything else in between. 203 days separate me and the real world. Normally, that wouldn't be something that bothers me. I'm lucky in the sense that I've already got plans for post-graduation and am basically set for the next year after I leave this wonderful establishment, but what I think is really getting to me is the fact that the people I'm used to seeing--the people that I live with all the time, every day--they're leaving too. We're all leaving and it's gonna be weird because the in-between class lunches and the late-night runs to McDonald's and half-apps at Applebee's with our Strongbow ciders are going to go from spontaneous to meticulously planned weeks in advanced, written onto our master calendars.
Friends are engaged, married or pregnant. I am not even dating. Again, not something that bothers me on a regular basis, but in the middle of midterms, it's something that I'm feeling more and more often because everyone else has someone to stress-snuggle with and I have my eyemask and body pillow. I'm not really bitter; I'm just sad. And I am oh-so tired of hearing that the right person will come along because it's almost a pity statement nowadays. If I don't hear that, I hear that I'm young and that I still have time. Last time I checked, I'm a female and I have a biological clock that ticks, not stalls until it's the "right time," but whatever.
Friends are changing. I hate to say that people come and go, but people really do come and go. I think that's something I'm learning all too well at college. Sometimes, the same people come and go, and that's even more confusing because then you're faced with the awkward stage of whether or not you're actually friends...and then you think about whether or not you're a friend of convenience or just a friend and then you wonder what actually happened, whether or not you're in the wrong or they're in the wrong or you're both in the wrong. Sometimes, people are only meant to bless your lives for a short amount of time. Other times, you'll make friends that last a lifetime. It's a painful and funny cycle, but it does have its merits. Every time you're hurt, you realize you're just that much more capable of loving. Every time someone leaves you, you realize how much you've changed. Every time there's someone different that comes along, you realize that you're a better person for having known each person that's walked in and out of your life. That's when the real change happens.
Then I look in the mirror and think about the person I see. Do I love them? Do I hate them? Do I know who they're becoming or have they become lost in the shuffle? Are they capable of growth? And I swallow my pride; no one has ever choked from swallowing their pride. I admit that I am vulnerable. I admit that I am caring and that I have faults that cause others pain. I admit that I am hurt, that there are people in this world that I love so much that they affect the way I feel. And I admit that I am afraid and lonely and anxious about the days to come. I cry and can't stop. I get angry at my inadequacy. I get angry at everyone else and then, I am angry at myself for being too prideful to be honest with the people I love. I am hurting. I am stressed. I am sad.
I may not have choked, but I definitely felt that one coming down.
Quiet Nights, Quiet Nights
There is something to be said for spending a Saturday doing what you love and loving what you do.
For the first time today, I taught a small class about assessing the respiratory system. It may seem like nothing to a lot of people, but for me, it was quite different. First of all, I have never taught on any topic in my whole life. Teaching has always been taboo for me, like something that I have never wanted to do, never thought about, and never even imagined I was capable of. I always found it annoying and I really didn't think I had it in me, especially because I have very little patience.
In the past couple of months, after helping a friend with some of her papers and helping her learn about some small grammatical concepts, she told me in conversation that I was a good teacher. And no lie, I was a little taken aback. It gave me an idea for my senior thesis--stepping outside of the box of clinical nursing and moving towards something that could really be a service--using my skills desk-side, instead of bedside. And it was awesome. I'm glad I listen to my friends, sometimes. They teach me so many things.
I'll tell you more about the nursing teaching in a later post, after I've gotten a couple more sessions under my belt.
Tonight, I spent the evening watching two soccer games. The first were my girls, the women's soccer team, against a university from Pennsylvania. And we won in overtime and one of my closest friends on campus scored the winning goal! It was amazing to watch how happy they were! Now, if they win their final home game on Monday, they'll get into the college tournament which is so exciting! It's something they all want so badly and watching them work so hard for is great! The second game was the men's soccer team. They were phenomenal. Men are so much more aggressive than women, openly aggressive, rather. It was ridiculous to see them beat up on one another and we really thought a fight was going to break out, but they also won in overtime! The excitement on their faces is always so adorable. You can really tell how much they love the game when they play.
Watching my friends on the field makes nights like this, within the warmth of my small dorm room, totally worth it. I am left alone with my thoughts on nights like this, and even though sometimes, it's difficult not to drown in the small "bad day" dramas or the negative aspects of my life, I think it's much easier when I can go to bed after realizing how much good there is in my life. Sure, I'm hurt, stressed and altogether exhausted, but...I'm flying to Chicago in a week to see one of my favorite people in the whole world, exams are almost over and I've already read my chapters, I have good people around me and I am very much loved by my family.
Life is pretty good. Pretty, pretty good.
Thursday, October 24, 2013
Ohana Means Family
I've recently been caught off guard by my fluctuating feelings.
I'm funny in the sense that I don't have very many friends. I can count my close friends on one hand, literally. That's not to say that I'm not kind; I'd like to believe that I am very kind, but friendship, to me, is a very serious undertaking that involves a lot of give, take, sharing and caring and compassion. Friendship also sometimes involves mind-reading, and when you can't do that, it involves an incalculable amount of loving patience, while you wait for them to be ready to do whatever they want--tell you about it, cry, laugh or just take it in and move forward. Like all relationships, there are good days and bad days; I do not think friendship is an exception to the rule.
But then there are times when all you can feel are the rough edges. The parts that aren't necessarily bad, but aren't necessarily good. The moments in which you feel like you've done everything you can, but it's still not enough and every part of your heart is trying to salvage what you think you lost, when really, you lost nothing at all. Those are the difficult moments that each party in a friendship faces. Someone is cut loose. Someone holds on. Someone needs the other to come back. Someone else is too proud to apologize. Sometimes, apologies aren't needed and all one needs is a kick start back into normalcy.
You cry. You laugh. You gnash your teeth in anger. You pray. You weep and pray some more. And then you go to sleep, night after night, and you realize that the other person probably isn't thinking about you as much as you're thinking about them. They're not worried. Where are their tears? They're not praying for a solution--they created the painful and hurtful solution that you're now experiencing. And now you are tired and simply feel like you don't want to do it anymore because things were easier when you didn't love anyone and didn't care about anyone, when you cared not even for yourself.
You love them in spite of everything; that's the best part. Or the worst part. You realize, betwixt and between all of these crazy happenings that you were wrong and you don't know why or how or what went wrong, but you know that it was you because it always is. Because how could someone like you be the victim? You are the one who victimizes. You do everything wrong. And all your friendships end this way or begin to fizzle out and now you're afraid. And you love them anyway. Because you know that in your heart that loving is the deepest form of emotional pain; it is paradoxical in the sense that you cannot love and hate someone at the same time but you can love and be hurt by the same person.
I am tired. Unconditional love isn't meant to be easy. Agape isn't meant to be easy. I guess it's just hard when you turn around and feel as if you're the one who's been left behind.
I'm funny in the sense that I don't have very many friends. I can count my close friends on one hand, literally. That's not to say that I'm not kind; I'd like to believe that I am very kind, but friendship, to me, is a very serious undertaking that involves a lot of give, take, sharing and caring and compassion. Friendship also sometimes involves mind-reading, and when you can't do that, it involves an incalculable amount of loving patience, while you wait for them to be ready to do whatever they want--tell you about it, cry, laugh or just take it in and move forward. Like all relationships, there are good days and bad days; I do not think friendship is an exception to the rule.
But then there are times when all you can feel are the rough edges. The parts that aren't necessarily bad, but aren't necessarily good. The moments in which you feel like you've done everything you can, but it's still not enough and every part of your heart is trying to salvage what you think you lost, when really, you lost nothing at all. Those are the difficult moments that each party in a friendship faces. Someone is cut loose. Someone holds on. Someone needs the other to come back. Someone else is too proud to apologize. Sometimes, apologies aren't needed and all one needs is a kick start back into normalcy.
You cry. You laugh. You gnash your teeth in anger. You pray. You weep and pray some more. And then you go to sleep, night after night, and you realize that the other person probably isn't thinking about you as much as you're thinking about them. They're not worried. Where are their tears? They're not praying for a solution--they created the painful and hurtful solution that you're now experiencing. And now you are tired and simply feel like you don't want to do it anymore because things were easier when you didn't love anyone and didn't care about anyone, when you cared not even for yourself.
You love them in spite of everything; that's the best part. Or the worst part. You realize, betwixt and between all of these crazy happenings that you were wrong and you don't know why or how or what went wrong, but you know that it was you because it always is. Because how could someone like you be the victim? You are the one who victimizes. You do everything wrong. And all your friendships end this way or begin to fizzle out and now you're afraid. And you love them anyway. Because you know that in your heart that loving is the deepest form of emotional pain; it is paradoxical in the sense that you cannot love and hate someone at the same time but you can love and be hurt by the same person.
I am tired. Unconditional love isn't meant to be easy. Agape isn't meant to be easy. I guess it's just hard when you turn around and feel as if you're the one who's been left behind.
Monday, September 16, 2013
Life in the ER
Doubt is a funny little bugger.
This past Friday, had to take more than just one deep breath, which is unusual for me, considering that the clinical space has always been my home, the place where I am most comfortable and where I have always felt I've had the most solid footing. The summer, apparently, had changed all of that without my realizing.
Failure is also a funny little thing.
For one thing, not everyone defines it the same way. In academia, it's scoring below a preset standard. Einstein says that you only truly fail when you give up and to others, failure simply means not being successful, which can then be split into a variety of different definitions all of which should have no influence on the way you live your life. But they do. And sometimes it's difficult to rise above something so small as doubt and failure because of the way they make you feel--because of the way you make yourself feel.
For the first time ever, I felt small when I walked into the hospital. I felt that people could see my failure and all my doubts written all over my body. I felt like they looked at me, could smell a failing grade within a ten-foot radius and then wrote me off. I was afraid that my patients would see it; that my clinical professor would see it and that other students would simply equate me to an academic leper and leave me for the wolves in the depths of sewage at the foothills of Assisi. And then I took a deep breath. And then another one. And then one more and I walked to my assignment for the day, the pediatric emergency room and stopped thinking.
And that's when the magic happened. That's when my doubts turned into desire, my failure became forgotten and when the person inside of me who was so afraid dropped all those chains and ran forward at full speed because she remember that she loved something. The validation I felt in the six hours I was sitting in that ER with patients happened continuously throughout the day and each patient gave me a little more love and a little more reassurance with every kind word, every newly learned skill and every mom and dad who thanked me for watching their baby as they ran to get a cup of coffee after a very long night at home.
And the little hands that reached out to hold your fingers and the small smiles and giggles shared only by those in Babyland and the arms reaching out to embrace you because they felt safe in your arms in the big, scary hospital were priceless. And so were the minutes spent making balloon gloves and watching Dora, Disney and Cartoon Network. All the little questions, the pointing and touching things and their plain curiosity was fascinating. Explaining how to use a stethoscope in Spanish and watching their eyes light up when they hear the beating of the heart or the sound of breath in your lungs is indescribable.
Doubt and failure are funny little things, but they can be overcome. Because I belong where my hands can hold little hands and speak in the language of toddlers, schoolkids and teens and because I dedicated my life to these kids a very long time ago.
This past Friday, had to take more than just one deep breath, which is unusual for me, considering that the clinical space has always been my home, the place where I am most comfortable and where I have always felt I've had the most solid footing. The summer, apparently, had changed all of that without my realizing.
Failure is also a funny little thing.
For one thing, not everyone defines it the same way. In academia, it's scoring below a preset standard. Einstein says that you only truly fail when you give up and to others, failure simply means not being successful, which can then be split into a variety of different definitions all of which should have no influence on the way you live your life. But they do. And sometimes it's difficult to rise above something so small as doubt and failure because of the way they make you feel--because of the way you make yourself feel.
For the first time ever, I felt small when I walked into the hospital. I felt that people could see my failure and all my doubts written all over my body. I felt like they looked at me, could smell a failing grade within a ten-foot radius and then wrote me off. I was afraid that my patients would see it; that my clinical professor would see it and that other students would simply equate me to an academic leper and leave me for the wolves in the depths of sewage at the foothills of Assisi. And then I took a deep breath. And then another one. And then one more and I walked to my assignment for the day, the pediatric emergency room and stopped thinking.
And that's when the magic happened. That's when my doubts turned into desire, my failure became forgotten and when the person inside of me who was so afraid dropped all those chains and ran forward at full speed because she remember that she loved something. The validation I felt in the six hours I was sitting in that ER with patients happened continuously throughout the day and each patient gave me a little more love and a little more reassurance with every kind word, every newly learned skill and every mom and dad who thanked me for watching their baby as they ran to get a cup of coffee after a very long night at home.
And the little hands that reached out to hold your fingers and the small smiles and giggles shared only by those in Babyland and the arms reaching out to embrace you because they felt safe in your arms in the big, scary hospital were priceless. And so were the minutes spent making balloon gloves and watching Dora, Disney and Cartoon Network. All the little questions, the pointing and touching things and their plain curiosity was fascinating. Explaining how to use a stethoscope in Spanish and watching their eyes light up when they hear the beating of the heart or the sound of breath in your lungs is indescribable.
Doubt and failure are funny little things, but they can be overcome. Because I belong where my hands can hold little hands and speak in the language of toddlers, schoolkids and teens and because I dedicated my life to these kids a very long time ago.
Tuesday, September 10, 2013
248.
Beginnings are difficult.
I think my heart is a little heavy, but not in a bad way. So many things have been happening so quickly, I've hardly had time to take breath let alone think about anything! I moved back to campus about a month ago for our annual Resident Assistant Summer Training, this year cleverly themed "rugRAts!" and we had the time of our lives. For the first time since I've joined the staff, I've really felt like all twenty-five of us have bonded and are really working to help each other out, support each other and enjoy each other's company--on and off the job.
And now, three weeks into the semester and it really just hit me--this is my senior year of college. I keep turning the thought over and over in my head, thinking that if I see it from a different perspective then it won't really feel the same, but all I'm feeling is a pit in my stomach and a little heaviness in my heart and an excitement that my brain isn't quite ready to process. So much has happened between the end of the spring semester, my ridiculously action-packed and fun summer and the beginning of this semester, that finally having a chance to sit back and look at everything objectively is beginning to freak me out. In a good way.
There are a lot of things I am nervous about. But it's not the typical college worry of Oh my gosh, what am I going to do, I need a job, I need an apartment, I don't know how I'm going to function outside the confines of the fake world I've been living in for four years...my worries are more about people and places, rather than my place, if that makes any sense. You see, my two closest friends are graduating with me, but many of my close friends are campus are younger than me and their reaction to talking about my graduating is not talking about it at all. I was surprised in the beginning, but I realized that I feel the same way they do. I literally feel like in eight months, I am going to be friendless and alone because my home and heart will be with them. Not even in this place, in this dormitory or at this school, but with the people who belong here; the people I belong with.
I can't even believe how quickly this first month is moving for me. In the blink of an eye, I'll be celebrating a wedding, Thanksgiving and heading home for Christmas and then, I'll be down to four months of my undergraduate career left.
I think about where I was the last time I was a senior--the acceptances that I declined, the chances I didn't take and the leap of faith I did take in coming to this school, despite the fact that it was not an Ivy League, top tier or even well-known at all. And then I look at where I am now, the people whom I love and they who love me back and if you asked me to do it again, I wouldn't change a thing.
In fact, I'd do it all over again in a heartbeat. 248 days.
I think my heart is a little heavy, but not in a bad way. So many things have been happening so quickly, I've hardly had time to take breath let alone think about anything! I moved back to campus about a month ago for our annual Resident Assistant Summer Training, this year cleverly themed "rugRAts!" and we had the time of our lives. For the first time since I've joined the staff, I've really felt like all twenty-five of us have bonded and are really working to help each other out, support each other and enjoy each other's company--on and off the job.
And now, three weeks into the semester and it really just hit me--this is my senior year of college. I keep turning the thought over and over in my head, thinking that if I see it from a different perspective then it won't really feel the same, but all I'm feeling is a pit in my stomach and a little heaviness in my heart and an excitement that my brain isn't quite ready to process. So much has happened between the end of the spring semester, my ridiculously action-packed and fun summer and the beginning of this semester, that finally having a chance to sit back and look at everything objectively is beginning to freak me out. In a good way.
There are a lot of things I am nervous about. But it's not the typical college worry of Oh my gosh, what am I going to do, I need a job, I need an apartment, I don't know how I'm going to function outside the confines of the fake world I've been living in for four years...my worries are more about people and places, rather than my place, if that makes any sense. You see, my two closest friends are graduating with me, but many of my close friends are campus are younger than me and their reaction to talking about my graduating is not talking about it at all. I was surprised in the beginning, but I realized that I feel the same way they do. I literally feel like in eight months, I am going to be friendless and alone because my home and heart will be with them. Not even in this place, in this dormitory or at this school, but with the people who belong here; the people I belong with.
I can't even believe how quickly this first month is moving for me. In the blink of an eye, I'll be celebrating a wedding, Thanksgiving and heading home for Christmas and then, I'll be down to four months of my undergraduate career left.
I think about where I was the last time I was a senior--the acceptances that I declined, the chances I didn't take and the leap of faith I did take in coming to this school, despite the fact that it was not an Ivy League, top tier or even well-known at all. And then I look at where I am now, the people whom I love and they who love me back and if you asked me to do it again, I wouldn't change a thing.
In fact, I'd do it all over again in a heartbeat. 248 days.
Monday, July 29, 2013
Because We Can
On a whim a few months ago, I decided to (with some friends from home) purchase a ticket to go see Bon Jovi.
Now mind you, the only musical concerts I have ever been to other than orchestra concerts and classical music concerts at Carnegie Hall, Lincoln Center and the Metropolitan Opera House was a single concert at a Catholic student conference that featured Matt Maher. Definitely vastly different experiences. For one thing, no one was drunk. The other major difference was actually a similarity; while my Christian brothers and sisters lifted their hands and closed their eyes and rocked back and forth in while we sang along with Matt Maher, my brothers and sisters of rock 'n roll lifted their hands in fist pumps and raised their voices in screams, shouts and lyrics. The screaming. That was definitely a similarity because Catholic girls apparently fangirl really hard.
The setlist was as follows:
I was amazed at his fan base. There were easily thousands of people there (a fire hazard waiting to happen) ranging in the age from the five-year-old behind me to the old ladies in their high-waisted pants and Bon Jovi crop tops. The fact that one band could bring so many together in his home state and the fact that all of us are so proud to be fellow natives was an honor. And a joy!
Music, most definitely, is the universal language.
It is the language I will always speak, understand and love.
Now mind you, the only musical concerts I have ever been to other than orchestra concerts and classical music concerts at Carnegie Hall, Lincoln Center and the Metropolitan Opera House was a single concert at a Catholic student conference that featured Matt Maher. Definitely vastly different experiences. For one thing, no one was drunk. The other major difference was actually a similarity; while my Christian brothers and sisters lifted their hands and closed their eyes and rocked back and forth in while we sang along with Matt Maher, my brothers and sisters of rock 'n roll lifted their hands in fist pumps and raised their voices in screams, shouts and lyrics. The screaming. That was definitely a similarity because Catholic girls apparently fangirl really hard.
The setlist was as follows:
I know. Longest. Setlist. Ever. And to be honest, the concert started at 7:30pm with The J. Geils Band and then Bon Jovi came on at 9:15pm and when we left after midnight, he was still playing. And let me tell you, for someone who doesn't like loud places, crowds and lots of drunk people... I had the time of my life. Because for the first time all summer, I wasn't worried about class, counting the amount of hours that I had to make up for in work because I was having "fun" and I wasn't making lists and lists of things to do in my head because I was away from my house, textbooks, practice questions and highlighters. I screamed. I sang. I loved every minute of it.
- Encore:
- Encore 2:
I was amazed at his fan base. There were easily thousands of people there (a fire hazard waiting to happen) ranging in the age from the five-year-old behind me to the old ladies in their high-waisted pants and Bon Jovi crop tops. The fact that one band could bring so many together in his home state and the fact that all of us are so proud to be fellow natives was an honor. And a joy!
Music, most definitely, is the universal language.
It is the language I will always speak, understand and love.
Wednesday, July 24, 2013
Of the World
We need saints without veil or cassock. We need saints who wear jeans and sneakers.We need saints who go to the movies, listen to music and hang out with friends. We need saints who put God in first place, but who let go of their power. We need saints who have time everyday to pray and who know how to date in purity and chastity, or who consecrate their chastity. We need modern saints, Saints of the 21st century with a spirituality that is part of our time. We need saints committed to the poor and the necessary social changes. We need saints who live in the world and who are sanctified in the world, who are not afraid to live in the world. We need saints who drink Coke and eat hot dogs, who wear jeans, who are Internet-savvy, who listen to CDs. We need saints who passionately love the Eucharist and who are not ashamed to drink a soda or eat pizza on weekends with friends. We need saints who like movies, the theater, music, dance, sports. We need saints who are social, open, normal, friendly, happy and who are good companions.
We need saints who are in the world and know how to taste the pure and nice things of the world but who aren’t of the world.
Pope John Paul II (soon to be Saint!)
This quote surfaced fairly recently, as the grand celebration of Catholic youth known as World Youth Day (which is really a week) commenced in Brazil. And I was surprised as well as in aw of the great JPII (what us Catholic nerds refer to our lovable Pope John Paul II as <3). I think what struck me is that in this small paragraph, he is talking directly to the young people of this world, telling us that we are the ones who are called to take this faith to the next level.
But I find that so difficult to believe, especially because we are so fraught with challenges in this day and age. What is right and what is wrong? Simple enough question, I suppose, but when you think about how many times a day you have to decide between a good choice and the right choice... it can actually be really frightening.
I guess what it comes down to is that I like the fact that Blessed Pope John Paul II believes the ordinary IS extraordinary--we aren't able to become extraordinary, we are.
That's something I'll definitely remember.
Monday, July 22, 2013
Find a Way
I think I'm a little stupid sometimes.
And it's not through any sort of lack of intelligence, although there is still so much I don't know, but rather my obsession with trying to figure things out. I was reading an article on Thought Catalog entitled "15 Words to Remember When You're Going Through A Rough Time" and I stumbled, eventually upon #12 (attitude) and #13 (forgiveness) and what this author had written had struck a chord in me.
Attitude is defined in the article as "a settled way of thinking or feeling, particularly reflected in a person's behavior." And that got me. The word settled. That an attitude was something that you became rather than something you agreed to; it was a way of thinking that became you, rather than a way of thinking that you adopted. I find that to be completely bothersome, especially when I think back on this summer. I failed a class. I am retaking it and the final is on Wednesday and throughout these eight weeks, I have been withdrawn, cynical and the polar opposite of the kind of student I usually am. For weeks now, I've been wondering why I'm so stuck in a rut, why I can't figure out the reason I'm so irritated with everyone despite their doing absolutely nothing to me and why the last absolute thing I want to do is see my friends and make merry.
And it hit me. I was beginning to allow the negativity to engulf me and really let it permeate into my every day life, which is frightening for someone who walks into work/class on Monday saying "Only four more days 'til Friday!"
But with the bit on forgiveness, the description that the author posed rather than the definition are what struck me. The author implores the reader to "find a way" to forgive someone, anyone, even if they don't know something is bothering you because it's always more difficult to hold a grudge than it is to find a way to let go. And the thing is, all of this stuff--the crazy thoughts, the paranoia, the thinking of whether or not you're doing the right thing and why aren't they doing anything or saying anything that makes you feel better about the state of your relationship... is tiring and ugly and no one should ever have to think like that one-hundred percent of the time because life's too short to keep trying to do more than love other people. And loving is always so, so much easier, even when it remains unreturned, unspoken and unknown.
And it's not so much that I'm angry with someone, but I am an obsessive person and closely examine my intimate relationships and am always convinced I'm doing something wrong. And more than anything, I think it's those little quirks of being a Type A personality that have to be let go. In this day and age, "forgiveness" means more than just saying "I'm sorry" and trying your hardest never to do it again. I believe that it's synonymous with letting go. And when you let go of all of the heavy feelings and offer them for something greater, knowing that there's something or someone out there waiting for you...
You find a way.
And it's not through any sort of lack of intelligence, although there is still so much I don't know, but rather my obsession with trying to figure things out. I was reading an article on Thought Catalog entitled "15 Words to Remember When You're Going Through A Rough Time" and I stumbled, eventually upon #12 (attitude) and #13 (forgiveness) and what this author had written had struck a chord in me.
Attitude is defined in the article as "a settled way of thinking or feeling, particularly reflected in a person's behavior." And that got me. The word settled. That an attitude was something that you became rather than something you agreed to; it was a way of thinking that became you, rather than a way of thinking that you adopted. I find that to be completely bothersome, especially when I think back on this summer. I failed a class. I am retaking it and the final is on Wednesday and throughout these eight weeks, I have been withdrawn, cynical and the polar opposite of the kind of student I usually am. For weeks now, I've been wondering why I'm so stuck in a rut, why I can't figure out the reason I'm so irritated with everyone despite their doing absolutely nothing to me and why the last absolute thing I want to do is see my friends and make merry.
And it hit me. I was beginning to allow the negativity to engulf me and really let it permeate into my every day life, which is frightening for someone who walks into work/class on Monday saying "Only four more days 'til Friday!"
But with the bit on forgiveness, the description that the author posed rather than the definition are what struck me. The author implores the reader to "find a way" to forgive someone, anyone, even if they don't know something is bothering you because it's always more difficult to hold a grudge than it is to find a way to let go. And the thing is, all of this stuff--the crazy thoughts, the paranoia, the thinking of whether or not you're doing the right thing and why aren't they doing anything or saying anything that makes you feel better about the state of your relationship... is tiring and ugly and no one should ever have to think like that one-hundred percent of the time because life's too short to keep trying to do more than love other people. And loving is always so, so much easier, even when it remains unreturned, unspoken and unknown.
And it's not so much that I'm angry with someone, but I am an obsessive person and closely examine my intimate relationships and am always convinced I'm doing something wrong. And more than anything, I think it's those little quirks of being a Type A personality that have to be let go. In this day and age, "forgiveness" means more than just saying "I'm sorry" and trying your hardest never to do it again. I believe that it's synonymous with letting go. And when you let go of all of the heavy feelings and offer them for something greater, knowing that there's something or someone out there waiting for you...
You find a way.
Sunday, July 21, 2013
Undead
I'm not really into zombies. I just never got caught up in the craze of zombie survival, The Walking Dead, Max Brooks or any of those books and posters that detailed survival tactics for the zombie apocalypse.
BUT, I just got back from watching World War Z in theaters with my father and brother and I have to say, I was pretty impressed. For someone who doesn't really care for the zombie world and all that it brings, the movie was quite engaging and I enjoyed it! First and foremost, you have the protagonist played by Brad Pitt, an ex-United Nations investigator of crimes who retires to Philly to be a father to two beautiful young girls. After the infection begins to wreak havoc in their home city, he gets evacuated by his higher-up friends in the United Nations who have need of his services as an investigator once more and he trades his services for the safe harbor of his family aboard a U.S. Navy ship out to sea. And the story continues from there as Brad battles the crazy undead, trying to figure out exactly how this virus is transmitted, what it's weaknesses are and how it can be stopped.
Despite it being a "zombie movie," I think what I liked most about it was that it wasn't really about the zombies to begin with. The central focus of the movie wasn't about becoming a zombie, surviving the apocalypse or fighting the zombies with fire-throwers and machine guns. It was all about finding a cure and the logic behind it. And I love that. I love the process of thinking through a problem and working backwards in order to find a solution, or in this case, a cure!
In the end, it wasn't about how many humans could stand up in the war for earth against zombies... it was about how a single human and one pretty far-fetched idea could end up saving an entire population from extermination and still get to come home to his family.
Was it the best movie I've ever seen? Absolutely not.
But I've definitely learned not to knock it 'til I try it. And when that fails, anything with Brad Pitt in it can't be that bad, right?
BUT, I just got back from watching World War Z in theaters with my father and brother and I have to say, I was pretty impressed. For someone who doesn't really care for the zombie world and all that it brings, the movie was quite engaging and I enjoyed it! First and foremost, you have the protagonist played by Brad Pitt, an ex-United Nations investigator of crimes who retires to Philly to be a father to two beautiful young girls. After the infection begins to wreak havoc in their home city, he gets evacuated by his higher-up friends in the United Nations who have need of his services as an investigator once more and he trades his services for the safe harbor of his family aboard a U.S. Navy ship out to sea. And the story continues from there as Brad battles the crazy undead, trying to figure out exactly how this virus is transmitted, what it's weaknesses are and how it can be stopped.
Despite it being a "zombie movie," I think what I liked most about it was that it wasn't really about the zombies to begin with. The central focus of the movie wasn't about becoming a zombie, surviving the apocalypse or fighting the zombies with fire-throwers and machine guns. It was all about finding a cure and the logic behind it. And I love that. I love the process of thinking through a problem and working backwards in order to find a solution, or in this case, a cure!
In the end, it wasn't about how many humans could stand up in the war for earth against zombies... it was about how a single human and one pretty far-fetched idea could end up saving an entire population from extermination and still get to come home to his family.
Was it the best movie I've ever seen? Absolutely not.
But I've definitely learned not to knock it 'til I try it. And when that fails, anything with Brad Pitt in it can't be that bad, right?
And Cue Mental Breakdown #3
These shouldn't happen in the summer.
It's sunny, hot and beautiful outside every single day. There are barely any rainstorms and when they are, they're gorgeous sun-showers that make you feel like you're basking in the clouds' tears of joy. There are cool breezes and during heat waves, there's central air, iced drinks and good books. On the rainy days, there are even more good books and the beautiful sounds of water hitting roof shingles, window panes and patios.
Mental breakdowns are not allowed.
But summer classes sometimes change those things. Especially when you're retaking a class that you feel like you've unjustly been made to retake and you're studying your butt off and not getting the results that you want and you've had no break since last August. And you look back and realize that you've just--once again--devoted another eight weeks to a dream that only feels more and more out of reach. And the last day of class is Wednesday and there will be a final. But not just ANY final...this is a nursing final, better known as the HESI. A standardized test compiled by the Elsevier publishing company that all nursing students take in order to predict their success on the NCLEX-RN board exam to be taken at the end of senior year (aka this year). And there's no way to study for the HESI except to read the review book like it's the Bible, To'rah and Qu'ran and do practice questions like your life depended on it.
Then, there's the catch. That even while you are doing all of these things, you could still fail. And then you see your practice test scores (that are significantly harder than the actual exam) and you want to cry. You realize more and more that there is so much information that you covered and despite that, there is so much information you still do not know. Like the normal lab values of blood tests for patients who are on blood thinners, or what different pressure alarms on a ventilator could possibly mean, or what medications to give patients who are allergic to the usual medications or even what medications interact with others to the point that your patient could suffer traumatically. And then there are the EKG strips that all look completely different but exactly the same, simultaneously and you know that you're gonna be asked to identify, tell the difference or recognize all the different patterns.
And you're sitting there and thinking, Oh my, I just wasted another four months taking the same class over and I learned absolutely nothing and you are scared out of your mind because you have been working too long and too hard for something you love so much to leave you like this. And because seeing patients on clinical days and actually being able to help them makes up for all the nonsense you have to deal with during the school year. And because the feeling of surprise and glee that you get after realizing you've understood an entire conversation conducted in medical jargon in real life and on TV means that you're learning, even if it's just a little at a time.
You're scared because your five-year-plan has already changed so much because of this one teeny, tiny failed class and there's nothing you can do about it except push forward. Although if you hear "it's okay" and "everything happens for a reason" and "don't worry, you'll get through this" from another person, you are actually going to throw up. And so you take a step forward. You rearrange your five-year plan. You buckle down, put on the blinders and focus. You shake off the nerves, put the tissue box back where it belongs and take a deep breath.
One more practice test, I think. Maybe two.
It's sunny, hot and beautiful outside every single day. There are barely any rainstorms and when they are, they're gorgeous sun-showers that make you feel like you're basking in the clouds' tears of joy. There are cool breezes and during heat waves, there's central air, iced drinks and good books. On the rainy days, there are even more good books and the beautiful sounds of water hitting roof shingles, window panes and patios.
Mental breakdowns are not allowed.
But summer classes sometimes change those things. Especially when you're retaking a class that you feel like you've unjustly been made to retake and you're studying your butt off and not getting the results that you want and you've had no break since last August. And you look back and realize that you've just--once again--devoted another eight weeks to a dream that only feels more and more out of reach. And the last day of class is Wednesday and there will be a final. But not just ANY final...this is a nursing final, better known as the HESI. A standardized test compiled by the Elsevier publishing company that all nursing students take in order to predict their success on the NCLEX-RN board exam to be taken at the end of senior year (aka this year). And there's no way to study for the HESI except to read the review book like it's the Bible, To'rah and Qu'ran and do practice questions like your life depended on it.
Then, there's the catch. That even while you are doing all of these things, you could still fail. And then you see your practice test scores (that are significantly harder than the actual exam) and you want to cry. You realize more and more that there is so much information that you covered and despite that, there is so much information you still do not know. Like the normal lab values of blood tests for patients who are on blood thinners, or what different pressure alarms on a ventilator could possibly mean, or what medications to give patients who are allergic to the usual medications or even what medications interact with others to the point that your patient could suffer traumatically. And then there are the EKG strips that all look completely different but exactly the same, simultaneously and you know that you're gonna be asked to identify, tell the difference or recognize all the different patterns.
And you're sitting there and thinking, Oh my, I just wasted another four months taking the same class over and I learned absolutely nothing and you are scared out of your mind because you have been working too long and too hard for something you love so much to leave you like this. And because seeing patients on clinical days and actually being able to help them makes up for all the nonsense you have to deal with during the school year. And because the feeling of surprise and glee that you get after realizing you've understood an entire conversation conducted in medical jargon in real life and on TV means that you're learning, even if it's just a little at a time.
You're scared because your five-year-plan has already changed so much because of this one teeny, tiny failed class and there's nothing you can do about it except push forward. Although if you hear "it's okay" and "everything happens for a reason" and "don't worry, you'll get through this" from another person, you are actually going to throw up. And so you take a step forward. You rearrange your five-year plan. You buckle down, put on the blinders and focus. You shake off the nerves, put the tissue box back where it belongs and take a deep breath.
One more practice test, I think. Maybe two.
Sunday, June 30, 2013
Dignity
With all that's been going on the LGBTQIA (omg, so many letters) community lately, I've been reflecting a lot about my own views as compared to the rest of America's stance on the subject of gay marriage, equality and what it really means to be an LGBTQIA in America. It's a difficult topic, one that's full of many sensitive arguments and topics and where debate could fillibuster into infinity and beyond, but at the heart of it, I think the desire to be allowed to love supersedes all.
I have no personal experience with this kind of persecution. I am heterosexual, but my relationships with friends and family who are of different orientations are too many to count. Some of my best friends identify as lesbian while others have told me they are bicurious or bisexual. Other members of my family are gay and have been with their partners since I was born. One of my cousins just got married to his partner in Washington, DC and the other lives in a state where marriage is not allowed by law and has been with his current partner for over fifteen years.
And yet, I am torn. I was born and raised a Roman Catholic where sexual orientations other than heterosexual were never deemed "wrong" outright by those that raised me but were questioned on a religious basis. I was always told growing up that "people are people" which perhaps places me apart from my Christian-Catholic brothers and sisters who are altogether sometimes too conservative for the sake of the Church. There are some who argue with quotes from the Old Testament that "no man should ever lie with another man" and "sexual intercourse is made for procreation" (Good ol' Leviticus) and there are some still that spit out the modern adage of "It was Adam and Eve, not Adam and Steve" and I hear them and say nothing because I can't believe that OUR church is using the Bible as a weapon. Because there IS a New Testament, the fulfillment of the Old Testament in which the words of the Old Testament come to fruition. And Jesus just told all of us to love. And that love was the GREATEST commandment. The greatest commandment is love. And yet we are beating into the minds of others that there are others who have no right to this commandment. Who are we to say that?
Barring the influence of my family, friends and religion, all I am left with is me. How do I feel? What do I feel? And the only thing I can say to that is... overwhelming love. I do not think anyone has the right to tell anyone whom they are allowed to love and in what way and at what time and where they are allowed to love someone. I don't think there should be laws regulating our love lives or social lives and feelings and I definitely do not think that someone should feel degraded because they are different. And when I feel myself getting confused, I think back to a twelve-year-old me when my cousin, nearly twice my age, told me he was gay via Yahoo! Messenger and then proceeded to tell me: "If you hate me and never want to speak to me again, I understand." And twelve-year-old me was horrified. And insulted that he would ever think I could love him less.
Today is Pride Day. Hundreds of thousands marched in NYC to show how much they loved their community, culture and each other and the funny thing is, I don't think this is a fight for pride. Because I think when someone is proud, they are able to transcend law. They don't care what people say, what the world is saying about them or what society dictates. When law comes into play, we are fighting for more than rights. We are fighting for human dignity, the right to life and the right to love.
Be dignified and proud.
I have no personal experience with this kind of persecution. I am heterosexual, but my relationships with friends and family who are of different orientations are too many to count. Some of my best friends identify as lesbian while others have told me they are bicurious or bisexual. Other members of my family are gay and have been with their partners since I was born. One of my cousins just got married to his partner in Washington, DC and the other lives in a state where marriage is not allowed by law and has been with his current partner for over fifteen years.
And yet, I am torn. I was born and raised a Roman Catholic where sexual orientations other than heterosexual were never deemed "wrong" outright by those that raised me but were questioned on a religious basis. I was always told growing up that "people are people" which perhaps places me apart from my Christian-Catholic brothers and sisters who are altogether sometimes too conservative for the sake of the Church. There are some who argue with quotes from the Old Testament that "no man should ever lie with another man" and "sexual intercourse is made for procreation" (Good ol' Leviticus) and there are some still that spit out the modern adage of "It was Adam and Eve, not Adam and Steve" and I hear them and say nothing because I can't believe that OUR church is using the Bible as a weapon. Because there IS a New Testament, the fulfillment of the Old Testament in which the words of the Old Testament come to fruition. And Jesus just told all of us to love. And that love was the GREATEST commandment. The greatest commandment is love. And yet we are beating into the minds of others that there are others who have no right to this commandment. Who are we to say that?
Barring the influence of my family, friends and religion, all I am left with is me. How do I feel? What do I feel? And the only thing I can say to that is... overwhelming love. I do not think anyone has the right to tell anyone whom they are allowed to love and in what way and at what time and where they are allowed to love someone. I don't think there should be laws regulating our love lives or social lives and feelings and I definitely do not think that someone should feel degraded because they are different. And when I feel myself getting confused, I think back to a twelve-year-old me when my cousin, nearly twice my age, told me he was gay via Yahoo! Messenger and then proceeded to tell me: "If you hate me and never want to speak to me again, I understand." And twelve-year-old me was horrified. And insulted that he would ever think I could love him less.
Today is Pride Day. Hundreds of thousands marched in NYC to show how much they loved their community, culture and each other and the funny thing is, I don't think this is a fight for pride. Because I think when someone is proud, they are able to transcend law. They don't care what people say, what the world is saying about them or what society dictates. When law comes into play, we are fighting for more than rights. We are fighting for human dignity, the right to life and the right to love.
Be dignified and proud.
Friday, June 7, 2013
Should've
I should've left today.
Instead, I am still sitting at home and getting ready to go to bed when I should've been on a plane back to my home country. If things were as they should, at this very moment, I'd be almost to Tokyo with five hours left on a journey that I haven't made in six years to see my grandma, my cousins and my aunts and uncles back in the homeland.
I should've left today and instead of being at the airport at 8am this morning, I was already into my third hour of a clinical shift caring for a kind Middle Eastern man who had undergone a knee replacement and was hell-bent on getting better and pressing home-baked goods upon me, dealing with a unit clerk who has more bark than bite and another nurse who wanted help but never asked for it. And then, there was the little old lady with swollen legs who so reminded me of my grandma and I wished for ten whole seconds that I was helping to move my grandma from her chair to her bed instead of this lady because it's so hard to show that you love someone from 8,488 miles away when you can't even touch them, or hold them or say it out loud. But I had to care for this stranger instead, who held my hand as she cried out in pain as we lifted her heels onto lamb's wool and her back onto pillows and I whispered a prayer for my grandma instead.
Because I am here and not in the air and I won't be seeing anyone tomorrow because tomorrow will be just another day that I'm in America. And I was born here, so you would think this wouldn't be a big deal but familial bonds are indescribable and to have reunion wrenched away from you when it was in the palm of your hand is so heartbreakingly painful that there are no words that can adequately describe the heaviness of heart. It consumes you and you can feel it in every waking moment. It takes all of your strength to push it aside and move forward. And it takes all of your willpower to stop asking "Why?" more than once a day. It takes courage and strength to keep praying when all you want to do is throw your hands in the air and walk away and it's difficult to keep the tears from flowing, especially as your cousins--more like the brothers and sisters you've always wanted and always had--send you messages in support of your dreams. And then part of you doesn't even want to chase them anymore because they take everything out of you.
But if it was easy, everyone would be doing it. And you want that American Dream that your parents have sacrificed so much to give to you. But you feel as if coming from nothing and being nothing are two completely different things and that is exactly what your brain tells you and your heart fights against it, putting them at war because you know that you are doing exactly what you are meant to do and there's no greater affirmation than that.
I should've been on a plane today with three hours to Tokyo and five more to Manila, but instead I am learning that big dreams sometimes mean big sacrifices and when things don't go your way, there's always tomorrow, next month and next year. And hopefully, that big piece of paper that tells the rest of the world you made it is worth it because you know the words "Bachelor of Science in Nursing" will never be able to tell anyone what you gave up for a dream.
Instead, I am still sitting at home and getting ready to go to bed when I should've been on a plane back to my home country. If things were as they should, at this very moment, I'd be almost to Tokyo with five hours left on a journey that I haven't made in six years to see my grandma, my cousins and my aunts and uncles back in the homeland.
I should've left today and instead of being at the airport at 8am this morning, I was already into my third hour of a clinical shift caring for a kind Middle Eastern man who had undergone a knee replacement and was hell-bent on getting better and pressing home-baked goods upon me, dealing with a unit clerk who has more bark than bite and another nurse who wanted help but never asked for it. And then, there was the little old lady with swollen legs who so reminded me of my grandma and I wished for ten whole seconds that I was helping to move my grandma from her chair to her bed instead of this lady because it's so hard to show that you love someone from 8,488 miles away when you can't even touch them, or hold them or say it out loud. But I had to care for this stranger instead, who held my hand as she cried out in pain as we lifted her heels onto lamb's wool and her back onto pillows and I whispered a prayer for my grandma instead.
Because I am here and not in the air and I won't be seeing anyone tomorrow because tomorrow will be just another day that I'm in America. And I was born here, so you would think this wouldn't be a big deal but familial bonds are indescribable and to have reunion wrenched away from you when it was in the palm of your hand is so heartbreakingly painful that there are no words that can adequately describe the heaviness of heart. It consumes you and you can feel it in every waking moment. It takes all of your strength to push it aside and move forward. And it takes all of your willpower to stop asking "Why?" more than once a day. It takes courage and strength to keep praying when all you want to do is throw your hands in the air and walk away and it's difficult to keep the tears from flowing, especially as your cousins--more like the brothers and sisters you've always wanted and always had--send you messages in support of your dreams. And then part of you doesn't even want to chase them anymore because they take everything out of you.
But if it was easy, everyone would be doing it. And you want that American Dream that your parents have sacrificed so much to give to you. But you feel as if coming from nothing and being nothing are two completely different things and that is exactly what your brain tells you and your heart fights against it, putting them at war because you know that you are doing exactly what you are meant to do and there's no greater affirmation than that.
I should've been on a plane today with three hours to Tokyo and five more to Manila, but instead I am learning that big dreams sometimes mean big sacrifices and when things don't go your way, there's always tomorrow, next month and next year. And hopefully, that big piece of paper that tells the rest of the world you made it is worth it because you know the words "Bachelor of Science in Nursing" will never be able to tell anyone what you gave up for a dream.
Tuesday, May 28, 2013
Mornings are the Hardest
Because you wake up and then you remember.
And the pain is so fresh, like a raw wound exposed to the elements and you can't put your finger on why it burns so much because the wound is only figurative and only you can see it. But everyone else knows it's there which makes it that much worse. So you push on forward because you don't know what else to do, and you throw yourself into the shower so that you can convince yourself that you're not crying--that's just water streaming down your face, like always. Because today is just like any other day.
And you keep moving so that time doesn't stand still and you aren't stuck between minutes and hours thinking about what could have been and what should have been. You force yourself to remember the reality of the situation and then you busy yourself before it can truly sink in so that you don't have to sit down with another box of tissues and waste them on mucus, tears and non-productive coughs because you're tired of having to change your garbage can three times a day. It's a waste of bags and you want to be as sustainable as possible.
Lunch tastes like sawdust because your nose is still too stuffed up from the tears you refused to cry a few minutes ago just so your mother wouldn't see you. Because she feels it too, you think, and you just don't want her to anymore. And everyone keeps telling you that sometimes, things just don't work out or everything happens for a reason or this is just a mountain on the path of life and then you're in the car and you hear the song on Christian radio playing telling you to tell the mountain to move and it will move and you open your mouth and nothing. You can't even scream. You have no words because you have drained yourself of the will to argue and are resigned to the situation. You drive and keep driving and your heart keeps telling the mountain to move, but who is listening all the way down there but God?
Ah, God.
You are afraid you have stopped believing but you know you haven't because you love God. You know He's got everything under control and then you start crying again because you ask him why, why WHY would He do this to you after all the prayers and pleas and bargains and promises that you've committed to for the rest of your life? You are screaming the Our Father in your head because you want to make sure you believe it. You yell the Hail Mary as loud as possible, until every blood vessel boils with your belief so that your disbelief can be ruled out. You say the Glory Be in the quietest of whispers as you bow your head because you don't care anymore. You don't know anymore. You love God and you know He loves you but why, why, why. And then you wonder if you're a good person because that's the only logical explanation for when things take a turn for the worst.
The worst. The funny thing is that you know there are worse things going on in the world. You aren't orphaned or hungry, homeless or abused. You have a loving, supportive family and they are behind you one-hundred-and-ten-percent. But in your world, the view is different. You have grown so accustomed to the way things are in your world that this giant avalanche of change has thrown your axis off-kilter and you're not moving at the speed of light, hurtling through space and it's so fast that when you put your hands out, no one. There is no one there to catch you. There are worse things in the world than this, you say to yourself. Think of the starving children in Africa and the people being murdered in their homes and the child soldiers and the kids who have no clean water to take their medication with. Your problems are nothing.
Nothing. The word resonates through dinner and through the rest of the evening, as you sip on your tea, and have ice cream cake for your mom's birthday. Haagen-Daz is delicious and coffee ice cream is your favorite, but it's salty, probably because you've just finished crying for the fourth time today and feel so broken-hearted that you don't have the will to try and make things better anymore because in the next few minutes you'll remember, again. So, you work out. You get ready for bed. And Pandora is playing on your brand-new iHome and you close your eyes as you stand in the center of your dilapidated room, still messy from the attempts to unpack boxes from the end of the semester move-out. You crawl into bed unprepared because you told yourself already that there would be no crying on these wonderful, comfy sheets. You've been waiting weeks to sleep in your own bed and you aren't going to ruin it.
And you sink into the covers, smear some Chapstick on your lips and you scream your prayers one more time, hoping that tomorrow morning, you don't remember anymore.
And the pain is so fresh, like a raw wound exposed to the elements and you can't put your finger on why it burns so much because the wound is only figurative and only you can see it. But everyone else knows it's there which makes it that much worse. So you push on forward because you don't know what else to do, and you throw yourself into the shower so that you can convince yourself that you're not crying--that's just water streaming down your face, like always. Because today is just like any other day.
And you keep moving so that time doesn't stand still and you aren't stuck between minutes and hours thinking about what could have been and what should have been. You force yourself to remember the reality of the situation and then you busy yourself before it can truly sink in so that you don't have to sit down with another box of tissues and waste them on mucus, tears and non-productive coughs because you're tired of having to change your garbage can three times a day. It's a waste of bags and you want to be as sustainable as possible.
Lunch tastes like sawdust because your nose is still too stuffed up from the tears you refused to cry a few minutes ago just so your mother wouldn't see you. Because she feels it too, you think, and you just don't want her to anymore. And everyone keeps telling you that sometimes, things just don't work out or everything happens for a reason or this is just a mountain on the path of life and then you're in the car and you hear the song on Christian radio playing telling you to tell the mountain to move and it will move and you open your mouth and nothing. You can't even scream. You have no words because you have drained yourself of the will to argue and are resigned to the situation. You drive and keep driving and your heart keeps telling the mountain to move, but who is listening all the way down there but God?
Ah, God.
You are afraid you have stopped believing but you know you haven't because you love God. You know He's got everything under control and then you start crying again because you ask him why, why WHY would He do this to you after all the prayers and pleas and bargains and promises that you've committed to for the rest of your life? You are screaming the Our Father in your head because you want to make sure you believe it. You yell the Hail Mary as loud as possible, until every blood vessel boils with your belief so that your disbelief can be ruled out. You say the Glory Be in the quietest of whispers as you bow your head because you don't care anymore. You don't know anymore. You love God and you know He loves you but why, why, why. And then you wonder if you're a good person because that's the only logical explanation for when things take a turn for the worst.
The worst. The funny thing is that you know there are worse things going on in the world. You aren't orphaned or hungry, homeless or abused. You have a loving, supportive family and they are behind you one-hundred-and-ten-percent. But in your world, the view is different. You have grown so accustomed to the way things are in your world that this giant avalanche of change has thrown your axis off-kilter and you're not moving at the speed of light, hurtling through space and it's so fast that when you put your hands out, no one. There is no one there to catch you. There are worse things in the world than this, you say to yourself. Think of the starving children in Africa and the people being murdered in their homes and the child soldiers and the kids who have no clean water to take their medication with. Your problems are nothing.
Nothing. The word resonates through dinner and through the rest of the evening, as you sip on your tea, and have ice cream cake for your mom's birthday. Haagen-Daz is delicious and coffee ice cream is your favorite, but it's salty, probably because you've just finished crying for the fourth time today and feel so broken-hearted that you don't have the will to try and make things better anymore because in the next few minutes you'll remember, again. So, you work out. You get ready for bed. And Pandora is playing on your brand-new iHome and you close your eyes as you stand in the center of your dilapidated room, still messy from the attempts to unpack boxes from the end of the semester move-out. You crawl into bed unprepared because you told yourself already that there would be no crying on these wonderful, comfy sheets. You've been waiting weeks to sleep in your own bed and you aren't going to ruin it.
And you sink into the covers, smear some Chapstick on your lips and you scream your prayers one more time, hoping that tomorrow morning, you don't remember anymore.
Sunday, May 19, 2013
The Waiting Game
It is currently 10:09pm, except my clock says 22:09:45 because I live my life on military time. Less confusing.
I just spent an entire day with my family and it was fantastic. We went to an amazing outdoor store, Cabela's, and ate at the local Cracker Barrel! I had me my chicken 'n dumplins and all was well. This morning was church and then a light brunch and off adventuring we went. There were moments, though, throughout the day that I was caught unawares by such strong emotions that my body couldn't figure out whether ro make me cry, laugh or both at the same time. And now, my stomach is in knots.
The worst part about being a nursing student? The waiting.
Every semester, people get cut. And while the cuts may not be permanent, it's frightening to think about how your entire life could change within the span of a single hour. It's scary to think that in this world, a few decimal points is all it takes to change the course of your college career. It's scary to think about how different your life could be between 11:59pm and midnight because when grades are posted, time makes all the difference.
I think the worst part is that we work so hard as students and endure so much and to think that my entire life is bundled up in one little number angers me! Because I don't think the measurement of my skills and abilities and all I have achieved is correctly represented by numbers, letters or a combination thereof.
And now it is 22:32:29 and I am still waiting... but that's okay.
Because tomorrow the wait will be over and then I can start to move once more.
I just spent an entire day with my family and it was fantastic. We went to an amazing outdoor store, Cabela's, and ate at the local Cracker Barrel! I had me my chicken 'n dumplins and all was well. This morning was church and then a light brunch and off adventuring we went. There were moments, though, throughout the day that I was caught unawares by such strong emotions that my body couldn't figure out whether ro make me cry, laugh or both at the same time. And now, my stomach is in knots.
The worst part about being a nursing student? The waiting.
Every semester, people get cut. And while the cuts may not be permanent, it's frightening to think about how your entire life could change within the span of a single hour. It's scary to think that in this world, a few decimal points is all it takes to change the course of your college career. It's scary to think about how different your life could be between 11:59pm and midnight because when grades are posted, time makes all the difference.
I think the worst part is that we work so hard as students and endure so much and to think that my entire life is bundled up in one little number angers me! Because I don't think the measurement of my skills and abilities and all I have achieved is correctly represented by numbers, letters or a combination thereof.
And now it is 22:32:29 and I am still waiting... but that's okay.
Because tomorrow the wait will be over and then I can start to move once more.
Sunday, May 12, 2013
A Fine, Fine Line
Once upon a time, a long, long time ago, I was a music major in addition to my majors in nursing and biology. Now, I am just a nursing major.
Tonight, I was able to go to the junior recital of one of my fellow music majors, one I met in freshman year and have been friends with since, even though I'm no longer part of the program of study. And she was magnificent. I could just hear and feel how much her music had grown and was awed by it and a little envious...because if I was still playing, we would have shared the staged tonight.
She, singing a wide variety of songs, sang a song from Avenue Q and there was a line that struck me. It said "There's a fine, fine line between love and a waste of your time." For some reason, this got me thinking...is this with all kinds of love or just romantic love? Can your other relationships actually be a waste of time?
I think I know the answer but don't want to admit it. Loving is a difficult task, especially when you've realized that not only is it unreturned, it is under appreciated. But then I remember that we are called to love other people and am reminded that Jesus loved others even when he was hated. And if you don't like the Christian perspective, look at Buddha, the Dalai Lama, Mohammed...all of these major figures from different faith backgrounds loved the poor, the angry, the heartless and the cruel because they needed love the most, and not because they deserved it.
So even though my rational brain tells me... love is a waste of time a lot of the time, my heart knows better.
So even though my rational brain tells me... love is a waste of time a lot of the time, my heart knows better.
Tuesday, April 30, 2013
Some Nights
My eyes hurt from crying.
I can only remember one other time I've ever been this hysterical and it was three years ago, when I got dumped by my first love. But even then, the magnitude of my emotions doesn't come close to the way I feel now.
Some nights, you just want to quit.
I can only remember one other time I've ever been this hysterical and it was three years ago, when I got dumped by my first love. But even then, the magnitude of my emotions doesn't come close to the way I feel now.
Some nights, you just want to quit.
Monday, April 29, 2013
Blue-green Eyes
The first time she said "love you," she thought I was mad at her and I'm pretty sure that's the only reason she said it. So I wouldn't be. But I was never in the first place because being angry at her isn't something that comes easily, naturally or even something at all possible to begin with. She may have no filter, but she definitely means no harm and her bark--while just as strong as her bite--stays a bark, for the most part. And that's just one of the things that I find special about her.
When we first met, she wouldn't look me in the eye. When prompted by the mutual friend introducing us, she obligingly stuck out her hand to meet the hand I offered and said "Nice to meet you too" as we continued the conversation we were already having. I allowed myself to half-listen, only because I was too caught up in her youthfulness. That's not to say that I'm old--because I'm not--but I was surprised when I found out that she was only in her first year. She carried herself with such an air of quiet defiance; she struck me as the type of person who knew exactly what she was capable of and yet was still afraid of everything that she was. I was mesmerized.
After that, my little one came out of the white noise and straight into the middle of my day. I didn't realize how many times in a given day I could run into her: she was there on Mondays and Thursdays when I tried to eat breakfast before a class and then, I found out that her classroom was next to mine. On Tuesdays and Wednesdays as I dashed to the cafeteria to find something to bring for lunch before my night clinical, she would be sitting with friends and eating her own meals. Some evenings, I would run into her again and more often than not, when I was lurking in student lounges, she'd pull up a couch and bring her laptop, and we'd write papers together. Within the span of a few weeks, we ended up trying (and failing, because of me) to try and have a meal together, I popped her Chipotle cherry and we had one or two wonderful, intimate and meaningful conversations. She even introduced me to her boyfriend! Despite all the time we had for conversation and all the work began to do together, what I began to love most was that it was okay for me to be quiet if that was what I needed.
And boy, were we quiet. That was mostly my fault. She tripped me up, sometimes and made me unsure of myself because I had absolutely no idea whether or not she liked me, pitied me, or just found me irritating. But I, never being one to give up, kept at it because part of me felt the innate need to just love her. Thus began Operation Little One. I began to inundate her with text messages, asking her how her day was, how classes were and how she did at soccer practice that morning. I helped her with homework when she asked, even when I couldn't bear to stay up another minute and while she read sentences out loud to me, I twirled her ponytail around my fingers just like a big sister plays with her little sister's hair just because it's within touching distance.
And then, one day, it happened. She had seemed upset when she said hello to me and when I asked her what was on her mind, she told me that it was something she couldn't discuss in the middle of the cafeteria. I acquiesced and invited her to my room, not thinking for even a moment that she would accept the invitation. But she did. And she sat in the same chair that I am sitting in now and cried. All I could do was be silent. I let her speak and speak and speak and I cried too, long after she had gone because all I could do was listen. But for the first time in my life, that felt like enough. I wanted to hug her, but didn't know if I could so I moved from my bed to the couch and handed her tissue after tissue and let her speak herself into silence. And I was overcome with emotion.
I marveled at the discipline and control she had over her emotions and the way they expressed themselves. I would never have known her to be carrying such a burden and all I wanted to do was shoulder it for her. I did not pity her, nor did I feel any sympathy; it was difficult for me to even empathize given the magnitude of her pain, sorrow and suffering, but my heart did cry out to love her and I didn't know how. I wished her silence away because I know what that's like, suffering in silence, and I wanted her to know that she didn't have to anymore. After that, our friendship was immediately transformed: within the first few weeks of our friendship, she drove to a bus stop to pick me up in the middle of the night, she told me to "toughen up" because seeing me hurt would infuriate her and then another week later she told me she was proud of me and proud to call me her friend and that no matter what course life takes, she would always make sure that she was part of my life, and I, part of hers. And I was honored, not because I had never heard that before, but because it meant so much more coming from my little one than from anyone else, which was terrifyingly beautiful in its own wonderful way.
There are many things that she may never know about me or about the way I love those who are part of my life, but I think that is the beauty that lies within friendship, sisterhood, and the lives of two young women. I may never be able to relate to her hardships and I may never know them, but I know that I would take her place in a heartbeat, if only to never see her cry again. I have been hurt many times and I know that she has also, but I am still afraid that she will hurt me just as she is afraid I will hurt her. My family may not be as difficult as hers, but like many, I have earned my share of battle scars and gaping wounds. There are still many stories to be shared, but according to her, we have a lifetime.
My wish for her is that she soars higher than the circumstances that surround and attempt to define her because she is infinite in goodness, in kindness, in worth and in importance. In these past few weeks alone she has already had an incalculable amount of influence on the way I live my life and I call her "little one" because when she looks at me, I see not only my friend but someone who ignites within me the desire to live as a better person from minute to minute, day to day and year to year. And so the first time she ever told me "love you" could very well be the last time I ever hear it, but I am glad I did hear it, just that once because now I can say: love you too, little one.
I love you, too.
When we first met, she wouldn't look me in the eye. When prompted by the mutual friend introducing us, she obligingly stuck out her hand to meet the hand I offered and said "Nice to meet you too" as we continued the conversation we were already having. I allowed myself to half-listen, only because I was too caught up in her youthfulness. That's not to say that I'm old--because I'm not--but I was surprised when I found out that she was only in her first year. She carried herself with such an air of quiet defiance; she struck me as the type of person who knew exactly what she was capable of and yet was still afraid of everything that she was. I was mesmerized.
After that, my little one came out of the white noise and straight into the middle of my day. I didn't realize how many times in a given day I could run into her: she was there on Mondays and Thursdays when I tried to eat breakfast before a class and then, I found out that her classroom was next to mine. On Tuesdays and Wednesdays as I dashed to the cafeteria to find something to bring for lunch before my night clinical, she would be sitting with friends and eating her own meals. Some evenings, I would run into her again and more often than not, when I was lurking in student lounges, she'd pull up a couch and bring her laptop, and we'd write papers together. Within the span of a few weeks, we ended up trying (and failing, because of me) to try and have a meal together, I popped her Chipotle cherry and we had one or two wonderful, intimate and meaningful conversations. She even introduced me to her boyfriend! Despite all the time we had for conversation and all the work began to do together, what I began to love most was that it was okay for me to be quiet if that was what I needed.
And boy, were we quiet. That was mostly my fault. She tripped me up, sometimes and made me unsure of myself because I had absolutely no idea whether or not she liked me, pitied me, or just found me irritating. But I, never being one to give up, kept at it because part of me felt the innate need to just love her. Thus began Operation Little One. I began to inundate her with text messages, asking her how her day was, how classes were and how she did at soccer practice that morning. I helped her with homework when she asked, even when I couldn't bear to stay up another minute and while she read sentences out loud to me, I twirled her ponytail around my fingers just like a big sister plays with her little sister's hair just because it's within touching distance.
And then, one day, it happened. She had seemed upset when she said hello to me and when I asked her what was on her mind, she told me that it was something she couldn't discuss in the middle of the cafeteria. I acquiesced and invited her to my room, not thinking for even a moment that she would accept the invitation. But she did. And she sat in the same chair that I am sitting in now and cried. All I could do was be silent. I let her speak and speak and speak and I cried too, long after she had gone because all I could do was listen. But for the first time in my life, that felt like enough. I wanted to hug her, but didn't know if I could so I moved from my bed to the couch and handed her tissue after tissue and let her speak herself into silence. And I was overcome with emotion.
I marveled at the discipline and control she had over her emotions and the way they expressed themselves. I would never have known her to be carrying such a burden and all I wanted to do was shoulder it for her. I did not pity her, nor did I feel any sympathy; it was difficult for me to even empathize given the magnitude of her pain, sorrow and suffering, but my heart did cry out to love her and I didn't know how. I wished her silence away because I know what that's like, suffering in silence, and I wanted her to know that she didn't have to anymore. After that, our friendship was immediately transformed: within the first few weeks of our friendship, she drove to a bus stop to pick me up in the middle of the night, she told me to "toughen up" because seeing me hurt would infuriate her and then another week later she told me she was proud of me and proud to call me her friend and that no matter what course life takes, she would always make sure that she was part of my life, and I, part of hers. And I was honored, not because I had never heard that before, but because it meant so much more coming from my little one than from anyone else, which was terrifyingly beautiful in its own wonderful way.
There are many things that she may never know about me or about the way I love those who are part of my life, but I think that is the beauty that lies within friendship, sisterhood, and the lives of two young women. I may never be able to relate to her hardships and I may never know them, but I know that I would take her place in a heartbeat, if only to never see her cry again. I have been hurt many times and I know that she has also, but I am still afraid that she will hurt me just as she is afraid I will hurt her. My family may not be as difficult as hers, but like many, I have earned my share of battle scars and gaping wounds. There are still many stories to be shared, but according to her, we have a lifetime.
My wish for her is that she soars higher than the circumstances that surround and attempt to define her because she is infinite in goodness, in kindness, in worth and in importance. In these past few weeks alone she has already had an incalculable amount of influence on the way I live my life and I call her "little one" because when she looks at me, I see not only my friend but someone who ignites within me the desire to live as a better person from minute to minute, day to day and year to year. And so the first time she ever told me "love you" could very well be the last time I ever hear it, but I am glad I did hear it, just that once because now I can say: love you too, little one.
I love you, too.
Tuesday, April 16, 2013
Curl Up Into a Ball, Let It Pass and Try Again
It's dark in my room right now. It's because I'm trying to go to bed and I can't because every time I close my eyes, I feel like I'm falling. And it's not the natural kind of in-between state that we all feel once in a while...it's falling for real, as if not even the wind could stop me.
There are times where terminal velocity sounds enjoyable. That single moment at the top where you feel absolutely nothing. That is what I want. Life has been hitting so hard and fast that it's like I don't even know where to turn or what to do or how fast to react. It just won't stop. And I don't know what to say to make it better. Or make it go away.
In these moments where your lives seem to take your days by force, fetal position is your most protective measure. But when you curl up, hug yourself. Let it pass.
And at the moment when all truly seems lost, rise only to try again.
There are times where terminal velocity sounds enjoyable. That single moment at the top where you feel absolutely nothing. That is what I want. Life has been hitting so hard and fast that it's like I don't even know where to turn or what to do or how fast to react. It just won't stop. And I don't know what to say to make it better. Or make it go away.
In these moments where your lives seem to take your days by force, fetal position is your most protective measure. But when you curl up, hug yourself. Let it pass.
And at the moment when all truly seems lost, rise only to try again.
Saturday, April 13, 2013
No Te Preocupes
Right now, I'm being the worst student ever sitting in a core literature class and half paying attention and half writing to all of you.
This is a new beginning. This blog. And I think that's evident in the intense level of personal growth that I've been through in the past few months. I mean, many who know me may not think I've grown at all. Maybe they believe that I've become worse as time has moved past, but overall, I believe that the decisions I have made are more for myself rather than those around me and for me, that's something scary, new and altogether unusual.
One of my favorite friends texted me saying, "no te preocupes" after I had apologized for a misunderstanding that happened at one point this semester. He and I are close, I would like to think, and I love him very much. But him texting me that single sentence, coupled with the word "hermana" (sister), made me feel like fears, doubts and anxiety had lifted from my mind and I don't think he will ever know how much those simple words have changed my outlook on this semester.
Another friend of mine is distraught about an emotional breakup with a friend. And just because no titles and labels were publIcized, doesn't mean her heart was not within rights to love. And something that she said to me the other day surprised me. She, my big sister, told me that love didn't exist. But I know it does. It is inevitable. If it did not exist, neither would her pain or hurt. If it did not exist, neither would her power to be healed by those around her. She is the strongest person I know.
I met a new friend who is so thirsty and hungry for love that she hides behind a wall of her own making. I thought she hated me until she needed to speak to me one day and sat in my room here at school, crying about the pain that had grown in her heart as a result of years of having to grow up on her own. And all I want to do is hug her and yet, I can't even do that because she shies away from public displays save for the young man who has always loved her and always will. She is a testament to her own strength and a testament to who I wish to be. Heroes can be anyone who affects you life. And she has affected mine in wonderful ways.
I have new old friends! They have taught me more than I ever wanted to know about real friendship and what a true, virtuous friendship means. They call me out when I'm not studying, they make sure I'm okay, they ask me how my day is going and actually listen to my response. They look out for me. And that's something I'm still not used to, and I love that they continue to do it despite my protests. They found out when my birthday is and remember it. Sometimes, I am pleasantly surprised by happiness they bring me because it is something I am so unaccustomed to.
No te preocupes. Do not worry.
Easier said than done, I know. But that's something that I've learned these past few months that not worrying is not the same as not having any worries. And the difference is simple.
Everyone worries. It is inevitable in the span of a human life because we are made to care. But those worries should never be your inner drive. They should not keep you awake at night or make you cry during your lecture periods or come to find you when you're alone at bedtime. What you worry about should note the definition and the culmination of who you are and who you wish to be.
So allow yourself the indulgence of having those worries, but do not worry.
And never stand still.
This is a new beginning. This blog. And I think that's evident in the intense level of personal growth that I've been through in the past few months. I mean, many who know me may not think I've grown at all. Maybe they believe that I've become worse as time has moved past, but overall, I believe that the decisions I have made are more for myself rather than those around me and for me, that's something scary, new and altogether unusual.
One of my favorite friends texted me saying, "no te preocupes" after I had apologized for a misunderstanding that happened at one point this semester. He and I are close, I would like to think, and I love him very much. But him texting me that single sentence, coupled with the word "hermana" (sister), made me feel like fears, doubts and anxiety had lifted from my mind and I don't think he will ever know how much those simple words have changed my outlook on this semester.
Another friend of mine is distraught about an emotional breakup with a friend. And just because no titles and labels were publIcized, doesn't mean her heart was not within rights to love. And something that she said to me the other day surprised me. She, my big sister, told me that love didn't exist. But I know it does. It is inevitable. If it did not exist, neither would her pain or hurt. If it did not exist, neither would her power to be healed by those around her. She is the strongest person I know.
I met a new friend who is so thirsty and hungry for love that she hides behind a wall of her own making. I thought she hated me until she needed to speak to me one day and sat in my room here at school, crying about the pain that had grown in her heart as a result of years of having to grow up on her own. And all I want to do is hug her and yet, I can't even do that because she shies away from public displays save for the young man who has always loved her and always will. She is a testament to her own strength and a testament to who I wish to be. Heroes can be anyone who affects you life. And she has affected mine in wonderful ways.
I have new old friends! They have taught me more than I ever wanted to know about real friendship and what a true, virtuous friendship means. They call me out when I'm not studying, they make sure I'm okay, they ask me how my day is going and actually listen to my response. They look out for me. And that's something I'm still not used to, and I love that they continue to do it despite my protests. They found out when my birthday is and remember it. Sometimes, I am pleasantly surprised by happiness they bring me because it is something I am so unaccustomed to.
No te preocupes. Do not worry.
Easier said than done, I know. But that's something that I've learned these past few months that not worrying is not the same as not having any worries. And the difference is simple.
Everyone worries. It is inevitable in the span of a human life because we are made to care. But those worries should never be your inner drive. They should not keep you awake at night or make you cry during your lecture periods or come to find you when you're alone at bedtime. What you worry about should note the definition and the culmination of who you are and who you wish to be.
So allow yourself the indulgence of having those worries, but do not worry.
And never stand still.
Friday, April 5, 2013
Wingmen
So, tonight I had a great night.
I wasn't really stressed. I only had one assignment due and submitted it. I had written my research papers in advance so all I had to do was submit them. I only had to print out one of my papers no submit in person tomorrow. I went to Chipotle. I had a green tea latte from Starbucks and, I met a boy.
Well, "met" isn't really accurate here. It's more like I saw a boy. And by "saw" I mean really seeing someone. And it was great and terrible, but it was wonderful. And you know what?
I'm really excited.
I'm actually talking to a friend right now and I was honest in saying that I always feel like I'm the one that's been slighted. I have friends that go off in pairs all the time. I have friends who are always capturing someone's heart or attention and I usually just get to hear the stories of fantastic (or not-so-fantastic) dates and evenings. I'm the one waiting for everyone to come home. And that's how I feel I've spent most of my life thus far. Just waiting.
I wait to hear back from nursing.
I wait to hear back from grad schools.
I wait on applications, recommendations, interviews...
I wait for people.
I wait for scores on tests, final grades and transcripts.
It just never ends! And at the end of the day, all I really want is someone who's waiting for me.
And my wingmen tell me that it's okay to be kept waiting. Because I deserve more than that.
And part of me wants to believe that, so bad.
And part of me thinks they're making it up because they're biased.
And part of me just loves them.
All of me loves them.
Wingmen, they always have your back.
I wasn't really stressed. I only had one assignment due and submitted it. I had written my research papers in advance so all I had to do was submit them. I only had to print out one of my papers no submit in person tomorrow. I went to Chipotle. I had a green tea latte from Starbucks and, I met a boy.
Well, "met" isn't really accurate here. It's more like I saw a boy. And by "saw" I mean really seeing someone. And it was great and terrible, but it was wonderful. And you know what?
I'm really excited.
I'm actually talking to a friend right now and I was honest in saying that I always feel like I'm the one that's been slighted. I have friends that go off in pairs all the time. I have friends who are always capturing someone's heart or attention and I usually just get to hear the stories of fantastic (or not-so-fantastic) dates and evenings. I'm the one waiting for everyone to come home. And that's how I feel I've spent most of my life thus far. Just waiting.
I wait to hear back from nursing.
I wait to hear back from grad schools.
I wait on applications, recommendations, interviews...
I wait for people.
I wait for scores on tests, final grades and transcripts.
It just never ends! And at the end of the day, all I really want is someone who's waiting for me.
And my wingmen tell me that it's okay to be kept waiting. Because I deserve more than that.
And part of me wants to believe that, so bad.
And part of me thinks they're making it up because they're biased.
And part of me just loves them.
All of me loves them.
Wingmen, they always have your back.
Saturday, March 30, 2013
Drop It Like It's Hot
I have been to the mall every day this entire weekend because of my little brother, of course. He provides the tunes and I provide the wheels and lately, a favorite of his has been this old-school rap song called "Drop It Like It's Hot."
And me? I never listen to words, I just love beats, but I recently watched a video by Patch Parables on YouTube and it was a parable of two monks. They were at the river one day and saw a woman in need trying to cross through the current. One monk, despite the laws that made any sort of contact or proximity to woman forbidden, picked her up and brought her across. As the monks were walking back to their monastery, the second monk finally exploded and asked: "How could you do that? How could you carry that woman?" And the first monk chuckled and answered, "I let go of that woman on the bank, you are the one who is still carrying her."
And I was astounded. A video of no longer than two minutes had just managed to tell me off, and not even in a bad way. I just sat there and thought about how heavily I let things weigh on me and how much I take to heart and realized that this heaviness, this weight, this sadness... it's all mine to give away and not to anyone else, because that doesn't serve anyone. I am to simply let go of it.
Easier said than done.
Sometimes, even my deep cleansing breaths don't work, but in all honesty, the season of Lent has helped me a lot with learning to let go. When Catholics talk about Lent, many people emphasize the sacrifices that you are supposed to make, what you are "giving up" or fasting. But what others forget to mention is that this season, which ends tomorrow, is a season of prayer, fasting and almsgiving. Prayer and doing kind works are what make the fasting meaningful. Lent is all about self-awareness. Learning more about who you are, what your weaknesses are and where your strengths lie.
All in all, I've learned that I judge a little too harshly, have standards that are much too high and that I really do know how to love.
I just have to let go of my fear that the love I give will never be returned.
City Saturdays
I love New York City.
Call me crazy but the novelty of the Big Apple will never wear off on me. I've grown up around New York and am now going into the city more than ever, but I will always, always, always be excited and happy and in love when I'm there. That's just a fact of life.
Today, I got to spend time with my big sister from another mister! Days in the city with her are the best! Sometimes, there are more than two of us, but today, it was just us and it was a lot of fun. She met me at the Port Authority Bus Terminal (where we always meet, near the bathrooms and the ticket sellers) and we headed of to Strand, the booksellers, to spend our most recently earned paychecks on the closest thing you can buy to happiness--books. And my big sister? She's a book lover, down to the core and absolutely understands that heading to the Strand is like giving me Christmas, every time I walk in.
I managed to come away with my very own Strand tote (a must-have for all first-timers) and four titles that I was particularly interested in. They are:
Never Let Me Go by Kazuo Ishiguro
Ragtime by E.L. Doctorow
The Little Prince by Antoine de Saint-Exupéry
The Emperor of All Maladies by Siddharta Mukherjee
And I'm pretty stoked. This will be my first Doctorow experience and I've wanted to read Never Let Me Go since I was in high school, so bargain books are definitely where it's at.
After book shopping and spending tons of money at Strand (the most expensive thing I bought was my Strand bag), we had lunch at Junior's aka grilled cheeses with bacon on thick slices of challah and I think my heart and stomach almost died simultaneously because everything down to the ketchup and mayo on my steak-cut french fries was amazing.
And we headed home to celebrate Easter, not-so-far-away from each other.
Happiest day. The happiest in a long, long time.
I love you, Laur <3
Call me crazy but the novelty of the Big Apple will never wear off on me. I've grown up around New York and am now going into the city more than ever, but I will always, always, always be excited and happy and in love when I'm there. That's just a fact of life.
Today, I got to spend time with my big sister from another mister! Days in the city with her are the best! Sometimes, there are more than two of us, but today, it was just us and it was a lot of fun. She met me at the Port Authority Bus Terminal (where we always meet, near the bathrooms and the ticket sellers) and we headed of to Strand, the booksellers, to spend our most recently earned paychecks on the closest thing you can buy to happiness--books. And my big sister? She's a book lover, down to the core and absolutely understands that heading to the Strand is like giving me Christmas, every time I walk in.
I managed to come away with my very own Strand tote (a must-have for all first-timers) and four titles that I was particularly interested in. They are:
Never Let Me Go by Kazuo Ishiguro
Ragtime by E.L. Doctorow
The Little Prince by Antoine de Saint-Exupéry
The Emperor of All Maladies by Siddharta Mukherjee
And I'm pretty stoked. This will be my first Doctorow experience and I've wanted to read Never Let Me Go since I was in high school, so bargain books are definitely where it's at.
After book shopping and spending tons of money at Strand (the most expensive thing I bought was my Strand bag), we had lunch at Junior's aka grilled cheeses with bacon on thick slices of challah and I think my heart and stomach almost died simultaneously because everything down to the ketchup and mayo on my steak-cut french fries was amazing.
And we headed home to celebrate Easter, not-so-far-away from each other.
Happiest day. The happiest in a long, long time.
I love you, Laur <3
Friday, March 29, 2013
Ergo Erit
Sometimes, the world throws a lot of things at you and the world does it fast, without calculation and without warning.
Today is Good Friday.
In the Catholic faith, today is the day that Jesus, the Son of Man and the Son of God, died on the cross for the salvation of souls. Talk about a curveball. Imagine walking through thirty-three years of life waiting for the moment of your torturous, painful and untimely death. I can't even come close to imagining something such as that. I can barely imagine tomorrow or the next ten years, let alone my death.
But something that they stress throughout this wonderful period of Holy Week (my favorite week of the year) is that everything done was done in love. Not through love or for love or because of love, in love. I think that's something important to remember. In love means more than just the normal social definition of love. It's John 3:16 ("For God so loved the world, he gave his only Begotten Son..."). It's a love so strong and infinite and beautiful that it cannot be fathomed by the mortal mind. It is a love that is unbound, unconditional and everlasting. And the scariest part?
We are called to love just like that.
But how?
That's a question that I ask all the time. How do you love those that hurt you? How can you love the people that have caused you pain or the people that have made you cry in the quiet of your own room in the middle of the night? Maybe that's a bit melodramatic and most of the time, one's first response is... why would you ever let someone make you cry like that? And oftentimes, my response is that I can't help it. I feel very deeply and thus am hurt very deeply. And that's okay. In response to adversity, people throw around a quotation:
And that is entirely false. Because the people that make you cry are absolutely more than worth it--they are the ones that need you the most. They are the ones that need you to love them the most. And in many situations, they may never know that it is because of them that you cry. That's the crazy part about love--of any kind--whether it be romantic, friendly, sibling-esque, familial or intimate...love is painful in its truest and rawest form. We see that on the Cross and in the scars on Jesus' hands, feet and side.
How dare I not love like that?
There are so many people wanting for love, myself included. There are no excuses because we, as the Easter people, are called to love like that. But I struggle with it, I won't lie to you. There are moments that I wish I was an awful, obnoxious person was vindictive and took vengeance on those who have hurt me so that I could feel some sort of satisfaction because I made them hurt as much as they made me hurt. But in the end, those thoughts leave me as empty as they made me feel in the first place. It's counterproductive and unnecessary.
So sometimes the world throws crazy things at you. Sometimes they are painful, sometimes they are awful, sometimes you want everything to go dark so that for one moment, you can feel some sort of relief, but in those moments, don't turn your back.
Ergo erit. Therefore, be.
And love.
Today is Good Friday.
In the Catholic faith, today is the day that Jesus, the Son of Man and the Son of God, died on the cross for the salvation of souls. Talk about a curveball. Imagine walking through thirty-three years of life waiting for the moment of your torturous, painful and untimely death. I can't even come close to imagining something such as that. I can barely imagine tomorrow or the next ten years, let alone my death.
But something that they stress throughout this wonderful period of Holy Week (my favorite week of the year) is that everything done was done in love. Not through love or for love or because of love, in love. I think that's something important to remember. In love means more than just the normal social definition of love. It's John 3:16 ("For God so loved the world, he gave his only Begotten Son..."). It's a love so strong and infinite and beautiful that it cannot be fathomed by the mortal mind. It is a love that is unbound, unconditional and everlasting. And the scariest part?
We are called to love just like that.
But how?
That's a question that I ask all the time. How do you love those that hurt you? How can you love the people that have caused you pain or the people that have made you cry in the quiet of your own room in the middle of the night? Maybe that's a bit melodramatic and most of the time, one's first response is... why would you ever let someone make you cry like that? And oftentimes, my response is that I can't help it. I feel very deeply and thus am hurt very deeply. And that's okay. In response to adversity, people throw around a quotation:
The one who makes you cry isn't worth your tears. The one who's worth your tears, never makes you cry.
And that is entirely false. Because the people that make you cry are absolutely more than worth it--they are the ones that need you the most. They are the ones that need you to love them the most. And in many situations, they may never know that it is because of them that you cry. That's the crazy part about love--of any kind--whether it be romantic, friendly, sibling-esque, familial or intimate...love is painful in its truest and rawest form. We see that on the Cross and in the scars on Jesus' hands, feet and side.
How dare I not love like that?
There are so many people wanting for love, myself included. There are no excuses because we, as the Easter people, are called to love like that. But I struggle with it, I won't lie to you. There are moments that I wish I was an awful, obnoxious person was vindictive and took vengeance on those who have hurt me so that I could feel some sort of satisfaction because I made them hurt as much as they made me hurt. But in the end, those thoughts leave me as empty as they made me feel in the first place. It's counterproductive and unnecessary.
So sometimes the world throws crazy things at you. Sometimes they are painful, sometimes they are awful, sometimes you want everything to go dark so that for one moment, you can feel some sort of relief, but in those moments, don't turn your back.
Ergo erit. Therefore, be.
And love.
Thursday, March 7, 2013
Big V: Clean Version
If you were friends with me on Facebook, you would have probably been surprised to see--given that I'm an introvert and totally not into going out--that I have one thousand, three-hundred and sixty-two friends. Yes. As in 1,362. Among those friends, I can tell you that maybe a handful are virgins and the rest are a mixture of varying degrees of sexual prowess (prowess because we're beasts, duh). And among those still, it's even funnier to think that even amongst my nearest and dearest, sex, sexuality, affection, lust and love are things that we converse about on a regular basis.
Yes, girls talk about sex too.
And how can we not? It surrounds us on every side. There are people having sex in books (Thank you, Christian Grey), there are people having sex in movies, on TV, in cartoons, there are songs about it, poems about it, and the list could go on forever. But what's different is that what was once a taboo subject is now something that can be casually mentioned and celebrated. We, as humans, are to believe that not only is sex useful... it's our civic duty to procreate and make plenty. But in the books, movies, songs and conversations, everyone has their own reasons as to what decision they make in the end. The following are a few I've come across in my short twenty-years of life and are the reasons I often struggle with the most when it comes to my own decisions about sex and its consequences:
1. Because everyone else is talking about it.
This is a big one. I mean, sometimes it's hard to be with a group of your closest girlfriends (and guyfriends) to find that you're the only one who either (a) hasn't gotten laid that weekend, (b) has never even had sex before and (c) aren't planning on doing it any time in your near future. It's hard to listen to conversations about mind-blowing orgasms and ridiculously kinky positions, moves, and techniques when you have absolutely no idea what they're talking about. That can get mondo frustrating and makes a person just want to sleep with the next person on the street. That's something I strongly advise against, for the sake of your healthy genitals.
2. Because you want to know what it's like.
This stems off the conversational bit. Hearing so much about sex all the time from every inch of your life--from TV shows, to movies to books like 50 Shades of Gray--can and usually stimulates your curiosity. At this point you want to do it just because you want to know what it's like. All I'm saying is that don't let your first experience be one of those experiences you regret.
3. Because you want to love.
Important note: sleeping with someone is quite different from making love with someone. Don't let mainstream media fool you into thinking otherwise.
4, 5, 6: Because you feel left out and like you're missing out, you feel like you're in the wrong and you're beginning to think that everyone else is right.
The only one who can decide that is you. Feeling left out happens a lot. Take it from me, the eternal odd-numbered-wheel of the night. Sometime's I'm the 17th wheel, sometimes I'm the third. Oftentimes, I'm the fifth. Either way, I always feel like the one that's missing out on something grand. I occasionally ask myself whether or not I'm doing the right thing, but I think that's normal now and again. It only becomes dangerous when you transition into #6 and begin to think that everyone else is right. Sometimes, the only person that can decide that is you.
I am currently struggling with the suggestion that everything that I've learned since birth is wrong; that as a twenty-year-old I should be having sex and hooking up on a regular basis and getting practice with the male counterparts of the world and it shouldn't matter because if you tell yourself not to feel anything, you won't.
Thank goodness that there's something called freewill.
Our decisions are ours and ours alone.
Wednesday, March 6, 2013
Contrary to Popular Belief
I am an introvert.
Hard to believe, I know, especially since I sit here writing about my thoughts with such ease. But that's exactly it. I'm sitting in the comfort of my own home, not having to exert any energy in interacting with others and am just allowed to think and be with my own thoughts. That's what an introversion is all about.
Many people make the mistake of thinking that introverts are "just shy" and "don't know how to talk to people," but if you knew me, you would also know that I was captain of the speech and debate team in my high school, I make regular public appearances on behalf of my college, I teach my own catechesis group of baby Catholics and Christians and giving oral presentations in my classes? That's one of my fortes. Being an introvert is not about being shy, it's about the way interacting with others makes you feel. And me? I'm one of those people who would much rather be in my room, curled up with a book and with my quiet musings. That's just who I am.
I find interaction with others exhausting, especially when it comes to prolonged periods of interaction like parties or donor events that I'm obligated to attend as a student ambassador. Just because I'm good at chit-chatting and making small talk and am able to stand my ground when making a speech does not mean it's something I enjoy. In a world where networking and personality is essential to success, one must adapt--that doesn't necessarily mean I have to like it. And I don't. Not at all. Because after every event or every party, I need to hole myself up in my room in the comfort of my bed or even just a corner of the couch and recharge. Extroverts? They never need to recharge. They love, love, love being around people. They thrive when they're the center of the attention and they live for those moments that they're constantly talking to everyone and able to make bonds, form connections and be friends.
Me? I'm good with the friends I can count on one hand and the characters I've met in stories. But why am I talking about being an introvert?
In all honesty, Susan Cain says it best in her TEDTalk about introverts and being an introvert in today's world. She makes a really poignant argument for introverts in today's society and chastises the modern era for ignoring them or for excluding them in their design and creation of learning models and classroom settings and even in career fields, where the boisterous enthusiastic candidate is almost always taken over the reserved one. She talks a lot about misconceptions and helps you to understand them better and even as one who identifies as an introvert, I learned a lot about why I am the way I am and why I find it so gosh-darn tiring to be sitting with more than two people at a time.
So when I tell you that I don't want to go out because I'm good for the semester having only gone out one time, it's not because I'm a prude or a debbie-downer or because I'm boring. It's because I need time to be with myself, that's all.
You do you, babe.
Hard to believe, I know, especially since I sit here writing about my thoughts with such ease. But that's exactly it. I'm sitting in the comfort of my own home, not having to exert any energy in interacting with others and am just allowed to think and be with my own thoughts. That's what an introversion is all about.
Many people make the mistake of thinking that introverts are "just shy" and "don't know how to talk to people," but if you knew me, you would also know that I was captain of the speech and debate team in my high school, I make regular public appearances on behalf of my college, I teach my own catechesis group of baby Catholics and Christians and giving oral presentations in my classes? That's one of my fortes. Being an introvert is not about being shy, it's about the way interacting with others makes you feel. And me? I'm one of those people who would much rather be in my room, curled up with a book and with my quiet musings. That's just who I am.
I find interaction with others exhausting, especially when it comes to prolonged periods of interaction like parties or donor events that I'm obligated to attend as a student ambassador. Just because I'm good at chit-chatting and making small talk and am able to stand my ground when making a speech does not mean it's something I enjoy. In a world where networking and personality is essential to success, one must adapt--that doesn't necessarily mean I have to like it. And I don't. Not at all. Because after every event or every party, I need to hole myself up in my room in the comfort of my bed or even just a corner of the couch and recharge. Extroverts? They never need to recharge. They love, love, love being around people. They thrive when they're the center of the attention and they live for those moments that they're constantly talking to everyone and able to make bonds, form connections and be friends.
Me? I'm good with the friends I can count on one hand and the characters I've met in stories. But why am I talking about being an introvert?
In all honesty, Susan Cain says it best in her TEDTalk about introverts and being an introvert in today's world. She makes a really poignant argument for introverts in today's society and chastises the modern era for ignoring them or for excluding them in their design and creation of learning models and classroom settings and even in career fields, where the boisterous enthusiastic candidate is almost always taken over the reserved one. She talks a lot about misconceptions and helps you to understand them better and even as one who identifies as an introvert, I learned a lot about why I am the way I am and why I find it so gosh-darn tiring to be sitting with more than two people at a time.
So when I tell you that I don't want to go out because I'm good for the semester having only gone out one time, it's not because I'm a prude or a debbie-downer or because I'm boring. It's because I need time to be with myself, that's all.
You do you, babe.
Tuesday, March 5, 2013
Playing God
I really should be studying right now, but this post does have some relation to my schoolwork, so I deem it a necessary form of procrastination, lest I lose any of my current inspiration.
As third-year nursing students, we are required to take a class entitled Ethical-Legal Dimensions of Nursing. Part of our course requirements, as outlined by our professor, is a presentation of a "current event" or some sort of ethical dilemma that plagues healthcare today. Each of us pick a week and present on our various topics and this week, the debate became heated in a very kind way. One of the topics that was presented involved genetic testing of embryos that allowed scientists and doctors to "block" certain genes that were associated with congenital disorders and diseases. Basically, that means that if they found your baby had something, they would go in there and block that part of the DNA so that when the baby was born, it would be a "normal" newborn.
We were, of course, asked our opinion. And I told this story:
In 1992, before I was born, when the doctors were performing an ultrasound on my mother, they found that I had some defect in my brain (it could've been a cyst, or abnormal growth, who knows). The doctor looked at my mother and told her that there was a change I could be born with Down Syndrome, and told her that it would be her decision, but abortion was an option. My mother said that regardless of the outcome, she really wanted to have this child and so the pregnancy proceeded and I was born.
And there was not a sign of Down Syndrome in sight.
I am twenty-years-old, a nursing student, winner of an academic scholarship, working two jobs, awarded a scholarship by a large corporation, Novo Nordisk, for my intent to do research regarding diabetes and the only real medical issues that plagued me growing up were a case of childhood asthma and eczema. I had no congenital defects and yet, my parents were still given the option to abort and that frightens me. Because what if knowledge of false-positives wasn't available to my mother? Or what if they lived in an area where the technology was not up to scratch with the medicine of that time period?
But what really gets me isn't the genetic testing at all. I'm all for leaps and bounds in medicine. If you're able to get your DNA mapped and find that you're at risk for having babies with x, y, and z and choose not to have children, that's one thing. Genetically engineering your baby is another thing because once you can block one part of a DNA sequence... who's to say you can't block the brown-eyes or the blonde hair or even the pasty-white skin?
Out of all the advances in medicine, genetic testing gives me the biggest heebie-jeebies. Playing God isn't like playing house. Once you've changed someone's DNA, you've changed their projected life and then the whole "everything happens for a reason" is gone because you can take every negative aspect out of the equation.
I just don't believe that humanity will continue to flourish if we eradicate the very issues that challenge us to grow, learn and cure the afflicted.
Everything happens for a reason.
And there are times when I'd rather not know why.
As third-year nursing students, we are required to take a class entitled Ethical-Legal Dimensions of Nursing. Part of our course requirements, as outlined by our professor, is a presentation of a "current event" or some sort of ethical dilemma that plagues healthcare today. Each of us pick a week and present on our various topics and this week, the debate became heated in a very kind way. One of the topics that was presented involved genetic testing of embryos that allowed scientists and doctors to "block" certain genes that were associated with congenital disorders and diseases. Basically, that means that if they found your baby had something, they would go in there and block that part of the DNA so that when the baby was born, it would be a "normal" newborn.
We were, of course, asked our opinion. And I told this story:
In 1992, before I was born, when the doctors were performing an ultrasound on my mother, they found that I had some defect in my brain (it could've been a cyst, or abnormal growth, who knows). The doctor looked at my mother and told her that there was a change I could be born with Down Syndrome, and told her that it would be her decision, but abortion was an option. My mother said that regardless of the outcome, she really wanted to have this child and so the pregnancy proceeded and I was born.
And there was not a sign of Down Syndrome in sight.
I am twenty-years-old, a nursing student, winner of an academic scholarship, working two jobs, awarded a scholarship by a large corporation, Novo Nordisk, for my intent to do research regarding diabetes and the only real medical issues that plagued me growing up were a case of childhood asthma and eczema. I had no congenital defects and yet, my parents were still given the option to abort and that frightens me. Because what if knowledge of false-positives wasn't available to my mother? Or what if they lived in an area where the technology was not up to scratch with the medicine of that time period?
But what really gets me isn't the genetic testing at all. I'm all for leaps and bounds in medicine. If you're able to get your DNA mapped and find that you're at risk for having babies with x, y, and z and choose not to have children, that's one thing. Genetically engineering your baby is another thing because once you can block one part of a DNA sequence... who's to say you can't block the brown-eyes or the blonde hair or even the pasty-white skin?
Out of all the advances in medicine, genetic testing gives me the biggest heebie-jeebies. Playing God isn't like playing house. Once you've changed someone's DNA, you've changed their projected life and then the whole "everything happens for a reason" is gone because you can take every negative aspect out of the equation.
I just don't believe that humanity will continue to flourish if we eradicate the very issues that challenge us to grow, learn and cure the afflicted.
Everything happens for a reason.
And there are times when I'd rather not know why.
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