friend

day 29: a friend loves at all times

Sunday, 4/3/16

I remember the first day I met Buffy. Her hair was slicked back in a pony, big hoop earrings in her ears, and she was wearing a t-shirt dress with some sort of trendy saying on it. A friend was introducing me to her so that I could join her connect group at church. I'd just moved to the city and was in need of community. I walked away from that interaction without thinking much of it. She'd be my connect group leader. Cool. Also, I needed cooler clothes. 

After our first connect group meeting, we became fast friends. She's from TX, I'm from TX. She likes to eat, I like to eat. She finds BS intolerable, I find BS intolerable. She's not super girly, I'm not super girly. She's not a needy friend, I'm not a needy friend. She loves country music. I love country music. Beyond that, I'm not really sure how such a strong bond formed so quickly. It just did. I think that's the way it is with some friends - it's just meant to be (or whatever.) Now, when we're in a room together, we read each other's minds.  

Buff was one of the two girls I texted after the assault. I couldn't tell you exactly what her first response was (I mean, it's been a minute) but within about 45 seconds, she pointed me to Jesus. Because that's who Buffy is. And in the months that followed, she kept pointing me to Jesus. She didn't run when I did. She stood firm in her faith, all while listening to me whinge on. She always pointed me back to the cross, even when I had no interest in looking that way. And after one night of particularly unfortunate choice making on my part, she stood in front of church on Irving Place and 17th St., yelled at me, and told me that at some point, I was going to have to choose differently - because what I was doing, wasn't working. And then she hugged me, said she loved me, and told me to get my sh** together. 

It took me a few more months to do so, but do you know who I considered while simultaneously weighing up making a poor choice in those months? Buff. Because I didn't want to hear it from her anymore. And because deep down, I knew she was right. And do you know who, despite her deep frustration with me, was there through it all? Buff. 

Today, Buff and I spent a lot of time reading one another's minds. Then we cleaned her apartment. And then we hung out. We didn't do anything exciting or fancy - we just did what friends do...life. As I rode the subway home from her house, I couldn't help but thank God for giving me a friend like her.

 Our journeys in life are equally as much about the people who say yes to taking them with us as they are about ourselves.

Buffy has taught me the type of friend I want to be. She continues to teach me about the type of woman I want to be. She doesn't know it (well I guess she does now,) - in fact, sometimes I think she questions it, but she changes the lives of those she walks with. I could go on, but that's not our collective style - short and sweet, eh Buff? 

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day 22 : pride + happy eyes

Sunday, 3/27/16 

“Your eyes look happy. Like there’s light in them again” 

Of all days, today, on Easter Sunday, the day that we celebrate Jesus rising from the dead, one of my pastors told me that my eyes looked happy again.

Two days after the assault, I was in church. It felt strange - like I wasn’t in my body.  I felt like I was watching it all take place while hovering above it. Everything seemed disjointed - like all the seamlessly moving parts were somehow now separate. Or maybe that was me. 

I couldn’t say or sing the name of Jesus. I would will the word to come out of my mouth, but it didn’t. It was like pushing on the gas when the car is in park - screeching, spinning, dying, to be set free. I felt like if I sang those words of worship, I would be a liar. So I just stood there. 

13 months later, I stopped going to church. The weight of that unvoiced hurt, anger, and deceit became too much to carry. I started to fear that people would see through me - that they’d see this ugly thing that I was so desperate to conceal, and that when they did, they’d reject me and no longer deem me fit to serve in church. So I left. 

My last day leading my team, one of our pastors pulled me aside and asked me why I was really leaving. I said that my new job was very stressful and I couldn’t continue to lead and serve well while performing well at work. He asked me again. I said the same thing. He asked again and even, semi-jokingly, asked if it was because of a guy. I stuck to my script. On the inside I was absolutely screaming the truth, but I couldn’t bring myself to say it. My pride wouldn’t let me. 

That’s the thing about pride - it steals the things we cherish the most. 

First pride, then the crash - the bigger the ego, the harder the fall - Prov 16:18.. 

     (Dang, sometimes the truth in love hits you where it hurts.)

My pride clouded my ability to see the truth. My church was my HOME. The people there were my family. The very last thing that they would do is reject me due to brokenness. It’s the exact opposite of who they are and what my church home is. 

My pride stopped me from asking for help. Even with my pastor staring me in the face, my pride pushed those words of truth down until they were swallowed by an awkward laugh and a lie.

My pride didn’t want anyone to see me as anything other than great. When one of my leaders asked me, “hey- how are you really doing?”, my pride answered for me.

My pride couldn’t stand the thought of being lumped in with the stigma of victim.

My pride told me I could do it alone.

My pride didn’t like the truth - that I actually needed community to heal.

My pride lied, and then it led me to a dark wilderness. 

stolen from my 2013 insta which was stolen from Pinterest.

stolen from my 2013 insta which was stolen from Pinterest.

In Luke 4, the Holy Spirit leads Jesus into the wilderness. (Luke 4:1, NIV) 

It wasn't accidental, aimless wandering..the Holy Spirit LED Him there for a purpose. In reading it, one would conclude that purpose was to be tempted by the devil.

To me, this is one of the most beautiful depictions of Father and Son that the Bible offers. Ha- I can see your face in my mind, like - "tempted by devil, beautiful depictions of Father and Son…? Okay, crazy lady"- but bear with me, I’m going somewhere! 

God needed Jesus to experience that wilderness. The Bible later says that Jesus was tempted in every way that we are, yet did not sin (Hebrews 4:15.) So if He hadn’t been led to this wilderness and been tempted by the devil, that wouldn’t hold, which would make the word of God false. God, the Father, allowed, Jesus, His Son, to experience something really tough, knowing all along that He could do it. 

But I wonder if Jesus knew that He could do it. I wonder if the human part of Him ever doubted His ability to make it through. He had to rely so heavily on His Father during that time - in fact, the only weapon He used to get through it were His Father’s words. I mean Satan was tempting Jesus. That means he was offering Jesus things that He actually wanted, and Jesus resisted for 40 days and nights - WITH NO FOOD. I think it’d be one thing to be constantly tempted on a full stomach - but to be tempted by someone that you can’t stand for a prolonged period, AND be hungry at the same time? No, freaking, thank you. 

I also wonder what it’s like as a parent to know that you’re sending your kid into a hard situation where they can choose right, or they can choose wrong. God loved His Son, Jesus, so much (Matt 17:5, John 3:35,)  and I just have this picture of God in my mind, cheering Jesus on from heaven - like - “C’mon Son, you can do it! What have I always told you? You’ve got Me, I’m all You need! Keep pushing. Keep fighting. I WILL get you through! Trust Me!”

And see, Jesus believed Him.

So how come in my own wilderness I had such a tough time believing that God would cheer me on, His daughter (2 Cor 6:18, Gal 3:26,) in the same way? 

Maybe it’s because I couldn’t figure out if Jesus led me to that wilderness or if I wandered in on my own...  

I’ve said before that I needed that wilderness - I needed to go there to get here. I’ve always been someone that insisted on learning my lessons the hard way (much to the utter dismay of my parents growing up.) But did God need me to go there to get here? I doubt it. But I don't doubt that He loves me so much that He allowed it to play out that way, keeping me safe as it did.  

What I’ve realized is that how I got there doesn’t change that one constant - God loves me. He loves me wildly, fiercely, and passionately. It’s only a love like that that can light the way OUT of a dark wilderness. 

Eight months later, I finally found my way back to church thanks to the unrelenting love of my friend, Andrea. She knew that I felt wildly uncomfortable coming back to church, but it didn’t stop her from making sure my butt was, and is, in a seat every week. She encouraged me to be honest with my pastors and stood right next to me while I tearfully opened up about what’s been going on and asked tough questions. She sat with me through tears and arm-crossed worship. She is the epitome of “a friend loves at all times” (Prov 17:17.) Our church has this hashtag #sheissisterhood - and that’s what Andrea is, she’s Sisterhood- and no amount of writing will be able to give her her due. 

Andrea: aka my very own Gilmore Girl 

Andrea: aka my very own Gilmore Girl 

It’s been six weeks back at church and my pastor told me today that my eyes look happy again. I guess the eyes are the windows to the soul and all that... Because in all this time, it never even dawned on me that I was sad. And today, on a day when my eyes look happy again, I realize that for the first time in a long time, I am happy, and I feel the light beginning to shine. 

day 10: what if?

Tuesday, 3/15/2016

Blerg blerg blerg blerg blerg (sung to the tune of Rhianna’s “Work.”) 

My favorite word to chuck around when I’m less than amused my something is blerg. Oddly close to the word blog.. 

I am feeling blerg about my blog. That is to say, I am feeling afraid about my blog. 

In the past five minutes, I have realized that in my beckybrain, fear (my arch nemesis,) is almost always accompanied by two small, yet mind-numbingly frustrating words… “what if?” 

What if…. what if…. what if….

“what if I tell my story and am forever labeled ‘Becky - you know my friend that was raped?” 

“what if people, much like the police, don’t believe me?” 

“what if no one reads it?” 

“what if this insight into who I am (aka, me sprawling out some of my innermost thoughts for anyone on the internet to read) causes people I know to dislike me?” 

“what if I like a guy (and we're friends on Facebook so he knows I have this thing) and he reads it and he is like 'whoahhh, no thanks?'” 

“what if people ask me questions that I don’t know how to answer?” 

“what if I tell my story and those involved feel disrespected?” 

“what if giving people such unfiltered insight into my soul is a horrible idea?” 

“what if people close to me are shocked by decisions I made (that they don’t know about and I may write about) in the aftermath and push me away?” 

“what if I’m an idiot?” 

Two tiny words…. but oh so much power. What. If. 

But then, almost out of nowhere - 

What if in someone labeling me in a way I fear, they immediately think to reach out when they have a friend who goes through something similar? 

About a year after my attack, one of my guy friends turned to me and said, “but that can’t be right. Things like that don’t happen to girls like you.” What if the realization that things like this happen to girls like anything changes how he sees the women around him and it has a ripple effect?  

What if even one girl reads this who needs a voice? 

What if reading this blog causes those I love to understand me more

What if I like a guy and he reads it and thinks, “wow, she’s [insert positive notion here]?” 

What if people ask me questions and I’m honest? 

What if in writing about it, it lets those who helped know how grateful I am for what they did? 

What if giving people such unfiltered insight into my soul does just that - gives them insight into my soul? 

What if those decisions I wish I’d made differently resonate with somebody going through a similar time and it helps them know that nobody gets to judge or determine your path to healing? 

What if I’m smart? 

And the biggest one - WHAT IF this is not about me and not about you but about the person that reads it that needs to know she’s not alone? That needs to know the pain ends and the joy does in fact come? 

And just like that, what if, has become a phrase I love. 

PS - Coldplay has a song called "What If," as if I needed anymore of a reason to decidedly love the phrase. 

day 8: rape & the righteousness of God : a glimmer of grateful light

Sunday, 3/13/2016

I watched the documentary “The Hunting Ground” today. I also had a conversation about the righteousness of God with one of my pastors. Talk about juxtapositions. 

These are two conversations that don’t go together. And yet, deep down in a place somewhere looking to get a little light, I know that they kinda do.

I know this because the idea that God is righteous in ALL circumstances, even circumstances that are heinous, is at the very core of my grievances with Him and this whole experience.  

Only 36% of rapes, 34% of attempted rapes, and 26% of sexual assaults get reported to the police. (National Institue of Justice)

26% of rapes reported to the police lead to an arrest. Of that 26%, 20% are prosecuted.” - FBI Uniform Crime Reports - 2010

The documentary is full of statistics, but these two haunt me and I have to do the math for myself:

- In 2011 reports from a 2010 study called "the National Intimate Partner and Sexual Violence Survey” (which took place with the support of the National Institute of Justice and the Department of Defense) stated that 1 in 5 women had been raped or experienced attempted rape. Other outlets report 1 in 4, and some 1 in 6, so to be somewhere average, we’ll go with 1 in 5.

Ok so:

If 1 in 5 women in America are victims of sexual assault and there are about 157 million women in America   - that takes us to 31,400,000 women assaulted.  

- only 36% report their rape = 11,304,000 reported rapes 

- only 34% report attempted rape = 10,676,00 reported attempted rapes

- only 26% report sexual assault = 8,164,000 reported sexual assaults

The math in all of those situations brings you to at least 20,000,000 unreported assaults. So regardless of the fact that we can’t measure which 1’s in 5 experienced what version of assault, we can assume that 20,000,000 sexual assaults of some kind are unreported. 

Talking about rape only, 26% of the 36% of reported rapes (11,304,000) lead to an arrest - ok so that’s 2,939,040 arrests which = 8,364,960 cases without arrest. 

Of the 2,939,040 arrests, 20% are prosecuted - so 587,888 prosecutions, which = 2,351,152 cases without prosecution. 

So why does it shock people that survivors are hesitant to press charges? Especially when 98% of rapists will never spend a day in jail. (RAINN.org) Why report and go through the grueling process of attempting to bring a perpetrator to justice with those odds? 

Trying to give logic to that night and my decision not to press charges is a never-ending cycle. 

Trying to reconcile it with the righteousness of God is on another level.

But then I get a glimmer of light. And that inner conversation with God goes something like this: 

"What are you grateful for in that situation?" 

"What? Are you serious? What am I grateful for? Are you (expletive) kidding me?” 

“No.” 

“I’m not grateful. There is nothing to be grateful for.” 

“Really? What were you afraid of that night?"

“I was afraid that they wouldn’t let me leave. I was afraid that they would kill me. I was afraid that she’d been taken forever. I was afraid that I would have to call her mom and tell her that she wasn’t coming home and that I had no idea where she was. I was afraid that I was responsible for a horrible life she may be subjected to by whoever took her.” 

“And did that happen?” 

“No” 

Once I found one thing to be grateful for, it was a lot easier to come up with some more:

  • I’m grateful that my friend got out of that apartment.
  • I’m grateful that she doesn’t remember what happened there.
  • I’m grateful that this didn’t taint our friendship - she doesn’t blame me and I don’t blame her.
  • I’m grateful that I don’t remember the bulk of my time inside the other apartment.
  • I’m grateful that I had someone to call the next morning who answered the phone.
  • I’m grateful that my parents had the means to fly to New York from Europe.
  • I’m grateful that this was not the time that these criminals escalated to something even worse.
  • I’m grateful that I’m alive.
  • I’m grateful that I have amazing family and friends who have so graciously walked with me through the healing process.
  • I’m grateful that I’m not alone. 

I’m stunned to see even this tiny glimmer. 

Gratitude is a weapon of worship. It is allowing me a glimpse into where the righteousness of God exists in this situation.

My thoughts often veer off to,  “why did God save my life? Why me? Why not any of the other millions of people facing potential death each day?” 

In our conversation, my pastor stops me in my tracks - “stop trying to make yourself worthy of the righteousness of God; you’re not and you never will be. That’s the beauty of it. When you rest in your unworthiness, you honor His righteousness.”

This may seem harsh. I may never see the righteousness of God in that night. But somehow, it was exactly what I needed to hear. It removed the all-about-me attitude that was blocking me from seeing what I do see:  

- I do see that I not only survived, but fought my way through the recovery, and have come out the other side stronger and with a blazing passion to fight for change. So when God tells me that He will never let me be pushed past my limit, I know He’s right. (1 Cor 10:13, the MSG) 

- I do see that something guided me in the direction of home. So when God tells me that He will never leave me or forsake me, I know He’s true. (Deuteronomy 31:6, NIV)

- I do see that instead of this pushing my friend and I apart, we are closer than ever. I also see that my friend who helped me came, regardless of our history. So when God says that a friend loves at all times (is always loyal) and a brother is born to help in time of need, I know He cares about my heart. (Proverbs 17:7 NLT) 

- I do see that this experience has been one of the greatest trials I’ve ever faced, but that through it, I’ve experienced more growth than I could have imagined. So when God tells me to consider it a sheer gift when tests and challenges come my way because it means that my faith-life will be forced into the open, allowing me to become mature and well-developed, deficient in nothing, I know He is always on my side. (James 1:2-4 The MSG.)

- I do see that within hours of originally posting this blog, I had quite a number of people reach out to say that they were also survivors of rape or assault, and felt like they finally had a voice; or that their friend went through this and is struggling and they were sending it along so that they would know they aren’t alone. So when God says that He works all things together for good, I know that He can take even the most broken situations, and use them for good. (Romans 8:28 NIV.)

Now let me be abundantly clear - I AM NOT SAYING THAT RAPE IS RIGHTEOUS. What I am saying is that in my own personal experience, I am beginning to see that even in the most UNrighteous situations (caused by free will,) God can take what was meant for evil, and He can use if for good. And that right there, is in fact, the righteousness of God. 

So I’m understanding it just a little through the lens of gratitude. And this little glimmer of light shines ever so much brighter with each passing second. 

day 7: smoothie-gate

Saturday, 3/12/2016

On Saturdays I am part of a baller film acting class. No, really. I wouldn’t be rolling my ass out of bed to be there at 11am on a Saturday if it wasn’t as good as it is. 

Sidenote: When my sister and I were little, my dad gave us the first of many life lesson attempts about how we were not allowed to curse (I’m still learning) outside our favorite Saturday morning breakfast place, Shipley’s Doughnuts (there is little I would not do at any given moment for one of those damn (also in the Bible - that'll make sense in two seconds) doughnuts. The only ‘curse word’ we were allowed to say was ‘ass,' because it was in the Bible and was another word for donkey. You can imagine how much fun my sister and I had that day calling my dad an ass everywhere we went, and met his protestations with, “But it’s in the Bible!” Who can argue with that? He did not find it as amusing as we did. 

this is from a few years before the "ass" debacle, but I just love this photo 

this is from a few years before the "ass" debacle, but I just love this photo 

A class at 11am on a Saturday requires advance breakfast planning. Enter: smoothies. Also known as, manna from heaven. What is it about smoothies? I don’t know, but I have a problem. A real problem. It is a hint of warm outside and my smoothie world transforms. In one particularly bad week last spring, I spent $70 on smoothies, which I only realized  after a friend asked me how many smoothies I drink on the regs due to the volume of snapchats devoted to them. That embarrasses me on many levels and I started making my own smoothies the next day. So (homemade) smoothies, hello lovers, and welcome back to my world.

just one more Liquiteria for good measure

just one more Liquiteria for good measure

 

Apparently, the winter, and therefore, lack of smoothies, made me forget that you have to actually put the lid on your personal smoothie maker... I came back to see my kitchen decorated in my version of Liquiteria’s blue velvet smoothie - 20 minutes before I’m supposed to be in class. And because I’m still new at transforming my negative thought process to a positive one, it went something like this:

“ooohhhhh f***ing sh**balls no. (looks up at heaven) seriously?!! Craaaaaap. This freaking blows. Ugggghhhhhhh. BECKYYYYYYY you freaking idiot. See this is it! This is the proof that you will not get your life together and should not do this journey and should DEFINITELY not write this blog. You can’t even put a lid on a smoothie maker, how the heck are you going to do actual life things?”  

Now, is this a logical thought jump? Absolutely not. But it allowed me the excuse of remembering the plethora of reasons that I don’t want to write about this journey, let alone be on it. Or actually, the only reason : fear. And in that fleeting moment, that was comforting.  

Sidenote: I’m starting to wonder if I should forewarn those featured on this blog that they are making guest appearances. Probably should. Hopefully they won’t be as annoyed at their guest appearances as I am at my constant appearance, but if they are, maybe they’ll just begrudgingly oblige?  Er, I don’t know. I should think on that. 

So here I am, sweatily sitting in class, 45 minutes late from having to clean up my smoothie mess, the MTA sucking the life out of my soul (as it regularly does,) and all out sprinting to get there before the hour, talking about an episode of 'The Good Wife’ with a group of girls - and this guy, Jack, who I don’t really know, turns to me and says, “you should start a blog.” Ok. So. Uhhhh. Here’s the thing. Acting class is weird because I don’t actually really know the people in it. I don’t know where they’re from or what their favorite food is or if they like their parents or really anything about their lives. But because we do this awkward thing where we get up in front of a camera each week, which believe it or not is very invasive and off-putting, and read scenes together - and sometimes you’re meeting someone one minute and reading a scene about penises in the 1800’s with them the next (I'm not kidding you, I can't make this stuff up) - you know them. So like, I don’t know them, but I know them. 

So Jack's “you should start a blog,” threw me for a loop. Now, granted, Jack was talking about me starting a blog in regards to TV shows. But I truly think that sometimes God (or the universe - hopefully by now we’re at a place in your reading of this thing, where you know that my faith is the foundation of my life, but if you don’t believe in God, and the universe is your higher power, or maybe you don’t believe in higher power, you can go to your relatable place of understanding when I make references to God because I certainly don’t want to be EXclusive, but I also don’t want to keep taking breathers to not “offend") uses people to tell us things in whatever way we need to hear, regardless of context. He kept talking but I was just kind of staring and not hearing him because the first time in the history of my life that a person who I truthfully, barely know, tells me I should write a blog is on the same day that I spent the entirety of smoothie-gate clean up coming up with reasons not to write a blog.  

Try and tell me that’s not a sign. Now because I am this way, I immediately jump to, "ok, but why am I meant to do it?" Well, that I don’t know. There are about a bajillion potential reasons swimming up in my head, but since I’m not the orchestrator of the universe, I’ve learned that sometimes its best not to try and figure out the ‘why.’

I also learned that I need to get back to running on purpose. Like going on runs. Not out of necessity. Because there were moments in that sprint to class where I thought “this could be it."

day 6: answers wanted

Friday, 3/11/2016

Roomie night. Allow me to let you in on a little secret ladies who live with a roommate that you adore. Adopt the roomie night thing. For real.

Anyways - some things to know about my roommate and I before I dive in to the serious stuff. 

                [sidenote: I am aware that the real word is anyway, without the s, but I like the s better.]

             BeckY and BeccA

             BeckY and BeccA

  1.  her name is Becca. Yes. Becky and Becca. It confused our doormen for the first 6 months that we lived in our building. 
  2. we met in college but weren’t close friends. Different departments, different friend groups. Saw each other at parties - our mutual friend forced us to hang out when we first got to NY and it was an idea of sheer brilliance
  3. we are polar opposites. Firstly, she’s a blonde and I’m a brunette (as if that matters.) She’s messy, I’m a neat freak. She loves Kate Spade, Haute Hippie is my jam. She loves Seth Cohen, I love Ryan Atwood. (I will never stop loving the OC for all that it was and all that it is and I may or may not regularly jam to the OC mixes...) 

Our roomie nights, which happen pretty much every 6-8 weeks, consist of the following, in this order: 

  1. Champagne 
  2. Indian food 
  3. Cookies 
  4. Champagne
  5. Sex and the City 
  6. Champagne
  7. Serious talks
  8. Pajamas 
  9. The Dixie Chicks and Justin Timberlake’s Future/Sex Lovesounds album dance party

On this roomie night I expressed that I have a lot of questions about the morning of my attack and the only person with the answers is the one who came to pick me up from my apartment that day.

At some point after being thrown out with the trash, dismissed by the police (more on that at a later date,) and going back to the bar to ask for help, I made my way home and called to ask for help, even though we hadn’t spoken in six months. I don’t know how I made it home, but since the Lower East Side and it’s inconvenient subway situation is annoying, I’m going to go ahead and assume I took a cab. I don’t really remember calling, but I do remember sitting on the steps of my Upper East Side walkup at some point in the early hours of the morning, drenched by the rain, talking on the phone, and repeating versions of, “They took me and I tried to leave and they wouldn’t let me” over and over again.

My first recollection of seeing him that morning is that hearing him yell my name was like being ripped out of a trance. I didn’t know how long I’d been standing in the middle of the street, in the rain, but when I turned around to see him coming towards me, I understood something that was happening for the first time in eight hours. The age-old concept of cause and effect made sense - I called for help, and someone came. The next thing I remember is being in the East Village. I made us go down there because I wanted to find the apartment I had been taken to. In my nonsensical state, I thought maybe we’d find my friend, who I was still unable to make contact with. He convinced me to go to the hospital and the next thing I knew, I was standing in the emergency intake area desperately searching for words to describe what happened. 

When I crawled onto that hospital bed and was finally able to lay down, after being awake for over 24 hours, everything that had been remotely keeping me human faded away. I was seeing double and vaguely understood that my thoughts weren’t making sense, though I was desperate to explain what happened and for someone to take me seriously about finding my friend. I think I heard him say my name before it all went black. 

The day begins to become clearer when I woke up. I have no clue how long I slept. It starts in flashes and then slowly becomes long sequences. At some point I was given sweats to change into. My most vivid memory is when I saw myself in the bathroom mirror after they performed the rape kit. I couldn’t help but stare. My eyes were so swollen from crying that they were almost completely shut. I looked white as a ghost and my hair was ratty after being in the rain for so long. It’s a strange feeling to not recognize your own reflection in the mirror, to be observing your life from the outside. 

In the two years since my attack, the hardest part has been the not knowing. To have parts of your life be completely blank, as if those hours didn’t exist, when you know that they did, is infuriating. The doubt has, at times, made me feel crazy. And for a while, I thought that since I couldn’t remember, I could pretend it didn’t exist. Unfortunately, that doesn’t work. 

I have a long list of questions to ask about that morning that I’d like answers to. But complicated history well, complicates things. So I guess the question becomes, can I survive without the answers? And, without second thought, I know the answer is yes. Do I want to? That one’s a little trickier.

Sometimes it’s good to sit in the unknown. Even if it’s the most uncomfortable place to sit. I mean, seriously, I might as well be sitting on a hot stove. 

Sincerely, 

the girl with the burning bum 

day 5: pick six

Thursday, 3/10/2016  

When I was nine years old, I went to visit my new school that I was dead against being forced to attend. It had been a long application and interview process and this was the day where I would tour the place that was to be my new stomping grounds. The fact that they accepted me was, in and of itself, shocking. In my interview, when the headmaster asked me why I wanted to attend the school, I broke down crying and said that I didn’t and that it’d be good if they denied me admittance. Then I proceeded to wipe my snotty nose on my yellow pearl snap button down shirt with a denim collar and little navy blue baby’s breath flowers all over it. He then very gently offered me a kleenex. 

I remember moments in life by what I was wearing. That was my favorite shirt at the time. Heck, if it still existed today in an adult size, I’d wear it. My fondest memory wearing it was at my Granny and Grandpa's house in the English countryside. We have a photo somewhere that I can't seem to find...

Granny and Grandpa Paul’s house was the keeper of my secret spot (which I now know was not secret at all.) In the very back of their garden was a big bush, and nestled up against the back of that bush, was a wooden bench. I would sit on my bench for hours, telling myself stories, dreaming about what my life would be, and laying down on it, just looking up at the sky. If I stood on the bench and got up on my tiptoes (thankfully, the trusty bush was tall enough to hide this occurrence from my Granny’s manner minding eyes,) I could see over the back fence and into a field that stretched for what seemed like a hundred miles - you couldn’t see beyond it. This last Christmas, we took a detour past the cottage and the new owners have changed everything. I hate change. I so desperately wanted to knock on the door and ask if I could go sit on my bench for just a moment, but the fear that I might discover that in all their changes, my secret place no longer exists, stopped me. I want to remember it in all its perfection - a place untainted by the realities of life. My greatest desire when I was a little girl peering over the fence, was to jump it and just run through those fields until I couldn’t anymore, collapsing in a fit of giggles, gasping for air. I’d still love to do that.  

My new school scared me. I knew that I was being sent there because it was a more academically focused school with the structure needed to tame my wild and rambunctious spirit. I wanted to be left wild.  Leaving my old school made me realize that I would have to make new friends. I’d never even realized that making friends was something you do and I wasn’t scared that I wouldn’t.

Sitting on the big leather chair inside the school office waiting for the tour to begin, a little blonde girl that I recognized from a basketball camp I’d attended earlier that summer, walked in with her parents and plopped down right next to me. 

“I like your Nike watch. I’ve got a turqouise Baby-G, see? But I like yours too. I’m Kitty.” 

“Thanks. It was my Christmas gift this year. I like it because it’s sporty, but I like yours too. I’m Becky.” 

Kitty and I didn’t know as we sat in our soon to be art room later that day, bonding over the Mary-Kate and Ashley movie, “Passport to Paris,” that our friendship would stand the test of time. We should have known - because any friendship that begins because of Mary-Kate and Ashley is obviously a good one. 

We had no idea that we’d become a part of the same friend group and watch each other go through our most formative years. We didn’t know that I’d be there when she got her heart broken for the first time or that she’d be there to see me and cheer me on as I fulfilled one of my biggest dreams. We were definitely clueless when it came to all the questionable decisions we would have a ton of fun (sorry, Mum and Dad) making together in high school. We couldn’t have predicted that during out senior year of high school, I would be rushed to the hospital, and that when I was discharged a week later, it would be with the knowledge that I was sick with life-threatening conditions. We might not have even believed how fun our 'senior summer’ would be - when our group of friends saw each other every single day, until that gut-wrenching day when the first of us went off to college, and the weeks involving lots of teary goodbyes began. None of us were going to the same schools. It was the first time that classes would finish at the end of the day, and the option of just driving to Kitty’s house to lay out in the pool or hang out on the third floor didn’t exist. 

The group text started almost immediately after the first of us left. Well, this was 2009, so it started as a group Facebook message. We had to be completely up to date on every nitty gritty aspect of each other’s lives. Our first Thanksgiving home was the reunion of all reunions and our best tradition began. Every Thanksgiving night at about 9:45pm, we all go to Kitty’s house, light a bonfire, make smores, eat her leftovers, have a few drinks, and talk into the night. (#holeyjeans) Personally, I like to think that in our subconscious we do it because it's Thanksgiving and this group of girls is one of the things we are most thankful for in our lives - but writing that down, I can see the girls rolling their eyes and going “ohhhh gawwd” at my puttering on. Thanksgiving is truly “our” holiday though. In college, that five day weekend was like the holy grail…always the scene of our most memorable, or not so memorable, nights. It still is. Though in our old age, we’ve become much more responsible. I think.

                                                           Thanksgiving

                                                           Thanksgiving

We know each other so well that sometimes it’s just weird. And other times it's perfect. The first time I had my heart shattered into a million pieces and told them via group text, not one of them called me for a few days, because they knew I wouldn’t be able to, or want to talk. But you better believe that my phone never stopped buzzing with messages for three days. We have seen each other at our best and at our worst, been there for each other’s highest highs and lowest lows…and those lows have been pretty dang low. We’ve fought hard and made up hard. We once went over a year without one of us, and it sucked every single day. But it took us all of about five minutes to get over it and welcome her back with open arms the first time she showed up to our standard “last night we will all be together before one of us leaves” dinner - and it’s never been different since.

Our lives are changing and so are we. We’re adults now who live in different parts of the country, with jobs and responsibilities. Our dreams, beliefs, and priorities have shifted and changed, but I have to believe that at the core of it all, our deep rooted friendship won’t. A few months ago, the last time all six of us were together, I threw out the idea of giving up on everything I came here to do - and every single one of them just yelled at me a version of “absolutely not” (Melanie’s version may have had a few choice words thrown in there...) because they know me and they believe in me - even when I don't believe in myself. (I’m vomiting at how corny I sound.) 

I can’t imagine my life without Mary Ellen’s long lasting bear hugs, Mel’s high pitched scream when I walk through the door or when a particularly funny part of a story is told, Eleanor’s bringing Curly Sue (her dog) everywhere we go - she’s basically the 7th honorary member of Pick Six, Kitty’s chuckle laugh, or Sarah’s “heyyyy” when she walks into a room. I have learned everything I need to know about friendship from these girls. They are my chosen family. They are a massive part of why I miss TX, but an even bigger part of what keeps me here. Whenever I come home, one of my mum’s first questions is - “Well, what are your plans with the girls?” because she knows. 

The group text that began seven years ago lives on strong today, and as I write this post, with tears in my eyes on and off at the gratitude I feel, my phone just buzzed to say I have a new message on our thread, and all seems right with the world. 

*~hugz n kisses~*