...something tums can’t aid.

He said he was making a fool of himself, but all I could think of was the fool that I had been.  I felt responsible for bringing him when I alone should have skipped out on that one; and once I got there, I should've just stayed.  It was a mistake to leave, as I was dragging another down with me in my grandiose exit march.  Beyond that, I have little recollection until a few hours later when it was early morning.

The small space was warm and smelled the way a room smells when a heater is turned on for the first time in the winter.  Light shining in through crimson curtains fell across the bed, turning white linens a warm shade of pink, so that the rhythm of restful breathing was innocent and somehow safe.  But the scene, which might have appeared peaceful to most, was problematic in far too many ways.

More than anything, it was the pain in my stomach that really troubled me.  

My eyes shot open and my heart was racing.  I rubbed together a pair of dry hands and shook off the tangled nest of blankets, then I sat straight up and began asking what day it was.  My brain could not process thoughts at a pace as rapid as my pounding heart, but I had enough sense to know what was wrong: I had done it again.  

Back to the beginning, once more - and our promises mean nothing.  As if shifting from bad to worse, the very reason for those once desperate promises means less and less.  We have said it before, so we say it again.  We have felt it before, but do we feel it now?

Continually, we tell ourselves it will be different, that this time we mean it, that we care enough to avoid such mistakes; but if we truly meant that, we would be so far removed from such situations that they would never become even an option in our minds.

When we make vows to ourselves and one another are we not then making those vows to God since we are making them before God?  And does our word lose merit before Him as we repeatedly "cry wolf?"  I have to wonder at what point my tears of sincerity and my cries of humility begin to fall on deaf ears.

When I was in second grade, my mother began having babies all the time.  Having been the youngest for seven years, I was not thrilled about my status falling to "middle child."  It was around that time that the stomachaches began.  At the onset of any change, new responsibility, or even the mention of another "baby," everything inside began to hurt, so I would cry.  We visited the family practitioner, the gastroenterologist, the emergency room; but every test and evaluation said the same thing: nothing was wrong.  

But something WAS wrong, I just knew it.  I secretly hoped for appendicitis or some form of illness for which invasive surgery and serious bouts of chemical therapy were imperative.  My stomach hurt because I didn't like the situation.  My stomach hurt because I knew I could no longer get by at the same pace.  My stomach hurt because I was lying to myself and everyone around me, but I was comfortable in those lies and afraid of making resolutions for the better.  I saw an opportunity to disguise my self-loathing and reclaim some attention, so I played the stomachache card on a daily basis to get out of school, avoid tennis practice, receive special care.  At some point, my mom caught on to my tactics, and eventually, she stopped responding to my tears.

The fact is, my stomach really DID hurt.  It was hurting on Saturday morning and it's hurting again today; but the pain isn't something to be diagnosed by a literal examination.  And for all the tears I've cried and remorse I've felt over the origin of this very perpetual stomachache, I have to conclude that if I were sincere in my apologies, I would not still bear the pain associated with my ceaseless wrongs.  

If those promises I have intermittently made were genuine, I would have followed through and not cycled through the muck yet again.

My stomach hurts.  It hurts because it never seems to get better. It hurts more for the vows I've broken than for the things I did when breaking those vows.

How much relies on butterflies?

We didn't know what we were talking about when we talked about the "future." Still, we have exchanged countless late-night phone calls and inbox-jamming emails concerning hopeful prospects and possible perfects, all the while excusing away the blatant fact that he is so not right. Last night, watching the 1997 blockbuster rendition of Romeo and Juliet, we found that most of our youthful optimism about love has been replaced by cynicism. We took turns exchanging sarcastic remarks about the ability Hollywood has to set ridiculous relationship standards, while clouding the realities of life. Seeing as how life is not a movie, we are beginning to put things into perspective, asking ourselves, "what is it that matters, and what doesn't?" How much of it, we ask, relies on butterflies? 1. He remembered what I wore on the first day of school and he was the first artist I envied. It was my erratic behavior at the end of each night when he drove me home that made him hold me so close. I broke his ribs and his windshield, but not on purpose. I was simply breaking things in order to break free, although I didn't know why. I had no intention of fighting the emotion I had lived fourteen years to at last feel; yet when I felt it, I was terrified that it could be at once so powerful and yet so fleeting... 2. We had fights. He knew I hated it when he rolled his eyes and I knew he hated how I always ran away; but we mistook the passion we had when we made up for something far more significant. We were sixteen, and sixteen year olds know so much about love, we reasoned. 3. "Why do you love me?" I would ask through pitiful tears from the bathroom floor. And when he gave replies such as, "I love you because I'm meant to love you, Claire," the butterflies would turn to rocks, tumbling around in my stomach and making me heavy with all the reasons why I am inadequate and will never offer enough. It was painful, being that selfish. 4. I clung to him tightly, riding through open fields to the bluff, and then he watched nervously as I frolicked along the edge of the cliff. My recklessness suprised him and he admired that in me. We admired each other. I think he was drunk on the phone the night he said it, but then it developed into a habit. And so, love became our reason for everything. 5. I doubt I will ever forget the morning we sat on the cold kitchen floor, eating brownies and talking breathlessly about the future. I watched his face as the rising sun crept in through the window blinds and painted stripes across his forehead; and I told him lies. Lies about love. No more than a week later, I fell to the ground, face in hands, and sobbed miserably; but for disappointment, not for affection. And, so "love," this supposed emotion, this created feeling is something hopeless romantics and commitment critics alike long to experience but are terrified to delve into.  Love, however, in its pure form - in a body pierced for my iniquity - has become confused with sugar-coated pop songs and saccharin-sweet chick flicks to the point that "love" is no longer love. It's like a big bowl of  candy corn: all flashy and seeming like a fantastic idea until the aftermath. The more I experience it, I'm afraid, the more sick I feel. Time and again, we are surveying the wrong source. The butterfly-infested, self-pleasing, movie-material love can be most closely associated with the anticipation of a junk food feast. In the end, the excitement of it all was the only worthwhile part of the ordeal. Thousands of empty calories and all that  is wasted, and a few hours later I'm crashing from a sugar high - hungrier than before. Not only did we have no idea what we were talking about when we were talking about the future; we also had no idea what we were talking about when we were  talking about love.

"the sun rises and the sun sets, and hurries back to where it rises..."

I blinked hard a few times and then opened my eyes. I didn't like where I found myself, because the overhead light was on and it was 4:30 a.m. The past, pointless three hours felt only seconds long: from the moment I chose a poor decision until its aftermath, time erased and blurred; and in the end I felt all the more empty. I like that we use the phrase "killing time," as if time well-spent were somehow alive, and time  spent poorly has breath until we slaughter it.  Something about "killing time" adds a little mortality  to our own hearts. I'm always talking about not being wasteful, not settling, not succumbing to defeat; still, I am sucking the vitality out of each moment simply with the way I occupy time. Occasionally, I will believe that I'm the only one who  maintains such ideals: that there is more to time than  living thoughtlessly and there is something to be done about it - not that I am any different from others, as I  spend the majority of my days in wasteful, meaningless  activities. Even still, I would like to see another stand up  from his recliner and say, "...yeah." Or, even, not in  agreement, but of his own accord, without first knowing  my thoughts. Time spent poorly is, in essence, wasted. Dead. Grades below the very potential it could have, as it might never be redeemed. So, recently, I'm considering moments -  one by one, actually. Each of them must mean something. Since givng up the nail-biting, I've been chewing the insides  of my mouth. Apparently, I'm still concerned about something. It could have something to do with the countless hours I spend,  lying on my living room floor, staring up at the rotating celing fan, trying to figure out my next move; or it could involve the time I spend awake, when I could be sleeping, and how my activities in those hours are mundane and empty; still, I could just be  freaking out that I'm getting older and I have to continually learn the same lessons again and again, because for 2.4 decades, I've hardly grown. I always wish to be wiser, but I'm not. I want to be mature, so I'm  trying. I am hoping not to get so caught up in the adventure that  I lose my head and begin killing time once again. And in relation  to all things: am I just killing time? Waiting for something better to occur? Looking to the brighter days? Or is there something to be said for the very moment I am living... "...the sun rises and the sun sets, and then goes back to where it  rises..."  Somewhere in between these things, it's a good idea to make proper  use of time.

"Integrity," she said.

It's not raining yet, but it might as well be. I fell asleep, thinking of our conversation, then overslept and awoke groggy and scatter-brained. All the fragmented thoughts surging through my mind (along to a sad, melodious Damien Rice soundtrack) were making it hard to focus on birdhouses, as if everything is fine. Because, if I delve into it, things are not fine; and hopefully I'll never begin to feel that they are. The moment I think it's all good is the moment I'm too proud to admit I have so much left to learn.  I wanted to be a paleontologist as long as it meant I would be one of the few working on the sight of some massive Tyranosaurus Rex excavation.  I wanted to be a musician, only if it meant becoming a famous one. I assumed I'd be a designer; but in my mind I would build an imperial fashion line, my name plastered along the skeletal waistband of every debutante from sea to shining sea. Considered becoming a tennis pro, as it would increase my chance of hookng up with Andre Agassi. Thought of just taking the easy road and becoming the world's greatest living artist. Even where a (small) more selfless side of my nature was concerned, I likened myself to Mother Teresa and Anne Frank - women whose acheivements and courageous acts alligned them with all the prima donnas I so wanted to stand amongst. All throughout childhood, my reflection was a timid, four-eyed girl with long blond bangs and hand-me-down jumpsuits, identifying with heroines in fairytales and Disney movies - misunderstood and capable of greatness. My ensured destiny, these visions of grandeur, was something narrow: a notion for good, slight by the immaturity of a kindgergartener's perception of reality. The commonality among my every aspiration has always been one, terribly off-focus thing: me. Nearly two decades later, my hair is a few shades darker, but my parochial mind still envisions I have the efficacy to acheive some idyllic lifestyle, some great success which will eternally define me. And all the while, I am still hurting feelings. I am still the worst friend ever. I am still as insecure and self-involved as before, only by now, I should know better. It is as if I am walking in darkness. She told me to choose integrity every day. She said that when given two choices, she will always choose the wrong one. This is why we are the best of friends - because we are the same in that regard. I suppose if my actions were out of integrity rather than self-fulfillment, then all the "good" I do would be done in silence. I wouldn't befriend someone because that person needs a friend and I want to fill a void and be the hero; I would befriend a person without thinking, because love, in my mind, would be completely inherent. To break down my intentions, I have to wonder: does my desire to serve truly come from a contrite heart, laying down my longings to follow God, or is it from a darker, more human place - a need to please others and be some kind of celebrated saint? She said to pray for integrity. Am I, after all these years, walking still in darkness?  God is light. In Him, there is no darkness at all. If anyone claims to have fellowship with Him, but walks in darkness, he is a liar and the truth is not in him. Yikes. If I love God's people, really love - the way Christ loves the church - then who I want to be when I grow up, and the perception I'd like others to have and all the hiding and concealing and pretending would be the furthest things from my very nature. If a selfless, charitable, holy love is not intuitive, then do I even know anything of love?  And if I find a balance between being proactive about it and loving both wholly and unintentionally (because it should be first-nature), then will I not have figured it all out? There is no such thing as pure and complete enlightenment when it comes to knowing and also fulfilling a "right" way of living, because no man but Christ himself has done it.  Still, the darkness I fear I'm walking in - being a dear friend out of sheer convenience or to be loved back, storing up knowledge so that others will see the wisdom in me rather than the wisdom imparted on me which is not mine, hoping to acheive some kind of piety for the sake of being great instead of an instinctual response to the grace offered to my worthless existence - that darkness in and of itself has given me cause to turn within. Seeing as how there's very little light in there, it's hard to keep from running in circles. It's hard to break the cycle. It's hard to admit that I'm swimming in a sea of self-absorption, but the only real light is this simple truth: I am a giant mess, as always. A sinner in need of a Savior. Suffice it to say, love is typically the furthest thing from my palette and anything in me that resembles an aspect of love (faith, hope, compassion, mercy, integrity, righteousness, whatever) is more than likely a lie.  She said integrity should be a concern of mine. I can see that at the beginning of seeking it is finding some honesty within myself, no matter how unnatractive it is to peak inside. She told me her current struggle, and how it so closely mirrors my own. She said she is praying for the wisdom to make right decisions every morning. She said she is praying that her life will be one of love. She said she is praying to be bent on integrity, and that it will be out of love for Christ - not something sought or found on her own accord, but that as an extension of grace, she will begin to understand what really matters in life and live accordingly. I could hear the humility in her voice and knew that she meant those prayers she was praying. I admired her honesty which said, "I know no more than I did at fifteen, but I desire to grow," and I was reminded that no matter how far I've come, I have unlimited miles to journey yet, and I will never really get to the bottom of things or reach any absolute conclusions that cannot be further developed. It's not raining yet, but it might as well be.