I'm not okay...

Are you?

This is ending, I know it is. Maybe I'm crazy for believing in my feelings. Maybe you think we are fine, that nothing is wrong.

Its okay to not see my breaking heart. I don't expect you to open the cavern of my chest to peek at the muscles and ribs. I don't expect you to notice. That sounds childish, sounds stupid, sounds like I'm seeking your attention. Your approval.

I don't need your goddamn approval though. I need you. I needed you. I won't in the future.

I don't need your love, or lack thereof; I don't need you anymore. I wanted you. I wanted something from you that I have to find in myself. I think. I don't know.

I'm not good at being myself. You seem annoyed by that. I can't apologize for that, because I am not an apology. I am imperfectly myself. Whoever that is.

I used to whisper your name, because I liked the feel of it in my mouth. The way my tongue caressed the letters and the whimper of my voice. Now I won't give myself that. Not because it is wrong to love your name, to love you or who I have thought you to be, but because I can't keep doing this to myself.

I am not okay.

Maybe I never was to begin with. Maybe I never will be. 45 second intervals are all I have to relax. All I have to hold myself in place.

I fucking loved you. That is not to say you should love me back. You are under NO obligation to do so. None. I'm not angry that I loved you and received no inklings on your end. This isn't just about one-sided loves.

Its about how you disappear off the face of my earth and casually come back to remind me that you are the sunlight in the caverns of my chest. Its about how you disappear and leave me wandering in the snow, begging for just a glimpse of sunshine. Its about how you leave me behind and then deign to give me a small catch up.

I have tried desperately to hang on. You leave me dangling, like a worm at the end of a hook; knowing I'll still be there when you decide to come back.

I don't care if you love me. I don't care if you want to be with me. I wish I could erase those dreams, desires, wishes, tortures; from my neural pathways. I am Icarus thrown from the sky by the Sun he so longed to worship. You were the sun blossoming against the horizon of my cavernous chest, slowly brightening my skies inside of me. You were rising and then suddenly your light fell from the sky, colliding with the wormholes and the voids of the universe; swallowed up by Chronos' gaping maw.

And maybe that's a problem with me. That I latched onto your small offerings of light like a starving child on bread. Your voice in my ears was like hearing for the first time and I loved you like the created love their creator.

Maybe I was obsessed. Maybe I shouldn't have dreamed about you like I did. Maybe there are many things I should or shouldn't have done.

Would it hurt less if I let you go now? Would all of my questions, my longing, my dying whispers, fade if I just told you goodbye?

I can't let your name enter my mouth. It tastes so sweet, but it is as bitter as poison.

I just wish you'd tell me the truth. More of the truth than you have. You don't lie to me, but you aren't honest either. You leave portions of the truth out when you speak to me now. What happened? What changed from last year when we talked as if there was nothing else to do but talk?

Have you already let me go?

Dear Governor Pence,

Dear Governor Pence,

Perhaps you don't realize this, so I thought I would let you know, but being an American is not about hate or only one religion.

America was founded on Religious Freedom, yes. But freedom for ALL religions. Not just Christianity.

The pledge of Allegiance says "with Liberty and Justice for ALL."

The Constitution says "We hold these truths to be self-evident that ALL men are created equal."

From the beginning America was supposed to be a place of freedom. A place of equality.

However, this bill is NOT about Freedom. It is about government approved discrimination, racism, bigotry, etc. and a way to bypass almost any law. I don't know if you know this, but the RFRA is NOT working for the benefit of ALL in the other states that have it as law.

How can you deny hard-working Americans their RIGHTS simply because they live differently than you?

Would this bill be going through if it had been presented by a Muslim person who wanted to deny entry to Christians or Jews? Will it change if that happens? Will it be considered religious persecution in that scenario?

The world is NOT all White, Straight, Cisgender, Christian, Men.

It is made up of ALL types of people!

You have not only made me ashamed to be called a Hoosier, but ashamed to call myself an American.

Sincerely,
Sarai.

Today.

I'm not writing this for you so much as I am writing this TO you. I doubt you'll ever read this or know that I am shamelessly quoting you currently.

Today has been short, so far.

I'm listening to "Autobahn" by Anberlin. I don't know that you would like it, though it makes me think of you. The simple idea of just driving, dreaming, etc.

I miss you. Miss you more than I have any right to.

I want to steal the title of the last blog you posted, yet I'm afraid it will catch your eye.

You told me once that I didn't know you. I think I know you a bit better than you care for me to. Or maybe that is simply my imagination.

Either way, I think it is unfair that you let me in so far and then not only do you bar the way, but you push me as far back as you can... I'm sitting on the outskirts, wondering what happened?

I am the person who believes it is my fault. I have always felt that it was my own fault if I were left behind. I did something wrong. I'm trying hard not to be that person.

I'm trying hard to not be that person.

Funny thing was that I came here to post about my novel and your last blog post (on a blog you probably only vaguely remember that you have) popped up first in my newsfeed. This wouldn't seem so odd except that I had just found a note you had written me in a notebook from 2005, the year we met.

And all the warm feelings I have for you came flooding back. Not that they ever really went away. If it is possible to have constant feelings for someone it would be for you.

Now I am listening to "Gooey" by Glass Animals... You mentioned British groups. I think you would like them.

I suppose finding that note and then seeing your posts were just meant for me today. I was meant to see them.

Its disconcerting for me, you know. All of these strong feelings and random actions. Random words that make me wonder if you ever really cared or if I was merely a person in a long deluge of people in your wonderland. Truly, your mind is a wonderland I would like to visit sometime.

I over think.
I over speak.
I am far too opinionated and many other things.

I feel like I should make myself smaller when I think about you. Like Alice, shrinking to get through the keyhole. Except, as much as I want you to see me, I'm afraid you don't like me because of what you see. Whether it is my face or my opinions or my writing.

You told me once that I needed to chill.

You told me once that you loved me.

These are things that I hold close when I try not to think about you or how we haven't spoken in months. And how much that really bothers me.

My texts to you have become little diary entries in a long line of silence.

I am rambling.

I never realized how much you write like your favorite author. I loved him before, but now I love him even more. Does that make me crazy?

Letting it Go

I need to know. I need to know if you have feelings for me like I suspect you might or if you are only my friend. A best friend, a wonderful friend. I need to know because I'm obsessive. I'm a silly girl and stupid to boot. I can't let you go if I think you might want to be with me too.

I'm not sure what I was thinking. Resolution? Closure? Some kind of ending to these feelings?

Is it wrong to love you like I do?

Injustice

Customer: Its an invasion of my privacy to put my middle name on that ID! Its bullshit! I should have a choice! I should have a say! I'm going to get my documents legally changed to just show my middle initial!

Dear Customer,
I am sorry that your life is so perfect that the only thing you have to bitch about is whether or not you have a say on what we put on your ID.

Seriously, some of us are being told that a CORPORATION's religious rights are more important than our right to insured contraceptives.

Some of us are being told "sorry about your child's death, but guns don't kill people."

Some of us have our bodies more regulated than GUNS. OUR BODIES.

So please, keep bitching over your middle name. Really, it makes me feel so sorry for you.

Want to talk about invasion of privacy? The government wants to control what I do with my vagina, uterus and ovaries! It wants to tell me what I can and can't do with MY BODY.

Go get your name changed. Go for it. Waste hundreds of dollars on getting everything changed to your middle initial. And then come back in to get a new ID and pay all over again.

Can we talk about Voter ID laws for a minute? Can we talk about how people who are in love can't get married? Can we talk about gun laws? Could we talk about something that actually FUCKING MATTERS for just a hot second?

Get the fuck over yourself.

sincerely,
Sarai

Dear Kurt Vonnegut,

Dear Kurt Vonnegut,
It is difficult to remain soft in a world that has become hardened against you. It is difficult to remain loving when there is so much hate that you can feel it in your bones. 
The most difficult is to remain sweet when everything tastes so bitter.
I want to be soft and sweet and loving, but it is difficult to do so when you must be hard and jaded and hateful to survive. We never really survive this life do we?

Dear Dad,

Dear Dad,
I keep telling myself that I'm finally going to send the letters I keep writing. Because I write you all the time, Dad. I feel like I am forever writing you. Forever trapped in a loop of memories that I want to share with you. Forever stuck on repeat.

I keep telling myself that I'll send this one. I'm really going to put that stamp on it and I'm going to go to the post office and mail it. I'm going to finally start the conversation that I've been dying to start for years now. I say those things and then I never finish the letters and they never get sent. I chicken out every time. I did send one letter. I sent it to Auntie, because she wouldn't give me your address and it got lost in the mail.

Five pages worth of memories and the desire to have you back in my life, lost in the mail.

I can't recreate that letter. I can't recreate all the years you've missed out on. I'm not that good of a writer.

I suppose I should start off simply. Tell you that I love you. I miss you. I don't care that all the time and all the drugs have separated us. I just want to have you back in my life. I just want to start over.

I want to start a dialogue with you. Not a monologue of monotonous details spread out like a map of childhood to adulthood. But I have no idea where to start.

Do I start from the last time I saw you, in flesh, 19 years ago? Do I start from 13, when I sent the last letter I would send; the one that said I hated you and that it was your fault that Memere died and that I never wanted to hear from you again? Where do I start, Dad? Do I start with an apology?

I am 25. I'll be 26 this year, which seems, both, difficult and easy to believe. I feel like I've been 30 my whole life, so 26 shouldn't be so bad.

I don't remember what you sound like. I don't remember your smell. I don't remember the small details about you. Though, when I look at the pictures, I recognize myself in you. We have the same pointed chin, the same toothy grin, and, though I never see your feet, the same flat feet. I feel like I look more like you than Mom, most of the time. Though, admittedly, there are times that I look just like Mom when she was younger.

My hair is still curly. Though, it has lost some of the wildness over the years. I'm not sure if that is age or other factors. My eyes are still brown. Sometimes black, sometimes caramel colored. I am incredibly short. Okay, maybe not incredibly. I am about 5 foot, 3 inches tall. I think Mom and I are the same height.

I write all the time. Not just letters to you, but stories and poems and blogs. I finished writing my first novel in January. I'm in editing right now. But I keep second-guessing myself on it.

I vote Democrat. Obama is my second favorite President (the first being John Quincy Adams). I am a feminist (much to Mom's and Chris' chagrin). I like to consider myself a Humanist, really. I'm far too opinionated for my own good (again, to Mom's chagrin). I don't believe in the Death penalty, the Three Strikes law, Circumcision or Spanking your kids. I'm an atheist; though I was a Muslim for a short time. And a Christian, against my will, growing up. I like women, as well as men

I hate my job. I hate feeling like I've failed myself in staying where I am unhappy for so long. But I am poor. What else is there to do?

I love travelling. And I run away from home as often as possible. Though I always come back. I am in love with the Ocean.

I've never tried Pot. But I drink. I don't drink as often as I'd like, because I can't justify spending money on it. I've never had my ears pierced. I don't have any tattoos.

I wish on stars, even though my wishes never come true. I love thunderstorms and old movies. I have more books than I could possibly read because I find their presence comforting.

I got married in a red dress and barefoot because I look best in red and I hate shoes. I was married on the first of September, 2011, in a court room by the Judge. I've been married almost three years.

I am missing a portion of my pelvis (on the left side) and I have a rod in my leg (on the right side) because of a car accident that happened October 19th, 2009. I am not crippled. I can walk and run and jump. I just ache some days more than others. And the rain, though it makes me sleep better, seems to seep into what bones I have in my pelvis.

Some days I hate you. I hate that you have missed out on so much of my life. I hate that you took drugs. I hate that you never wrote me again. I hate that I feel like you abandoned me.

Some days I hate myself. I hate that I told you never to write me again. I hate that I never sent the letters I wanted to after that. I hate that I didn't run back to the mailbox and rip that letter to shreds. I'm sorry.

I'm sorry for all the cruel and vicious words a hurting 13 year-old wrote you in a moment of weakness. I'm sorry that I let all my hatred and feelings of betrayal and abandonment take over. I'm sorry that I never wrote you again. I'm sorry I've not sent any letters since then.

Take this for what you will, Dad. I don't want to spend the rest of my life wondering if we could've had a real relationship. I don't want to wake up one morning to find a note from Auntie saying that you have died in prison. I don't want to wonder if I could've fixed this.

I never stopped loving you.
Sarai.

Constant Emotional Confusion.

Dear ____,
I can't stop thinking about what is going to happen if we see each other in May. I can't stop having stupid, girlish, fantasies about it. And, oh, the guilt that follows!

But even you say I won't want to go home. Are you saying that because of my crush on you or because of S______ itself?

Every time I think I know what I'm doing I realize I have NO clue!

What do I want from you?

I want you to hold me. I want you to kiss me. I want you to slow dance with me.

I don't know if I want you to sleep with me. I mean, obviously I do, but I don't. Confusing right?

I really just want to date you! I have already had (already have) a relationship that was based on sex early on. I just want to do the stereotypical boyfriend/girlfriend stuff. Go to movies, for ice cream, hold hands, make-out, go sailing, etc.

Maybe have sex later. Maybe wait longer than I did the first time around.

Dear Self,

Dear Self at 285lbs (129kg),
Its January 14th of '14 and we started exercising in earnest on Sunday.
Its not going to be easy, please don't give up on us when it doesn't immediately drop off.

DON'T BE DISCOURAGED!

love,
Me.

Dear 16-year-old Self,

Dear 16-year-old Self,
Dare you to move. That's the song that describes the summer in which we were 16. Of course, most of that summer can be summarized in that song and "Meant to Live."

That summer you met Adam. And you thought he was the greatest thing since sliced bread (fun fact: you still think this and you're 25 now). He was/is funny, smart, sexy and it was inevitable that you would fall for him. I mean, who wouldn't? He was also a little aloof and a little strange, but that didn't make you step back, it made you step forward. And so, when you think of "Dare you to move" by Switchfoot, you will forever picture yourself, in your camouflage t-shirt, sitting on the beach at TRC with him.

That was the summer you admitted to an adult about the cutting. That adult was Adam. He hugged you so tightly you believed that your broken pieces might fall back into place and for a little while they seemed to. You were happier. You adored him (again, you still do). You wanted to be with him, because he was older and he was smart and he knew French and you were so desperate to escape your reality that you wanted to create a new one with him.

Most of all you felt like he dared you to move, dared you to do something for yourself and be the person you were meant to be. So when he wrote "bonne courage" on your hand, you felt it was a sign. I still think it is.

Being of good courage is hard, 16, but you're going to have to be courageous to make it through to 25.

You'll lose touch with Adam for a while, but don't worry. When you finally reconnect, its perfect and far better than anything you had at 16. Even if you are married to someone else, you will still find the nerve to tell him how you really feel about him, still. Because you do still have feelings for him. I think we always will.

love,
Me.

Little Sister

I remember the day you were born as if it were yesterday. I remember holding you for the first time and thinking you were such a pretty baby. I remember feeding you, changing you, watching you grow up.

In March you will be 18 and I feel like it was yesterday that I was chasing you around the house, your giggles echoing down the hallway. I still feel bad for scraping your little heel when I tried to let you ride my bike with me. I still remember the panic I felt when you wouldn't eat, slowly wasting away until you were skin and bones. I remember thinking that I wanted you to get better, but also wanting you to no longer be in pain.

I think of these things, memories made over a lifetime and I wish you were little again so that I could do a few things over. I wish I had played Barbies with you more. I wish I had read to you more. I wish we were cuddled up on the couch watching "Help!" again.

I'm so proud of you though, my beautiful child. Even though I am nostalgic, even though I miss baby cuddles and listening to you playing in your cupboard.

I'm so jealous, darling. I feel like you are so much prettier, so much smarter, so much more interesting than I ever was or ever will be. You tell me I'm pretty, but I can't help thinking you are the most gorgeous person to ever set foot on this planet. And I'm not just saying that because you are my baby sister. I'm not just saying it because I've always thought you were prettier than me.

I'm saying it because I never want you to feel like you aren't pretty. I'm saying it because I want to build your self-esteem up. I want you to always believe you are beautiful; without being a snob, without being a bitch. I want you to believe what I never have; that you have worth and are beautiful.

Il m'aime.

If I were a braver girl than I am, I would tell you just how much I love you. How I have been crushing on you for the past 9 years, waiting for the day when I thought you might return the feelings.

And now that I feel like I can't possibly hold my feelings in any longer, I find I am in the unpleasant situation of being married to someone else. Not to say that I don't love the man I am married to, but that I have so many unresolved feelings for you. Feelings that I was always too much of a coward to go on.

I think back on the e-mails we shared when we first became friends. I remember all the moments we spent together and I think, with painful clarity, that maybe you did have feelings for me at the time, but didn't want to express them since you were so far away. A world away and older than I.

I feel so stupid now. Stuck with feelings I can't seem to get rid of, no matter how much I tell myself I should. And I have countless poems to you, countless feelings written into so many words and I can't tell any of them to you.

Too Much Credit

You give me too much credit. More credit than I feel I deserve. I try not to argue with you, because I know that you are complimenting me. I know you feel the praise is deserved. I just wish I could see what it is you see in me.
And I wish we could be a bit more than we are. And I wish a great many things.

In the mean time, for today, I'll let you praise as much as you want. I won't argue with you.

I'll say "thank you."

A Gift.

Its hard, Aunt Peggy, to accept a gift.

You told me all the time to just accept it, it wouldn't break you.

Its hard to accept a gift when you feel like you don't deserve it. Like, you are so unworthy of the gift. I want to be able to accept gifts, Aunt Peggy, without any guilt attached like a card on a ribbon.

I wish the gift you had given me was more time with you, instead of learning the lesson  you meant to teach me while you lived. I think I've finally learned though, as hard as that is. Its a lump in my throat, Aunt Peggy.

So I'll stifle the guilt, I'll fake a smile and say thank you. Because maybe that person needs to give the gift. Like you felt you needed to give gifts to me. I knew you loved me without the gifts, Aunt Peggy. I hope you know I loved you too.

Its the same as lying...

I just can't deal with the emotional upheaval you cause me.
If you tell me that you are going to do something, DO IT.
If you aren't going to do something, TELL ME. Don't feed me a fucking line.
Telling me you will and then you turn around and don't is the same as lying to me.

You'd think I'd have learned by now. You'd think I'd know better than to believe you, but I don't apparently. I'm a stupid girl who puts her faith in you over and over and over and over. Far more than I should. Its not just that you let me down. Its not just that you change your mind.

Its that you say one thing, but you do another.
Its that I was looking forward to these things. I had put my hopes into your hands and you threw them on the ground.

And you know, it was your fucking idea in the first place, so I shouldn't be this upset, but goddamn, I was looking forward to it.

You wonder why I don't ask you to do things with me. Go places with me. Etc.

You always bail on me. I can't trust you to follow through with something. There is always an excuse. Always. Sometimes, its a valid one, but more often than not it just comes across as a fucking waste of breath. Don't tell me you are going to do something and then not do it. Don't tell me that you are going to do something and then give me some flimsy excuse later. It isn't fair to me.

And its the same as lying to me.

Missing kind of Night

Dear Aunt Peggy,
There are not enough letters in the alphabet to express just how much I miss you. How much I want to tell you that I love you and that I am so angry that you died so soon.

I am angry that you just gave up. I am angry that I didn't get to tell you goodbye. I am angry that I couldn't do anything to stop you from going. Mostly, Aunt Peggy, I'm angry at myself.

I'm angry that I didn't visit you more at the end.
I'm angry that I didn't finish the "Indian Princess" story you wanted me to find and finish.
I'm angry that I have failed you.

I wish you were here. I wish I could hug you one more time. I wish I could just have a few more minutes to tell you just how much you mean to me.

Thanksgiving.

Dear Aunt Peggy,
In another hour it will be the first Thanksgiving I will spend without you. I still miss you more than I could ever express and I wish you were here every minute of every day. I'm STILL waiting for you to call me. I have to stop myself from calling you all the time.

But if I am thankful for one thing, it is that I got to spend as much time with you as I did. I am blessed to have gotten to spend time with you almost every week for 14 years. Even when you drove me absolutely crazy.

I love you, Aunt Peggy. And I miss you like crazy. Happy Thanksgiving.

love,
Sarai.

In Defense of Short Hair

To the frat boy who seems to think that short hair automatically makes a woman ugly,

In case you haven't looked in the mirror recently, you aren't such a peach yourself.

I promised myself that I wouldn't stoop to your level, because that would be insulting to ME. And my mother used to say "If you have nothing nice to say, don't say anything at all." However, my mother also taught me to stand up for what I believe is right. So, instead of letting you continue, I'm going to stop you right there and I won't let you finish.

Boys (I wouldn't call you a man, because real MEN don't act the sexist pig) like to claim that sexism doesn't exist. And, if it does, it is most definitely MISANDRY, because Feminists are all man-hating bull dykes who make it impossible for a perfectly nice man to live with his simple pleasures. Feminists come in and ruin a perfectly good party or a perfectly good lay or a perfectly good "dumb blonde" joke because they're ugly and can't get a man.

The funny thing is that the term "feminist" is not limited to women of a homosexual nature. In fact, there are a lot of MEN (there's that word again and, no, it doesn't mean what YOU think it means) and women of varying sexual orientation, skin color and beauty make up the word. You think you can set limits, but in reality, it has to do with a collective conscience. All of us, who are living in the 21st century, realize that NONE of us are EQUAL until ALL of us are EQUAL. Meaning, that women should be able to *gasp* cut their hair, shave or not shave, dress how they want, etc. All things that men have been able to do.

And yes, Misandry does exist! It exists because BOYS believe that MEN can't express any feminine traits without being "gay," "pussy-whipped" or "weak." Misandry exists because BOYS don't know how to be MEN and they live like petulant assholes for the rest of their lives.

So, welcome to the 21st Century. Believe it or not Women can do any of the following:

* Vote
* Have Sex with WHOMEVER THEY PLEASE
* Dress how they want
* CUT THEIR HAIR
* Drive
* Have as many children as they want
* Go where they want
* Read
* Write
* Not shave their legs, privates or under-arms
* Own their own property
* Get a divorce from an asshole who thinks cutting their hair makes them ugly

Sincerely,
The Girl whose Husband helped her cut her hair short, because she wanted it that way, and who is still beautiful despite your stupidity.

Fighting Racism

Dear Sir,

Originally I would've said that your service was one of the best I've ever been too. And that would be true. I've been in church for most of my life, so I've heard a lot sermons. It is no light compliment to say that it was among the best.

However, the message of your sermon was rendered completely hollow and pointless for me after the comments at dinner after service.

I understand that Mr. P. is not a part of your "flock" and therefore not under your "jurisdiction" so to speak. However, the "joke" he made about our President was not only crass and tasteless, but racist. Being a minister, a speaker for God, you still should have stopped the jokes. And, despite what you said about racism being only aimed at skin color, it was racist toward a different religion as well. One that neither of you know anything about, besides what you've heard in a biased post 9/11 media, I'm sure.

So, here's a bit of a history lesson for you, Islam stems from the same Abrahamic roots as Judaism and Christianity. Islam follows Abraham's other son, Ishmael, as the promised son. Islam is also no more bloody than Christianity and the "terrorists" are such a small percentage of the overall religion as to be likened with "Westboro Baptist Church." The Qur'an, in point of fact, praises Jesus as a prophet of the one true God, Allah, who goes by many different names... Much like Jehovah.

Next point: the Bible says that we are to respect those in authority over us (Romans 13:1-3), as in Government officials. So, whatever President Obama's politics, you are still supposed to honor him as a person placed in authority over you by God. Another verse that comes to mind is "Judge not lest ye be judged." (Matthew 7:1-5) or, if I were to refer to your sermon, "Love one another" (John 13:34-35).

Which brings me to my next point. You said "God is Love." That the only way God could stop being Love would be to stop being God. What is the opposite of Love, sir? I believe that is "Hate." And racism comes from a place of hate. The opposite of God is Satan. The opposite of Love is Hate. Going back to what you said about God is Love, if God is Love then there is no room for hate. And therefore we shouldn't speak words that come from a hate filled place.

Next Point: Racism has almost nothing to do with the color of one's skin. It has to do with preconceived notions and stereotypes. So, being Polish is not the same as being "Polack." And making jokes about someone's intelligence (or lack there of), no matter what you are making the joke about (their hair color, their eye color, etc) is not kind. Nor loving. Please refer to Philippians 4:8.

All of this being said, due to your lack of practicing what you preached, I lost all of the meaning in your message. And all the respect that I had gained for you because of your message.

Sincerely,
Sarai.

Dear Younger Self,

Dear Younger Self,
Tonight I realized something about us, staring at the loaves of "Sunbeam" bread with "Not by bread alone" on the packaging and the little girl's head bowed in prayer.

Donnie said something then, when I refused to buy that bread and picked up a different brand, that made sense. He said that, in a way, the way we grew up was good for me. In that, it caused me to look at things, question things, develop my own opinions, question why I have those opinions.

It was awful, what we went through. I wouldn't change a moment of it though. Everything we have been through, everything we've done was for a reason.

I have to believe it was for a reason.

The majority of the time, you will like who you are. Even though there is still the underlying self-loathing. Even though you still question your every decision. Even though you wish you could just fix everything and make it perfect.

The trials, the tribulations, etc. I promise they will be worth it. At the very least, I believe they will be worth it.

love,
Me.