Bobby Borden and the Hunt for Happy

Robert L Borden on a string, fluttering in the wind.

I watch him dance and I smile. I think about how nice it would be to dance with him, but I know better. I haven’t always known better, of course. I’ve only just learned. It’s 3 o’clock in the afternoon on a Saturday in June, and I’ve spent the entire day chasing him around the park.

I felt the $100 bill brush against my wrist this morning as I lay in the soft grass, waiting for something, anything to happen. I reached for it immediately, my fingers turning to claws and my heart turning to an empty pit, ready to be filled. It darted away on a prairie breeze, taunting me, urging me to get up and work for the feeling of paper inside a closed fist. “Nothing is free.”

I knew this, and so did my feet, because they started to run. They leaped and twirled and pounced, trying to catch the bill. I came close numerous times, but never close enough before it took flight again. “C’mon Bob, don’t be a dick.” The sun flickered through the trees as I sat once more at a distance, waiting for the right moment. As it did, the light caught, blinding me a little too temporarily, and I noticed something just ahead. Invisible wire. I couldn’t touch it to verify, but all at once I knew this was not the wind, and not a windfall, either. Not pennies from heaven, but a prank. I raced alongside the glimmering streak, trying to locate the culprit, but the tears clouded my eyes until I could not separate the end of the wire from my beginning.

This is what an obsession with finding happiness feels like.

I keep looking for the answer, listening intently to anyone willing to let me in on their secret. It’s gotten so bad that I scroll through video after video on YouTube on nights when the bed is empty and closing my eyes feels eerie and lonesome. Search bar. Typing. H- Deleting. Typing. “How to Be Happy.” Go.

I put in my headphones, unsure if my best friend can hear this carrying down the hall. Hoping that she can’t. She knows everything about me, but in this moment I pretend that neither she or anyone else can guess that I have no idea what THE FUCK I am doing. “Exercise, it releases endorphins!” Okay, cool. I do that. I must be at least semi-close to my destination. “Travel, it releases prejudice and fear of the unknown!” Right. I can get down with that. I like planes and the idea of fruit that grows year round. “Meditate, it releases, like, everything!” I could probably benefit from letting my brain marinate for a while. “Just choose happiness!” Wait.

She says it like we’re at a movie theatre. “Junior Mints or Caramilk?” She says it like there’s a choice to make. She sounds like Cat Stevens in Moonshadow, telling me that she wouldn’t be upset about losing her legs. Are you fucking with me?! Still, I’m left feeling painfully inadequate that I don’t know how to make this non-existent decision.

I suppose part of me gets it. If the choice is “Go sing karaoke with that one friend you have who is bloody terrible and hilarious or stay in your bed and wonder why you have no social life,” Then it would seem that it makes sense what the happier option might be. But that’s not what Cat Stevens with a vagina said. Back button. Close tab. Imagine punching that condescending bitch in the face.

What she means I’m not sure of, but I know it can’t be the way I’m interpreting it, because I’m interpreting it as a slap in the face to myself and every other person who sees happiness as a dart on a map that can’t be reached by any form of transportation that we are familiar with. A blow to people who work their asses off, hearts vulnerable, open to receive it, only to catch debris.

I don’t want to make it sound as if I’m not content. I am, exceptionally so. Sometimes, though, it can be difficult to evaluate as I wade through the how-tos of happy that are constantly put in my path. Should I want more? Should I be doing more? How do I know what it is I should want? How do I know exactly what life should feel like? Lately I feel as if I’m failing every time I get angry. Every time I do something that isn’t considered 100% selfless and efficient for everyone. Every time I have a shitty day, I cover it with the idea that I SHOULD feel gratitude.

Why?

Some days are shit, and there isn’t a trace of gratitude in my veins. Some days I don’t feel like thanking the universe for sprinkling fecal matter all over me, and I certainly don’t feel like thinking about all of those who might have it worse. I am unbelievably tired of everyone trying to solve the problems of other people with “Just think positive!” I know that positive thinking is an asset in overcoming, in becoming; I’ve seen it. But I don’t need to do it every minute of every goddamn day.

If you ask me, sadness and anger are just as important. They have had an equal part in my metamorphosis, in building my character. I would even venture to say that they have provided far greater incentive to reach for more than any great day I’ve ever lived in. On great days, I celebrate, and on shit days, I evaluate. That’s healthy, and to do otherwise would be to deny myself a basic human requirement. I wish we had evolved beyond the need for tear ducts, but we’re not there yet, so I’m damn well going to use them.

Nathaniel Hawthorne compared happiness to a butterfly. I think it’s so beautiful, and I feel in my soul that it is accurate. It’s fragile and fleeting, and a butterfly couldn’t inspire laboured sighs of awe echoing through the world if it were trapped and squished in our fists. It’s okay not to be able to catch it and make it a pet. If someone is building a railroad through the centre of your angry town, if they’re calling “ALL ABOARD: DESTINATION HAPPY!” It’s okay not to take the train. Walk until you feel like experiencing change, because there will ALWAYS be another one sending its joyful choo-choo down the line. And, if not, there will always be another plane, another electric car, another path.

I imagine myself watching ol’ Borden as he dances, and I imagine seeing a young boy finally catch him. The jig is up. I don’t feel jealous or inadequate. My only thought is “Well, damn. Good for you.” I get the feeling that the bill wasn’t mine to catch, and I lay back down in the soft grass, waiting for something, anything, to happen.

L Is For The Way You..

After nearly 23 years on this Earth, I’ve discovered that I have a lot to say.

I love words. I love the way that words sound differently rolling off of people’s tongues, the way they give colour to an otherwise ordinary story. I once dreamed about a woman and I’ve never forgotten her, because the way she said “square” took my breath away. I’ve tripped through pages of books and fallen in love with the characters. I’ve sobbed at 3 AM when love was lost. I used to imagine that I could cover my body with stories I’d treasured so that I could read them when being in my own skin felt excruciating.

The problem isn’t finding the words. The problem is having so many thoughts and words to sort through that I just can’t bear to turn those gears. The words burn holes in my brain while they are being held captive. When they are set free they seem to catch fire and flicker out of control, beyond my reach and become a mighty inferno that I can’t quite remember creating. Words echo, you know. Even when you’re not in an empty space. Words bounce off of the walls of brains, and some never recover.

If words take space inside of brains, If what I say should echo through the tunnels of the mind, they should mean something. And so it is that I torture myself daily. What, more that anything else, do I want to say? If there was one thing that could be heard and recognized forever, which words should fall from my lips? I want to tell you, and everyone to do what you love. But it could never be just that coming from me, could it? No, I have so many more words, so much more on top of it. I know somehow that this is the only way I’ll ever be able to say it and really be heard. This is my goddamn blog and I’m going to elaborate.

To do what you love, you have to pursue it relentlessly, hopelessly. If you’re not willing to die to let it flourish, I’m not sure it’s what you love. Nobody ever wants to read the story about that guy who kinda liked lacrosse and played it a lot but not on shark week or during lent. People want to hear stories about men and women who gave everything they had to their passion and abandoned the fear of risk. People want to hear stories that are built from the ground up, with twisted plots and a naked honesty. They want to hear about the failures that led to the inevitable successes.

To do what you love, you have to be willing to make the climb. Imagine the road that separates you from that which you desire. It’s steep and slick and the weather is never in your favour. You roll your ankles in the deep ruts, you slip through the mud and bruise an elbow. Nobody on the sidelines tosses you an Advil, cleans your wounds, no, no. If there is anybody there at all, they will be telling you to turn back; out of love, fear, disbelief, spite. You have to be willing to look through the fog and see the beam of what you love in the distance, you have to be willing to use your mind, your free will and your perfectly capable, beating heart to say “I have to finish this.”

Don’t be a fuck about it, though, okay? If you want people to root for you, offer them the same encouragement, too. Don’t step on anybody, and don’t mow anybody over in the hopes of traveling this road in a more timely fashion. I won’t tell you that karma will get you, because I’m not sure of that. What I am certain of is that what you love will be forever tainted with memories of those you caused pain to on your journey; not so sweet. If what you love causes you to harm others, it is not what you love. It is an unhealthy obsession that you have taken on and need to confront. Love should call us to do many things, but never to cause violence or harbour hate. Love doesn’t share, and it will not coexist with hatred.

To do what you love sometimes means saying goodbye. To habits that you loathe, to friends that bitter your warm and open energy, to crutches that you have found necessary to lean on in the past. It forces you to abandon your demons, your need for validation and uncertainty. What you love you should be sure of. What you love is sure of you.

If you don’t know what it is that you love, don’t worry. To love you must live, and if you do it openly, freely, it can only guide you to what you love. Now that you’ve heard my two cents, Go do that!

Make Good Choices!

This week has been an all out pity party. Cryin’, snottin’, breakin’ shit. You name it, I did it.

Why? I don’t know. Because I’m sad and angry and confused and just generally emotionally volatile. I’m like a damn flash flood. These emotions come on suddenly and violently, taking out anything that dares to cross me, then seem to dissipate almost as quickly as they appeared. The power that I am able to muster in these moments is alarming, even exhilarating. However, I am quickly growing bored with this, the way I do with almost everything.

For one, spontaneity is just not my style. It would be nice if someone could let me know a day or two beforehand that I was about to have an epic freakout/meltdown so I could use that energy towards something productive like forming a band in some kid’s garage where the sound of their amateur electric guitar playing drowns out the sound of me screaming about just how bad I’ve got it. Then I could shake that kid’s hand and be like “Cool man, catch you next week. We jammed soooo hard.” Yeah, I’d like to be less of a flash flood and more of Old Faithful.

For two, I wouldn’t want to deal with me, Let’s just be real here. I’m really trying for honesty these days and it sucks when someone asks how my day went, because I know I’ll say “Oh, you know, the usual,” when what I mean is “Oh, you know, cried over butter, danced madly to a Whitney Houston song, tore the clothes off of the hangers ’cause it felt right, hung ’em back up ’cause it suddenly felt wrong.” What does the average person say to that? I’ll tell you. “Oh, well those days happen,” And then they shift their eyes around searching for something else to come back with.

I think the biggest thing behind my sadness and anger is the feeling that I don’t have a choice. Why do I take so much medication? Don’t have a choice. How do I feel about my current state of emotional health? Dunno, don’t have a choice. I’ve responded that way so often that it’s started to make me feel ill. How gross is that? I live in an environment where the struggle is not “What choice do I have?” but “How am I supposed to choose between all of these options?” And this is why today is different.

I drove to town for an appointment. I wasn’t thrilled about it, since the lady was rather agitated about having to repeat herself so many times on the phone and hung up without saying “see you on Wednesday” or even the ol’ classic “goodbye.” There I was in the parking lot thinking “Great, I’m coming here to explain my situation to someone who has already dismissed me. Why am I doing this? I don’t have a..” And then it hit me. I didn’t have to go to this appointment. I didn’t have to do ANYTHING I didn’t want to do. I had a choice, in fact, I had a wide variety of choices. What should I do with this hour that I would have spent in boredom and agony? What should I do with all of this time? I pulled out of the stall feeling my skin tingle the way it did when I was 15 at a Bear Creek “bush party” knowing I wasn’t supposed to be there. That nervous excitement that comes with recognizing free will for what feels like the first time. That’s right. FREE WILL, MUTHAFUCKA! I sped out of that parking lot. (I drove the speed limit.)

And so I drove. And drove. And drove some more. Down side streets and up alleys. I had no idea where I should go. There were so many choices, you see. I passed Dairy Queen and turned around. I decided I was going to Dairy Queen because there is no way to be unhappy in a place with such a vast array of delicious treats. I walked inside, delighted to see that the place was empty. I stared up at the brightly lit menus on the wall and just stood there in the glory of all of my options. After awhile, the young cashier said “Have you decided?” Shit. Shit. Shit. I really hadn’t thought that far ahead yet, and truth be told, it was cold outside and I didn’t like ice cream that much. “You know, I’m just going to sit and think on it.” She looked unimpressed but nodded in agreement and I sat down in a booth. I thought a lot about the last week, feeling everything from shame to pleasure, and I stifled laughter as I pretended to look at my phone.

Some time passed, and the cashier looked uncertain as to what to do with my presence.I took this as my cue to leave, grabbing a wad of napkins and a straw on my way out. I offered no explanation, because I didn’t feel like lying. What was the point of telling her that I was meeting someone or that something came up? There wasn’t one. I got in my car feeling proud of myself. Sure, what I had done was rude and inconsiderate, but it was also the first time in a long time that I had done something simply because I could. I decided I’d call her later and tell her the truth, and that I wouldn’t give a shit if she thought I was crazy. I also decided I wouldn’t rebook, because I didn’t fucking want to.

For today, I’m feeling even. Almost happy. Know why? ‘Cause I’ve decided to go outside and blow spitballs!

The Post Without a Title

Today I want to talk about death: Wanting, waiting for, dreaming of death.

It’s morbid, I know. As much as I love to keep things light, I know I didn’t create this blog to roll in fluff and eat fun dip. I created it as an outlet for honesty, and sometimes that means getting down to the grittiest parts of what put my life in motion. So I’m going to talk about it.

I think, to some degree, we all question what death feels like. I can remember being about 6 and wondering if it would be painful, and if people would miss me. I remember wondering what would be waiting for me when I ceased to exist. I suppose the real difference between that time and now is that I no longer think about those things. I don’t wonder what lies ahead. Maybe it’s because I don’t know if I believe in any kind of afterlife. Maybe it’s because I just don’t care. I’ve never wanted revenge, or the satisfaction of knowing that the people who caused me pain would have to live with my memory. In the times that I’ve wished for death, I’ve only imagined it as slipping into a state of nothingness. Quiet.

Quiet: It’s what I long for more than anything. I think about it so often that I swear I can taste it. It doesn’t really make sense for a 22 year old girl to want that. I should crave the vibration of bass and squeals of delight and the dizzy chaos of being young. It’s not that I don’t wish to want those things. I do. I want to dream of freedom, recklessness, the feeling that time is on my side and that I can do with it what I please. But instead, always I wish for a sweet, endless silence. Every story has a theme, right? Well, this is it. And I figure that today is as good a day to share my story with you as any, so here goes nothing.

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This is me.

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Annnnd this is a far more accurate portrayal of what I look like in everyday life, without makeup and spectacular lighting.

It’s a bit difficult knowing where to begin in sharing all of this, but I am going to try to be as detailed as possible. For 20 years of my life, I was a curious, confident soul. This is not to say that I was without insecurity, because anyone who has followed my blog thus far knows that this is not the case. What I mean is that I was an open heart with a certain bullheadedness that was enough to power me through any darkness I would encounter. I liked myself, I relied on myself, and that was enough. In December of 2011, I started to feel differently.

I had just moved out of the city limits and settled into rural life with Sean, my fiance at the time. His work led him out of town, and I found myself alone a lot. I slept fitfully, until one night in particular when I could not fall asleep at all. A strange feeling came over me, a sudden desperation that I had never known. Anybody who knows me understands my unwavering hatred for housework of any kind, and yet, I found myself scrubbing walls, sweeping floors, rearranging clutter for hours until morning. I screamed and shook the entire time. This cycle continued for a week until I allowed myself to feel the weight of it, and I became frightened. Still, I kept quiet because I had no way of really understanding what it was that was happening, and I wouldn’t allow anybody to think that I was nutso.

The insomnia continued, and though I felt like a zombie, my mind was moving so swiftly that I couldn’t sit still. I’ve always had an active imagination, but I started to notice things that overwhelmed me. I would come home to a tap left running, the lights on, a television blaring, and things that had been moved from the places in which I had previously arranged them. I started to believe that I was being haunted by an evil entity. This made my nights alone more frightening and sleep became something I refused to consider. As the sun rose and set, the patterns of my behaviour became more erratic and took such a toll that people started to notice. Sean was concerned and suggested I see a doctor.

My experience with doctors and medical intervention in general had left me a bit sour, so at my first appointment I said something along the lines of “I feel weird.” She asked “Weird like how?” to which I responded “I’m not sure.” Part of me didn’t want anybody to know the extent of my symptoms, and I think I was more afraid of knowing what was happening than the fact that it was occurring at all. She pried out of me what she could, and I came away with some antidepressants and a small dash of hope. It couldn’t be that easy, could it?

Nope.

Soon afterward, I started to hear things. It started small at first. Have you ever walked in to a dinner party and heard the sounds of forks hitting plates and the hum of garbled conversation? It was a lot like that. I would hear it and it would be gone as fast as it started. It concerned me, but not enough to tell anybody. ( I mean, how in the name of Sandra’s virginity was I supposed to explain that?) However, it wasn’t long before I would be left without a choice in the matter. They came like whispers. 1, 2, 5 at a time. When a voice starts speaking to you, you don’t really question the blurred line between imagination and reality. You just answer. And I did. They were as real as any conversation I’d experienced, besides being quite nonsensical. Now, you can’t very well talk to yourself all day without other people noticing that you’re doing it, so the jig was up for me. Along with the voices came hallucinations. One episode was particularly vivid and ultimately ended my working life. I was a receptionist for an oilfield rental company, and my main job was answering the phone. As I hung up, I scratched the back of my head. When I pulled my hand back, I noticed that it was covered in a large clump of hair. The more I touched it, the more hair would appear. I started to scream and wail. By the time everybody had come from their offices to see what the fuss was about, the hair had vanished. My hands were clean. It was all still very much attached.

That was the day I realized that I was facing more than I was capable of dealing with on my own. My employer suggested taking a leave of absence until I was refreshed enough to return. Though I was grateful for their understanding, I was more humiliated in that moment than I had ever been in my entire life. There is something very soul-crushing about losing sight of what is real and what is an illusion. I didn’t understand how my state of being had plummeted so very far in such a short amount of time. A deep depression sunk in, and while I’d been sad before, this was a different ball of wax. How would I tell people of my experience when simply thinking about it made my insides burn? How would I keep a positive attitude while I was constantly tortured by the very tool necessary to maintain it?

I want to tell you that it got better, and that it wasn’t long before I returned to my bubbly, personable self. But wouldn’t be the truth. That day led me on a journey, alright. A journey of psychiatrists and diagnoses and medication that I couldn’t pronounce. A journey of darkness and the nasty backlash that comes about when fighting with oneself.

That brings me back to the theme that began this post. Wanting, wishing for, dreaming of death. Of nothingness. Of quiet. See, I just don’t have the luxury of peaceful moments anymore. There they are, in my head, talking, talking, always talking. I had always thought that at 22, I’d have a healthy fear of death. I thought I would be drinking in every experience within reach before the sand ran out. At the very least, I didn’t imagine that I would think much about death at all. Not like this. But I promised myself honesty and total disclosure, and here it is. I felt that this post was important to write for 2 reasons: 1) I know that there are A LOT of people walking around thinking about this. The circumstance might be different, the feelings may vary, but the idea of death consumes many lives. I want anybody who stumbles across this post to know that they are not alone. That they are not selfish, ungrateful aliens. 2) If I’ve learned one thing fighting the grip of mental illness, it’s that what I think and feel is not always accurate. I cannot always trust those thoughts and feelings to be fact. And because of that, I know that it is unwise to make a decision, especially one so permanent, under the influence of deep pain.

I’ve mentioned before that I don’t believe in God. Some people ask “If you don’t believe in God, what is the incentive to get through this?” Here’s my answer: I DO think it is important to believe in something. I think faith is a key component in overcoming any obstacle. For me, it’s about where I choose to place that faith, and right now, it belongs in myself. I believe in tomorrow. And on days when I can’t believe in tomorrow, I believe in yesterday. Yesterday held a lot of great moments, and even more importantly, it held a lot of mind-numbing, shitty ones. And despite those shitty days, the sun rose again, with new possibility. So maybe today is hard. Maybe today I don’t know if I can hold out. But I just can’t cheat myself out of the possibility of a better tomorrow.

And that journey I mentioned? It’s also been a journey of self-acceptance, of understanding, of patience. I may not be whole, but my character has so much more depth because of it.

I want everyone out there to know that it’s okay to feel beaten down and defeated. It’s okay to have moments in which you feel small and insignificant. Life is going to hand them out like tootsie rolls on Halloween. It’s OKAY not to know what to do next. But whatever you do, however you feel, don’t CHOOSE this feeling. If today you are given the option to feel even a small dose of happiness, always choose to feel it. Don’t let yourself forget what it’s like because you are so used to feeling sadness, or because you don’t feel that you deserve it. I want you to know that you do. Please remember that most battles last for years. Remember that there will be blood and tears. But most of all, remember a time before the battle began. Let it guide you through the haze and the smoke and allow you to believe that there will be a time when the battle will cease.

Now that you know my struggle, maybe you could tell me about yours. For as unimportant as you may feel, I want to offer you friendship and hope. I want to support you. I believe in YOUR tomorrow. I can’t promise that my words will heal. I can’t promise you prosperity. But I CAN promise you compassion and support. So what do you say? You can find me here, on Twitter, or on Facebook. I’ll be posting at least once a week to talk. To talk about what made that week difficult, and what made it bearable. I’m going to talk about progress, or lack-thereof. I’m going to talk about the other useless things that filled the cracks. If you would like to join me, just click the follow button.

I love all of you. Thank you for taking the time to read my story. Though it was painful to write, I’m so glad for the opportunity. And if you should choose to share yours with me, I hope that it’s as cathartic for you.

Just Your Average Kevin

I haven’t been here in awhile, and I feel like a dick.

I wish I had a handful of valid excuses, but I don’t. Only my own vicious black hole of self-loathing. Every day I woke up like “Hey, I’m going to blog today!” And then I sat down, opened the screen and thought “Nope. I don’t have anything to say because I’m just like Kevin Richardson from the Backstreet Boys. Nobody is listening to me anyway.”

I don’t think you need a mental illness to relate to that feeling. I mean, think about it: Kevin was there when BSB began. He was a founding member. Hittin’ stages and makin’ hits. But the truth was, I didn’t know any other fangirl with a Kevin poster. And then in 2006 he was all “I don’t feel like it anymore.” Anyway, let me get to my nub: Sometimes it doesn’t matter how many hours you devote to something that you’re truly good at. Sometimes it doesn’t matter how long you’ve known the people closest to you. You might still feel unnoticed and unappreciated. YOU MIGHT FEEL LIKE A KEVIN.

And I did. Every day. It got to the point where I would see people I knew, and I’d avoid them, because I didn’t want them to ask me what was new. I didn’t want them to ask me to go see The Avengers or grab Starbucks. I didn’t want them to ask me because I felt like a Kevin, and I was worried they might think I was a Kevin, too. People would say things like “You look so great!” And in my head I’d be like “Not as good as Nick, though. I look great FOR BEING KEVIN.” It went on and on and on like that until I’m sure people really didn’t want to hang out with me because I was such an unbelievable killjoy.

But something happened today. Today I woke up and thought about Kevin at length. I considered all points, and I realized that he wasn’t less of a musical talent because Brian stepped in front of him in every video with his long “Ooooooohhhh!” He wasn’t less attractive because he didn’t sport a blonde bowl cut. Kevin was a bang-up guy, and he never should have left. I know everyone will tell me he had his reasons, but I still think that he did it because he was being a whiny bitch, and I stopped blogging for the same reason.

Look. I guess, sometimes, we just feel irrelevant. Like nothing that we say holds any merit. And to 9/10 people, we are probably right. But that doesn’t mean that we should stop talking. Touching one soul. Bringing a smile to one set of lips. Even just one is enough.

There isn’t one fucking thing wrong with being a Kevin. In fact, it’s a mighty good thing to be. Because in 2012, Kevin came back. Kevin was like “Fuck it, I’m going to do what I love.” And that takes heart, which is the most important thing.

P.S. If you didn’t ever listen to BSB (and I know you did,) what I mean is that I’m back. And I will continue on this crusade of useless information because one of you might have actually read this far. Which is impressive and humbling.)

Are you there, Ann Landers? It’s Me, Karlee.

Did you guys see the movie ‘Detachment?’

If not, you should check it out. I found the film to be more than interesting. Sad and difficult to watch, yes, but very important. There are a lot of things that I don’t want to imagine, but it is imperative that that I imagine them so that I don’t become blinded by my own reality.

And I am. There are days when I become so lost in my pain that I feel as if I am the only person bleeding. But more often than not, I see it. I see it in others. It’s endlessly interesting to me to see the measures that people will take to preserve their hearts- almost to the point of never letting anybody see them again.

And that’s one thing I’ve just never been able to grasp, man. I have been told throughout my life that wearing my heart on my sleeve is unwise. And maybe it is, but I just can’t let myself get there. I mean, what are we here for if not to enjoy and help the people we landed here with? Sometimes I feel that if I don’t pass my love onto other people that I’m going to overflow. Some would look at my personality like a whore in a revolving door, but I would consider myself a majestic fountain.

I don’t believe that everything happens for a reason. I don’t believe in karma. I don’t believe that there is a force of good that chooses to ignore us or to smile upon us. But I do believe in making the best of it while we’re here, and that means lending a hand or an ear or a heart.

And yes, occasionally I lend them to people who don’t deserve the charity. I’ve cried, looked in the mirror, saw the size of my pores, and cried harder. I’ve actually thought about punching someone in the vag.

But I never pull up my sleeves.

Because there are people out there who do deserve it. There are people who speak and love and give. It’s these people I remember- not the peckers that screwed me over. I don’t want to be detached. I want to feel. I want to feel everything.