My Story

I'm starting a new journal. Not because I feel the need to start over fresh, escaping themes and preoccupations plaguing the present one, but because said present one is full. Cover to cover. It's a remarkable tome of two very eventful years. And not just hormone-induced "oh, she's a girl" eventful. There's some heavy stuff in there. Fear, death, heartache, anxiety. With joy, risk-taking, fearlessness, infatuation and optimism rounding it out. Some of it almost reads as fiction. I am not the Nadine of 2007. For this, I am thankful. I am moving forward.

Maybe I'll quote from it one day. In short cryptic doses.

I'm hesitant to write the first entry in the new one. I don't know what to say. I feel as though there should be something significant going on in my life or my head before I start to scribble. I don't want the first page to be boring.

I don't want my life to be boring.

I recently discovered Donald Miller. I know, I'm a little slow. And I think I love him. I want to hike up a mountain with him and tell him all my secrets. And then we can sip wine and talk about story and why I desire an epic tale of my own. I crave memorable scenes. Strong characters. I want to be able to define what I want and then pursue it passionately. I want to sacrifice. I want my story to make me a stronger woman in the end. I want my life to read as a redemptive and meaningful narrative.

And as Don and I walk down the mountain, he'll tell me how to get a book deal.

Journals: 1999 - 2001

It had been a good long while since I'd cracked open an old journal. But now that I'm back in writing mode, I'm suddenly inspired by the frustrations and infatuations of the teenage me. Yep, I'm my own research.

For the sake of my own dignity (and the privacy of the unaware), I won't publish the journal entries about the "perfect" young man who knew how to iron and who hated processed cheese. My standards were hilarious when I was 16.

I could so easily write a book on how the lives of teenagers are not unseen episodes of Saved By the Bell.

~ June 4, 1999

Most awkward sentence ever:

I should probably be feeling violated or something, but I feel pretty.

~June 4, 2001

I could have been a rock star at 18. But I said no.

Not many people are stopped in a RadioShack and asked to record with a bunch of strangers. Yep, God has the most awesome plan for my life. It felt like tonight he confirmed that.

~June 15, 2001

Brains are still sexy.

He creeps me out. He's all muscles. (I mean, instead of having a brain.)

~June 24, 2001

One Year Later

Yesterday, my family gathered at Foster Memorial Cemetery for some general gardening/reminiscing. 

And then I went to an amazing worship service (filled with some of the greatest guitar solos I've ever heard) and sang "Better Is One Day." The morning after Grandma died, I sat at her piano and played that very song. 

A year ago today, my grandmother died. I still don't know how to talk about the grieving process, mostly because it's been so surreal. There's a real freedom that comes from watching someone die, looking directly at death only to see life. The first weekend of June, 2008, was probably one of the most significant in my adult life. (For multiple reasons, only some of which are bloggable.) It was a giant learning curve. Life, death, beauty, fear-turned-fearlessness. It was all there.

In looking back, I reread my journal from last year. And I'll share little pieces of it with you. 'Cause you're all family.

I want to die like that.

...

Yesterday, I understood, perhaps for the first time, "the peace that passes understanding." Because death shouldn't be so beautiful. But it was. 

...

It's like the very moment her spirit left this earth, my own fears dissolved away. The absolute assurance of her faith somehow seeped into my restless spirit.

~journal excerpts, 2008

I miss you, Grandma. But I can't wish you were here. No moment of mortal life is worth exchanging for what you have now.

Grandma-related posts from '08:

Jean

Love Lessons

300 (Scroll down. The Beth Moore quote still moves me.)

Moms Have Birthdays Too

Happy Birthday, Grandma

Dating Thoughts From 11-Year-Old Me

I used to write every journal entry as a letter to God. And apparently, at 11, I spent considerable amounts of time trying to make sense of romance.

And yes, I set my own dating rules. I actually remember telling my parents I didn't want to date until I was 16. I think something was wrong with me.

I was the oldest 11-year-old EVER.

God,

You know about everything in my life at home and at school. You've also seen what the Gr. 7 girls do all recess. Hug their "so-called" boyfriends. I think it's awful. They don't even know the guy very much, but if they think he's cute and he likes her, SNAP, they're so close you have to pry them away from each other.

I'm not even going to think about dating before I'm sixteen. I want to have a longer childhood, stay away from the pressures of being a virgin, and when I start dating, I'm sure I'll be ready for the pressures and stand strong because I have you. Please help me stay away from the world's view of dating and sex.

~Journal: Nadine, 11 years old

I love that I wrote "SNAP." I was cooler than I thought.

If I ever have a daughter, I hope she's a bit like the young me: a thoughtful, nerdy, boy-free journaler. (But I hope she doesn't wear tapered royal-blue corduroy pants with a pink-and-purple Mickey Mouse sweatshirt. Or threaten to divorce her brothers.)

Journals: The Disclaimers

Multiple journals. Few themes. Many acknowledgments of phantom readers.

July 31, 2001

I know I'm beginning to sound over-dramatic and superficial, but....


Sept 26, 2001

I know I must be sounding redundant....


Oct 14. 2001

Okay, if anyone ever reads this, I'm apologizing now for the complete infatuative babble that is going to occur on the next pages. Very sorry.


Dec 29, 2001

Alright, so on reading through this journal, I've noticed, quite embarrassingly, that....


Nov 2, 2002

I've decided to return to this journal because I think the frustrating confusion I am experiencing right now links to many of the pages in this book. Thematic organization, I suppose.


Apr 4, 2003

I feel as though I need to begin a new journal.

The word "infatuative" should catch on any day now.

[Don't] Call Me

Because girls are confusing.

I’ve never wanted the phone to not ring as much as I do right now. I’m concentrating all of my block-the-airwaves energy toward that annoying piece of metal and plastic on my kitchen table, willing it to remain silent. Lulling it into a coma. I could just turn it off, but then I risk the dreaded voicemail message and subsequent responsibility of returning the phone call. Which I do not want to do.

Maybe I should call someone. Anyone but him. And then he’ll get a busy signal. A hint that I have a life outside of him. That I’m not even thinking of him. Even though, of course, the entire phone-occupying conversation will exist because of him. Because I do not want to hear his voice.

~Nadine, running away, even older journal

Call Me

Once upon a time....

She’s tired. She spends her evenings staring at the ceiling. Part of her wants to sleep. The other part, the part that is winning this battle, just wants him to call. And even though every logical fiber within her knows that he would never call in the middle of the night, she still stares straight ahead, wondering what it will be like when he finally does.

And miles away, he sleeps soundly.

~Nadine, writing in third person, old journal

Honest to Blog

Sometimes I forget that this is a blog, not a personal journal. So I'll begin to type something a little too personal. And then I won't post it. Because in the end, self-censorship always wins.

I was skimming through drafts of things not published, and found this. It's not really a post. It's more of a quick email I sent to myself one day over a year ago when I couldn't focus, write coherently, or articulate the chaos in my head.

Do I still remember the context of the melodrama? In the words of Tina Fey as Sarah Palin, "You betcha." Will I elaborate? Maybe in my memoir.

I am slowly going crazy. For a different reason than usual. For a rather fun reason, but maddening all the same. And I can't blog about it. So I won't. It's not that I've sworn to secrecy. There is no threat of harm to myself or any other. But I still can't. You would understand if you were me. And if you were me, you'd also be going mad.

And will I ever tell you? Maybe. But don't hold your breath.

Oh, the secrets we keep.

[Insert self-incriminating material]

And later....

I suppose any detective worth his salt could figure out what I'm not blogging about through the things that I am. The art of omission or something. I'm so stupidly open book. Sheesh. I feel like I give myself away too easily. Not enough mystery. I shall try to be more elusive. Maybe I'll start wearing a veil. And get a cigarette holder.

And now that I've planted bizarre clues of nothingness in your brains, you may speculate to your hearts' delights as to what my head is going through. And you will be wrong.

The madness continues. Although in one small moment, my descent into insanity took a strange twist, and I am now pulled in two different directions. Straitjacket or padded walls?

~ October 17th, 2007

No wonder girls are accused of being confusing. I confuse myself.

At Least I Was Honest

Another old journal entry, another melodramatic moment in the history of Nadine.

I wish I could redo today. I wish I wasn't in the position to wish. I wish I cared more about the world around me, about the friends who are suffering, dying.

But I don't. Today, I just care about my hair and how it makes my face look fat.

~Nadine. Old Journal. Bad Day.

(I'm not sure what "the position to wish" means. But it sounds intense.)

"What the world needs now...

...is blog, sweet blog."

Okay, so my blogging has been a little sporadic and random as of late. But I'm not sure how to catch up (or if I should even try). Life is busy and good and sometimes a little overwhelming. The end. Actually, no. Not the end. That would be sad.

So I'll just continue with the randomness. But a little more personal and less Paul Newman-y. Not that there's anything wrong with that.


Debate

I watched tonight's debate while doing Pilates on my living-room floor. I figured that this would guarantee that the time invested would be worthwhile. Even if the platforms aren't solid, my abs will be. Ha.

And no, I didn't flip to Palin. I figure the highlights will be all over YouTube in the morning. By "highlights," I mean "hilarity."

Sleep

Apparently, despite 25 years of sleeping experience, I still don't know how to successfully get some comfortable shuteye. I woke up with an almost crippling neck pain today. I think I pulled a muscle in my sleep. Is this possible?

I need a roommate. One who happens to be a masseuse.


Journals

I have a stack of old journals sitting on my must-be-in-love-to-squeeze-onto-it couch (it's super-tiny). I often quote them here. Because my younger self fascinates me.

There are a few things quite hilarious/tragic/telling in them:

• Certain events inspire journaling. So all entries are tied thematically. In fact, if you didn't notice that entries are often months apart, you'd think that I spend all day, every day, feeling the same thing, obsessing about the same situation. Or one of three recurring situations.
  
• I am loyal. Ridiculously so. It appears that one crush lasted three years. Probably not healthy. But I was young. And it kept me out of trouble.
• I apologize in them. As if my entries are actually being written to someone. There are disclaimers, justifications, excuses and such.
  
• Melodrama, folks. I could adapt them into a teen series for the WB network.
• I had opinions about sex when I was 11. Yes, 11.
  
• Eventually, journal entries turned into prayers. Or at least conversation with God. But it would take six pages of babbling before I let myself recognize that He's reading.
• I wish I could talk to my 16-year-old self. I would tell her she's beautiful. I don't know if she'd listen.
• Some childhood dreams were not left behind with childhood.
• I didn't always tell the whole truth. Some things I just couldn't let myself put on paper. Because then they'd be true. Or I'd be held accountable to my words.

My Apologies

On Tuesday night, I apologized for not being a smoker and for not being a lesbian. Which is perhaps better than the time I walked by the homeless man and said, "Thank you."


Lucky

I've never had lucky socks. Or lucky underwear. Or a rabbit's foot hanging off my backpack. But I think I have a lucky shirt. Actually, it may be a little early to dub it as such, as I've only worn it three times. But those three times resulted in three fabulous evenings. Two involving music. All involving fantastic people (of varying degrees of fantasticness). Maybe it's not the shirt that's wonderful, but the fact that I wasn't spending my evening in front of a computer screen. Hmm. Tough call. But I'm not sure if I want to risk ruining my little happy streak by doing a grocery run on a rainy Saturday morning in it, you know? Unless that grocery store is a really sensational one. And grapes are on sale.

(As an awkward aside, I kind of love "Lucy Got Lucky." Guilty pleasure. Maybe because I went school with the girl who plays Lucy in the video. Or maybe because "So another Molly Ringwald, well, she finds her Judd" makes me smile.)

Not Much Has Changed

Sometimes I feel as though I think too much. I plan out my future, including the actions of those I've never met. I plan out insightful things to say if ever I were put in that situation, but rarely find myself there. And if I do, I never fail to be a moron.

~Nadine, almost 16.
(Journal - June 4, 1999)

September 11th, 2001

It's been seven years. I was eating a bowl of Raisin Bran. My RA ran into the lounge to find me curled up on an over-sized chair with my breakfast.

"You'll never believe what just happened."

I didn't. None of us did.
And then I spent the day staring at a television. Not blinking.

[BOY] asked me where my God was today.

He was holding the hands of the people who miraculously got out of the building alive.
He was in the voices of the crushed victims whose cries attracted their rescue.
And he was weeping. I could almost hear it.

~Sept 11th, 2001 (Journal)

November 2, 2002

I don't remember that day. But it must have been a bad one.

Nov. 2, 2002

And I'm sick & tired & angry & lonely & disappointed & cold & broken & foolish & desperate & isolated & so terrified that my heart is going to shrivel up and die.

~Journal

Journaling at 18

July 24, 2002
8:10 a.m.

I'm at my usual place, behind a table marked by a bristol-board sign with smeared Crayola artwork across it. Just like yesterday. But yesterday, as I was impatiently waiting for parents to remove their children from the premises so that I could leave to endure the agony of dress shopping, a little 6-year-old boy, Simon*, limping after having a cast removed from his weak little leg, sat down beside me and broke my heart. He wasn't trying to get a sympathetic reaction, is just seemed that the death of his father was the only logical conversation topic his young mind could conjure up. So I listened. It all started with him briefly mentioning that the reason his mom was picking him up all the time was because his dad was dead. I was reactionless. I had no strength to move a single muscle in my face that might force an expression of kindness or love. I didn't like the imposing silence, so I asked him when he died. Three months ago. He was 6 then, as he is now. Only now he's fatherless, and the age of 6 will loom over his precious head and haunt his big blue eyes for a long time.

His mom asked his dad how he felt at work that day. "Fine" was the response, and it was most likely an honest one. That evening, Simon was in his room, waiting for his dad to come in and give him a hug. He never came. He collapsed on the floor of the master bedroom, a heart attack stealing the only hug a little boy will ever want but never have.

Last time they saved him. "They" being the paramedics and "last time" being a heart attack that didn't rob a family of joy. Now I understand the frantic desperation behind the eyes of Simon's mother, the sadness that contradicts her forced smile.

Simon was too scared to look at his father, dead on the floor. He was afraid that if he entered the room, he, too, would fall down and die.

That's what I felt like doing.

*name has been changed.

Little Girl Me

I came across some old journals this past weekend. I'm finding them more depressing than entertaining. Partly because of their shallowness. Partly because I still resonate with some of what's written. And partly because Teenybopper Me needed a good shaking: "Wake up, Nadine! Take advantage of the great adventure that is adolescence! Stop pining and start living!" But that's what growing up is for. And what journal-writing is about when you're young. So I shall try to cut myself a little slack.

I want to get to know Little Girl Me again. But she didn't write very often. Or very well. Just in shallow little spurts about infatuations, preoccupied with a future that I'm not living.

I wish I knew then what I would want to read about now....

God,

Today, ***** and I were pretending restaurant. It felt great. I was a young child again.

Lately I've been pretending a lot. I miss my childhood! Now I'm a kid again. It feels wonderful!

I like playing with dishes, Barbies, dolls and young children because it reminds me of innocence. No worries. Just fun.

Why can't we all feel this way?

~ Journal: Nadine, 11 years old

I was only 11 and already pining for my childhood. Tragic.