I'm Okay

            I don’t understand, and I don’t know if I’ll ever understand.  To be honest, I don’t think I’m capable of understanding.  There are bits and pieces I get, but the big picture still doesn’t make sense. 

            What I’m able to tell you is that my best friend tried to kill himself.  That’s what the doctors called it anyways.  Except he wasn’t trying to kill himself.  He was taking the easy way out.  Instead of taking the time and effort to work through his issues he just wanted to start over.  And somehow he saw 98 sleeping pills as the ideal way to do that.  He didn’t consider the consequences, didn’t think about his friends, his family, or me. 

            But that’s what this essay is actually about, right?  Me.  How does that make you feel?  That’s what counselors always ask, right? 

            Oh, I don’t know.  Sad, guilty, angry, scared, and vulnerable are a few words that come to mind.  But I can’t just list out words and expect you to understand.  You can’t understand how words on paper actually feel.  You need to see the events unfolding in front of you.  I guess I can try that.

            Working the front desk at a dormitory is the most polarizing job I’ve ever had.  You’re either enjoying your time socializing with your fellow desk workers or you’re bored out of you mind with nothing to do.  There’s no happy medium here.  This night is slow, especially for a Friday.  Slow to the point of playing Solitaire for two hours slow.  So thank God for text messaging. 

            Except when those texts turn bad.  Scary, even.  I don’t want to get texts telling me it’s over and it’s too late.  I don’t want texts that say I’m sorry I love you I just want to be happy.  And of course he won’t pick up his phone.  His damn ring-back tone is crooning Puff the Magic Dragon at me like it’s trying to ease a child into sleep, but that’s not the effect it’s having on me.  Terror or panic would be the correct words here I think.

            Thirty minutes.  That’s how long I put up with it.   If you don’t call me now I’m going to call the police.  What else can I say?  This is, of course, a total bluff - I don’t even know where he is right now.  But it works.  My phone finally rings.  And it’s him.  And he’s very calm.

            Slowly and carefully he formulates the words.  I did it. 

            Well great.  Fear washes over me.  I’m panicked, I’m pissed, I’m annoyed, I’m terrified.

            He’s driving himself to the hospital, he informs me.  He thinks he’s going to get his stomach pumped, sleep the weekend away, and be back in class on Monday.  No problem, just the fix he needs to start over.

            This is not what will happen.

            I always thought I would be calm in an emergency situation like this.  That is definitely not the case.  I panic.  My breath comes in spurts and I drop my phone because my hands are trembling so badly.  Tears well up in my eyes but stay there, giving me a temporary blur effect.  I don’t like this at all. 

            Fortunately I have a ride to the emergency room, but the waiting room in a hospital is a cold sad place.  I don’t want to be here.  Really there’s no point because they won’t tell me anything anyways - I’m not his relative or spouse.  It’s a waiting game.  But I play.  Because I care.  Because I love.

            After an hour, finally something.  He’s stable, call tomorrow for an update, the public safety officer says this to me nonchalantl, but that’s all they give me. 

I’ll take it.  I go home and try to sleep the rest of the night and all the drama away.

            It’s the next morning, and Saturdays are usually for sleeping in.  Not today. It’s eight o’clock and I’m ready to go.  A quick Google search reveal the number of the Creighton Medical Center.  I dial it slowly, even though I know he’s ok.  That’s what the officer told me, after all.  I cling to those words as the secretary on the phone informs me that he’s in the ICU. 

            Wait.  That’s a far cry from the stable status I was given last night.  Something must be wrong.  And I officially hate that public safety officer for shrugging off my friend’s life like it’s no big deal.

            I get transferred to the ICU nurse’s station and apparently only family members can visit.  Oh but his mother is just walking in, do you want to talk to her?

            I don’t get a chance to answer and I hear rustling as the phone is handed off.  I’ve never met this woman in my life.  But she wants to know everything.  I’m suddenly the counselor.  Why would he do this?  Were there warning signs?  What’s wrong with him?   I don’t have all the answers.  But she expects them so I try.  I attempt to help her understand why her son would make this decision.  I want to understand too, I say.  She’s sobbing. 

            My world is spinning.  I don’t deal with tears well so I change the subject.  Can I have an update on his condition?

He’s in a coma and on a respirator.  We don’t know what will happen. 

I think I’m going to be sick.  I can’t deal with this right now.  But I’m supposed to be strong here.  I’m supposed to be in charge of my emotions.  Someone has to be, and it’s definitely not the woman I’m on the phone with.  But that’s understandable, she almost lost her son.

Well I almost lost my best friend.  That counts for something, right?  I have to right to understand what’s going on here.  And what’s wrong in his head.  I have the right to know why.  He’s my best friend!

It’s funny though, I think, because I honestly I don’t even know how I’m friends with him at all.  He’s the kind of kid who I probably would have despised in high school simply on principle.  What principle?  Good question, I don’t know.

He’s a right wing conservative, I’m a liberal democrat.  He’s obnoxious sometimes, really obnoxious, and he burps and farts like nobody’s business.  For goodness sake, he listens to country music!  But all things considered, we just clicked.  I put up with his shit and he puts up with mine, but there’s so much more than shit involved here – his life is at stake.  If he comes out of this alive, will he be the same person I knew yesterday afternoon?

            For that matter, would he be the same person I met freshman year?  We started hanging out back then by going on walks at night.  Both of us are smokers, so when we needed our nightly fix I would accompany him down the mall and amidst drags we would chat about school, friends, love, life.  One of the things I like best about him is that he’s not afraid to say what he thinks, and he does so.  Often.  It can be actually extremely annoying at times.  But I get over it because what he says usually makes sense.  He might not be the best at articulating his thoughts, but in a roundabout way he gets there and what he’s saying comes together.  Like I said, it just clicks.

            This is the friend I know and love.  And I’m scared to lose him. 

I go visit him that afternoon.  It’s dark.  Here in the hospital room he looks like a little kid, the breathing tube snaking out of his mouth like a long piece of spaghetti he’s trying to slurp up.  At the same time though, it’s an evil serpent trying to squeeze the remaining life out of him.  I don’t like it here in this hospital room.  I need to go.  As I leave I hear his heart monitor beeping short spurts of hope at me.  A signal of life.

I walk to the waiting area where his family is.  Have you ever walked into a small room and realized that everybody in the room was staring at you?  Have you ever felt like you needed to give a speech of hope to complete strangers?  I have.  It’s an awful thing to come to the realization that, according to everybody else, you are the expert on a situation.  Especially when they start asking questions.  Hard questions that you don’t know the answers to.  Or even questions with answers that are too painful to talk about just yet.

            I don’t know!  Somewhere inside I wish people could understand that I’m only a nineteen year old girl trying to deal with her own demons, not to mention this new piece of drama that has just been added to my already heavy load.  Just keep stacking it on though, I can take it.  I’m strong, remember?  Even if I’m not feeling that way I have to look it. 

I’m the eternal optimist, watch me perform.

            After not sleeping that night, I go back to visit again the next day.  They’ve taken the tubes out and he’s awake.  And I’m thankful for the entertainment.  Yeah he almost just died, but now he’s acting like a damn fool and I need something to cheer me up after the past two days.  So I laugh at him.  Laugh with him.  But on the inside I’m scared.

I’m scared where we go from here.  Is everything going to change now that we have to deal with this?  I hate him for this sometimes.  Why didn’t he realize the implications of making this decision?  Did he think about anyone but himself?  It doesn’t seem like it.

            A month of counseling later things seems to be getting much better.  He seems happier, outwardly anyways, and I’m starting to learn that I don’t always have to be strong for other people.  I know that I have a lot to deal with, and I can’t even imagine some of the issues he’s facing in his sessions, but I think this is good.  In the long run, everything will be okay.  And I’m optimistic in thinking that things will be even better than before. 

            I’m the eternal optimist.  Watch me heal.

            Some things I can understand, but there will always be some things I don’t.  And I’m also learning that I might just have to be okay with that.  Healing takes time; one day I’ll figure more of this out, but for right now it’s still all about being okay. 

I’m okay.

Roller Skating

I can feel the warm salty water droplets stream down my face as I raise my hands high into the air and smile both outwardly and inwardly.  There’s nothing that makes me feel as wonderful and loved as when I’m praising my God.  Other things come and go, like friendships and all of the drama they bring along with them, but He is always a constant.  My best friend is sitting next to me staring at me like I’m a complete idiot, but I know better.  It doesn’t matter what anybody else thinks, Jesus loves me for who I am and he always will.  My identity in Christ is my number one priority, and I’m not affected by others.

Ok, seriously?  Can we please stop this sappy flashback?  Jesus Christ. 

Ha, I bet that tripped you up – using the Lord’s name in vain?  Probably not something you’d expect from the same person who wrote that first paragraph.  Well, I’m not the same person.  I mean, I’m the same person, but I’ve changed a whole lot, if you didn’t already guess that from the whole swearing thing.  I guess to really explain what I mean about changing I do have to return to the sixth grade me.  Commence flashback.

Because we’ve outgrown the old building, First Baptist Church has built a new one about two blocks away.  I guess there’s still not enough room though because they still have to bus the middle and high school kids back to the old one every Sunday morning. 

We hop off the bus and make our way toward the entrance of the old church building.  It’s not what most people would think of when I say the word church, however.  It’s more of a gym.  Like a full size basketball court and two game rooms that have foosball and ping pong tables in them.  They call this the “Family Life Center” because they want students to spend their time here instead of getting drunk or stoned with friends.  The funny think is I probably didn’t even have any idea what getting stoned meant back then.  How things change.

            Anyways, on Sunday mornings there’s a makeshift stage set up in the middle of the gym completely surrounded by cold metal folding chairs that sting my legs when I sit down.  Energetic music blares from the speakers – an attempt at waking people up and getting them excited about coming to church early on a Sunday morning.  Some of the really excited people go around greeting their friends, hugging or high-fiving each other, but I remain clustered in my small group.  We’ve all been friends since fourth grade so we know how things work and we don’t really put up with change very well.  After ten or fifteen minutes or so we all take our seats.

            Our church has this routine where they make all guests and new people stand up and identify themselves at the beginning of the service.  We run around with a microphone and ask them to reveal their name, where they’re from, and why they’re visiting.  It’s really awful when you think about it.  You there: stand up and identify yourself as the outsider instantly upon arrival.  Wow.  The purpose of this custom is to identify our next prey, I’ve since determined.  This new person is potentially not saved and it is our job as Christians to convert them immediately. 

            After the introduction of all the newbies, worship begins.  Our high school worship team isn’t great, but that’s not what matters.  They’re praising Jesus, and he doesn’t care if the lead singer is a half pitch off of every note, right?  Worship always goes like this:  fast songs we can clap along with to get us pumped up, slower songs to make us feel bad about ourselves, then faster songs again to lighten our moods again so we will listen to the message.   And it works just like that every time.  And I feel bad every time.  Excellent.

            Next comes the part where we split up by grade level, go to individual classrooms, and have a lesson taught to us.  These individual classes are taught by a married couple who makes sure that everything they teach is age appropriate, and because of this they’re generally pretty boring.  The exception is once a year when they have to talk about sex.  Fifth graders a immature enough, but when you add really uncomfortable adults into the equation you’re guaranteed a good time.  Honestly though, what can they really say?  Sex is bad outside of marriage.  Don’t do it. 

It’s always the same, but I pay attention nonetheless.  I add my concerns to the prayer request list and bow my head and participate when we pray as a group.  Up until sixth grade I was very content to do just this.

Fast-forward to seventh grade, and even though I still love going to church and on retreats, I’m starting to question a little bit.  I put on a good face for my friends, still raise my hands and force tears from time to time, but I’m not feeling it quite as much as I used to.  If my parents knew how I was starting to feel they would positively skewer me.  I can’t even imagine.  

Why am I having these feelings?  Why can’t I just be happy and content like I used to be?  Most church leaders say that it’s good to question your faith because in the end it makes you stronger, but that’s exactly what I’m beginning to have an issue with.  Faith.  I’m an extremely pragmatic person, and faith is difficult for me to grasp because it’s so abstract.  How exactly can you believe in something you can’t ever see?  I don’t have any idea. 

So why did I keep going to church all those years?  Because it was required of me.  Living at home I followed my parents’ rules, and that was one of them.  Unfortunately though, it’s really difficult being torn between what you feel you SHOULD do and what you WANT to do.  Especially when the difference between the two will affect not just you but everyone you love.  Hell, even after six years of questioning I can still feel ashamed when talking with my parents about my faith.  Or lack thereof. 

Looking back I don’t know how I made under the Christian radar for as long as I did.  I was the girl who asked people not to curse around her because it was offensive.  Using the Lord’s name in vain?  Hell no.  I wouldn’t even think of it. 

Faith though.  It’s impossible, I swear.  I know that a lot of people go through their lives fully content to believe in and praise an invisible deity just like I used to, but now I just don’t get it.  I don’t disrespect them for it, nor do I invalidate their opinions or experiences, because I know that it can be real.  It used to be for me, there’s no doubt about that.  

I guess now I’m a lot more open to the world, which I’m thankful for.  It’s almost like I took off my blinders and witnessed a whole new world that didn’t contain only (gasp!) Christians.  I’ve made so many close friends who I never would have talked to before because they didn’t go to my church or they weren’t vocal about their religious beliefs.  When I’m limited by a religion I don’t feel like I can be true to who I am, nor can I befriend people I’m interested in.  It’s kind of a bad deal all around.

But that’s all my opinion, of course.  

Something that a lot of people didn’t know back in middle school is that the janitor’s closet in a hallway attached to the Family Life Center was filled with roller skates.  When I say filled I mean that half of the cramped room was empty and the other half was a mountain of skates.  Organization hadn’t been addressed, although I think I saw the remnants of a futile attempt at sorting on a shelf above the mini-mountain.  I’m pretty sure this was another ploy to get people to come to church, though it wasn’t as much of a draw in 1999 as I’m sure it was in the eighties.  Sometimes when weren’t a lot of people around after the service we would break in to the closet and attempt to find two skates in the same size.  If successful, we’d put them on and crash into walls and stuff until we get bored, but most of the time we give up without finding a pair. 

My faith journey is similar.  I dug through the mountain of shit that life brings along and found something that I thought worked for me.  At one point in my life that something was God.  So I tried it out.  During that time I messed up a lot, ran into a lot of problems, and eventually got bored.  And that’s where I’m at now.  Throughout my life I’ve tried out a lot of other things to make me happy, but haven’t quite found the right one yet.

Life is just a big roller rink.  Find the right skates, strap them on, and give them a try.  If they fit, roll with it.  If not, best of luck digging through the mountain.

Ali

Down an open road
You don’t have to go
Very far to find the great unknown
I’ve outgrown, my only home
I’m not gonna find me till I’m all alone.
Down an open road.

God, I wanna thank you for today.
I think I’m a little bit lonely and a whole lot afraid.
I just want to know, am I doing okay?
There comes a time when you’ve gotta go your own way.

Down an open road
You don’t have to go
Very far to find the great unknown
I’ve outgrown, my only home
I’m not gonna find me till I’m all alone.
Down an open road.

I hear a melody it’s singing silently through tiny spaces ‘tween the leaves of the evergreens.
All of the dust around me just falling to dust again and I feel the boy inside me turning into a man.

So, it’s this time. This sun shining. This way. This day breaking. It’s my chance. The one worth taking. It’s my life. My great awakening.

Here I go,
Down an open road.

This hurts so much. I'm so overwhelmed and scared.  I love him so much, why would he do this to himself?  I don't even know what to do. I prayed for the first time in almost five years yesterday.  I'm trying to vent about this because I think it will make me feel better, but I don't know if I believe that.  I'm pretty sure that the only thing that will make me feel better is to give him a huge hug and tell him I love him.

Sophomore Year

- raise GPA

Summer 2007:

- work 40+ hours a week

- excercise 5+ days a week

- buy a tv for my dorm room next year

- save money for student loans :(

- stay in touch with friends

- hang out with omaha friends, do some partying, work on tolerance :)

- attend midnight premiers of harry potter and pirates 3

- attend midnight release of harry potter 7

- get pumped about daft punk

- drive to north platte, then denver to see daft punk

- drive home then fly to texas the next day

- spend 4 nights in texas

- come home, enjoy last 2 weeks of summer

- go back to school and see all my friends again!

this'll be a good one :)