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blogging is a terribly self-centered activity

Whoosh. My whole self is numb. Suddenly I'm just me again and I kinda can't think straight. When I came home from the airport yesterday, wearing a two-sizes-too-large hoodie that smelled like Kilo Axe and Monster, and walked into my own house, it seemed so empty. Sure, there were still Monsters filling my fridge, and leftover cheesecake, and the Xbox was still hooked up to the living room TV. My room was in disarray still from the early morning departure, but I couldn't bring myself to clean up a single thing. I couldn't even straighten a pillow because Andrew had piled it there on the end of my bed when he had built his "house" Wednesday afternoon. All of his clothes (purchased on his second day here) were still folded on the futon where he had left them, because he had to reluctantly resume his light green and tan uniform and big sandy boots before returning to war, and would not be wearing jeans or hoodies or sneakers again.

I wonder how many cubic inches of physical space a 230-pound, 6-foot 3-inch man occupies? Because suddenly there's a bit of a vacuum everywhere I go. The inside of my car seems absolutely huge. The couch at Caitlin and Jeremy's house has room to lollop about now, and poor Cael actually gets a little space to nuzzle between the three of us. When it was four of us, Cael had to be content to weave between legs or climb awkwardly onto laps--laps that were always laden with plates of food, bottles of beer or cups of Cranberry juice-and-Coke, sewing/knitting projects, Xbox controllers, or the clasped hands of sweethearts (I'm talking about Andrew and Jeremy, mostly).
I stayed up as late as I could last night, nervous and unhappy at the prospect of waking up without him. I asked Whitney late in the evening, "The last two weeks were a dream, right? And he's actually flying into Charlotte tomorrow?" and she smiled and said, "Of course! Go to sleep and he'll be here in the morning."
I put on one of his black teeshirts (it completely engulfed me--the sleeves are almost three-quarter length on me) and gathered up next to me all the pillows he used for his little nests, the teeshirt he had worn on Wednesday (still smelling wonderfully Andrewy) and my laptop. He had given me a little 17-second video clip that he and some of his men had made in Afghanistan, and I probably watched it a hundred times last night. In the video, you see a shaky scene of four or five soldiers in a mortar pit, outside a dusty Forward Operations Base in the twilight. Andrew is holding a small wooden crate meant for holding their ammunition, and he looks at the camera and says, "Hey, check out these new rounds we got!" and he sets the crate on the ground. The camera leans close as he unclasps the lid, but someone exclaims "What the HELL?!" when a little brown puppy pops its head out. Andrew laughs and scoops up the puppy and tries to load him into the mortar, and all the guys are laughing---and my video player restarts and plays it over and over, and I touch my screen and touch his tanned and freckled face.
I'm devastated without him, but after all, seven months went by in a flash. Five more months, and I'll never have to put him on a plane and watch it disappear into the sky ever again.

Because of the wonderful things he does! Ladededumdededum

I feel as though I should update this here blog. My head is spinning so fast and and and and and I've somehow managed to forget how to talk lately.
So... it looks like Andrew will be here the 3rd or the 4th, most likely. I had a few minutes on Facebook chat with him on Wednesday, and he said that after a few days at Kandahar AFB, he and his gal pal White will fly into Germany for a few days, and then -- gasp -- he'll be on his way here.
Here. Wow. He'll be here. I've got that marvelous rummaging shiver deep in my stomach, usually felt as a kid during the week before Christmas. I feel like at every instant, there's some part of my body or heart or psyche that is trembling with anticipation. I told God the other night that I wanted to be quite miserable with anxiety and excitement until the day arrives, and He's obliged me quite charitably.
In just a day or two, Andrew will be safe, finally. He'll be out of the Middle East, and, as Da said last night, "He'll leave behind the 7th century, and go hang out in the 18th century for a while, before he comes to the 21st century next week."
- gasp -
I can't say anymore. I'm too excited. Just enjoy the fun fun pictures I've included in this fun fun post, and I'll try to collect myself later. (Note to self: write about Ranger weekend! Love! Romance! Scandal! Drama! Demolitions!)

t.s. i love you redux

I went to see a nice movie on Saturday with my mum. It was called "Leap Year." It was about nice Bostonian woman with nice shoes named Anna who went to Ireland to nicely propose to her boyfriend on Leap Day, because for some nice reason, she can. Of course, all sorts of nice disasters ensue. Flights are cancelled, some rain happens, then she's forced on a nice adventure with an Irish pubkeeper named Declan, who was not very nice at all.

Very nice, of course. I can safely say I'm offering no spoilers when I say that Anna and Declan sorta fall for each other accidentally, and there is great personal conflict in Anna's heart, because her boyfriend is pretty nice and she likes him an awful alot, and he is a cardiologist, after all. Cardiologists are romantic, you see, because they are well versed in all matters of the heart.

Snort.

The point of my discussion of this nice movie is not exactly because of the movie itself. It was a shallow romp, with nice music, and nice scenery, and it made me want to visit Ireland but probably never want to live there. Anna really did have nice shoes, but they got dirty. ("Tro' 'em in te wash; they'd be grand").

The point is, Declan's character made me finally understand what Caitlin means when she talks about Irish humor. She's always said that she belongs in Ireland because her humor is dry and rude just like the humor of the Irish. I always thought to myself, "eh yey sarcasm is awesome," in a negligent and undedicated fashion.

But here comes Declan, and gadzooks. He's downright frickin' mean. He never shows her an ounce of sympathy, and openly declares time and again that she's a bloody idjit. He ridicules her job, ridicules her clothes, her outlook on life, her determination, everything. I found myself thinking in a strangely deep manner at one point, about something he says to Anna. Because of zany chance, he was required to pick her up, and commented with a huff, "Oh, you're quite a lump." Cue chuckling from the audience.

Now obviously, I'm the last person in the world to care about people's feelings for the sake of caring. And obviously, I'm not challenging Declan's manner. But this movie made me realize--the humor of the Irish is not dry and rude, per se. It simply is honest, with no concept of sugarcoating. Honest to a fault, but honest. I think it comes down to a cultural consciousness, almost entirely unknown to Americans, that to speak with any kind of hidden intention is a waste of everyone's time, and a builder of walls and false, unnecessary sensibilities. Even if that hidden intention is to save your own hide, and save her "feelings," when your friend asks if that dress makes her look fat.

People aren't so breakable as we've been convinced we are. As much as I've learned and benefitted from the psychologists in my life, all this delving into minds/personalities/emotions has us all believing that the human psyche is something to be pampered and catered to, and that each person's individual "self" should be maintained, and ultimately, bowed down to. Frankly, this thinking encourages outward self-improvement, but condemns any denial of your "unique nature". If you're a sensitive person, by no means should you seek to toughen up, because by Jove, everyone's self is important (but yours is a little more important, hush... keep it quiet and subconscious)

The fact is, it's pretty hard to screw up a person. Rather, it should be hard. I'm gonna say something now that probably will be unpopular but here goes:

Unless you've suffered some violent offense, witnessed horrific trauma, or recently lost a loved one, you don't need to be protected emotionally.

I'm not saying that everyone has to be a hard ass all the time. But damn it, you do need to learn what matters and what doesn't. This whole modern mentality of taking everything personally is so destructive to the honest relationships between human beings.

Point being, at first I thought Declan was mean. But well, Anna was being an idiot. Her $600 shoes were still just shoes. And when he picked her up, she was a heavy object. She didn't need sympathy, because she stuck herself in her own situation, and what good does coddling sympathy do? All it does is keep you from cutting through the BS and dealing with what matters, because you're so often encouraging to swim about in your feelings of how bad things are.

Of course, I'm a hypocrite in all this, too. When I'm in my depressive moods, I'm incredibly sensitive and the smallest thing will send me up to cry myself to sleep. But does that mean I need coddling all the time? Heck no! It means I need kindness, but then I need a kick in the bum to make me choose to change. It's not always easy. Mostly, it's pretty impossible. The times that my mum has been hard on me, well, they hurt pretty badly, but she was right. Maybe a little unpleasantness was entirely good for me.

That's one thing I really appreciate about Andrew, even when it bothers me in the moment. He's so straightforward with me, and he really truly doesn't care about silly sensibilities. About a month ago, when I was IMing with him, home alone, and I was hearing noises outside the house (and I'm prettttttty sure it was a bear when I looked out the window), I told him about it and I kept being nervous and talking about it (deep down, I was trying to get a sweet, sympathetic response from him) and all he said was, "what do you want me to say? 'go hide in a closet with a baseball bat because it's probably gonna try and eat you?' It's outside, babe, it's not coming in, and you don't need me to play to your fears." Of course, that made me a little mad, but then I said (in honesty, with no 'intentions'), "I just want you to be gentle with me for a minute, because I'm scared, even if it's irrational," and with no pretense, he did just that, and he didn't mind at all. Even though we didn't say a word about it, we both knew subconsciously that the only time we don't communicate well is when we're not being naked-hearted, no-excuses, no-intentions, no-pretensions, truthful with each other. It's a delicate difference. I wasn't lying about being scared--but I had motives for how I told him about it, and even through instant messaging, he could tell. Good lad.

People talk alot about getting out of your comfort zone. But the biggest, most invisible comfort zone of all is the zone where you're surrounded by people who are nice to you. Maybe we should all take a trip to Ireland and get called a idjit and a great lump, so we can start to see the nonsense in our lives.

An amusing moment

I've not much to say, at this very instant. I've been thinking about books, and eyeballing my bookshelf, and longing for the day to end so I can go to Barnes & Noble and buy Voyager, and I came across this lolcelebrity, and I had to share it. Here's to you, Heroes/Twilight/sexy dudes fans. Enjoy.

The Shining

God is good. Maybe you haven't noticed lately, but I certainly have. That statement seems to fit into the triteness catagory along with "prayer is powerful," and "God's angels are surrounding you," and other such--but darn it, when it comes down to it, every one of those statements (that we all hear all to often from well meaning relations) is completely true.

Short history: for the last week or two, I've been having night terrors. To call them nightmares is far too tame. Night terrors, in which I spend a few hours when I first sleep; unsure of my consciousness and in terrible, wrenching fear; unsure of whether I'm dreaming or if there are spirits of evil physically manifesting around me; afraid to close my eyes yet afraid to keep them open--night terrors that have left anxiety and fear seeping into my waking hours. I've been too afraid to even sleep alone, they've been so horrific. But I've had my sister and my two roommates available for me to run to, and the trustest folk around me have started praying. My dear Josiah called me on Sunday night, a few moments after he left my house, and talked to me for 15 straight minutes, telling me that I belong to a God who is far greater than any evil, and that I am NOT alone by any means.

Last night, after a scrumptious dinner with Laura C. (that cheesecake...the blackberries...zomg...) and then a stop by the Jer/Cait/Cael house, I decided that even though I was fighting the fear, I was still admitting that it had some power, because I wouldn't sleep alone in my own room. I was feeling pretty solid yesterday, because I had an hour-long chat with Andrew on Facebook (and he sounded... like himself. Just like himself. Not Andrew in a warzone, or Andrew in the stages of grief, or Andrew who has lost so many friends. We laughed and teased and flirted and I flatly fell in love with him all over again).

When I went to my room, before I even put my purse down, I prayed for blessing for the house, claiming it in Christ's name. Before I went to bed (before I even wrote my nightly letter), I read the boldest verses I could find, and when I found Psalm 4:8, I wrote it down in big preschooler letters and taped it above where I would rest my head to sleep--

"I will both lie down in peace, and sleep; for You alone, O Lord, make me dwell in safety."

And I slept well. More than well--I spent all night feeling awake (just as I do during the night terrors)-- but instead of darkness and evil swarming around me, I opened my eyes and saw light, and people; faces of creatures I knew were angels. For some reason, each angel was leaning over me, and offering me a shining platter.

So, God is good. Prayer is powerful. His angels are surrounding me.

And I'm not afraid.

A new self-concept personal growth experiment

My dad, being the strange and reflective creature that he is, posited an idea to the family last night, after our nice winding conversation of existentialism, the sexual revolution, quotations on morality by Joni Mitchell (who is slowly becoming a new hero of mine), brilliant methods of Rick-rolling (Never gonna GIVE YOU UP), the futures of Colin Meloy, Conor Oberst, Miley Cyrus, Lady Gaga and Brad Pit, and occasional intrusive comments from me bemoaning my lame problems.
It being still the first week of the year, Dad suggests that we all write down and seal in an envelope until next year, three things we hope for in 2010, and two things we hope won't happen in 2010.
My thoughts are quite provoked. Even though Ben made strong attempts to turn it into a contest and see who had the most correct predictions (I admit, I rather supported the idea at first), we all left the gathering that night with our brains a-churning.

What do I want this year? What do I want to avoid? There are the obvious things, like uhhh I want Andrew to come home safely. I'm not gonna say "I want to go to grad school," because I'm not sure that's what I want yet. I want to... not get hit by a train (Lots of respectable people have been hit by trains. Judge Hobbie over in Cookville was hit by a train.)
So my hopes have to be deeper than that-- it can't just be plans or desires or even resolutions. I think I'm very much at a crossroads in my life, and, as Amy says in Little Women, "we'll all grow up some day. We might as well know what we want."
But I don't know what I want. Ben asked the question to Mum and dad last night- "when you were our age, what did you expect or want your lives to be by now?" My parents' answers made me rather jealous. Mum said, "Well, I wanted to make pottery and have a bunch of kids one day, and I have exactly that." Then Ben asked Dad, "Are us kids what you expected?" and Dad said, "No, it's so much better. This is every parent's dream--to sit and talk and have real relationships with their kids once they're grown."
I just don't know what I want. I know some basic things--I want to write, I want to travel before I have children, and I want to share every moment of my life with Andrew. But where do I start? I feel like I'm waiting for something, a sign, a great opportunity, a change, and I don't know what it is.
Maybe in answer to Dad's experiment, I should say "I hope I find my path in 2010."