Month: October 2018

I meant to get this post out last night but I got really tired and crashed. Happy Halloween!

Exactly one week ago, one of my professors called me out in front of my entire class for having no friends. After calling on me to give my answer for an exercise asking about the eye color of one of my best friends, I had to reply in French. I stumbled on a word and she had me break it down in english. “So who’s your best friend?” she asked me. I never knew that such a simple question could cause such a controversy in my mind. I paused for several seconds, scrambling to find the right words. I began to take so long that my classmates turned to look at me, anticipating my response. I knew who my best friend was of course, but for some reason, all I could think of was: Will they judge me because my best friend’s a guy? They won’t even know who he is- he doesn’t go to this school. Why am I overthinking everything? You need to just say his name, why is this such a problem for you? For God’s sake, make something up if you’re uncomfortable, no one will know the truth. Breaking the elongated silence, my professor said, “Really?” in a very sarcastic tone. Now the whole class was staring at me for sure. I was humiliated. Flustered, I answered, “Uh… his name is Jared.” I’m sure my response sounded made-up, but only I knew that it wasn’t. That’s what killed me. “Okay, so what color are his eyes?” she asked me. “Brown… I mean, marron.” “Très bien! Alors…” she replied, beginning to talk about something else. For the rest of that class period, I felt mortified. I was overthinking the whole situation.

On the way back to my room, I tried to come to terms with it in attempts to make myself feel better. I never understood why it was a bad thing to not have a best friend. I’m sure there are plenty of people who don’t have a best friend or didn’t have a best friend for most of their lives, like me. Why is that so shameful? Sure, I had plenty of friends, but none that I considered a best friend. I had my own definition of what a best friend was apart from society’s definition. To me, a best friend is someone who I trust wholeheartedly, love to absolutely no end, and someone that I care very deeply about. It’s someone who knows me forwards and backwards, upside down, inside out, in every way. A best friend is someone who would never judge me for the person I am and will always be there for me no matter what. Most importantly, it’s someone who I can share the deepest darkest parts of my life and past with, as that makes up somewhat of who I am. That’s what a best friend is to me. Growing up, I never had someone in my life that fit all of those descriptions. I love my friends and I care deeply for them of course, but I never considered one of them to be my best friend until I met Jared.

I never understood why extroversion was the social norm. I’m very introverted and to be honest, I could stay locked in my room forever and be perfectly happy. I could easily spend the rest of my life by myself and have absolutely no problem doing so. Society has made it the norm that having a ton of friends is “cool” and knowing a million people makes you popular but to be honest, none of that means anything to me because the way I see it, most of those “friends” are fake anyway. I’d rather have very few real friends or be alone than to have a million friends who don’t give a damn. That’s why the joke is on my class for staring at me when I blanked because they may think I have no friends, but actually I do (and real ones, at that). Plus, I have the bestest friend in the whole wide world. And I wouldn’t trade either for the universe.

He who walks with the wise grows wise, but a companion of fools suffers harms. – Proverbs 13:20

I walked to class yesterday shaking and trembling. It was the day I’ve dreamt about for the past year and a half. I wasn’t nervous to read the story itself, I was more nervous to tell my story. 4:59pm. Ready to throw up, I volunteered to go first. I waited for the class to quiet down after passing my paper around, took a deep breath, and began to read. I was so nervous in fact, that my hands went numb. There were many sentences I couldn’t read correctly and several words I stumbled over. After reading the whole thing through, the class clapped for me and smiled at me empathetically. I felt humbled by their support. It was hard to even look at them. I went through hell for over a year and this was my moment. It was a very relieving and liberating moment for me. It was official- my truth was out. It felt like a million doves were being freed from the cage in my mind that held these truths back for so long. “Alright now let’s start with things you liked about the essay…” my professor told the class. One of the things that one boy said particularly stood out to me; I appreciated it a lot. “I really loved how you came out to tell this very vulnerable, detailed, serious story but you still incorporated your privacy into it. I respect that.” And I respected him for saying that. My professor asked the class to make critiques of my paper and the room was silent. Only a few people spoke up about minor sentence errors but no one had anything bad to say. I was shocked. I never ever expected such an accepting atmosphere. I spent years believing I was the one in the wrong and that if I ever told my story, no one would believe me. I mainly feared retaliation. This was everything but. My heart was mended into the heart it was before in those 15 minutes and I’ll be forever grateful for those who were willing to see me as a human being after feeling like an alien for so long. I walked out of that class feeling lighter. I am the woman in the news. And no one can break me anymore.

Be strong, and let us show ourselves courageous for the sake of our people and for the cities of our God; and may the LORD do what is good in His sight. – 2 Samuel 10:12

I listened to music and gazed out at the fields passing me for the entire ride home. It took an hour and a half but it honestly felt like 20 minutes. I fidgeted around trying to get comfortable the whole time as all I wanted to do was sleep, but I should’ve known better. I know I can’t fall asleep on transportation. However, I soon became tired enough to let my music keep playing without skipping songs, even if I wasn’t fond of a particular track. They all had some type of memory associated with them. The beginning of “Clocks” by Coldplay began to play into my headphones and I was brought back to a special time in my life. It was a time when everything was simple. A time when my dad’s job seemed so complex to me and my sister spoke for me, since I never spoke myself. A time when jumping on the tiny, single (not even bouncy) trampoline that we kept in our garage was like riding a rollercoaster and we enjoyed the seasons and the people and the food we ate for what they were. A time when phone calls, bills, school work, work-work, and emails didn’t exist for me. Do I miss it? Of course I do. I wouldn’t trade those times for the world. The song continued to play and all I could think about was that I was being that little kid. I chose to gaze out my window instead of going on my phone or changing the song to enjoy life in that moment for what it was. For the next hour and a half, I was 4 years old again.

In January, I was terrified of how the rest of the year was going to go. In February, I published my first book. In March, I got into my dream school. In April, I performed in my first musical. In May, I played my last ever high school orchestra concert and delivered my first public speech. In June, I graduated from high school and got my wisdom teeth pulled out. In July, I moved to Alexandria temporarily while I performed at the Kennedy Center for a month. In August, I made my first-ever vacation with my girl friend and moved into college. In September, I reconnected with my best friend after 9 months of no contact. Today I toured my first apartment and am yet to sign the lease that will be sent to me in a couple of days. This week, I will tell my story publicly for the first time. I turn 19 in less than one month and go home again in 4 weeks. Life is good, but I would’ve never imagined ending up at the place I’m in in my life today. Life is truly crazy. When you’re young, you don’t really take life in like you should because you don’t know that it’s important. I think our brains are wired like that on purpose. They only want you to remember the “important” things, but it’s the memories that make you who you are.

Commit your works to the LORD And your plans will be established. – Proverbs 16:3

 

 

I want to tell you all about something that’s been on mind lately. For the past couple years or so, I’ve debated whether I wanted to speak about something very personal to me. It’s a very dark part of my past but today I came to the very real conclusion that I’m in the place in my life where I’m ready to speak my truth. I feared vocalizing my truth because I feared retaliation or being looked at differently by those I love. But in the end, what am I really afraid of? Well, for starters, I’m afraid of people in costumes and clowns, and centipedes. Spiders are pretty bad too. I was never afraid of the dark itself but I did fear what was in it. But words? That’s silly. I spent so much time worrying over everyone’s reactions that I wasted the time I should’ve been spending owning my story. I wouldn’t be the person I am today without this truth.

I found out just two days ago that the third paper I have to write for my writing class is a personal narrative about something that happened to me that changed my opinion or view on a certain topic. I volunteered to have my paper read, reviewed, and pretty much roasted by the class in what we call a “workshop”. I knew immediately what I wanted to write about but questioned my decision several times. How was it that I was dying to speak my truth all these years but when I had the chance I backed away? Was what holding me back? I tried to think of other incidences in my life that changed me. None came to mind, none that I could write a detailed, truthful, elaborate paper on. I could write about my parents’ divorce but I felt that that’s too ordinary. I needed something that made me unique but that I could relate to at least one person who has been in the same or similar situation. My original topic was it. It was perfect.

Today after class, I walked up to my professor and reluctantly asked him for his opinion of my topic. “Would you say that my story of getting cyber-stalked/harassed is a good topic to write about?” I asked him. I was trembling inside. I never made it known to any authoritative figure that this happened to me besides the police and my parents. I wanted to cave in. I had barely even made it known to my friends let alone a teacher. I felt as though I invaded my own privacy. “Yeah… yeah I think that would be a good one. It falls into the category of ‘Me Too'” he replied. I never considered my situation a #MeToo case but I guess it was, in a way. Oh my God. I am one of those women. I am the woman in the news. I thanked him for his approval and left the classroom. I was shaking all the way out and for the first time after talking about it out loud, I didn’t want to cry. Even though I was shaking, no tears even came up into my eyes. That was it. That was when I knew that now is my time.

Peace I leave with you; my peace I give you. I do not give to you as the world gives. Do not let your hearts be troubled and do not be afraid. – John 14:27

Hello my friends! I decided to make this blog more direct because I want to speak to you all on a personal level, instead of writing essays for you to read. Also, I meant to post this yesterday, but got caught up in talking to friends.

Growing up as a rather shy child, I didn’t like to socialize much unless it was with my family. I used to get in my mother’s car when she’d pick me up from school and I would blab about how my day went down to every word of every conversation I had. Most of my stories never had points to them. I just wanted to say what was on my mind since I never really had a best friend I could exchange gossip with. That friend was my mother. My other friend was singing. I first discovered that I could sing when I was in 2nd grade. I would sing everywhere, all the time. That year I decided that I was going to take a risk and try out for my school’s talent show. I practiced the song I was going to sing in my room hundreds of times. I went through practices all week until the show came around on what I remember was a Friday. This was my moment. I was shaking backstage; so much that I could’ve peed myself or thrown up or something. After my name and act had been announced, I walked onto the stage as the audience clapped. I stood in front of the microphone nervous as all hell. Never once in my life had I seen so many people staring at me all at once. The host asked the audience to rise, as I was about to sing the National Anthem. My backing track started and I took a breath and began, “Oh say can you see?…” I saw some adults grinning at me and I became more comfortable, yet still nervous all at the same time. It was the longest two minutes up to that point in my life. “…And the home of the brave…” The backing track stopped. There was a slight pause of silence, then the audience roared. It was an accomplishment I’ll never forget. That was the beginning of my love for performing, although I had always been in love with music. Looking back on it, I amaze myself at the thought that my tiny, skinny, blonde, modest self could belt out a song, a song that most adults have a hard time singing, to a crowd of hundreds with ease. I proceeded to play one of the lead roles in one of our school plays that same year, and for the talent shows in the years ahead I performed pieces on the piano that I taught myself. When I entered middle school, we were given a choice to take the art route, or the music route. I bet you could never guess what I chose. Since I felt I already knew how to sing, I wanted to try new things. I wanted to be well-rounded. After a tough decision, I joined orchestra as a violist. I was normally up in the first few chairs and it remained that way all the way throughout high school too. Since continuing to play viola, I have won music-related awards for my leadership and skill in my art and have performed at Disney World with my high school orchestra as well as the Kennedy Center with elites from all across the nation, and some internationally. I met the conductor of the National Symphony Orchestra and was even given a mute from one of the violists. Walking through the Hall of Nations every day to go to practice (as much as I hated it at the time) was a blessing. I have been very fortunate in the opportunities I’ve gained from my hard work and now as I look back at all that I’ve accomplished, it seems unreal. The shy little girl that was nervous to sing the National Anthem was performing at the Kennedy Center and belting opera in her high school musical in the spring of her senior year. My dreams were coming true because I worked for them. I chased them. And although I’m chasing one of my other dreams in college now, I still haven’t given up on my dream of performing. I’ve gained a world’s worth of confidence from sharing the stage. Even when I’m listening to music as I go to class, I look ahead instead of looking down to avoid the eye contact of those passing me. Music has made me unafraid. It amazing how a tune or certain lyrics can hit you so hard they could change you. Ever since I was a kid with a dream of singing to a sold out crowd on my world tour, I’ve been singing to myself in my mirror, dancing to improvised choreography, and speaking to an invisible mass of thousands between songs. Even though I’m a legal adult now, I’m still the same kid with the same dream, working my way through a mean world to live the same dream- this time to a visible mass of thousands.

That was still an essay. Sorry, I’ll work on the more personal aspect of writing to you all. Haha.

I will sing of your love and justice; to you, LORD, I will sing praise. – Psalm 101:1

You’ll never understand others’ pain until you’re in pain. Every time I read or heard someone say “it’s okay not to be okay”, I never felt right about it. There was a part of me that didn’t think that that was entirely true. That statement always reminded me of my past depression and anxiety that I spent 4 years battling silently. It wasn’t okay that I wasn’t okay. It wasn’t until my mother found a scissor under my pillow that she took action to find me professional help, as much as I refused it. Deep down I knew I needed it but as stubborn as I was, I told myself I could work it out and that it was possible to heal without aid. My mother didn’t know I was struggling  because I didn’t want her to know. I didn’t really want anyone to know because I feared that the people I love would get mad at me or look at me different. I already had issues with my self-esteem and I figured if they knew, they wouldn’t see me as “happy, normal Caroline” anymore. They would see the mess of the person I had become. But who was I kidding? I wasn’t happy. I was embarrassed that I wasn’t happy so I put a bandaid over it to fix it. But you can’t fix a broken soul or mind by yourself, little did I know. Following the discovery of the scissor, my mother found me a therapist. The first day I went in, my mother and I sat down in her office and she explained what was wrong with me to my counselor. I knew that her words were true. I had never heard anyone say how I felt out loud and it hit me like a train. I broke down crying. I hated when people saw me cry, especially people I didn’t really know personally. It felt like my problems were being announced on a loud-speaker to the entire world and I wanted to dig myself into a hole. Now when I think back on it, I realized that this was the pain that was needed to move forward, the pain that I feared. I used to leave her office on occasional visits over the years denying the fact that I was being helped or that I was getting better. However, whether I realized it or not, I was. It wasn’t until I started weening off making appointments and eventually stopping that I realized that I didn’t need her after all. Things in my life became clearer. I stood up for myself and eliminated all remains of negativity in my life. I had this new mentality: the people who didn’t accept me for who I truly was were never meant to be in my life. I gained respect for myself and started taking care of me. One of the things my counselor told me that always stuck with me was that there was a such thing as a good kind of selfish and a bad kind of selfish. I needed to be the good kind by putting myself and my happiness before others. Once I started practicing this in my daily life, I had a revolution. Did going to a counselor heal me completely and solve all of my life problems? No. But it taught me what I needed to know in order to live a happier healthier life- I can only control myself. And that’s exactly what I did. Occasionally I’ll have bouts of time where I think back to my sad days but I don’t feel sorry for myself like I used to. Instead, I think of how far I’ve come and how if it weren’t for my mom, my faith, and the people who love me, I wouldn’t be here. I forget sometimes that the pain I went through was not okay, but it was valid. I’m in such a peaceful place now that I fail to remember that it happened to me. I do get myself down sometimes, but it’s never as often as it used to be, nor is it the same. It’s more of a temporary sadness than what feels like a permanent sadness. I decided to transform my negative energies into positive ones by doing things that make me happy and surrounding myself with people that make me happy. These energies have been put into getting my degree in Psychology in hopes of becoming a counselor to help others that went through what I did or worse. I made the difference in my life, and now it’s my turn to give back.

Dear friend, I pray that you may enjoy good health and that all may go well with you, even as your soul is getting along well. – 3 John 1:2

Per usual, I was scrolling through Instagram when I came across my brother’s post inquiring about why certain people come into your life. It read, “How often do you think about why your friends came into your life? Was it random, by design, or maybe a little of both? Regardless of the reason, some friends you know are gonna be by your side for a while. Others, you’re not so sure. And then there’s that one friend who well, you hope someday becomes something more. But “friend” will have to do for now. And that’s okay. I guess.” I thought about this for a moment and moved on with my day, going to my next few classes, doing my homework, listening to music, and cleaning my room. I woke up the next day thinking about it still. I always know when something is relevant or specifically true to my life whether I realize it or not because the subject won’t leave my mind. I thought about it deeper. Why was this caption still in my head? I then took a minute to think about the people that have been in and out of my life. I never really had anyone that I called a best friend until I got to college and it happened to be a guy I considered “just a friend” in high school. I watched him go in and out of relationships, I watched him laugh and cry, I witnessed his talent and his witty, childlike soul take over our greetings and goodbyes, and I even fought with him several times. These weren’t just argumentative fights, these were screaming matches in the hallway and in class, the kind that makes people stop and stare. If you know anything about me, I never get that angry, especially in public. I remember my mom driving me home from school on the first day we had a yelling-in-your-face kind of fight and I was telling her all about it. I began to cry. All I could think about was the fact that he would probably never forgive me, as he is very stubborn. I just lost the only real friend that I had. After several days and class periods we shared not speaking to one another, he apologized to me. Sitting in orchestra, we were listening to a recording of a sad song we were soon to play at our next concert. Something in him felt the need to apologize. Miraculously, we looked at each other at the same time from across the room and he mouthed the words “I’m sorry” to me. Should I forgive him? My stubborn mind wanted to roll my eyes at him but my heart spoke louder. “I’m sorry too” I mouthed back to him. We ran into several of these throughout the course of our friendship and we didn’t always forgive each other. There came a time where I didn’t see him for several months. I didn’t know where he was, but I had heard rumors. Of course I didn’t believe any of them. I had a panic attack one night because I could only think the worst. I thought about him every day. Something was telling me he’d come back so I didn’t give up on him.

May 5th, 2018. I was standing in the entry way of a Mexican restaurant when I hear, “Caroline!” from across the bar. It was him. He walked toward me and my stomach dropped. He was grown. We hugged for a good 2 minutes before letting go, grabbing the attention of everyone in the lobby. I was shaking and almost in tears. Nothing else mattered in that moment. He grabbed my hand and took me outside and told me that he’s okay and he quickly summarized the shit that he went through. I showed him pictures of me at prom just the week before. He then hugged me again, holding my head into his shoulder and he said to me, “God you’re beautiful. I missed you so much. You have no idea.” My heart had never been so full. I knew God tested us for a reason. After that night, I hadn’t talked to him for several more months until September. Ever since then, we’ve been inseparable. We have a tattoo of a dot on our pinkies to symbolize our friendship. We FaceTime every night. We apologized for all the petty fights we had in high school and tell each other that we can’t stand the thought of getting mad like that again. This was true friendship to me. I’ve come to this realization that this is why he came into my life. To stay. And that’s okay, I guess.

Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It is not rude, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres. – 1 Corinthians 13:4–7

This morning I was looking at the pictures hanging in my dorm of my family, friends, and other significant people in my life. I always grin when I see them because I am reminded of my home, my happiness, and my comfort. But when I saw them this morning, I specifically focused on how I appeared in all of them. For some strange reason, I saw a different girl in each picture, yet she looked similar to the last. She was real in all of the most refreshing ways yet there was a false vibe to the picture itself. In one picture, she’s wearing a beautiful purple prom dress, and in another she’s wearing a floral print off-the-shoulder top, and in another she’s in a sweatshirt on FaceTime with her best friend. Who was she really? There has been a constant struggle between the girl I see in pictures and the one writing this blog. The one in the pictures is changing and growing into a person that gives the one writing this blog a feeling of uneasiness. The little girl writing this blog wants to pull her back and ask the other if she remembers her and if she’ll take care of her and the one in pictures says “Of course I’ll take care of you, but only behind closed doors.” This was something I didn’t understand about myself for a long time. Why would I tell myself I’ll be there but then hop on FaceTime or do my hair and makeup and put on a pretty dress and act a fool? I wanted a consistent identity. I wanted to be myself at all times and not feel sorry. To be honest, I missed the girl I knew before. I wanted to pull her into those pictures but I didn’t know how. It began to bother me so bad that I started to invite her to hang out with me. I spent a lot of time alone listening to music or writing and I found that when I wrote, she spoke through my words. I loved her. People that I knew could tell I wasn’t how they knew me before and some of them left me but I came to a conclusion- they weren’t meant to be in my life if they can’t accept me. The ones that stayed were the real friends I had, the ones that still stay by my side to this day, even though we’re 123 miles apart. Tonight as I look at my pictures once again, I see her. I see the same girl in every picture, and she’s beautiful in every setting.

Do not be conformed to this world, but be transformed by the renewal of your mind, that by testing you may discern what is the will of God, what is good and acceptable and perfect. – Romans 12:2