May 10th

It is in the minutes before I am fully awake that I think of you the most. I see you, and for just a moment in time, I feel as though your not so far away. It is in those first few moments of my day where I am able to feel whole again, where all the pieces that have been swept away somehow find their way back and I can breath. I am neither depressed nor anxious and I am able to enjoy the birds chirping and the smell of spring.

Those moments are but temporary; although, I wish they weren’t. I dread the milliseconds that pass and know that as soon as I move, as soon as my alarm goes off, I will be thrown back into the storm.

The storm that has become my life. The Dark thick clouds that seem to rest comfortably upon my soul ignite and spark, they drowned out the little bits of hope I managed to hang on to, they set fire to my heart with rods of lightening and cause fear with their loud thunderous screams. It feels as though I am in the middle of an empty field, with nothing but uprooted trees and fractured pieces of my heart around me.

And through those booming screams, I am overcome with the realization that I don’t even know who “you” are or why you seem to calm the storm.

Rambling…

My reason for starting this blog was to have a place to write everything down and know that it’d still be there in the rare occurrence that things may turn out for the better, but this blog just causes me stress. Knowing that anyone – especially people who try so desperately to squeeze into mine and my families’ personal lives – can read all the things that I’ve always kept so deep inside. How am I suppose to comfortably write, blog, share when I’m so concern with who or what is reading my thoughts? I use to find comfort in that thought, the fact that people around the world would read my blog posts and in their own ways connect with me, or perhaps find comfort in knowing that their pain wasn’t abnormal. Now, every time I begin to write my anxiety spikes. My mind shuts down and I am unable to write anything.

But really, what more can I say? What else can I blog about that I haven’t said before? My life is just so repetitive, so boring; its comparable to writing the same sentence over and over again, and yet I do nothing to make it better, nothing to make my life more exciting and more worthy of being called a “life”. I just exist, that is all. I do not live life, or embrace the unpredictable, yet beautiful chaos that life brings. I idle, neither going forward nor backwards, in a place of unhappiness and entrapments. I often feel as though I am living in a glass box, able to see the glorious life that lays just feet away from me and yet I am unable to break, or escape from my enclosure and so I run in circles. I continue to run in circles, day in and day out, to incompetent to see that my glass house has no roof, to” comfortable” in my routine to see what is literally just above me, just feet in the air. I fear that if I do not begin to climb, jump, or reach for a way out I will be in this place forever. Stuck in a life that I am not happy in, stuck re-living the same day repeatedly and calling it a life.

I’ve always had so many excuses, whether it be my dad or my nephews, it was an excuse. I barely visited my dad, and my nephews didn’t need me as much as I made it seem, but saying I couldn’t leave because of my dad or nephews was easier than accepting the fact that I was just too scared. But fear is normal. Being scared means your stepping out of your comfort zone and making progress in your life. What isn’t normal is how unhappy of a person I am, how I haven’t had a relationship sense tenth grade, that I haven’t been in love sense Brandon, and that I haven’t moved on from things that happened so many years ago.

Why haven’t I moved on?

Why can’t I find the strength to learn from my mistakes and move forward, why haven’t I been living like a typical 20 something? I can’t continue to blame other people and past mistakes for why my present is such a mess.

                      How easy is it for me to say what I know needs to be done yet I am here still, still in the same place I was a year ago; the same place I was in 3 years ago.

I need to stop caring so much for the wellbeing of other people, because lord knows no one cares about me as deeply as I care about them, and begin to focus on me, on what will make me feel better. No matter how hard its going to be. I’m tired of being the person who is always there for everyone else, and yet I am constantly lonely. I am tired of crying in the shower or late at night because I am lonely.

I’m so lonely.

I’ve been so lonely sense the death of my best friend. No one understands, and I don’t know how to explain to people, why her death has messed me up so much. I don’t know how to tell people that she was my comfort. I don’t know how I’m suppose to tell people that she was the 17498646_10158508230045381_4974498748359248487_nonly thing on the planet that could calm me down when my anxiety was beating me down, how she was the only reason my depression didn’t consume me – she always knew when I was depressed and she’d curl up in my arms and gently lick away the tears from my face. She was the one thing in this world that I couldn’t imagine losing; and then I lost her. It was so sudden, it was so painful, I didn’t even get to sit with her, tell her I loved her one last time, and comfort her while they ended her suffering. I’m still so angry that I didn’t get the chance to make the decision whether I saw her pass away or not, and I resent my mom because of it. I love my mom, so much, but I hate what she did. I hate that I had to be in the dark about my best friend, and that I was at work while my bug took her last breath. I wish my mom would have allowed me to make the decision, I wish she knew how angry I am at her for taking that away from me. Jayda was more mine to me than just a dog, and I thought my mom knew that; it hurts so much that she doesn’t get it. I wanted to be there, that’s why I stayed up for 3 days making sure she didn’t die alone – yet she still did.  She died in a place that was unfamiliar, with nothing and no one. That breaks my heart more than anything, knowing she was so alone, and I hate myself everyday for it.                    

I just wish I knew why I lost her… She was my baby…

That’s another thing…

I’m almost 27 and I’m no closer to having a baby than I was 5 years ago, actually I was closer 5 years ago, and yet it appears everyone around me are having babies – my sister included.

I love my sister, but she never wanted to be a mom and here she is a mom of almost 3 and I have nothing. I use to dream of being a mom, I use to play house – imagining that I was a house wife and my husband was working – and care for my dolls as though they were real. I took care of my parents friends son when I was 13, and dreamed of the day when I had one of my own – all the while my sister locked herself in her room and would stay far away from children. So why is she the one who gets to have babies, and I’m the one who has Polycystic Ovarian Syndrome? Life’s not fair I suppose…

Ugh, I guess I’ll end this here since I’m rambling..

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Remember in elementary school how they would ask everyone what the wanted to be when they grew up, and we’d whole heartily exclaim that we wanted to be astronauts, lawyers, doctors, ballerinas, cowboys, and Princess’. We’d draw pictures of our future lives and proudly hang them up for the rest of the world to see, we’d dream of the day when we would be grown ups and have careers, and homes, and families.

I remember being a child and thinking that I could not wait for the day that I was an adult, when I could do what I want and do it whenever I chose. Little me never understood that you needed money to do things, and that for you to make money, you must work. I use to think as an adult I would have the ability to stand up for myself, that no one could tell me what I could or could not do, I would not have to listen to other people’s rules, or cower in fear that I would be punished. I never feared adults as a child, I respected my elders and worried about disappointing them, but I never feared adults the way I fear them now. I fear the “women” I work with because their catty remarks and unkind gossip is enough to leave me broken and crying by the end of a week, I fear the repercussion of speaking out against the way things are being taken care of at work, I fear that by speaking “out of turn” I will, without questioning, be out of a job. I fear that I will never be enough for the people that are ranked above me.

As a child, I use to dream of being a mother; of taking care of my home and children, while my husband was working hard for us. I dreamed about being a housewife. Its less disheartening to learn that your childhood career isn’t your right fit, for who do we know that grew up to be an astronaut or a Princess? But, a dream to be a mom and a wife is something that comes so easily to others, and for that dream to be crushed, to surpass your own ‘time line” you conducted in your head, is something that can easily destroy you.

I sit here trying to rack my brain, trying to figure out what I want to go in debt to be. People keep asking me if what I’m going to go to college for because being a sales associate is not what I ever wanted or dreamed to be – would you like a gift receipt feels like my own “would you like fries with that” and its equally demeaning. I usually shrug my shoulders when someone asks what I “want to be”, not because I’m trying to be rude, but because I don’t know. Because what I want to do with my life doesn’t come from a university or college, although it almost should, I would rather stay up all night with a sick baby, than stay up all night cramming for a midterm, and I would rather be exhausted from cleaning my house, and caring for my children than be emotionally drained from work. But without the ability to trust anyone, including myself, how do I expect to fall in love and be a wife and a mom?

***

My life is at a point, a low point, where it feels like nothing will ever get better, I’m angry, hurt, and ready to throw in the towel. I’m angry at the world, at the fact that I tried so hard to be a good person, to help others, and believed that maybe people would do the same to and for me. I’m angry because for years I asked God for strength and healing, only to come to the sobering realization that there isn’t a man above the clouds that somehow hears our silent prayers. He did not heal me when my grandma passed away, or walked beside me the night I was sexually assualted. He didn’t cure my dad, or help us cope, and he stole my best friend. If he’s the one who created life and death, why didn’t he help Jayda, why didn’t he listen to my cries and healed her? Where are these so called miracles? I went to church and Sunday school as a kid, because I wanted to. I talk to god, read the Bible, I believed. I changed my life, all in hopes that this imaginary person would heal me and yet all I’ve received is pain. I’m hurting, between the deafening loneliness that seems to surround me, the realization that I have no true friends, and the fact that I seem to only be enough for my family when I’m doing things for them. Im hurting because no matter what I do it never seems to be enough; Enough for me, enough for anyone. 

And I know none of this is new, but nothing can change if nothing changes, and I don’t even know where or how to change. 

I wish I knew what drove these people who rise up from the flames, what lies in them that allows them to take large leaps of faith, or courage and keep going. Maybe its something they’ve found, maybe they had to hit their lowest point in order to find a way to reach their highs; maybe the universe thinks I haven’t hit my bottom; or maybe subconsciously I don’t think I’ve hit my bottom. I don’t even know what my bottom is.. I feel like I’ve hit bottom so many times already.

I think, or rather maybe I’ve always know, it’s because I still hold on to the possibility that he might one day decide to love me.

Although I know that will never happen

***

I know that by holding on to this made up fairy tale I’m sabotaging a love that could be waiting for me out there. I compare everyone to him, I punish other people because of his words, I assume that everyone feels, thinks, and acts like him; I’m smarter than that though, smart enough to know that not all men are the same, not all men are him. Its difficult for me not to, though, after years of telling myself that he was right and that I was not enough for anyone, it kinda sticks with you, you know? I don’t know why I can’t just cut him out of my life like I have so many people, but I’m tired of hearing about other girls, I’m tired of always being the friend, i’m tired of being reminded that I can’t have the only guy I ever held on to for so long, I’m tired of doing this, 10 years is to long..  I’m just so tired of it all.. 

I need to reevaluate my priorities, my needs, my own happiness and maybe reach within myself and find a way to rise from this sorrow I’ve been wallowing in for far to long.

“From the end of the earth I will cry to You, When my heart is overwhelmed; Lead me to the rock that is higher than I.”

– ‭‭Psalms‬ ‭61:2‬ ‭NKJV‬‬

(even though I’m having a hard time believing in God.)

 Until Next time xoxox

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FEB 25TH

Perhaps one day, I’ll wake up and know what it feels like to embrace the day. I’ll know where I’m suppose to be and what I’m suppose to do and my heart will be full.

That’s not today though, I wish it was but it’s not.

Today I woke up angry and sad, feeling belittled and taken advantage of from my work and the people around me. Jealous of the people who are able to put a smile on their faces and img_0710allow love into their hearts. Jealous of the women that are pregnant and in love, jealous of the little families that make their way through the door of my job everyday. Envious of the sweet soul my co-worker has, and the fact that without even trying has landed herself a man who loves her for her. Today I woke up and begged the universe to “not make me” do today. Today I woke up with the feeling of stomach acid and pent up emotions rising up from my stomach. Right now I am unsure of where I am suppose to be, who I’m suppose to be, and where I fit in to this crazy world we live in. My fight or flight instincts are in high alert today and all I want to do is run; run and hide like a small animal trying to escape a hungry lion that wants nothing more than to eat me up in one bite. The world is that lion, my anxiety and depression is that lion, and right now, it’s winning. My head pounds and my eyes hurt from holding back tears, my throat burns with the pain I’m afraid to show because no one understands.

So, I guess once again today won’t be the day that I wake up and embrace the day.

I wish I could explain to everyone how I actually feel and how the emptiness is almost unbearable. I need something or someone who’ll help me get over my past. The things that happened to me, happened so long ago and it’s time for me to move on.

The worst part is that no matter how hard I try to cope with the things I’ve been through, no matter how much I talk about it or how much “power” I take from the situations that haunt me I can’t seem to move on. I can’t seem to look forward into the future, I can’t help but remember the situations and memories that fill every street in this city. I hate that places, smells, and features remind me of the moments I so strongly wish to forget. One day, hopefully, I’ll escape from the hell this place keeps me in. 

Maybe One day…

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words

Change is the end result of all true learning

As an infant, we were taught to speak and our parents rejoiced when we half heartily mumbled the first mama or dada. We are encouraged as children to learn and expand our vocabulary, knowing that we may never use these long complicated words in everyday life, yet we are praised on our intelligence. Everyday we are expected to communicate verbally, whether it’s at work or in your personal life. But what happens, or what consequences are we faced with when the one thing we were encouraged and praise for becomes something that’s used to hurt other people? Why can’t we – as a generation – learn to speak and listen without blame, without judgement, without fear that our words, thoughts, or beliefs will be disregarded or used as a weapon in destroying our self worth. Better still, why are we so careless with the words we use?

We, as a whole, have a rather bad case of speaking without thinking, of judging without knowing, of disregarding what other people have to say if it is opposite of what we believe. I remember visiting my dads side of the family as a child and being told to be quiet, not to speak out of turn, and basically, to be seen but not heard. I never understood this, I never understood why I was being discouraged to speak around my family. Particularly because my mother’s family rejoiced in noise and talking and laughing. I couldn’t understand why I was told to be quiet in class, yet told to speak louder when asking or answering a question and I was unable to defer the two, especially at 6. I never understood, I still don’t understand, how its okay to be loud when people want you too and yet you are judged for being loud or “obnoxious” when you are having fun with friends. Why is the volume of one’s voice so important to other people? Why are we either labeled quiet or loud when we are simply just human? We are a generation, a human race, that sit behind computer or phone screens proclaiming that our beliefs trump those who disagree with us. We have bred wars, we have encouraged hate, we have teleported back in time where race is the most important thing of our lives. We have ruined the world out forefathers (and mothers) worked so hard to create. We have allowed ignorance to cloud our perspectives.

I digress often.

Perhaps I’m aging myself, but who remembers that little rhyme we’d say as children “Sticks and Stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me”? It was in those words that we minimalized the impact that insults an gossip truly hurts. The bruises your sticks and stones leave, the broken bones, the scrapes and cuts will heal, however words stay with you. My mothers’ favorite line was “they’re just words” and I suppose that was the way she was raised, but in my personal, and not so personal, experience words cause just as much, if not more, damage. Damage that is irreversible once they fester, damage that no cast or band aid or kiss can heal. We blurt out insults and judgements and think that a simple word – sorry – will take away that hurt, when in reality it doesn’t help. Sorry is just another word, another half-hearted compound of sounds that we have given too much power too. We are expected and encourage to act like nothing happened once a person says sorry, like the knives that were thrown into our souls didn’t cut us.

Our words have so much more power than people like to believe, or care to acknowledge.

Again, maybe its just me; The way that words and phrases that have been said to you stick with you. Like the first time you were rejected or the first time someone told you they loved you. The syllables and compounds that come together to form words replay in your mind, the entire memory engulfs you and you relive the happiness, excitement, or pain all over again. This happens a little too often to me and it cuts a little deeper each time. How can someone who claims that they care about you mutter the words they know will hurt you. Why would someone who “loves you” spew cruel and degrading insults at you?

I grew up with so many unstable people, so many people who spoke without thinking, and used my insecurities and downfalls against me. I grew up caring too much about the words people said, and now words are my biggest enemy. I am constantly fearful that I will be judged and ridiculed for the things I say, that I wont be deemed truthful. I fear these things based on my past, based on the things that happened to me, the way the people around me did things.  But I know consciously, now that I have had the time to grow, that I cannot be consumed with what happened in the past. I cannot live in the rear-view mirror if I ever want to get ‘better’. If I ever want to be healthy and happy again I need to internally change. I know nothing is built in a day, but I have begun to deal with my past. I have been able to speak openly about the things that happened in my life, from the sexual assault that I allowed to ruin my life, to the loss of my dog and everything in between. I have been able to address and confront the people and words that have torn apart my soul. The things that use to be my dark secrets are now just another part of my journey and I am proud of that now.

Again, I find myself digressing from the topic I am trying to address.

I allowed a boy’s – he’s an adult now, but he’s still just a boy in my eyes – drunken words to fool me into thinking that I was enough for him. I allowed his broken promises and dishonest “feelings” to break me into 10,000 pieces and I never once confronted him about it, until recently. I finally stood up to the one person who always had the one up over me because I let him. I finally stood my ground and in a way, it back fired. By standing up for myself he is no longer in my life, by voicing my opinion and speaking up against him I lost who I thought was my best friend. Twice in one year I am faced with the sobering reality that I am without the two beings that knew me the best. Jayda and Peter knew everything about me, and I shared so much with both and to have neither one of them here for me or with me feels like my entire life has changed; and it has changed, I have changed. I realize now that by removing him from my life I have lifted a rock that was crushing me. I can breathe again, despite the pain. I use to think that our friendship could withstand any storm but failed to realize that he was the storm. His passive aggressive comments and mentally abusive tactics formed waves that engulfed me and pulled me back into the water no matter how hard I tried to escape. I thought that without him I would be lost, but it wasn’t until I was at my lowest that I found that he kept me lost. He spun me around in circles until I was weak and unable to see straight, and then left me to figure out where to go afterwards. His compassion was tainted with selfishness and pushed me away when I needed more, he dangled a dream in front of me just far enough away that I couldn’t reach and then gave a piece of it to any aboriginal, dark eyed girl he could see. He killed parts of me, parts of myself I use to like. I gave so much to someone because I fell for the words he spoke, because I believed fabricated tales of a life we could make together. I have learned to hard way that I must learn to fall for actions and not words. I fell to rock bottom, but it was there I was able to rediscover what I need and deserve.

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R A C E

Race.

Not the kind of race in which we run and see who crosses the finish line first, that’s simple; No, I’m talking about the color of our skin, the place our ancestors came from, the box we check when we’re asked about our ethnicity. Our roots, while very important, are not suppose to be all the outside world sees; our ethnicity isn’t suppose to separate us from other people or stick us in subcategories that we really don’t fit into. The year is 2016, but sometimes I feel like it is still 1916, 1816.

Why does the pigment of our skin, the religion we follow, the language we speak, the customs we participate in, or the place our families migrated from matter? Why do we still base every little thing on race. Why do we group people of the same religion in with the “bad” people who fall within the same religion, ethnicity, etc. We stereotype people based on what we think we “know”. People assume Syrian refugees are only here to harm us, or bring their war over seas, those same people assume all African American men are thugs or that all Indigenous people are all lazy drunks. We blame an entire group of people for what happened on September 11th many years ago, and we belittle an entire race of people for the way they coped with residential school trauma.

But why?

Why do we continue down this hatred paved path where we allow our ignorance to cloud our judgement and continuously blame innocent people for things that they weren’t even a part of? I don’t know, But I know it needs to stop. Something needs to change, we need to stop looking into the roots of people, at the color of their skin, or of how they decide to dress and base our judgements – because people will always judge – on the person they personally are, not who they remind us of or on who they may be related to. We need to realise that our world started out as one, whether you believe in creation untitledor evolution, we all came from the same place. We all began, every race, every ancestor,  in Pangea. Our world was one. I am one of the palest white girls I have ever known, mostly because I hate bugs and being hot so I don’t go tanning in the summer, but its also my genetics. I was born with blue eyes and dark blonde hair and so the world just sees me as a Caucasian. I like to surprise them and inform them that, yes mostly white/Caucasian/European and I haven’t had to deal with racism and (as much) hate, I am also Middle eastern, Native American, and a whole handful of other ethnicities. What I’m trying to prove is that we are not our race or the color of our skin. We are not our religion, we are not the language we speak or the god we pray to, we are not the same as the bad people who share the same home land, we are all unique and beautiful and we shouldn’t fear being who we are or be procescuted for what our ancestors did before we were even a thought in our parents minds; we are all one.

I realize that most people don’t see it that way, or perhaps I’m generalizing as well, but I have met more people who judge others by what happened in the past or by what they look like. I’m not going to sit here and act like I haven’t been that kind of person, I can’t say I never placed a certain religion, race or type of people in one group based on what the media reports or because of one bad person. But ive realized that no one deserves to be judged based on what we don’t know or understand or because of their skin tone. I guess once the roles are reversed and you get a taste of how much it hurts you change.

I’m not perfect and I know that, I use to fear middle eastern people and judge East Asian families based on their ability to build dream homes – which in reality was just my jealousy – but I also judged my primary race. I use to speak down on catholic people because of Residential schools. I would judge Europeans for taking land that wasn’t available to be “claimed”, for enslaving other races, for their ignorance and holy-er than thou attitudes. I was always trying to cope with the fact that my primary ethnicity, my ancestors, hurt – and continue to hurt – so many people in so many ways and in my own way make up for their mistakes.  But when I fell in love with a boy from another ethnicity he only saw me as a white girl. He knew who I was inside, he knew how much I hated the fact that Europeans caused so much pain to other races, he knew I wasn’t the same and yet he grouped me into that category and used it against me. I let him. I won’t put it all on him because I was already struggling with it. I allowed him to stay close to me because I thought he would change his mind one day, if he saw how much I loved him, how much I hated my own “kind”. It never worked, it just allowed the wound to fester and cause irreversible pain.

That pain changed me. Every time I see or hear someone judging someone based on what they looked like on the outside I remember the pain I felt. I put myself in their shoes and I understand; I empathize, I can’t understand the depths of the pain people feel when they love with the racism daily, but I can empathize, And it kills me. It kills me to know that people deal with this daily.

I wish one day we’ll be one again; but I think we all know that won’t happen anytime soon…

Perspective

If you change the way YOU look at things, The things you look at change.

– Unknown

I have written about this before, how I have never really been the type of person who was overly social or keen on meeting people. I was always happy – er, content, with my small group of “friends”. I perceived the people outside of my group as people who wanted to hurt me, or to belittle me; only to find out along the way that the people in “my corner” were the ones who were truly out to hurt, embarrass and belittle me.

I wish I had known earlier the beauty in the world. The beauty that each and every person can bring into it and into my life. I was always so concerned with being a certain way, or not socializing with other people because my “friends” didn’t like them, or thought they were lame, or because the year that we were born weren’t the same. I was naïve in the ways of the world, the real world, and I am grateful for everything and every being that got me this far in life because without them, without the little things that helped me seek help  or face up to the demons that still hide in the corners of my soul and scream at me to be weary of strangers, I wouldn’t of been able to meet the people I know now. Working in retail has taught me a lot, mostly that we cant always judge a person by what we think we know about them. I use to look at someone and judge them based on what they looked like and write them off as weird, or snobby, or some other adjective that didn’t describe their true selves. From co-workers, like one of my most treasured of friends Stephanie, to regulars I can talk to for hours I have been reminded of the beauty and goodness in the world that my pain and past blinded me from. I have had the opportunity to work with people who have opened my eyes in ways I never knew possible. Who changed my opinions of people, who’ve shown me that no matter their nationality or religion there are good and bad people. That we all have something that changed us, some of us have gone through unspeakable things and still see the beauty in the world; those people are my heros.

But that’s not the point I’m trying to get at.

I have looked at men and judged them based on the few unsavory characters I have allowed into my life and head. I judge people I don’t know based on the people I know, and the things men have said to me in regards to women. I allow the things that others have done blind me from realizing that just because I have been hurt in the arms of many men not all men are the same. I fail to recognize effort, I allow my assumptions to cause problems, and I throw away good things before they even get the chance to become anything. My perspective of men are that they are all the same, all liars and cheaters who drink to much and proclaim their love to girls who take it too seriously. That they make bets and joke about women, that men aren’t concerned with building anything real anymore. I fear men, I fear their touch, I fear allowing them into my life because trusting men has caused me more anxiety and emotional distress then I’d like to admit. But this is also hurting me. The loneliness that comes hand in hand with trust issues is enough to make anyone go crazy. Its human nature to want to be close to someone, it has been scientifically proven that hugging or being close to someone you love and trust can lower anxiety and increase oxytocin, and because I am fearful of being close to anyone my mental well being is being significantly impacted. But I still, after 12 years, have no idea how to move on from my past.

There’s this girl I work with, she’s a refugee of two different wars. She was born in Iraq to a family who are Christian and from the tiny amount of information she’s told me life was far from easy. She told me that because her family was Christian her father received death threats from people who followed the other religion almost daily. I wanted to cry for her, for all the pain that she must have went through. She told me they fled to Syria in hopes that they would be able to live a safer life; but it wasn’t. She told me that she wasn’t aloud to go to school because her parents feared that she would get hurt, that she would be somewhere and it would be bombed. They waited for 5 years before north America would accept their family as refugees and on the day they were suppose to leave the air port was bombed. She’s only 22 and she has witnessed so much death and trauma and yet she is still happy, and smiling and still believes in god and the goodness in the world. I wish I had her will to live and her disposition.

I think I really need to buckle down and work on myself, and the things insecurities I have so I can move on with life.

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