December 30, 2010

2,010 Reasons Why I Loved 2010.......... Juuust Kidding!

Dear Mom,

This December was filled with highs and lows, but the year as a whole was one of the best I've had in a while. I feel like I am in a good place right now, and 2010 has helped to get me there. Although I may not be as close in proximity to our family as I would like to be or be employed in the journalism field quite yet, those are all things that can be improved on over time. At least I have a house and a job, period, so I'll continue to count my blessings.

I can't possibly write a good ol' blog post without including one of my infamous lists, so let's countdown the highlights of the wonderful year that 2010 turned out to be:

10. Obviously, winning that international traveling grant back in May and getting the once in a lifetime opportunity to travel abroad for two weeks starting next Tuesday.

9. My first father/daughter dance with Dad at my sorority formal last spring :-)

8. Graduating from college! Not even those penny-sized blisters on my little toes could ruin that day (plus, those yellow shoes were darn cute and so worth the pain!).

7. I held a baby for the first time (I know, I know! I'm in my 20s and had never held a baby. They're just so small and fidgety and fragile and scary!... I'm weird). I couldn't believe one of my oldest childhood friends was going to have a baby-- AND, she was born on your birthday!

6. I started my blog, and I'm so thankful for that. I have found a little safe haven where I can release all my happiness and/or frustration whenever I wish, a new group of blog friends who understand and support me, and a new sense of self altogether.

5. My relationship with John is better than it's ever been-- not that it's ever been bad or anything, but I just feel like we are closer now. I look around at so many relationships that consist of a beer in one hand and a bar tab in the other, and I feel so blessed that we are more than that. We find joy in going to a Tuesday night movie when the theater's empty, coming up with something new to cook for dinner, or picking up coffees and heading to the park. It's the little things that make a relationship hugely successful, and I am lucky to have found that.

4. My wishy-washy friends have weeded themselves out of my life. Normally, this would be a bad thing to me that I was unable to stay close with literally every person I have ever met, but it has almost been a relief that I no longer find this to be a necessity. Last year I would've been devastated if someone I once considered a close friend all of a sudden stopped wishing me a happy birthday or even ceased conversing with me at all. Honestly, I feel happier focusing on a smaller group of friends. I feel more fulfilled at the end of the day by my true friendships, and I think that's what's most important.

3. I didn't lose anyone significant this year nor get news that someone close to me was sick with cancer. I know this won't always be the case as I get older, so I am enjoying it while I can.

2. I have started getting closer with my relatives on your side of the family. A few people in particular have been making such a sincere effort to improve our relationship by reading my blog, writing e-mails, and sending cards in the mail. I even received a message from my cousin telling me how much she looks up to and admires me for my strength, writing talent, and drivenness. It was so sweet.

1. Our happy memories have begun to outplay the sad ones that overwhelmed me after your death. I am able to talk about you more openly, and it doesn't feel awkward or like I'm making the other person uncomfortable. Sharing memories of our life together feels normal and has made me realize that you will continue to live on inside me and all the people whose lives you've touched.

I'm not sure if 2011 can top this, but I am starting it off in Belize on Tuesday, so it's looking pretty good. Now go grab a party hat, an annoying kazzoo, and a festive glittery set of angel wings, and let the real countdown begin!

Happy New Year!


December 28, 2010

I Can Hardly Belize It!

Dear Mom,

Two letters in one day, you lucky little lady you.

Before the day is done, I wanted to say that today I am being featured on the homepage of YouTube! I created a preview video for my upcoming international documentary (which I had to edit and redo completely three times, hence some additional stress on my shoulders this month).

If you have been keeping up with any of my friends' comments on recent posts, then the cats out of the bag: I'M GOING TO BELIZE! I leave exactly one week from today. Hooray for two weeks of warm weather, great company, and following my dreams!

I will be reporting on maternal health issues after learning that each year over 300,000 women around the world die during childbirth. That's one woman every 90 seconds. I have experienced firsthand what it's like to lose a mother, but I could not imagine, even for a minute, never knowing you at all. So it's time to bring awareness to this issue, especially because most of these deaths are preventable.

It's finally hitting me that I'm about to embark on the experience of a lifetime, and I'm so excited! I'm very proud of myself; I can only imagine how you, as my mother, are feeling! That must've been why the sun came out today... because you're beaming!

I love you,

Honesty is the Best Policy

Dear Mom,

The storm has passed-- both outside my house and inside my heart. At last! Writing has become my greatest form of therapy and release. Sometimes the hardest part is just getting the courage to write down what I'm really thinking, while other times what's difficult is reading it through after I've written and posted it.

I have written about this before, but it's still something I struggle with some days. When I look back over some of my word choices and topic ideas, I can't help but think, "Ohh Samantha Ann... once you log onto do you immediately forget that other people are going to actually read this?!" You don't know how many times I want to hit the edit button and change something I've said into something else a little less cynical and a little more composed. I mean, in the real world, I am a quiet, pearl-earring wearing, please-and-thank you saying young lady who smiles at strangers in the grocery store just because if they smile back that means that, for even two seconds, they were happy that day. That is the person my relatives and friends typically see... would they respect and love me as much if they knew that, some days, that's only a facade?

I look at some of posts and think, who hacked into my account?! But, it's just me being honest, and I can't be ashamed of the person that grief, even in the smallest ways, has altered me into. If I edit my words and erase my most vulnerable thoughts, that's when I stop being real... and that's when my blog loses its purpose of helping others and healing myself. Once I start censoring myself, this becomes just another one of those warm and fuzzy books about how someday you'll overcome your grief and let go. The truth is, I'm not sure you ever overcome grief, it more or less just becomes a part of who you are and seems more manageable in time. So, I'll just continue being me, and pray that as my friends and family slowly come across my blog over time, that they will still think highly of me despite my weaknesses that I often try to shield from the world.

Thanks for loving me unconditionally,

December 27, 2010

A Scrambled, Grief-Filled Ramble

Dear Mom,

Here I am again. My 11 day hiatus is over. It wasn't intentional, but I just needed a break... a week or so to clear my head. December has been tough on me this year.

My roommates are all in college, so they have gone home for a monthlong winter break. Since I no longer get a winter break now that I'm a member of this wonderful working world, I've been very, very lonely. Sure, I see John a few times a week, but this month is the first time my four roommates have all been gone, and I have had to fall asleep alone in a huge, empty house.

I may have the intellectuality of a 40-year-old at times, but I also have the fear tolerance of a toddler. How in the world am I STILL afraid of the dark?! I sleep with my TV on for light and my fan blasting to drown out the scary creaking and clicking of the heater throughout the night. In my defense, there were over 100 car break-ins around my neighborhood last year... so what's stopping them from trying their luck with a house instead? There's only one car in the driveway with a girly sorority sticker on the back windshield. If that doesn't scream, "one helpless girl lives here, so help yourself to my electronics!", then I don't know what does. Ugh. Oh, and in case you're reading this robbers, I have MACE... and my strength somehow quadruples when I'm in defense-mode... so... watch it.

I think the bottom line is that, simply, I'm not a fan of change. I do love the peace and quiet, but I miss the comfort of having a friend in the next room to talk to when I need a laugh. I miss being able to visit Dad for more than a night or two. I miss when my birthday and Christmas were something to look forward to. I miss the days when I had so many more reasons to smile than to cry.

Over the past 24 hours we have had the biggest snowstorm we have had in years. I had to get a ride into work this morning because my car was buried up to my thighs. A storm like this used to mean one thing... SNOW DAY! Well, that's not the case anymore. We were let out of work early because the blizzard was only getting worse, which was awesome because that meant I got to pour a big glass of wine and watch a movie! Oh wait, just kidding. That meant I got to shovel my entire driveway by myself. After 45 minutes of intense sweating (with my new chem-free deodorant that does NOT work, mind you) and creating the same noises that I make fun of tennis players for belting out on TV, I was getting absolutely nowhere. Again, my childlike tendencies came out in full force, and I dropped to my knees in a snowbank three times my size, and cried. When did I sign up for this adult life? When did snow stop being beautiful? And when did crying start being my answer for everything?

I'm tired of feeling sad. Tired of falling asleep scared. Tired of spending 40 hours a week at an office filled with people who gawk at my butt more than they do at my hard work. Tired of ABC thinking it's okay to not play a new episode of Grey's Anatomy for an entire month. Tired of knowing I can make it through an important day without you, but a meltdown is soon to follow on any given day.

I'm just. freaking. tired. And feeling annoyingly melodramatic!

And for the record, anyone who thinks that this is the most wonderful time of the year, clearly, has not been thrown through the wringer of grief and hung out to dry under a raincloud.

Alright. I feel better now. Kind of. Maybe because I just ate an entire box of macaroni and cheese for dinner... woops! I guess they call it comfort food for a reason.

Tomorrow will be better... I can feel it.

Miss you,

P.S. someone plowed my driveway. Are things looking up that quickly?!

December 16, 2010


Dear Mom,

Your little girl is 23 today! I'm fairly certain that this wonderful "oopsie baby" of yours is the best surprise you and Dad ever had! HA. Happy birthday to me!


December 14, 2010

Don't Sweat It

Dear Mom,

The lump in my armpit is NOT cancerous! I'd throw my hands up in the air and raise the roof all around town if my arm wasn't so sore. Thank God I'm okay. I can handle this aching on the left side of my bod as long as it's not cancer that's putting it there. Relief is an understatement for what I'm feeling.

The doctor looked at me like I had 10 heads when I told him my concerns. Why on Earth would a 22-year-old think she has cancer? Well, for one, because that is not as uncommon as one may think, and two, because losing a mother at 19 may make someone a bit worrisome. Once I explained, he understood completely, and I felt like less of an idiot.

It turns out my deodorant contains too much aluminum and creates a type of barrier on my skin after I shave (if only I lived in France, then I wouldn't have this shaving issue!). Often times, the hair pushes through it, but then there are those unforunate few that aren't strong enough. Instead, they pretty much rebelled and decided to punish me and my choice of deordorant by growing inside my body instead. This creates a feeling of a lump in the armpit which, according to the doctor, is sending a lot of girls my age to his office lately.

A $5 antibiotic and a new chem-free deodorant from the Natural Living Center (can you believe that I couldn't find a single aluminum-free antiperspirant at Wal-Mart?!) should have me back to perfect health within 10 days. If not, I'll have to have a minor surgery to drain the area and rid me of the pain, but he thinks I should be fine without it getting to that point.

Tonight I will be throwing out all my deodorant containing aluminum based compounds (a.k.a. all of them except this new organic one sitting in a paper bag next to me). The FDA claims there is currently no link between deodorant and breast cancer, but I've already had one scare too many and would rather not wait for them to find one. However, some studies do link it to other diseases such as Alzheimer's, like your mom has. I mean, I'd love to forget about all the hard times I have faced in the past three years, but that disease is not a selective one, and I'd end up losing old memories of you too. Sorry Dove deodorant... nice knowing you!

John said today was a "blessing in disguise", and I think he's right. From now on, chances are I may be walking around with sweat stains down to my waist, but I'll take it and wear them with pride... like Fergie.

I love you,

A Lump in the Road

Dear Mom,

I've been having an aching feeling in my armpit for the past few days. I figured I pulled a muscle or strained it somehow... until I found a lump while I was in the shower this morning. I immediately started bawling and called our doctor (I still go to the same doctor that found your cancer even though I have moved 2.5 hours away... I trust her, and she just gets me and my obsessive worry over my health). She is out today, but her assistant recommended I go to an Urgent Care clinic in my area as soon as possible. I am leaving in a few minutes.

Dad and Gisele tried to reassure me that it's probably just a random swollen lymph node that's causing me pain, but all I can think is cancer. Plus, I'm going to my appointment alone. Isn't that how it works? No one comes with you to your appointment because there's no way anything like that could happen to you, and that's the day your life changes.

Please don't let it be cancer. Please, please, please.


December 10, 2010

The Grief, the Bad, and the Ugly

Dear Mom,

If I have learned anything about grieving, it is that it is completely unpredictable. Please do me a favor and find Elizabeth Kubler-Ross up there, introduce yourself, explain our situation, and inform her that your daughter believes her "5 Stages of Grief" are a big load of crap. Everyone grieves differently: in different orders; at different times; in different ways.

I'll cut her a little bit of slack because she did make a decent attempt at outlining the grieving process (denial, anger, bargaining, depression acceptance). My issue with it is more or less what she named it. Only five stages of grief would be too easy! There are so many other intense emotions that come into play and are worth mentioning. The five stages she named are what is left only after kidnapping grief, skinning it, plucking out its organs, and completely removing all its tendons-- it's just the bare bones.

My stages of grief have gone a little something like this:

First, there was denial. Massive, massive amounts of denial. I thought it was just positive thinking until one night when I was sitting in my car in the Wal-Mart parking lot about to head inside when I got a call from Tom. He told me that he and Dad thought I was living in a world of denial, and that I didn't realize how sick you had become (and how bad things were about to get...). Even when you told us you were dying, I don't think it really set in until Dad explained to me just how little time you had left.

Then, as Elizabeth predicted, I became angry. I was angry at the doctors for not healing you; angry at the Hospice nurse for sucking at her job; angry at some of our relatives for actually showing up for a change and taking up the time you could have been spending with me; angry at God for not keeping you alive. The list goes on and on, but I'll spare you.

I skipped right over the bargaining stage. Like I said, I was angry with God, so the last thing I thought to do was to beg Him to let you live when He never answered my prayers for the past two years to begin with. I can't even bargain with the guy in the carpet section at Marden's (but John got me a good deal at least), so I definitely wasn't about to try it with the Big Man. So, Elizabeth definitely missed the mark with that one.

This is where I would add in a stage of my own: the 'I'm completely in shock walking around like a zombie' stage. This stage took place immediately after your death and lasted long after your funeral for probably another week. Then, it was a sudden feeling of deep helplessness. I wouldn't label this as 'depression' necessarily. It was more like an intense, unrelenting feeling of mourning; just that pure, doubled over, sobfest kind of mourning when you only stop crying long enough to dry heave over the toilet bowl. For this reason, I kind of like Elizabeth's model better. I'd take bargaining any day over helplessness.

About a month later, I woke up to find my new BFF, Depression, in bed with me after a long night of hysterical crying to the point of almost passing out. She let me believe it was okay to lay in bed all day and not go to class; that it was normal to lose the will to live as long as you weren't going to actually kill yourself; that it was perfectly fine to just close the curtains, hide under the covers in your old sweatpants, and just rot away; that anything would feel better than this.

Fortunately, Depression overstayed her welcome within about 24 hours when I realized she wasn't good company to keep and that you would want more for me. With the help of a grief counselor on campus, I did the one thing I enjoy the most: I talked about you. For one hour a week, from January to May, I talked about you to a complete stranger... and it helped. It helped A LOT. But it didn't lead me straight to acceptance like Elizabeth said it would. It led me to a period of just simply coping and trying to get through a day without the pain of losing you knocking the wind out of me like clockwork.

I went through stages of confusion, anger, and guilt (to name a few) before I felt like I had truly found my way to acceptance. Then I lingered between guilt, coping, and acceptance for many more months. It was a vicious cycle that took many years to control (and clearly, I should use the term "control" quite loosely after Wednesday night's escapades).

Now, here I am in what Elizabeth calls the 'acceptance' stage. I'm baffled that this is where she chose to end her theory... like we just eventually accept our loss and magically the downpours stop, the clouds disappear, and goodlooking men, puppies, and chocolate bars fall from the sky to make everything okay again. Well... *SPOILER ALERT*... that is not real life! I can safely say that I don't think I will ever just wake up one day and say to myself, "Well, self, you know what? I'm just going to accept that my mom is dead and move on today. Yep. That's it. Phew! Glad that's over!"

Please, try to avoid bursting out laughing like I did while reading the way in which 'acceptance' is described: "The person simply accepts the reality of the loss." Well that is odd because I'm 99% sure there is absolutely NOTHING simple about what I have gone through in the past three years. Didn't someone read that before it was published? I mean, correct me if I'm wrong, but you'd think someone would look at that sentence and say, "Yeah... we might want to reword that a bit."

Obviously that wasn't the case, so allow me: If there is another Sami out there reading this right now-- whether she's 22 or 72, or not even a 'she' at all-- I want that person to know that there is no right way to grieve. There is no guide book to purchase or roadmap to follow when you have lost your way.

So how do you find it again?

If there was a right answer to that question, I probably would never have started this blog. Whether a person copes by talking to a therapist, crying to release the pain, or collapsing on the bathroom floor telling her roommate she doesn't know how to carry on, it is so unbelievably important to remember one thing: it won't last forever. Nothing ever does.

If you don't follow Elizabeth's model exactly, or you're going through 12 stages instead of five, or you make all the progress in the world and in an instant slip right back to the start: don't panic. Sometimes you just have to sit back, be patient, and wait for a brighter day to come.

I promise you, it will.


December 9, 2010

The Calm After the Storm

Dear Mom,

If it weren't for my swollen eyes staring back at me in the mirror, the damp tissues crumpled up in the pocket of my sweatshirt, and seeing my heartache in writing when I logged on here this morning, I would be convinced that last night was just a terrible, terrible nightmare. I can't remember the last time I broke down like that... uncontrollable sobs; unable to catch my breathe; lightheadedness; the inevitable migraine that finishes me off and finally forces me to sleep. The fact that I can still have those feelings scares me. It makes me panic. Are these feelings here to stay again? How many more nights in my life are going to get this bad? Am I going to wake up tomorrow and not want to get out of bed like that morning three years ago?

Well, I did get out of bed today. I came to work. I smiled and nodded at my co-workers' stories. I made the flyers for our annual employee holiday party. I called my doctor to get malaria pills for my international trip. I cancelled my missing debit card. The sun came up this morning, and I carried on. I feel a little empty still, but I know it will pass, and the love you gave me for 19 years will be enough to fill me up again.

I was surprised that my first thought this morning wasn't about how hysterical I became or how I sat in the bathroom crying to my roommate until 1:30am. Instead, it was: I can't believe I blogged about this. I felt mortified. It was like I was drunk off my grief and could hardly remember writing it. I guess today could best be described as the hangover, and I'm left trying to piece it all together.

I think my embarrassment stemmed from the realization that I just let my guard down and wrote in the heat of the moment. It wasn't thought out. It didn't sit in my inbox for days to be read over, edited, or rewritten. It wasn't witty, and it certainly didn't provide hope like I often times try to sneak into my posts. It was a grim reality check that not every day is better than the one before. It was just real. It was me. And you know what? I don't smile every day. I don't do cartwheels out of my bed each morning in anticaption for a fan-freaking-tastic day. The truth is, some nights I curl up into a ball hugging the teddy bear you gave me in order to fall asleep. I am one of five people in the US that won that video contest, yet I have moments when I still doubt my talents. I'm 120 pounds, and some days I look around at my friends and celebrities on TV and think I'm overweight. Sometimes I do all I can just to make it through the day in one piece. I'm only human.

Grieving makes me feel like I'm in a wrestling ring getting my butt kicked to no avail. I'm completely unable to tap out and catch my breath. It's like one second I'm standing up on my own two feet, and then, BAM; one swift kick to the gut, and I'm flat on my back wondering if this pain will ever cease. I look out and see friends cheering me on and supporting me, but there's nothing they can do to help me. It's a battle I'm fighting all on my own, and I don't know how it's going to end.

Is this what cancer feels like?

I miss you,


Dear Mom,

I can't sleep. The only thing I can do right now is cry. And miss you. And wish I could call you or walk downstairs and curl up next to you and vent about my friends, and my job, and losing my debit card at the mall tonight, and John's new work schedule that hardly leaves us any time together, and not feeling prepared for my international trip in 3.5 weeks. A wave of grief is crashing down on me, and I can't stay afloat. I feel helpless.

I may not have cried last week, but I knew these tears would come eventually.

I wish grief was a class I could drop or a team I could quit. I'm just so tired of living without you. It's too hard.

Please come back to me,

December 2, 2010

Three Years, No Tears (Yet!)

Dear Mom,

Not only am I making it through this day, but I'm actually enjoying it. Yes, you read correctly, I'm enjoying your third Angel-versary (as a friend of mine calls it). I thought these feelings on this day would never come. I'm not staring at the clock reflecting what I was doing at this moment three years ago. Instead, I'm remembering our happy times together; your smile; your laugh; your long nails running through my hair on your lap after I'd had a stressful day; our shopping trips; our pizza date and hotel sleepover when you visited me at college; the warmth of your hugs. We had a blessed life together.

I woke up to a wonderful e-mail and a card on the table from two of my best friends from college this morning, which got my day off to a perfect start. Since then, I have received dozens of text messages and logged on to my Facebook account to find 40+ people recognizing how special we are to them. We are loved by so many.

Regardless of all the attention, I just woke up feeling good today. I didn't have to fake it. I was all worked up for nothing yesterday (although there are still 9 more hours left for this day to turn itself upsidedown, but still I'm trying to think positive). An unknown author sums up the feelings I have today better than I can for a change:

Your Mother is Always with You

She’s the whisper of the leaves as you walk down the street.
She’s the smell of bleach in your freshly laundered socks.
She’s the cool hand on your brow when you’re not well.
Your mother lives inside your laughter.
She’s crystallized in every tear drop.
She’s the place you came from; your first home.
She’s the map you follow with every step you take.
She’s your first love; your first heartbreak...
And nothing on Earth can separate you.
Not time, not space, not even death
will ever separate you from your mother.
You carry her inside of you.
-Author Unknown

Some days I miss you so much I am inconsolable, but then there are other days, like today, when I wonder how in the world I could miss you when you've never even really left me at all.

A few days before you died, you held my hand, looked me in the eyes, and promised me that not even death can break the bond we share.

You've never been more right.

I love you, Mom.


December 1, 2010

365 x 3 = Way Too Many Days Without You

Dear Mom,

I’ve been having a bit of blogger’s block for some reason. I might be a little uneasy that tomorrow marks the beginning of another year I’ll be spending without you. I’m anxious to see how I’ll handle it; it’s been different each year before.

I went to bed December 1, 2008 confused as to why everyone said the first year mark is the hardest day. Well, when I woke up, I was no longer confused. I was miserable. I didn’t go to class; I didn’t even get out of my PJs or leave my couch. I was sobbing all day. In my mind I relived the horror film my life had been just one year prior.

8AM- Exactly one year since your family started coming over to say their goodbyes while you were in a medically induced coma in our living room.

10AM- Exactly one year since I was combing through your thinned out hair with my fingers whispering to you that it was okay to let go.

11AM- Exactly one year since the hospice nurse left our house because she thought you still ‘had more time’.

11:45AM- Exactly one year since I went upstairs to take a nap, and Tom ran up to tell me your breathing had slowed significantly.

12:02PM- Exactly one year since you took your last breath.

12:30PM- Exactly one year since I sat on our front steps hysterically calling my closest friends.

1:00PM- Exactly one year since the hearse pulled into our driveway.

2:00PM- Exactly one year since our last visitor left and the three of us sat at the kitchen table, without you, wondering what to do with ourselves; wondering how we would make it through the night; wondering if this pain would be enough to literally kill us.

This played over and over in my head like a record that I never wanted to hear once, let alone on repeat. Luckily, my best friend came over to snap me out of this tragic trance later in the day. I was so grateful to her; I am still.

On a lighter note, let’s fast forward 365 days to year #2.

I was living in my sorority house with 24 of my wonderful friends (whom we refer to as ‘sisters’, but I didn’t want you thinking dad has 2 dozen illegitimate little nuggets roaming the University of Maine campus). I was the New Member Educator of my sorority. In other words, I was like a teacher and mentor to the new, incoming pledge classes for two semesters. I taught them the sorority’s history and traditions every Sunday night in a classroom in the top floor of our house. I also helped them with their personal issues with roommates, school, boyfriends, stress, etc. outside of the sorority.

In return, my fall 2009 pledge class is one of the main reasons I didn’t have another breakdown when December 2 inevitably rolled around again. Throughout that semester they made me feel appreciated, respected, needed, and more importantly, loved. They went so far out of their ways to write me thoughtful notes, get me little gifts, and show me that I was someone worth looking up to every single day. I started feeling like a mom myself for crying out loud, but I enjoyed every second.

This particular group of 15 girls decided to throw the sisterhood our annual Christmas Party on the night of December 2 that year. All day my friends handed me letters of encouragement and love, and some even brought me flowers. I was too busy smiling to even shed a tear. My love for you was something that others admired, and they weren’t afraid to tell me that. It was refreshing.

When it was finally time for the Christmas party, we ate food, exchanged gifts, and enjoyed each other’s company. One of the girls in the pledge class got everyone to settle down, and she began to talk about how they had been working to raise money. I assumed it was for our philanthropy, the Make-A-Wish Foundation, but I was wrong. She announced that they had raised money for the American Cancer Society in honor of you. When she hugged me and handed me the certificate with your name on it, I cried for the first time that day. My tears told a story of pride; you’re still making a difference, but now, it’s just through me.

I don’t exactly know how tomorrow will go for me. I could crumble right back down to square one, or it could be just another stepping stone like last year. I won’t know until I’m living it. I do know that God won’t throw me anything I can’t handle, and I’m going to be okay... but somehow that doesn’t really make it any more bearable.

Is it December 3rd yet?

I miss you terribly,