You know that moment when you're on your knees praying and this time its not because you know forgiveness is going to be painful, but because this time...
This time, you understand how ugly you truly are to God. You feel God's iron grip on your cold heart, and you lean into the guy next to you, thinking no one on earth can provide comfort except him when in fact... even he can't.
Because no one can forgive you except God. And this time, instead of knowing the pain, you're feeling it rip through your heart and you just can't because you refuse to open up your heart.
Yet in the endless selfishness of the hearts that surround you, your dumb old romanticized angel shows you a glimpse of pure and unassuming love, and it takes all of the life out of you... for a moment, every ugly bit is sucked out, and you feel so empty because not a single bit left inside is beautiful at all.
And afterwards, for an entire year, you let yourself vacuum the world's sickness inside of you. You felt hurt and sad and angry and confused, but worst of all, you let all of the evil cling tightly to your unforgiving heart.
Because, in truth, you never learned forgiveness.
And now, you laugh and wince at your embarrassing moments, but mostly, you feel like vomitting, because you treated yourself and your friends like trash. You thought you were ugly before, and now you could hardly be uglier.
So, you, take some courage. Go back to church. Confront your parents. You know where you belong, and you've been gone far, far too long.
Sunday, March 23, 2014
Thursday, March 20, 2014
Memories
18 years is too much for me, so I'm going for the past 4 for now.
And still, still, so much of it is shrouded in literal clouds of obscure and forgotten embarrassment. Classes are like ghosts, seasons like wisps of ghosts.
Here's what I remember.
I remember when Mrs. Mularski hugged me when I brought her a goodbye present.
I remember Mr. Stanicek telling other people about that swan I drew for who knows what book.
I remember Funston showing Gonzo the portrait I drew five times because I was afraid that it didn't look enough like him.
I remember crying after my first killer set of footwork with Coach Ilian.
I remember that dad who asked Thomas why the girls had quadriceps like men.
I remember watching Manny's wicked backhand blast the bird across the net... and his kindness.
I remember training at Schaumburg with Helen, where she gave me a pair of socks because she was concerned about my ankle blisters.
I remember crying the shower after getting a D on an AP World test, and telling myself that my chances with Stanford were shot.
I remember being so in awe of Mr. Pearson's wisdom and personhood.
I remember when I saw a videotape of my knobbly, nervous knees during Speech.
I remember feeling hot and stuffed and tired, staring dully at the MVC board, still strangely at peace after being heartbroken.
I remember singing with Stephanie during practice because we were numb with fatigue, and more than in one way.
I remember fighting with Lauren.
I remember the total aloofness and wildly inappropriate relaxing that took place in Physics C.
I remember Sunny, the Riverwalk, McDowell, but after that...
I remember hearing the song Forgiveness on the radio and crying on my knees, dripping cold blood from my nose and hot tears from my eyes.
I remember retreat. The good one.
I remember sitting down for 6 hours straight to paint those Canadian flowers. Its one of the only paintings I felt proud of for more than a couple hours.
I remember Shi Lao Shi telling me that I was made for fine arts.
I remember her telling every visitor, every mom, every friend, that I was made for art.
I remember never, ever even thinking about becoming an engineer.
I remember the first long conversation I had with Chelsea.
I remember the first long conversation I had Mr. Kim.
I remember pacing around a smoky 1 star hotel with Christine, shivering, apologizing, just talking.
I remember seeing Eliza's broad, confident brushstrokes.
I remember shopping with Ailynna and Christine, completely dried out, yet so fortunate.
I remember running outside every single day before practice with Christine, more often than not, feeling lighter than air.
I remember feeling like a pig, bloated, broken, hateful, inflating in front of the mirror.
I remember feeling my hip bones and watching my abs look so momentarily satisfactory.
I remember Vivian's grapes and almonds.
I remember winning the Huskie contest - another couple pieces of art that I'm actually unashamed to have displayed.
I remember watching Grace play piano.
I remember listening to Sebastian speak French, then Spanish, then "Wang Xiaoqi". (;))
I remember praying with Swo before games.
I remember seeing numbers on the scale that still, still terrify me.
I remember being so determinedly moved by Eden, Glee, Sam Tsui, Friends with Benefits (lol), Wolf of Wall Street, the Piano Guys, John Green, Hank Green, Ellen, Tyler Oakley...
...and How I Met Your Mother, ANTM, Masterchef finales...
...and those chats. Not just the ones that would overflow into my swollen eyes the next morning, but ones where I saw the reality of personhood.
You know, those moments of personhood? When you're overcome with your love for the people that cared about you before you cared about them? When people go out of their way to teach you League or to play Tetris with you? The people who chat you because they're worried about you, even if you're just going to ignore them?
I've forgotten so many of my mom's lectures, but I remember when we talked about marriage and boys and when she didn't rip me apart and instead told me that she regretted the example that my sister and I would have to live with.
Because high school wasn't about the numbers, as high as they were and as even higher they could have been. I like my SAT score, but I liked lunch with Eungee and David and Jessie so much more. I liked my 94 in AP World, but I like my 89.6 in ELA, falling gracefully with the people that have risen with me.
High school, and the rest of everything, is about finding the human in us. It was about smacking the racist prick inside of me upside the head. It was about finding that I'm afraid of demons, but not if I don't know they're there. It was about watching people feel love and feeling it myself, and not just for other people. It was about seeing passion flow and talent bleed from those performances. It was about feeling dead doing science, awake doing math, and alive doing art. It was about finally breathing wind instead of air and thinking, "This is what I was born to do." It was about getting angry and then thanking God because man man man man man man I am so overcome.
And still, still, so much of it is shrouded in literal clouds of obscure and forgotten embarrassment. Classes are like ghosts, seasons like wisps of ghosts.
Here's what I remember.
I remember when Mrs. Mularski hugged me when I brought her a goodbye present.
I remember Mr. Stanicek telling other people about that swan I drew for who knows what book.
I remember Funston showing Gonzo the portrait I drew five times because I was afraid that it didn't look enough like him.
I remember crying after my first killer set of footwork with Coach Ilian.
I remember that dad who asked Thomas why the girls had quadriceps like men.
I remember watching Manny's wicked backhand blast the bird across the net... and his kindness.
I remember training at Schaumburg with Helen, where she gave me a pair of socks because she was concerned about my ankle blisters.
I remember crying the shower after getting a D on an AP World test, and telling myself that my chances with Stanford were shot.
I remember being so in awe of Mr. Pearson's wisdom and personhood.
I remember when I saw a videotape of my knobbly, nervous knees during Speech.
I remember feeling hot and stuffed and tired, staring dully at the MVC board, still strangely at peace after being heartbroken.
I remember singing with Stephanie during practice because we were numb with fatigue, and more than in one way.
I remember fighting with Lauren.
I remember the total aloofness and wildly inappropriate relaxing that took place in Physics C.
I remember Sunny, the Riverwalk, McDowell, but after that...
I remember hearing the song Forgiveness on the radio and crying on my knees, dripping cold blood from my nose and hot tears from my eyes.
I remember retreat. The good one.
I remember sitting down for 6 hours straight to paint those Canadian flowers. Its one of the only paintings I felt proud of for more than a couple hours.
I remember Shi Lao Shi telling me that I was made for fine arts.
I remember her telling every visitor, every mom, every friend, that I was made for art.
I remember never, ever even thinking about becoming an engineer.
I remember the first long conversation I had with Chelsea.
I remember the first long conversation I had Mr. Kim.
I remember pacing around a smoky 1 star hotel with Christine, shivering, apologizing, just talking.
I remember seeing Eliza's broad, confident brushstrokes.
I remember shopping with Ailynna and Christine, completely dried out, yet so fortunate.
I remember running outside every single day before practice with Christine, more often than not, feeling lighter than air.
I remember feeling like a pig, bloated, broken, hateful, inflating in front of the mirror.
I remember feeling my hip bones and watching my abs look so momentarily satisfactory.
I remember Vivian's grapes and almonds.
I remember winning the Huskie contest - another couple pieces of art that I'm actually unashamed to have displayed.
I remember watching Grace play piano.
I remember listening to Sebastian speak French, then Spanish, then "Wang Xiaoqi". (;))
I remember praying with Swo before games.
I remember seeing numbers on the scale that still, still terrify me.
I remember being so determinedly moved by Eden, Glee, Sam Tsui, Friends with Benefits (lol), Wolf of Wall Street, the Piano Guys, John Green, Hank Green, Ellen, Tyler Oakley...
...and How I Met Your Mother, ANTM, Masterchef finales...
...and those chats. Not just the ones that would overflow into my swollen eyes the next morning, but ones where I saw the reality of personhood.
You know, those moments of personhood? When you're overcome with your love for the people that cared about you before you cared about them? When people go out of their way to teach you League or to play Tetris with you? The people who chat you because they're worried about you, even if you're just going to ignore them?
I've forgotten so many of my mom's lectures, but I remember when we talked about marriage and boys and when she didn't rip me apart and instead told me that she regretted the example that my sister and I would have to live with.
Because high school wasn't about the numbers, as high as they were and as even higher they could have been. I like my SAT score, but I liked lunch with Eungee and David and Jessie so much more. I liked my 94 in AP World, but I like my 89.6 in ELA, falling gracefully with the people that have risen with me.
High school, and the rest of everything, is about finding the human in us. It was about smacking the racist prick inside of me upside the head. It was about finding that I'm afraid of demons, but not if I don't know they're there. It was about watching people feel love and feeling it myself, and not just for other people. It was about seeing passion flow and talent bleed from those performances. It was about feeling dead doing science, awake doing math, and alive doing art. It was about finally breathing wind instead of air and thinking, "This is what I was born to do." It was about getting angry and then thanking God because man man man man man man I am so overcome.
Tuesday, March 11, 2014
The Storm.
You know that moment when you're desperately afraid that the stabbing pain might never leave? There was nothing philosphical about that moment - just the physical, white hot searing in my gut that taunted with uncertainty. That uncertainty was what killed.
Its always assumed that people destroy people. Everyone tries so hard to war or to stop war because we think we can change each other.
And man, we do. I resent the dreams that I'm living that aren't mine. I hate that artificial injustice makes me want to yell and scream and cry and quit. I hate that a single relationship shut down so much. I miss church. I miss art. But all of this amendable.
What I find so much harder to sew together is myself. There's never a designated time that people set aside and tell you to pull out your loose threads. These scars weren't for nothing - there are all sorts of half-hearted stitches stuck here and there, but you know those incoherent days when you rip every single crusty scab open? You know that moment when you're desperately afraid that the stabbing pain might never leave?
When people ask me about college, I always say that I'm reluctant to go into a math major when I would throw myself whole-heartedly into architecture or graphic design or even fine arts. I always mention the financial burden, the iron fist my parents have over my funds. But actually, I can't wait. I can't wait... to let it go (forgive me). I can't wait to unleash the storm inside. I can't wait, truly, for those 100% peanut butter dinners, those gorgeous runs, those stupid parties.
And these hopes aren't part of any romantic notion. I know that my days will be filled with books and dread and fatigue, but I also know they'll be filled with 1 am coffee dates, hopeless love, and an unsatiable desire to learn and create and finally, finally be free. Let that Ithaca storm of burden and anger and wrath and hate and winter rage on. The cold never bothered me anyway.
Its always assumed that people destroy people. Everyone tries so hard to war or to stop war because we think we can change each other.
And man, we do. I resent the dreams that I'm living that aren't mine. I hate that artificial injustice makes me want to yell and scream and cry and quit. I hate that a single relationship shut down so much. I miss church. I miss art. But all of this amendable.
What I find so much harder to sew together is myself. There's never a designated time that people set aside and tell you to pull out your loose threads. These scars weren't for nothing - there are all sorts of half-hearted stitches stuck here and there, but you know those incoherent days when you rip every single crusty scab open? You know that moment when you're desperately afraid that the stabbing pain might never leave?
When people ask me about college, I always say that I'm reluctant to go into a math major when I would throw myself whole-heartedly into architecture or graphic design or even fine arts. I always mention the financial burden, the iron fist my parents have over my funds. But actually, I can't wait. I can't wait... to let it go (forgive me). I can't wait to unleash the storm inside. I can't wait, truly, for those 100% peanut butter dinners, those gorgeous runs, those stupid parties.
And these hopes aren't part of any romantic notion. I know that my days will be filled with books and dread and fatigue, but I also know they'll be filled with 1 am coffee dates, hopeless love, and an unsatiable desire to learn and create and finally, finally be free. Let that Ithaca storm of burden and anger and wrath and hate and winter rage on. The cold never bothered me anyway.
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